GOVERNESS.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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. 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. 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. 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 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:
[Illustration: “NO, I THANK YOU.”]
“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.”