University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
GOVERNESS.

DURING the next few weeks Christie learned the
worth of many things which she had valued very
lightly until then. Health became a boon too precious
to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance
when death's shadow fell upon its light, and she discovered
that dependence might be made endurable by
the sympathy of unsuspected friends.

Lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion

which touched her very much and won entire forgiveness
for the past, long before it was repentantly implored.
All her comrades came with offers of help and
affectionate regrets. Several whom she had most disliked
now earned her gratitude by the kindly thoughtfulness
which filled her sick-room with fruit and flowers,
supplied carriages for the convalescent, and paid her
doctor's bill without her knowledge.

Thus Christie learned, like many another needy
member of the gay profession, that though often extravagant
and jovial in their way of life, these men and
women give as freely as they spend, wear warm, true
hearts under their motley, and make misfortune only
another link in the bond of good-fellowship which
binds them loyally together.

Slowly Christie gathered her energies after weeks of
suffering, and took up her life again, grateful for the
gift, and anxious to be more worthy of it. Looking
back upon the past she felt that she had made a mistake
and lost more than she had gained in those three
years. Others might lead that life of alternate excitement
and hard work unharmed, but she could not.
The very ardor and insight which gave power to the
actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the
woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast
hold of whatever task she gave herself to do, and lived
in it heartily while duty made it right, or novelty lent
it charms. But when she saw the error of a step, the
emptiness of a belief, with a like earnestness she tried to
retrieve the one and to replace the other with a better
substitute.

In the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude of

quiet days, she took counsel with her better self, condemned
the reckless spirit which had possessed her,
and came at last to the decision which conscience
prompted and much thought confirmed.

“The stage is not the place for me,” she said. “I
have no genius to glorify the drudgery, keep me from
temptation, and repay me for any sacrifice I make.
Other women can lead this life safely and happily: I
cannot, and I must not go back to it, because, with all
my past experience, and in spite of all my present good
resolutions, I should do no better, and I might do worse.
I 'm not wise enough to keep steady there; I must
return to the old ways, dull but safe, and plod along
till I find my real place and work.”

Great was the surprise of Lucy and her mother when
Christie told her resolution, adding, in a whisper, to the
girl, “I leave the field clear for you, dear, and will
dance at your wedding with all my heart when St.
George asks you to play the `Honeymoon' with him,
as I 'm sure he will before long.”

Many entreaties from friends, as well as secret longings,
tried and tempted Christie sorely, but she withstood
them all, carried her point, and renounced the
profession she could not follow without self-injury and
self-reproach. The season was nearly over when she
was well enough to take her place again, but she
refused to return, relinquished her salary, sold her wardrobe,
and never crossed the threshold of the theatre
after she had said good-bye.

Then she asked, “What next?” and was speedily
answered. An advertisement for a governess met her
eye, which seemed to combine the two things she

most needed just then, — employment and change of
air.

“Mind you don't mention that you 've been an actress
or it will be all up with you, me dear,” said Mrs. Black,
as Christie prepared to investigate the matter, for since
her last effort in that line she had increased her knowledge
of music, and learned French enough to venture
teaching it to very young pupils.

“I 'd rather tell in the beginning, for if you keep any
thing back it 's sure to pop out when you least expect or
want it. I don't believe these people will care as long
as I 'm respectable and teach well,” returned Christie,
wishing she looked stronger and rosier.

“You 'll be sorry if you do tell,” warned Mrs. Black,
who knew the ways of the world.

“I shall be sorry if I don't,” laughed Christie, and
so she was, in the end.

“L. N. Saltonstall” was the name on the door, and
L. N. Saltonstall's servant was so leisurely about
answering Christie's meek solo on the bell, that she had
time to pull out her bonnet-strings half-a-dozen times
before a very black man in a very white jacket condescended
to conduct her to his mistress.

A frail, tea-colored lady appeared, displaying such
a small proportion of woman to such a large proportion
of purple and fine linen, that she looked as if
she was literally as well as figuratively “dressed to
death.”

Christie went to the point in a business-like manner
that seemed to suit Mrs. Saltonstall, because it saved
so much trouble, and she replied, with a languid affability:

“I wish some one to teach the children a little, for
they are getting too old to be left entirely to nurse. I
am anxious to get to the sea-shore as soon as possible,
for they have been poorly all winter, and my own
health has suffered. Do you feel inclined to try the
place? And what compensation do you require?”

Christie had but a vague idea of what wages were
usually paid to nursery governesses, and hesitatingly
named a sum which seemed reasonable to her, but was
so much less than any other applicant had asked, that
Mrs. Saltonstall began to think she could not do better
than secure this cheap young person, who looked firm
enough to manage her rebellious son and heir, and
well-bred enough to begin the education of a little fine
lady. Her winter had been an extravagant one, and
she could economize in the governess better perhaps
than elsewhere; so she decided to try Christie, and get
out of town at once.

“Your terms are quite satisfactory, Miss Devon, and
if my brother approves, I think we will consider the
matter settled. Perhaps you would like to see the
children? They are little darlings, and you will soon
be fond of them, I am sure.”

A bell was rung, an order given, and presently
appeared an eight-year old boy, so excessively Scotch
in his costume that he looked like an animated checker-board;
and a little girl, who presented the appearance
of a miniature opera-dancer staggering under the
weight of an immense sash.

“Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for
she is coming to play with you, and you must mind
what she says,” commanded mamma.

The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to
Christie's knee, and stood there staring at her with a
dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly
unchildlike.

“What is your name, dear?” she asked, laying her
hand on the young lady's head.

“Villamena Temmatina Taltentall. You mustn't
touch my hair; it 's just turled,” was the somewhat
embarrassing reply.

“Mine's Louy 'Poleon Thaltensthall, like papa's,”
volunteered the other young person, and Christie privately
wondered if the possession of names nearly as
long as themselves was not a burden to the poor
dears.

Feeling that she must say something, she asked, in
her most persuasive tone:

“Would you like to have me come and teach you
some nice lessons out of your little books?”

If she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot
it could not have caused greater dismay. Wilhelmina
cast herself upon the floor passionately, declaring that
she “touldn't tuddy,” and Saltonstall, Jr., retreated
precipitately to the door, and from that refuge defied
the whole race of governesses and “nasty lessons”
jointly.

“There, run away to Justine. They are sadly out
of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air,” said mamma,
with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her
darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming
their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish
on each landing.

With a few more words Christie took leave, and

scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through
the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed. The
contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl's irritability
with their mother's languid affectation, and her own
unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. In the
middle of her merriment she paused suddenly, saying
to herself:

“I never told about my acting. I must go back
and have it settled.” She retraced a few steps, then
turned and went on again, thinking, “No; for once I'll
be guided by other people's advice, and let well
alone.”

A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon consider
herself engaged, and desiring her to join the
family at the boat on Monday next.

At the appointed time Christie was on board, and
looked about for her party. Mrs. Saltonstall appeared
in the distance with her family about her, and Christie
took a survey before reporting herself. Madame looked
more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green
flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies
and bristling with wheat-ears. Beside her sat a gentleman,
rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an American
man life is a burden till the daily news have been absorbed.
Mrs. Saltonstall's brother was the possessor
of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without
benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure
which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had
done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume
without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer
hat on his head.

The little boy more checkered and the little girl

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mrs. Saltonstall and Family.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 063. In-line image of Mrs. Saltonstall dressed in a flowery dress, flanked by her two children, both in Scottish outfits.]

more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bonbons,
while a French maid and the African footman hovered
in the background.

Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among
a flock of butterflies, Christie modestly presented herself.

“Good morning,” said Madame with a nod, which,

slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the
poppies and the wheat; “I began to be anxious about
you. Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher.”

The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he
got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored
expression:

“Will you have the paper, Charlotte? There's
nothing in it.”

As Mrs. Saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she
felt delicate about addressing the irritable infants
in public, Christie amused herself by watching Mr.
Fletcher as he roamed listlessly about, and deciding,
in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because
he looked both lazy and cross, and ennui was evidently
his bosom friend. Soon, however, she forgot every
thing but the shimmer of the sunshine on the sea, the
fresh wind that brought color to her pale cheeks, and
the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips.
Then Mr. Fletcher put up his glass and stared at her,
shook his head, and said, as he lit a cigar:

“Poor little wretch, what a time she will have of it
between Charlotte and the brats!”

But Christie needed no pity, and thought herself a
fortunate young woman when fairly established in her
corner of the luxurious apartments occupied by the
family. Her duties seemed light compared to those
she had left, her dreams were almost as bright as of
old, and the new life looked pleasant to her, for she was
one of those who could find little bits of happiness for
herself and enjoy them heartily in spite of loneliness
or neglect.

One of her amusements was studying her companions,

and for a time this occupied her, for Christie possessed
penetration and a feminine fancy for finding out people.

Mrs. Saltonstall's mission appeared to be the illustration
of each new fashion as it came, and she performed
it with a devotion worthy of a better cause.
If a color reigned supreme she flushed herself with
scarlet or faded into primrose, made herself pretty in
the bluest of blue gowns, or turned livid under a gooseberry
colored bonnet. Her hat-brims went up or down,
were preposterously wide or dwindled to an inch, as
the mode demanded. Her skirts were rampant with
sixteen frills; or picturesque with landscapes down each
side, and a Greek border or a plain hem. Her waists
were as pointed as those of Queen Bess or as short as
Diana's; and it was the opinion of those who knew
her that if the autocrat who ruled her life decreed the
wearing of black cats as well as of vegetables, bugs,
and birds, the blackest, glossiest Puss procurable for
money would have adorned her head in some way.

Her time was spent in dressing, driving, dining and
dancing; in skimming novels, and embroidering muslin;
going to church with a velvet prayer-book and a new
bonnet; and writing to her husband when she wanted
money, for she had a husband somewhere abroad,
who so happily combined business with pleasure that
he never found time to come home. Her children were
inconvenient blessings, but she loved them with the
love of a shallow heart, and took such good care of
their little bodies that there was none left for their little
souls. A few days' trial satisfied her as to Christie's
capabilities, and, relieved of that anxiety, she gave herself
up to her social duties, leaving the ocean and the

governess to make the summer wholesome and agreeable
to “the darlings.”

Mr. Fletcher, having tried all sorts of pleasure and
found that, like his newspaper, there was “nothing in
it,” was now paying the penalty for that unsatisfactory
knowledge. Ill health soured his temper and made his
life a burden to him. Having few resources within
himself to fall back upon, he was very dependent upon
other people, and other people were so busy amusing
themselves, they seemed to find little time or inclination
to amuse a man who had never troubled himself
about them. He was rich, but while his money could
hire a servant to supply each want, gratify each caprice,
it could not buy a tender, faithful friend to serve for
love, and ask no wages but his comfort.

He knew this, and felt the vain regret that inevitably
comes to those who waste life and learn the value of
good gifts by their loss. But he was not wise or brave
enough to bear his punishment manfully, and lay the
lesson honestly to heart. Fretful and imperious when
in pain, listless and selfish when at ease, his one aim in
life now was to kill time, and any thing that aided him
in this was most gratefully welcomed.

For a long while he took no more notice of Christie
than if she had been a shadow, seldom speaking beyond
the necessary saluations, and merely carrying his finger
to his hat-brim when he passed her on the beach with
the children. Her first dislike was softened by pity
when she found he was an invalid, but she troubled
herself very little about him, and made no romances
with him, for all her dreams were of younger, nobler
lovers.

Busied with her own affairs, the days though monotonous
were not unhappy. She prospered in her work
and the children soon believed in her as devoutly as
young Turks in their Prophet. She devised amusements
for herself as well as for them; walked, bathed,
drove, and romped with the little people till her own
eyes shone like theirs, her cheek grew rosy, and her
thin figure rounded with the promise of vigorous health
again.

Christie was at her best that summer, physically
speaking, for sickness had refined her face, giving it
that indescribable expression which pain often leaves
upon a countenance as if in compensation for the bloom
it takes away. The frank eyes had a softer shadow in
their depths, the firm lips smiled less often, but when it
came the smile was the sweeter for the gravity that
went before, and in her voice there was a new undertone
of that subtle music, called sympathy, which steals
into the heart and nestles there.

She was unconscious of this gracious change, but
others saw and felt it, and to some a face bright with
health, intelligence, and modesty was more attractive
than mere beauty. Thanks to this and her quiet, cordial
manners, she found friends here and there to add charms
to that summer by the sea.

The dashing young men took no more notice of her
than if she had been a little gray peep on the sands;
not so much, for they shot peeps now and then, but a
governess was not worth bringing down. The fashionable
belles and beauties were not even aware of her
existence, being too entirely absorbed in their yearly
husband-hunt to think of any one but themselves and

their prey. The dowagers had more interesting topics
to discuss, and found nothing in Christie's humble fortunes
worthy of a thought, for they liked their gossip
strong and highly flavored, like their tea.

But a kind-hearted girl or two found her out, several
lively old maids, as full of the romance of the past as
ancient novels, a bashful boy, three or four invalids,
and all the children, for Christie had a motherly heart
and could find charms in the plainest, crossest baby that
ever squalled.

Of her old friends she saw nothing, as her theatrical
ones were off on their vacations, Hepsey had left her
place for one in another city, and Aunt Betsey seldom
wrote.

But one day a letter came, telling her that the dear
old lady would never write again, and Christie felt as
if her nearest and dearest friend was lost. She had
gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks to get over
her first grief alone, but found it very hard to cheek
her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly
recalling every kind act, every loving word, and familiar
scene. She seldom wept, but when any thing did unseal
the fountains that lay so deep, she cried with all her
heart, and felt the better for it.

With the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on
her knees, and her hat at her feet, she was sobbing like
a child, when steps startled her, and, looking up, she
saw Mr. Fletcher regarding her with an astonished
countenance from under his big sun umbrella.

Something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremulous
lips and great tears rolling down, seemed to touch

even lazy Mr. Fletcher, for he furled his umbrella with
unusual rapidity, and came up, saying, anxiously:

“My dear Miss Devon, what 's the matter? Are
you hurt? Has Mrs. S. been scolding? Or have the
children been too much for you?”

“No; oh, no! it 's bad news from home,” and Christie's
head went down again, for a kind word was more
than she could bear just then.

“Some one ill, I fancy? I 'm sorry to hear it, but
you must hope for the best, you know,” replied Mr.
Fletcher, really quite exerting himself to remember and
present this well-worn consolation.

“There is no hope; Aunt Betsey 's dead!”

“Dear me! that 's very sad.”

Mr. Fletcher tried not to smile as Christie sobbed
out the old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward
there were actually tears in his eyes, for, as if won by
his sympathy, she poured out the homely little story of
Aunt Betsey's life and love, unconsciously pronouncing
the kind old lady's best epitaph in the unaffected grief
that made her broken words so eloquent.

For a minute Mr. Fletcher forgot himself, and felt as
he remembered feeling long ago, when a warm-hearted
boy, he had comforted his little sister for a lost kitten
or a broken doll. It was a new sensation, therefore
interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and when
it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then
shrugged his shoulders and wished “the girl would
stop crying like a water-spout.”

“It 's hard, but we all have to bear it, you know;
and sometimes I fancy if half the pity we give the
dead, who don't need it, was given to the living, who

do, they 'd bear their troubles more comfortably. I
know I should,” added Mr. Fletcher, returning to his
own afflictions, and vaguely wondering if any one
would cry like that when he departed this life.

Christie minded little what he said, for his voice was
pitiful and it comforted her. She dried her tears, put
back her hair, and thanked him with a grateful smile,
which gave him another pleasant sensation; for, though
young ladies showered smiles upon him with midsummer
radiance, they seemed cool and pale beside the
sweet sincerity of this one given by a girl whose eyes
were red with tender tears.

“That's right, cheer up, take a little run on the
beach, and forget all about it,” he said, with a heartiness
that surprised himself as much as it did Christie.

“I will, thank you. Please don't speak of this; I 'm
used to bearing my troubles alone, and time will help
me to do it cheerfully.”

“That 's brave! If I can do any thing, let me know;
I shall be most happy.” And Mr. Fletcher evidently
meant what he said.

Christie gave him another grateful “Thank you,”
then picked up her hat and went away along the sands
to try his prescription; while Mr. Fletcher walked the
other way, so rapt in thought that he forgot to put
up his umbrella till the end of his aristocratic nose was
burnt a deep red.

That was the beginning of it; for when Mr. Fletcher
found a new amusement, he usually pursued it regardless
of consequences. Christie took his pity for what
it was worth, and thought no more of that little interview,
for her heart was very heavy. But he remembered

it, and, when they met on the beach next day,
wondered how the governess would behave. She was
reading as she walked, and, with a mute acknowledgment
of his nod, tranquilly turned a page and read on
without a pause, a smile, or change of color.

Mr. Fletcher laughed as he strolled away; but Christie
was all the more amusing for her want of coquetry,
and soon after he tried her again. The great hotel
was all astir one evening with bustle, light, and music;
for the young people had a hop, as an appropriate
entertainment for a melting July night. With no taste
for such folly, even if health had not forbidden it, Mr.
Fletcher lounged about the piazzas, tantalizing the fair
fowlers who spread their nets for him, and goading
sundry desperate spinsters to despair by his erratic
movements. Coming to a quiet nook, where a long
window gave a fine view of the brilliant scene, he
found Christie leaning in, with a bright, wistful face,
while her hand kept time to the enchanting music of a
waltz.

“Wisely watching the lunatics, instead of joining in
their antics,” he said, sitting down with a sigh.

Christie looked around and answered, with the wistful
look still in her eyes:

“I 'm very fond of that sort of insanity; but there
is no place for me in Bedlam at present.”

“I daresay I can find you one, if you care to try it.
I don't indulge myself.” And Mr. Fletcher's eye went
from the rose in Christie's brown hair to the silvery
folds of her best gown, put on merely for the pleasure
of wearing it because every one else was in festival
array.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. Governesses
are very kindly treated in America; but ball-rooms
like that are not for them. I enjoy looking on, fortunately;
so I have my share of fun after all.”

“I shan't get any complaints out of her. Plucky
little soul! I rather like that,” said Mr. Fletcher to
himself; and, finding his seat comfortable, the corner
cool, and his companion pleasant to look at, with the
moonlight doing its best for her, he went on talking for
his own satisfaction.

Christie would rather have been left in peace; but
fancying that he did it out of kindness to her, and that
she had done him injustice before, she was grateful
now, and exerted herself to seem so; in which endeavor
she succeeded so well that Mr. Fletcher proved he
could be a very agreeable companion when he chose.
He talked well; and Christie was a good listener. Soon
interest conquered her reserve, and she ventured to
ask a question, make a criticism, or express an opinion
in her own simple way. Unconsciously she piqued the
curiosity of the man; for, though he knew many lovely,
wise, and witty women, he had never chanced to meet
with one like this before; and novelty was the desire
of his life. Of course he did not find moonlight, music,
and agreeable chat as delightful as she did; but there
was something animating in the fresh face opposite,
something flattering in the eager interest she showed,
and something most attractive in the glimpses unconsciously
given him of a nature genuine in its womanly
sincerity and strength. Something about this girl
seemed to appeal to the old self, so long neglected that
he thought it dead. He could not analyze the feeling,

but was conscious of a desire to seem better than he
was as he looked into those honest eyes; to talk well,
that he might bring that frank smile to the lips that
grew either sad or scornful when he tried worldly gossip
or bitter satire; and to prove himself a man under
all the elegance and polish of the gentleman.

He was discovering then, what Christie learned
when her turn came, that fine natures seldom fail to
draw out the finer traits of those who approach them,
as the little witch-hazel wand, even in the hand of a
child, detects and points to hidden springs in unsuspected
spots. Women often possess this gift, and when
used worthily find it as powerful as beauty; for, if less
alluring, it is more lasting and more helpful, since it
appeals, not to the senses, but the souls of men.

Christie was one of these; and in proportion as her
own nature was sound and sweet so was its power as a
touchstone for the genuineness of others. It was this
unconscious gift that made her wonder at the unexpected
kindness she found in Mr. Fletcher, and this
which made him, for an hour or two at least, heartily
wish he could live his life over again and do it
better.

After that evening Mr. Fletcher spoke to Christie
when he met her, turned and joined her sometimes
as she walked with the children, and fell into the way
of lounging near when she sat reading aloud to an
invalid friend on piazza or sea-shore. Christie much
preferred to have no auditor but kind Miss Tudor; but
finding the old lady enjoyed his chat she resigned herself,
and when he brought them new books as well as
himself, she became quite cordial.

Everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded
the little group that met day after day among the rocks.
Christie read aloud, while the children revelled in sand,
shells, and puddles; Miss Tudor spun endless webs of
gay silk and wool; and Mr. Fletcher, with his hat over
his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as
he watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight,
and listened to the pleasant voice that went reading on
till all his ills and ennui seemed lulled to sleep as by
a spell.

A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to
thinking. She knew that Uncle Philip was not fond
of “the darlings;” it was evident that good Miss Tudor,
with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting, was
not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he
came for her sake alone. She laughed at herself for
this fancy at first; but not possessing the sweet unconsciousness
of those heroines who can live through three
volumes with a burning passion before their eyes, and
never see it till the proper moment comes, and Eugene
goes down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr.
Fletcher found her society agreeable, and wished her to
know it.

Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and
she found herself showing that she liked it by those
small signs and symbols which lovers' eyes are so quick
to see and understand, — an artful bow on her hat, a
flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the most
becoming arrangement of her hair.

“Poor man, he has so few pleasures I 'm sure I
needn't grudge him such a small one as looking at and
listening to me if he likes it,” she said to herself one

day, as she was preparing for her daily stroll with unusual
care. “But how will it end? If he only wants a
mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really
cares for me, I must make up my mind about it, and
not deceive him. I don't believe he loves me: how
can he? such an insignificant creature as I am.”

Here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the
color deepened in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a
smile would sit upon her lips, for the reflection showed
her a very winning face under the coquettish hat put
on to captivate.

“Don't be foolish, Christie! Mind what you do, and
be sure vanity doesn't delude you, for you are only a
woman, and in things of this sort we are so blind and
silly. I 'll think of this possibility soberly, but I won't
flirt, and then which ever way I decide I shall have
nothing to reproach myself with.”

Armed with this virtuous resolution, Christie sternly
replaced the pretty hat with her old brown one, fastened
up a becoming curl, which of late she had worn
behind her ear, and put on a pair of stout, rusty boots,
much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart slippers
she was preparing to sacrifice. Then she trudged away
to Miss Tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved,
as became a meek and lowly governess.

But, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of
womankind! When she found herself sitting in her
favorite nook, with the wide, blue sea glittering below,
the fresh wind making her blood dance in her veins,
and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and
loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would
shine with the mere bliss of living, and underneath

all this natural content the new thought, half confessed,
yet very sweet, would whisper, “Somebody
cares for me.”

If she had doubted it, the expression of Mr. Fletcher's
face that morning would have dispelled the doubt,
for, as she read, he was saying to himself: “Yes, this
healthful, cheery, helpful creature is what I want to
make life pleasant. Every thing else is used up; why
not try this, and make the most of my last chance?
She does me good, and I don't seem to get tired of her.
I can't have a long life, they tell me, nor an easy one,
with the devil to pay with my vitals generally; so it
would be a wise thing to provide myself with a good-tempered,
faithful soul to take care of me. My fortune
would pay for loss of time, and my death leave her
a bonny widow. I won't be rash, but I think I 'll
try it.”

With this mixture of tender, selfish, and regretful
thoughts in his mind, it is no wonder Mr. Fletcher's
eyes betrayed him, as he lay looking at Christie. Never
had she read so badly, for she could not keep her mind
on her book. It would wander to that new and troublesome
fancy of hers; she could not help thinking that
Mr. Fletcher must have been a handsome man before
he was so ill; wondering if his temper was very bad,
and fancying that he might prove both generous and
kind and true to one who loved and served him well.
At this point she was suddenly checked by a slip of the
tongue that covered her with confusion.

She was reading “John Halifax,” and instead of saying
“Phineas Fletcher” she said Philip, and then colored
to her forehead, and lost her place. Miss Tudor did

not mind it, but Mr. Fletcher laughed, and Christie
thanked Heaven that her face was half hidden by the
old brown hat.

Nothing was said, but she was much relieved to find
that Mr. Fletcher had joined a yachting party next
day and he would be away for a week. During that
week Christie thought over the matter, and fancied she
had made up her mind. She recalled certain speeches
she had heard, and which had more weight with her than
she suspected. One dowager had said to another: “P.
F. intends to marry, I assure you, for his sister told me
so, with tears in her eyes. Men who have been gay in
their youth make very good husbands when their wild
oats are sowed. Clara could not do better, and I should
be quite content to give her to him.”

“Well, dear, I should be sorry to see my Augusta
his wife, for whoever he marries will be a perfect slave
to him. His fortune would be a nice thing if he did
not live long; but even for that my Augusta shall not be
sacrificed,” returned the other matron whose Augusta
had vainly tried to captivate “P. F.,” and revenged
herself by calling him “a wreck, my dear, a perfect
wreck.”

At another time Christie heard some girls discussing
the eligibility of several gentlemen, and Mr. Fletcher
was considered the best match among them.

“You can do any thing you like with a husband a
good deal older than yourself. He 's happy with his
business, his club, and his dinner, and leaves you to do
what you please; just keep him comfortable and he 'll
pay your bills without much fuss,” said one young thing
who had seen life at twenty.

“I 'd take him if I had the chance, just because
everybody wants him. Don't admire him a particle,
but it will make a jolly stir whenever he does marry,
and I wouldn't mind having a hand in it,” said the
second budding belle.

“I 'd take him for the diamonds alone. Mamma
says they are splendid, and have been in the family for
ages. He won't let Mrs. S. wear them, for they always
go to the eldest son's wife. Hope he 'll choose a handsome
woman who will show them off well,” said a third
sweet girl, glancing at her own fine neck.

“He won't; he 'll take some poky old maid who will
cuddle him when he is sick, and keep out of his way
when he is well. See if he don't.”

“I saw him dawdling round with old Tudor, perhaps
he means to take her: she 's a capital nurse, got ill herself
taking care of her father, you know.”

“Perhaps he 's after the governess; she 's rather nice
looking, though she hasn 't a bit of style.”

“Gracious, no! she 's a dowdy thing, always trailing
round with a book and those horrid children. No
danger of his marrying her.” And a derisive laugh
seemed to settle that question beyond a doubt.

“Oh, indeed!” said Christie, as the girls went trooping
out of the bath-house, where this pleasing chatter
had been carried on regardless of listeners. She called
them “mercenary, worldly, unwomanly flirts,” and felt
herself much their superior. Yet the memory of their
gossip haunted her, and had its influence upon her
decision, though she thought she came to it through
her own good judgment and discretion.

“If he really cares for me I will listen, and not refuse

till I know him well enough to decide. I 'm tired of
being alone, and should enjoy ease and pleasure so
much. He 's going abroad for the winter, and that
would be charming. I 'll try not to be worldly-minded
and marry without love, but it does look tempting to
a poor soul like me.”

So Christie made up her mind to accept, if this promotion
was offered her; and while she waited, went
through so many alternations of feeling, and was so
harassed by doubts and fears that she sometimes found
herself wishing it had never occurred to her.

Mr. Fletcher, meantime, with the help of many meditative
cigars, was making up his mind. Absence only
proved to him how much he needed a better time-killer
than billiards, horses, or newspapers, for the long, listless
days seemed endless without the cheerful governess
to tone him up, like a new and agreeable sort of
bitters. A gradually increasing desire to secure this
satisfaction had taken possession of him, and the
thought of always having a pleasant companion, with
no nerves, nonsense, or affectation about her, was an
inviting idea to a man tired of fashionable follies and
tormented with the ennui of his own society.

The gossip, wonder, and chagrin such a step would
cause rather pleased his fancy; the excitement of trying
almost the only thing as yet untried allured him;
and deeper than all the desire to forget the past in a
better future led him to Christie by the nobler instincts
that never wholly die in any soul. He wanted her as
he had wanted many other things in his life, and had
little doubt that he could have her for the asking.
Even if love was not abounding, surely his fortune,

which hitherto had procured him all he wished (except
health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his
friends made better bargains every day. So, having
settled the question, he came home again, and every
one said the trip had done him a world of good.

Christie sat in her favorite nook one bright September
morning, with the inevitable children hunting hapless
crabs in a pool near by. A book lay on her knee,
but she was not reading; her eyes were looking far
across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze,
and her face was bright with some happy thought.
The sound of approaching steps disturbed her reverie,
and, recognizing them, she plunged into the heart of
the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a shadow
fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected
to hear asked blandly:

“What book now, Miss Devon?”

“`Jane Eyre,' sir.”

Mr. Fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was
no screen, pulled off his gloves, and leisurely composed
himself for a comfortable lounge.

“What is your opinion of Rochester?” he asked,
presently.

“Not a very high one.”

“Then you think Jane was a fool to love and try to
make a saint of him, I suppose?”

“I like Jane, but never can forgive her marrying that
man, as I haven't much faith in the saints such sinners
make.”

“But don't you think a man who had only follies to
regret might expect a good woman to lend him a hand
and make him happy?”

“If he has wasted his life he must take the consequences,
and be content with pity and indifference,
instead of respect and love. Many good women do
`lend a hand,' as you say, and it is quite Christian and
amiable, I 've no doubt; but I cannot think it a fair
bargain.”

Mr. Fletcher liked to make Christie talk, for in the
interest of the subject she forgot herself, and her chief
charm for him was her earnestness. But just then the
earnestness did not seem to suit him, and he said, rather
sharply:

“What hard-hearted creatures you women are sometimes!
Now, I fancied you were one of those who
wouldn't leave a poor fellow to his fate, if his salvation
lay in your hands.”

“I can't say what I should do in such a case; but it
always seemed to me that a man should have energy
enough to save himself, and not expect the `weaker
vessel,' as he calls her, to do it for him,” answered
Christie, with a conscious look, for Mr. Fletcher's face
made her feel as if something was going to happen.

Evidently anxious to know what she would do in
aforesaid case, Mr. Fletcher decided to put one before
her as speedily as possible, so he said, in a pensive tone,
and with a wistful glance:

“You looked very happy just now when I came up.
I wish I could believe that my return had any thing to
do with it.”

Christie wished she could control her tell-tale color,
but finding she could not, looked hard at the sea, and,
ignoring his tender insinuation, said, with suspicious
enthusiasm:

“I was thinking of what Mrs. Saltonstall said this
morning. She asked me if I would like to go to Paris
with her for the winter. It has always been one of my
dreams to go abroad, and I do hope I shall not be disappointed.”

Christie's blush seemed to be a truer answer than her
words, and, leaning a little nearer, Mr. Fletcher said,
in his most persuasive tone:

“Will you go to Paris as my governess, instead of
Charlotte's?”

Christie thought her reply was all ready; but when
the moment came, she found it was not, and sat silent,
feeling as if that “Yes” would promise far more than
she could give. Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what the
answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that
was one of the moments that are so pleasant and so
short-lived they should be enjoyed to the uttermost.
He liked to watch her color come and go, to see the
asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened beating
of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satisfaction
of the moment when that pleasant voice of
hers would falter out its grateful assent. Drawing yet
nearer, he went on, still in the persuasive tone that
would have been more lover-like if it had been less
assured.

“I think I am not mistaken in believing that you
care for me a little. You must know how fond I am
of you, how much I need you, and how glad I should
be to give all I have if I might keep you always to
make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?”

“You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no
accomplishments, no fortune, — nothing but my heart

and my hand to give the man I marry. Is that enough?”
asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that betrayed
the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with
genuine food.

But Mr. Fletcher did not understand its meaning;
he saw the humility in her face, thought she was overcome
by the weight of the honor he did her, and tried
to reassure her with the gracious air of one who wishes
to lighten the favor he confers.

“It might not be for some men, but it is for me,
because I want you very much. Let people say what
they will, if you say yes I am satisfied. You shall not
regret it, Christie; I 'll do my best to make you happy;
you shall travel wherever I can go with you, have what
you like, if possible, and when we come back by and
by, you shall take your place in the world as my wife.
You will fill it well, I fancy, and I shall be a happy
man. I 've had my own way all my life, and I mean to
have it now, so smile, and say, `Yes, Philip,' like a
sweet soul, as you are.”

But Christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to
say “Yes, Philip,” for that last speech of his jarred on
her ear. The tone of unconscious condescension in it
wounded the woman's sensitive pride; self was too
apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her
like bribes. This was not the lover she had dreamed
of, the brave, true man who gave her all, and felt it
could not half repay the treasure of her innocent, first
love. This was not the happiness she had hoped for,
the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet content
that made all things possible, and changed this work-a-day
world into a heaven while the joy lasted.

She had decided to say “yes,” but her heart said
“no” decidedly, and with instinctive loyalty she obeyed
it, even while she seemed to yield to the temptation
which appeals to three of the strongest foibles in most
women's nature, — vanity, ambition, and the love of
pleasure.

“You are very kind, but you may repent it, you
know so little of me,” she began, trying to soften her
refusal, but sadly hindered by a feeling of contempt.

“I know more about you than you think; but it
makes no difference,” interrupted Mr. Fletcher, with a
smile that irritated Christie, even before she understood
its significance. “I thought it would at first, but I
found I couldn't get on without you, so I made up my
mind to forgive and forget that my wife had ever been
an actress.”

Christie had forgotten it, and it would have been
well for him if he had held his tongue. Now she
understood the tone that had chilled her, the smile that
angered her, and Mr. Fletcher's fate was settled in the
drawing of a breath.

“Who told you that?” she asked, quickly, while
every nerve tingled with the mortification of being
found out then and there in the one secret of her life.

“I saw you dancing on the beach with the children
one day, and it reminded me of an actress I had once
seen. I should not have remembered it but for the
accident which impressed it on my mind. Powder,
paint, and costume made `Miss Douglas' a very different
woman from Miss Devon, but a few cautious inquiries
settled the matter, and I then understood where
you got that slight soupçon of dash and daring which

makes our demure governess so charming when with
me.”

As he spoke, Mr. Fletcher smiled again, and kissed
his hand to her with a dramatic little gesture that exasperated
Christie beyond measure. She would not make
light of it, as he did, and submit to be forgiven for a
past she was not ashamed of. Heartily wishing she
had been frank at first, she resolved to have it out now,
and accept nothing Mr. Fletcher offered her, not even
silence.

“Yes,” she said, as steadily as she could, “I was an
actress for three years, and though it was a hard life it
was an honest one, and I 'm not ashamed of it. I
ought to have told Mrs. Saltonstall, but I was warned
that if I did it would be difficult to find a place, people
are so prejudiced. I sincerely regret it now, and
shall tell her at once, so you may save yourself the
trouble.”

“My dear girl, I never dreamed of telling any one!”
cried Mr. Fletcher in an injured tone. “I beg you
won't speak, but trust me, and let it be a little secret
between us two. I assure you it makes no difference
to me, for I should marry an opera dancer if I chose,
so forget it, as I do, and set my mind at rest upon the
other point. I 'm still waiting for my answer, you
know.”

“It is ready.”

“A kind one, I 'm sure. What is it, Christie?”

“No, I thank you.”

“But you are not in earnest?”

“Perfectly so.”

Mr. Fletcher got up suddenly and set his back against

[ILLUSTRATION]

"No, I thank you."

[Description: 445EAF. Page 086. In-line image of Mr. Fletcher and Miss Devon talking by the seashore.]

the rock, saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise
and disappointment that her heart reproached her:

“Am I to understand that as your final answer, Miss
Devon?”

“Distinctly and decidedly my final answer, Mr.
Fletcher.”

Christie tried to speak kindly, but she was angry
with herself and him, and unconsciously showed it both
in face and voice, for she was no actress off the stage,
and wanted to be very true just then as a late atonement
for that earlier want of candor.

A quick change passed over Mr. Fletcher's face; his
cold eyes kindled with an angry spark, his lips were
pale with anger, and his voice was very bitter, as he
slowly said:

“I 've made many blunders in my life, and this is
one of the greatest; for I believed in a woman, was
fool enough to care for her with the sincerest love I
ever knew, and fancied that she would be grateful for
the sacrifice I made.”

He got no further, for Christie rose straight up and
answered him with all the indignation she felt burning
in her face and stirring the voice she tried in vain to
keep as steady as his own.

“The sacrifice would not have been all yours, for it
is what we are, not what we have, that makes one
human being superior to another. I am as well-born
as you in spite of my poverty; my life, I think, has
been a better one than yours; my heart, I know, is
fresher, and my memory has fewer faults and follies to
reproach me with. What can you give me but money
and position in return for the youth and freedom I
should sacrifice in marrying you? Not love, for you
count the cost of your bargain, as no true lover could,
and you reproach me for deceit when in your heart you
know you only cared for me because I can amuse and
serve you. I too deceived myself, I too see my mistake,
and I decline the honor you would do me, since it
is so great in your eyes that you must remind me of it
as you offer it.”

In the excitement of the moment Christie unconsciously
spoke with something of her old dramatic fervor
in voice and gesture; Mr. Fletcher saw it, and,

while he never had admired her so much, could not
resist avenging himself for the words that angered him,
the more deeply for their truth. Wounded vanity and
baffled will can make an ungenerous man as spiteful as
a woman; and Mr. Fletcher proved it then, for he saw
where Christie's pride was sorest, and touched the
wound with the skill of a resentful nature.

As she paused, he softly clapped his hands, saying,
with a smile that made her eyes flash:

“Very well done! infinitely superior to your `Woffington,'
Miss Devon. I am disappointed in the woman,
but I make my compliment to the actress, and leave
the stage free for another and a more successful Romeo.”

Still smiling, he bowed and went away apparently
quite calm and much amused, but a more wrathful, disappointed
man never crossed those sands than the one
who kicked his dog and swore at himself for a fool that
day when no one saw him.

For a minute Christie stood and watched him, then,
feeling that she must either laugh or cry, wisely chose
the former vent for her emotions, and sat down feeling
inclined to look at the whole scene from a ludicrous
point of view.

“My second love affair is a worse failure than my
first, for I did pity poor Joe, but this man is detestable,
and I never will forgive him that last insult. I dare
say I was absurdly tragical, I 'm apt to be when very
angry, but what a temper he has got! The white, cold
kind, that smoulders and stabs, instead of blazing up
and being over in a minute. Thank Heaven, I 'm not
his wife! Well, I 've made an enemy and lost my
place, for of course Mrs. Saltonstall won't keep me

after this awful discovery. I 'll tell her at once, for I
will have no `little secrets' with him. No Paris either,
and that 's the worst of it all! Never mind, I haven't
sold my liberty for the Fletcher diamonds, and that 's
a comfort. Now a short scene with my lady and then
exit governess.”

But though she laughed, Christie felt troubled at the
part she had played in this affair; repented of her
worldly aspirations; confessed her vanity; accepted
her mortification and disappointment as a just punishment
for her sins; and yet at the bottom of her heart
she did enjoy it mightily.

She tried to spare Mr. Fletcher in her interview with
his sister, and only betrayed her own iniquities. But,
to her surprise, Mrs. Saltonstall, though much disturbed
at the discovery, valued Christie as a governess, and
respected her as a woman, so she was willing to bury
the past, she said, and still hoped Miss Devon would
remain.

Then Christie was forced to tell her why it was impossible
for her to do so; and, in her secret soul, she
took a naughty satisfaction in demurely mentioning
that she had refused my lord.

Mrs. Saltonstall's consternation was comical, for she
had been so absorbed in her own affairs she had suspected
nothing; and horror fell upon her when she
learned how near dear Philip had been to the fate from
which she jealously guarded him, that his property
might one day benefit the darlings.

In a moment every thing was changed; and it was
evident to Christie that the sooner she left the better it
would suit madame. The proprieties were preserved

to the end, and Mrs. Saltonstall treated her with unusual
respect, for she had come to honor, and also conducted
herself in a most praiseworthy manner. How
she could refuse a Fletcher visibly amazed the lady;
but she forgave the slight, and gently insinuated that
“my brother” was, perhaps, only amusing himself.

Christie was but too glad to be off; and when Mrs.
Saltonstall asked when she would prefer to leave,
promptly replied, “To-morrow,” received her salary,
which was forthcoming with unusual punctuality, and
packed her trunks with delightful rapidity.

As the family was to leave in a week, her sudden
departure caused no surprise to the few who knew her,
and with kind farewells to such of her summer friends
as still remained, she went to bed that night all ready
for an early start. She saw nothing more of Mr.
Fletcher that day, but the sound of excited voices in
the drawing-room assured her that madame was having
it out with her brother; and with truly feminine inconsistency
Christie hoped that she would not be too hard
upon the poor man, for, after all, it was kind of him to
overlook the actress, and ask the governess to share his
good things with him.

She did not repent, but she got herself to sleep,
imagining a bridal trip to Paris, and dreamed so
delightfully of lost splendors that the awakening was
rather blank, the future rather cold and hard.

She was early astir, meaning to take the first boat
and so escape all disagreeable rencontres, and having
kissed the children in their little beds, with tender
promises not to forget them, she took a hasty breakfast
and stepped into the carriage waiting at the door. The

sleepy waiters stared, a friendly housemaid nodded,
and Miss Walker, the hearty English lady who did her
ten miles a day, cried out, as she tramped by, blooming
and bedraggled:

“Bless me, are you off?”

“Yes, thank Heaven!” answered Christie; but as
she spoke Mr. Fletcher came down the steps looking as
wan and heavy-eyed as if a sleepless night had been
added to his day's defeat. Leaning in at the window,
he asked abruptly, but with a look she never could
forget:

“Will nothing change your answer, Christie?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes said, “Forgive me,” but his lips only said,
“Good-by,” and the carriage rolled away.

Then, being a woman, two great tears fell on the
hand still red with the lingering grasp he had given it,
and Christie said, as pitifully as if she loved him:

“He has got a heart, after all, and perhaps I might
have been glad to fill it if he had only shown it to me
sooner. Now it is too late.”