MR. PHILIP FLETCHER.

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

MRS. SALTONSTALL AND FAMILY.

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 salutations, 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 check
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. Pletcher 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 tilings 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. Fletchcr’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. Pletcher, 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 soupcon 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 the rock,
saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise and disappointment that
her heart reproached her:

"NO, I THANK YOU."

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

"Distinctly and decidedly my final answer, Mr, Pletcher."

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."