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Work: A Story of Experience

by Louisa May Alcott · English · Gutenberg #4770 · 668,081 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Work: A Story of Experience

Author: Louisa May Alcott


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4770]
                Most recently updated: June 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4770

Credits: Charles Aldarondo


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE ***




Work: A Story of Experience

by Louisa May Alcott


AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN,” “LITTLE MEN,” “AN
OLD-FASHIONED GIRL,” “HOSPITAL SKETCHES,” ETC.

[Illustration]

“An endless significance lies in work; in idleness alone is there
perpetual despair.”—CARLYLE.

BOSTON:
1901.

TO
MY MOTHER,
WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN A LONG LABOR OF LOVE, THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED

BY
HER DAUGHTER.


Contents

 I. CHRISTIE
 II. SERVANT
 III. ACTRESS
 IV. GOVERNESS
 V. COMPANION
 VI. SEAMSTRESS
 VII. THROUGH THE MIST
 VIII. A CURE FOR DESPAIR
 IX. MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER
 X. BEGINNING AGAIN
 XI. IN THE STRAWBERRY BED
 XII. CHRISTIE’S GALA
 XIII. WAKING UP
 XIV. WHICH?
 XV. MIDSUMMER
 XVI. MUSTERED IN
 XVII. THE COLONEL
 XVIII. SUNRISE
 XIX. LITTLE HEART’S-EASE
 XX. AT FORTY


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,

FROM DRAWINGS BY SOL EYTINGE.

 “How doth the little busy bee”
 Christie
 Aunt Betsey’s Interlarded Speech
 Mrs. Stuart.
 Hepsey
 Christie as Queen of the Amazons
 Mr. Philip Fletcher
 Mrs. Saltonstall and Family
 “No, I thank you”
 Helen Carrol
 Mrs. King and Miss Cotton
 The Rescue
 “C. Wilkins, Clear Starcher”
 Lisha Wilkins
 Mrs. Wilkins’ “Six Lively Infants”
 Mr. Power
 Mrs. Sterling
 David and Christie in the Greenhouse
 Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed
 A Friendly Chat
 Kitty.
 “One Happy Moment”
 David
 “Then they were married”
 “Don’t mourn, dear heart, but WORK”
 “She’s a good little gal; looks consid’able like you”
 “Each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end”




WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.




CHAPTER I.
CHRISTIE.


[Illustration: CHRISTIE.]

“Aunt Betsey, there’s going to be a new Declaration of Independence.”

“Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?” And the startled old lady
precipitated a pie into the oven with destructive haste.

“I mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care of myself, and not
be a burden any longer. Uncle wishes me out of the way; thinks I ought
to go, and, sooner or later, will tell me so. I don’t intend to wait
for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away into the
world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it.”

Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations in the
bread-trough, kneading the dough as if it was her destiny, and she was
shaping it to suit herself; while Aunt Betsey stood listening, with
uplifted pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face was
capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a decided thump, the
old lady exclaimed:

“What crazy idee you got into your head now?”

“A very sane and sensible one that’s got to be worked out, so please
listen to it, ma’am. I’ve had it a good while, I’ve thought it over
thoroughly, and I’m sure it’s the right thing for me to do. I’m old
enough to take care of myself; and if I’d been a boy, I should have
been told to do it long ago. I hate to be dependent; and now there’s no
need of it, I can’t bear it any longer. If you were poor, I wouldn’t
leave you; for I never forget how kind _you_ have been to me. But Uncle
doesn’t love or understand me; I _am_ a burden to him, and I must go
where I can take care of myself. I can’t be happy till I do, for
there’s nothing here for me. I’m sick of this dull town, where the one
idea is eat, drink, and get rich; I don’t find any friends to help me
as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well; so let me go,
Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is.”

“But I do need you, deary; and you mustn’t think Uncle don’t like you.
He does, only he don’t show it; and when your odd ways fret him, he
ain’t pleasant, I know. I don’t see why you can’t be contented; I’ve
lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome, or the
folks unneighborly.” And Aunt Betsey looked perplexed by the new idea.

“You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put into my
composition, I guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm corner so
long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so that I
may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can’t do this; so let me go where it
can be done, else I shall turn sour and good for nothing. Does that
make the matter any clearer?” And Christie’s serious face relaxed into
a smile as her aunt’s eye went from her to the nicely moulded loaf
offered as an illustration.

“I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought on’t before. You be
better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes
bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it
hard and dry. Now fly ’round, for the big oven is most het, and this
cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.”

“You haven’t said I might go, Aunty,” began the girl, after a long
pause devoted by the old lady to the preparation of some compound which
seemed to require great nicety of measurement in its ingredients; for
when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlarded her speech with
audible directions to herself from the receipt-book before her.

[Illustration: AUNT BETSEY’S INTERLARDED SPEECH.]

“I ain’t no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to take (a pinch of
salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only
(beat six eggs, yolks and whites together). But ef you can’t, and feel
that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and ef he says
(a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you
(not forgettin’ to cover with a piece of paper).”

Christie’s laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiled
benignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl’s merriment.

“I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won’t object. Then I shall
write to see if Mrs. Flint has a room for me, where I can stay till I
get something to do. There is plenty of work in the world, and I’m not
afraid of it; so you’ll soon hear good news of me. Don’t look sad, for
you know I never could forget you, even if I should become the greatest
lady in the land.” And Christie left the prints of two floury but
affectionate hands on the old lady’s shoulders, as she kissed the
wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her.

Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and buttered the
dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane affairs, and the
ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, who followed her about rectifying her
mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind had
roused suspicions of her sanity.

“Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, if you please,” was
Christie’s abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire.

“Hey! what’s that?” said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he was
enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and his
nose.

Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a
meditative stare, the old man briefly answered:

“Wal, go ahead.”

“I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.”

“I think it’s the best thing you could do; and I like your good sense
in pupposin’ on’t.”

“Then I may really go?”

“Soon’s ever you like. Don’t pester me about it till you’re ready; then
I’ll give you a little suthing to start off with.” And Uncle Enos
returned to “The Farmer’s Friend,” as if cattle were more interesting
than kindred.

Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; had
expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said, rather
bitterly:

“Didn’t I tell you he’d be glad to have me go? No matter! When I’ve
done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back
again.” Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips
softened with a smile. “Yes, I’ll try my experiment; then I’ll get
rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs.
Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or”—

“How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?”

Christie’s castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but,
after a blank look, she answered pleasantly:

“Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring
away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off, ma’am; but if you are
knitting these for me, I shall certainly start on a firm foundation.”
And, leaning on Aunt Betsey’s knee, she patiently discussed the
wardrobe question from hose to head-gear.

“Don’t you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I make
the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?”
asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet
life.

“No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here,” was the decided answer.

“What do you want, child?”

“Look in the fire, and I’ll try to show you.”

The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie
said in a tone half serious, half playful:

“Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally away in
the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is
what I want my life to be.”

“Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin’ where they are put,
and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?”

Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that
pleased her, she added earnestly:

“I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they
turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull
spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling
despondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end
with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a
pleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into the dark;
its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the
house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. Yes,” she
added, as if to herself, “I hope my life may be like that, so that,
whether it be long or short, it will be useful and cheerful while it
lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides
ashes.”

Though she only half understood them, the girl’s words touched the kind
old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face gazing so
wistfully into the fire.

“A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the green stick
burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness
is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so.”

“I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and if
I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice. Young folks always have
discontented fits, you know. Didn’t you when you were a girl?”

“Shouldn’t wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot ’em.”

“My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I’m not going to sit
and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it for
myself.” And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner
plainly betrayed that, in Christie’s opinion, Aunt Betsey made a bad
bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose soul
was in his pocket.

“Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and sot
in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin’ on.”

Christie’s eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper
with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was like a
dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked
quickly:

“How do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that you are startin’ all wrong; your redic’lus notions about
independence and self-cultur won’t come to nothin’ in the long run, and
you’ll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her’n.”

“Please, don’t say that to me; I can’t bear it, for I shall never think
her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and married a
good man in spite of poverty, when she loved him! You call that folly;
but I’ll do the same if I can; and I’d rather have what my father and
mother left me, than all the money you are piling up, just for the
pleasure of being richer than your neighbors.”

“Never mind, dear, he don’t mean no harm!” whispered Aunt Betsey,
fearing a storm.

But though Christie’s eyes had kindled and her color deepened, her
voice was low and steady, and her indignation was of the inward sort.

“Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reason
why I want to go away before I get sharp and bitter and distrustful as
he is. I don’t suppose I can make you understand my feeling, but I’d
like to try, and then I’ll never speak of it again;” and, carefully
controlling voice and face, Christie slowly added, with a look that
would have been pathetically eloquent to one who could have understood
the instincts of a strong nature for light and freedom: “You say I am
discontented, proud and ambitious; that’s true, and I’m glad of it. I
am discontented, because I can’t help feeling that there is a better
sort of life than this dull one made up of everlasting work, with no
object but money. I can’t starve my soul for the sake of my body, and I
mean to get out of the treadmill if I can. I’m proud, as you call it,
because I hate dependence where there isn’t any love to make it
bearable. You don’t say so in words, but I know you begrudge me a home,
though you will call me ungrateful when I’m gone. I’m willing to work,
but I want work that I can put my heart into, and feel that it does me
good, no matter how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a useful,
happy woman, and I don’t think that is a bad ambition. Even if I only
do what my dear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and
leave a beautiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers
helps me, I shall be satisfied.”

Christie’s voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts and
feelings which had been working within her during the last few days had
stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the old life
had not been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his paper to
this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort which was new to
him. But though the words reproached and annoyed, they did not soften
him, and when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose,
saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle:

“Ef I’d refused to let you go before, I’d agree to it now; for you need
breakin’ in, my girl, and you are goin’ where you’ll get it, so the
sooner you’re off the better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may as wal
leave, for we can’t understand the wants of her higher nater, as
Christie calls it, and we’ve had lecterin’ enough for one night.” And
with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but in good
order.

“There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!” purred
Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for the good soul had
a most old-fashioned and dutiful awe of her lord and master.

“I shan’t cry but act; for it is high time I was off. I’ve stayed for
your sake; now I’m more trouble than comfort, and away I go.
Good-night, my dear old Aunty, and don’t look troubled, for I’ll be a
lamb while I stay.”

Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work away, and sat down
to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom. When it
was done, she drew nearer, to her friendly confidante the fire, and
till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past, bravely of
the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty-one to-morrow, and her
inheritance a head, a heart, a pair of hands; also the dower of most
New England girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many
practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that soon melts in a
genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm, and the spirit which
can rise to heroism when the great moment comes.

Christie was one of that large class of women who, moderately endowed
with talents, earnest and true-hearted, are driven by necessity,
temperament, or principle out into the world to find support,
happiness, and homes for themselves. Many turn back discouraged; more
accept shadow for substance, and discover their mistake too late; the
weakest lose their purpose and themselves; but the strongest struggle
on, and, after danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this
world can give us, the possession of a brave and cheerful spirit, rich
in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help. This was the real desire of
Christie’s heart; this was to be her lesson and reward, and to this
happy end she was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of
life and labor.

Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen herself with
all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before she went
away to find her place in the great unknown world. She thought of her
mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of home
till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone away to teach, as most
country girls are forced to do. Had met, loved, and married a poor
gentleman, and, after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even
by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the world, leaving
her little child to the protection of her brother.

Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent in the
old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing her tasks with
kind Aunt Betsey while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with
a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for love and a larger,
nobler life.

She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found little
help. Her father’s old books were all she could command, and these she
wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found
nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often
coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls whose one
ambition was to “get married,” and whose only subjects of conversation
were “smart bonnets” and “nice dresses.” She tried to believe that the
admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving
for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she
found it impossible to accept for her life’s companion a man whose soul
was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips.

Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, and
Christie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen, if
she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind. She
would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and become a
farmer’s household drudge; settle down into a sour spinster, content to
make butter, gossip, and lay up money all her days; or do what poor
Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations
till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of despair end her
life, and leave a tragic story to haunt their quiet river.

To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from this
narrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do for
herself. This idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and,
after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.

“If I fail, I can come back,” she said to herself, even while she
scorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she was both
brave and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort.

“I won’t marry Joe; I won’t wear myself out in a district-school for
the mean sum they give a woman; I won’t delve away here where I’m not
wanted; and I won’t end my life like a coward, because it is dull and
hard. I’ll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I may succeed as
well.” And Christie’s thoughts went wandering away into the dim, sweet
past when she, a happy child, lived with loving parents in a different
world from that.

Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clock
behind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leaving their
benison behind them.

As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire of
flame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shone upon
her as she went. A good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered
often in the years to come.




CHAPTER II.
SERVANT.


A fortnight later, and Christie was off. Mrs. Flint had briefly
answered that she had a room, and that work was always to be found in
the city. So the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid hopes
among her plain gowns, and filling every corner with happy fancies,
utterly impossible plans, and tender little dreams, so lovely at the
time, so pathetic to remember, when contact with the hard realities of
life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the frost of disappointment
nipped all our morning glories in their prime. The old red stage
stopped at Enos Devon’s door, and his niece crossed the threshold after
a cool handshake with the master of the house, and a close embrace with
the mistress, who stood pouring out last words with spectacles too dim
for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the trunk, slammed the door, mounted his
perch, and the ancient vehicle swayed with premonitory symptoms of
departure.

Then something smote Christie’s heart. “Stop!” she cried, and springing
out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat. Straight up to
him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily, though her face
was full of feeling:

“Uncle, I’m not satisfied with that good-bye. I don’t mean to be
sentimental, but I do want to say, ‘Forgive me!’ I see now that I might
have made you sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make you love me
more. It’s too late now, but I’m not too proud to confess when I’m
wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask your pardon; I thank you for all
you’ve done for me, and I say good-bye affectionately now.”

Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but it
did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead sister’s
eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was a reproach.

Conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad to
own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank
expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily.

“I like that, Kitty, and think the better of you for’t. Let bygones be
bygones. I gen’lly got as good as I give, and I guess I deserved some
on’t. I wish you wal, my girl, I heartily wish you wal, and hope you
won’t forgit that the old house ain’t never shet aginst you.”

Christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then bestowing another
warm hug on Aunt Niobe, as she called the old lady in a tearful joke,
she ran into the carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of the
place.

Christie found Mrs. Flint a dreary woman, with “boarders” written all
over her sour face and faded figure. Butcher’s bills and house rent
seemed to fill her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless cooks and
saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill voice; and an
incapable husband to burden her shoulders like a modern “Old man of the
sea.”

A little room far up in the tall house was at the girl’s disposal for a
reasonable sum, and she took possession, feeling very rich with the
hundred dollars Uncle Enos gave her, and delightfully independent, with
no milk-pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no humdrum district
school to imprison her day after day.

For a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set about finding
something to do. Her wish was to be a governess, that being the usual
refuge for respectable girls who have a living to get. But Christie
soon found her want of accomplishments a barrier to success in that
line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than of the ornamental
branches, and wished their little darlings to learn French before
English, music before grammar, and drawing before writing.

So, after several disappointments, Christie decided that her education
was too old-fashioned for the city, and gave up the idea of teaching.
Sewing she resolved not to try till every thing else failed; and, after
a few more attempts to get writing to do, she said to herself, in a fit
of humility and good sense: “I’ll begin at the beginning, and work my
way up. I’ll put my pride in my pocket, and go out to service.
Housework I like, and can do well, thanks to Aunt Betsey. I never
thought it degradation to do it for her, so why should I mind doing it
for others if they pay for it? It isn’t what I want, but it’s better
than idleness, so I’ll try it!”

Full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that purgatory of
the poor, an intelligence office. Mrs. Flint gave her a recommendation,
and she hopefully took her place among the ranks of buxom German,
incapable Irish, and “smart” American women; for in those days foreign
help had not driven farmers’ daughters out of the field, and made
domestic comfort a lost art.

At first Christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and watched with
interest the anxious housewives who flocked in demanding that rara
avis, an angel at nine shillings a week; and not finding it, bewailed
the degeneracy of the times. Being too honest to profess herself
absolutely perfect in every known branch of house-work, it was some
time before she suited herself. Meanwhile, she was questioned and
lectured, half engaged and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so
worried that she began to regard herself as the incarnation of all
human vanities and shortcomings.

“A desirable place in a small, genteel family,” was at last offered
her, and she posted away to secure it, having reached a state of
desperation and resolved to go as a first-class cook rather than sit
with her hands before her any longer.

A well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties seemed things to
be grateful for, and Christie decided that going out to service was not
the hardest fate in life, as she stood at the door of a handsome house
in a sunny square waiting to be inspected.

Mrs. Stuart, having just returned from Italy, affected the artistic,
and the new applicant found her with a Roman scarf about her head, a
rosary like a string of small cannon balls at her side, and azure
draperies which became her as well as they did the sea-green furniture
of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers tripped over coral and
shells, grew sea-sick looking at pictures of tempestuous billows
engulfing every sort of craft, from a man-of-war to a hencoop with a
ghostly young lady clinging to it with one hand, and had their
appetites effectually taken away by a choice collection of water-bugs
and snakes in a glass globe, that looked like a jar of mixed pickles in
a state of agitation.

[Illustration: MRS. STUART.]

Madame was intent on a water-color copy of Turner’s “Rain, Wind, and
Hail,” that pleasing work which was sold upsidedown and no one found it
out. Motioning Christie to a seat she finished some delicate sloppy
process before speaking. In that little pause Christie examined her,
and the impression then received was afterward confirmed.

Mrs. Stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think herself a queen of
society. She assumed majestic manners in public and could not entirely
divest herself of them in private, which often produced comic effects.
Zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or Aspasia indignant at the price of
eggs will give some idea of this lady when she condescended to the
cares of housekeeping.

Presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if a new servant were
no more than a new bonnet, a necessary article to be ordered home for
examination. Christie presented her recommendation, made her modest
little speech, and awaited her doom.

Mrs. Stuart read, listened, and then demanded with queenly brevity:

“Your name?”

“Christie Devon.”

“Too long; I should prefer to call you Jane as I am accustomed to the
name.”

“As you please, ma’am.”

“Your age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You are an American?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then delivered the following
address with impressive solemnity:

“I wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-conducted person who
knows her place and keeps it. The work is light, as there are but two
in the family. I am very particular and so is Mr. Stuart. I pay two
dollars and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on Sunday, and
no followers. My table-girl must understand her duties thoroughly, be
extremely neat, and always wear white aprons.”

“I think I can suit you, ma’am, when I have learned the ways of the
house,” meekly replied Christie.

Mrs. Stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned the paper with a
gesture that Victoria might have used in restoring a granted petition,
though her next words rather marred the effect of the regal act, “My
cook is black.”

“I have no objection to color, ma’am.”

An expression of relief dawned upon Mrs. Stuart’s countenance, for the
black cook had been an insurmountable obstacle to all the Irish ladies
who had applied. Thoughtfully tapping her Roman nose with the handle of
her brush Madame took another survey of the new applicant, and seeing
that she looked neat, intelligent, and respectful, gave a sigh of
thankfulness and engaged her on the spot.

Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary articles,
bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet (lent her
rent-free owing to a profusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and
at two o’clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson, her fellow
servant.

Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race written
in her face, with its melancholy eyes, subdued expression, and the
pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. She received Christie with
an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with an account of
the duties she would be expected to perform.

A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the table with but few
mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the order of
performances. She had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she
called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and Hepsey, who
was hurrying away to “dish up,” said:

“It’s de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it
done bery spry.”

Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentleman, who appeared
to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if blown, shook
himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said all in one breath:

“You’re the new girl, are you? Well, take my umbrella and pull off my
rubbers.”

“Sir?”

Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of
the astonishment of his new maid, impatiently repeated his request.

“Take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes. Don’t you see
it’s raining like the very deuce!”

Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt
down and removed a pair of muddy overshoes, took the dripping umbrella,
and was walking away with her agreeable burden when Mr. Stuart gave her
another shock by calling over the banister:

“I’m going out again; so clean those rubbers, and see that the boots I
sent down this morning are in order.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Christie meekly, and immediately afterward
startled Hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen
floor, and indignantly demanding:

“Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?”

“I ’spects you is, honey.”

“Am I also expected to clean his boots?”

“Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain’t hard when you gits used to
it.”

“It isn’t the work; it’s the degradation; and I won’t submit to it.”

Christie looked fiercely determined; but Hepsey shook her head, saying
quietly as she went on garnishing a dish:

“Dere’s more ’gradin’ works dan dat, chile, and dem dat’s bin ’bliged
to do um finds dis sort bery easy. You’s paid for it, honey; and if you
does it willin, it won’t hurt you more dan washin’ de marster’s dishes,
or sweepin’ his rooms.”

“There ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. Do you think it’s
right to ask it of me?” cried Christie, feeling that being servant was
not as pleasant a task as she had thought it.

“Dunno, chile. I’se shore I’d never ask it of any woman if I was a man,
’less I was sick or ole. But folks don’t seem to ’member dat we’ve got
feelin’s, and de best way is not to mind dese ere little trubbles. You
jes leave de boots to me; blackin’ can’t do dese ole hands no hurt, and
dis ain’t no deggydation to me now; I’s a free woman.”

“Why, Hepsey, were you ever a slave?” asked the girl, forgetting her
own small injury at this suggestion of the greatest of all wrongs.

“All my life, till I run away five year ago. My ole folks, and eight
brudders and sisters, is down dere in de pit now; waitin’ for the Lord
to set ’em free. And He’s gwine to do it soon, soon!” As she uttered
the last words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from Hepsey’s
face, and the solemn fervor of her voice thrilled Christie’s heart. All
her anger died out in a great pity, and she put her hand on the woman’s
shoulder, saying earnestly:

“I hope so; and I wish I could help to bring that happy day at once!”

For the first time Hepsey smiled, as she said gratefully, “De Lord
bress you for dat wish, chile.” Then, dropping suddenly into her old,
quiet way, she added, turning to her work:

“Now you tote up de dinner, and I’ll be handy by to ’fresh your mind
’bout how de dishes goes, for missis is bery ’ticular, and don’t like
no ‘stakes in tendin’.”

Thanks to her own neat-handed ways and Hepsey’s prompting through the
slide, Christie got on very well; managed her salver dexterously, only
upset one glass, clashed one dish-cover, and forgot to sugar the pie
before putting it on the table; an omission which was majestically
pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a first offence.

By seven o’clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and Christie dropped
into a chair quite tired out with frequent pacings to and fro. In the
kitchen she found the table spread for one, and Hepsey busy with the
boots.

“Aren’t you coming to your dinner, Mrs. Johnson?” she asked, not
pleased at the arrangement.

“When you’s done, honey; dere’s no hurry ’bout me. Katy liked dat way
best, and I’se used ter waitin’.”

“But I don’t like that way, and I won’t have it. I suppose Katy thought
her white skin gave her a right to be disrespectful to a woman old
enough to be her mother just because she was black. I don’t; and while
I’m here, there must be no difference made. If we can work together, we
can eat together; and because you have been a slave is all the more
reason I should be good to you now.”

If Hepsey had been surprised by the new girl’s protest against being
made a boot-jack of, she was still more surprised at this sudden
kindness, for she had set Christie down in her own mind as “one ob dem
toppin’ smart ones dat don’t stay long nowheres.” She changed her
opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new expression on her
face, as Christie took boot and brush from her, and fell to work
energetically, saying as she scrubbed:

“I’m ashamed of complaining about such a little thing as this, and
don’t mean to feel degraded by it, though I should by letting you do it
for me. I never lived out before: that’s the reason I made a fuss.
There’s a polish, for you, and I’m in a good humor again; so Mr. Stuart
may call for his boots whenever he likes, and we’ll go to dinner like
fashionable people, as we are.”

There was something so irresistible in the girl’s hearty manner, that
Hepsey submitted at once with a visible satisfaction, which gave a
relish to Christie’s dinner, though it was eaten at a kitchen table,
with a bare-armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of burnished
dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle.

After this, Christie got on excellently, for she did her best, and
found both pleasure and profit in her new employment. It gave her real
satisfaction to keep the handsome rooms in order, to polish plate, and
spread bountiful meals. There was an atmosphere of ease and comfort
about her which contrasted agreeably with the shabbiness of Mrs.
Flint’s boarding-house, and the bare simplicity of the old home. Like
most young people, Christie loved luxury, and was sensible enough to
see and value the comforts of her situation, and to wonder why more
girls placed as she was did not choose a life like this rather than the
confinements of a sewing-room, or the fatigue and publicity of a shop.

She did not learn to love her mistress, because Mrs. Stuart evidently
considered herself as one belonging to a superior race of beings, and
had no desire to establish any of the friendly relations that may
become so helpful and pleasant to both mistress and maid. She made a
royal progress through her dominions every morning, issued orders,
found fault liberally, bestowed praise sparingly, and took no more
personal interest in her servants than if they were clocks, to be wound
up once a day, and sent away the moment they got out of repair.

Mr. Stuart was absent from morning till night, and all Christie ever
knew about him was that he was a kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and very
conceited man; fond of his wife, proud of the society they managed to
draw about them, and bent on making his way in the world at any cost.

If masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they are studied,
criticised, and imitated by their servants, they would take more heed
to their ways, and set better examples, perhaps. Mrs. Stuart never
dreamed that her quiet, respectful Jane kept a sharp eye on all her
movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, envied her
accomplishments, and practised certain little elegancies that struck
her fancy.

Mr. Stuart would have become apoplectic with indignation if he had
known that this too intelligent table-girl often contrasted her master
with his guests, and dared to think him wanting in good breeding when
he boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or laid plans to lure
some lion into his house. When he lost his temper, she always wanted to
laugh, he bounced and bumbled about so like an angry blue-bottle fly;
and when he got himself up elaborately for a party, this disrespectful
hussy confided to Hepsey her opinion that “master was a fat dandy, with
nothing to be vain of but his clothes,”—a sacrilegious remark which
would have caused her to be summarily ejected from the house if it had
reached the august ears of master or mistress.

“My father was a gentleman; and I shall never forget it, though I do go
out to service. I’ve got no rich friends to help me up, but, sooner or
later, I mean to find a place among cultivated people; and while I’m
working and waiting, I can be fitting myself to fill that place like a
gentlewoman, as I am.”

With this ambition in her mind, Christie took notes of all that went on
in the polite world, of which she got frequent glimpses while “living
out.” Mrs. Stuart received one evening of each week, and on these
occasions Christie, with an extra frill on her white apron, served the
company, and enjoyed herself more than they did, if the truth had been
known.

While helping the ladies with their wraps, she observed what they wore,
how they carried themselves, and what a vast amount of prinking they
did, not to mention the flood of gossip they talked while shaking out
their flounces and settling their topknots.

Later in the evening, when she passed cups and glasses, this
demure-looking damsel heard much fine discourse, saw many famous
beings, and improved her mind with surreptitious studies of the rich
and great when on parade. But her best time was after supper, when,
through the crack of the door of the little room where she was supposed
to be clearing away the relics of the feast, she looked and listened at
her ease; laughed at the wits, stared at the lions, heard the music,
was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by the gentility of the
whole affair.

After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, for there was
an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely
wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his part
to play he managed to do it with spirit. Night after night the wag told
his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled, the pretty
women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly discussed by
the elect precious, and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing costumes, sailed to and
fro in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred up the lions he
had captured, till they roared their best, great and small.

“Good heavens! why don’t they do or say something new and interesting,
and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and poetry, and cosmos?
The papers are full of appeals for help for the poor, reforms of all
sorts, and splendid work that others are doing; but these people seem
to think it isn’t genteel enough to be spoken of here. I suppose it is
all very elegant to go on like a set of trained canaries, but it’s very
dull fun to watch them, and Hepsey’s stories are a deal more
interesting to me.”

Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilettanteism through
the crack of the door for some months, Christie left the “trained
canaries” to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted
herself to Hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life so
bitterly real that she never could forget it.

[Illustration: HEPSEY.]

Friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for Hepsey had a
motherly heart, and Christie soon won her confidence by bestowing her
own. Her story was like many another; yet, being the first Christie had
ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of one who had
suffered and escaped, it made a deep impression on her, bringing home
to her a sense of obligation so forcibly that she began at once to pay
a little part of the great debt which the white race owes the black.

Christie loved books; and the attic next her own was full of them. To
this store she found her way by a sort of instinct as sure as that
which leads a fly to a honey-pot, and, finding many novels, she read
her fill. This amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled the silent
house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was the joy of her life.

Hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her book when the day’s
work was done, and once a heavy sigh roused Christie from the most
exciting crisis of “The Abbot.”

“What’s the matter? Are you very tired, Aunty?” she asked, using the
name that came most readily to her lips.

“No, honey; I was only wishin’ I could read fast like you does. I’s
berry slow ’bout readin’ and I want to learn a heap,” answered Hepsey,
with such a wistful look in her soft eyes that Christie shut her book,
saying briskly:

“Then I’ll teach you. Bring out your primer and let’s begin at once.”

“Dear chile, it’s orful hard work to put learnin’ in my ole head, and I
wouldn’t ’cept such a ting from you only I needs dis sort of help so
bad, and I can trust you to gib it to me as I wants it.”

Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie’s heart, Hepsey told
her plan and showed what help she craved.

For five years she had worked hard, and saved her earnings for the
purpose of her life. When a considerable sum had been hoarded up, she
confided it to one whom she believed to be a friend, and sent him to
buy her old mother. But he proved false, and she never saw either
mother or money. It was a hard blow, but she took heart and went to
work again, resolving this time to trust no one with the dangerous part
of the affair, but when she had scraped together enough to pay her way
she meant to go South and steal her mother at the risk of her life.

“I don’t want much money, but I must know little ’bout readin’ and
countin’ up, else I’ll get lost and cheated. You’ll help me do dis,
honey, and I’ll bless you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if I
ever gets her safe away.”

With tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and both hands stretched
out to the poor soul who implored this small boon of her, Christie
promised all the help that in her lay, and kept her word religiously.

From that time, Hepsey’s cause was hers; she laid by a part of her
wages for “ole mammy,” she comforted Hepsey with happy prophecies of
success, and taught with an energy and skill she had never known
before. Novels lost their charms now, for Hepsey could give her a
comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing she found in them, because
truth stamped her tales with a power and pathos the most gifted fancy
could but poorly imitate.

The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than ever to her now, and
her happiest evenings were spent in the tidy kitchen, watching Hepsey
laboriously shaping A’s and B’s, or counting up on her worn fingers the
wages they had earned by months of weary work, that she might purchase
one treasure,—a feeble, old woman, worn out with seventy years of
slavery far away there in Virginia.

For a year Christie was a faithful servant to her mistress, who
appreciated her virtues, but did not encourage them; a true friend to
poor Hepsey, who loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and
affection a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Providence had other
lessons for Christie, and when this one was well learned she was sent
away to learn another phase of woman’s life and labor.

While their domestics amused themselves with privy conspiracy and
rebellion at home, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart spent their evenings in chasing
that bright bubble called social success, and usually came home rather
cross because they could not catch it.

On one of these occasions they received a warm welcome, for, as they
approached the house, smoke was seen issuing from an attic window, and
flames flickering behind the half-drawn curtain. Bursting out of the
carriage with his usual impetuosity, Mr. Stuart let himself in and tore
upstairs shouting “Fire!” like an engine company.

In the attic Christie was discovered lying dressed upon her bed, asleep
or suffocated by the smoke that filled the room. A book had slipped
from her hand, and in falling had upset the candle on a chair beside
her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hanging on the wall,
and a greater part of Christie’s wardrobe was burning brilliantly.

“I forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and see what the
deceitful creature has done with her private candle!” cried Mrs. Stuart
with a shrillness that roused the girl from her heavy sleep more
effectually than the anathemas Mr. Stuart was fulminating against the
fire.

Sitting up she looked dizzily about her. The smoke was clearing fast, a
window having been opened; and the tableau was a striking one. Mr.
Stuart with an excited countenance was dancing frantically on a heap of
half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. He had not only drenched
them with water from bowl and pitcher, but had also cast those articles
upon the pile like extinguishers, and was skipping among the fragments
with an agility which contrasted with his stout figure in full evening
costume, and his besmirched face, made the sight irresistibly
ludicrous.

Mrs. Stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed to have left her
dignity downstairs with her opera cloak, for with skirts gathered
closely about her, tiara all askew, and face full of fear and anger,
she stood upon a chair and scolded like any shrew.

The comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little hysterical with
the sudden alarm, Christie broke into a peal of laughter that sealed
her fate.

“Look at her! look at her!” cried Mrs. Stuart gesticulating on her
perch as if about to fly. “She has been at the wine, or lost her wits.
She must go, Horatio, she must go! I cannot have my nerves shattered by
such dreadful scenes. She is too fond of books, and it has turned her
brain. Hepsey can watch her to-night, and at dawn she shall leave the
house for ever.”

“Not till after breakfast, my dear. Let us have that in comfort I beg,
for upon my soul we shall need it,” panted Mr. Stuart, sinking into a
chair exhausted with the vigorous measures which had quenched the
conflagration.

Christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the probable cause of
the mischief, and penitently promised to be more careful for the
future.

Mr. Stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but Madame was
inexorable, for she had so completely forgotten her dignity that she
felt it would be impossible ever to recover it in the eyes of this
disrespectful menial. Therefore she dismissed her with a lecture that
made both mistress and maid glad to part.

She did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal Mr. Stuart paid
Christie her wages with a solemnity which proved that he had taken a
curtain lecture to heart. There was a twinkle in his eye, however, as
he kindly added a recommendation, and after the door closed behind him
Christie was sure that he exploded into a laugh at the recollection of
his last night’s performance.

This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part of
her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated wardrobe,
and, making Hepsey promise to report progress from time to time,
Christie went back to Mrs. Flint’s to compose her mind and be ready à
la Micawber “for something to turn up.”




CHAPTER III.
ACTRESS.


Feeling that she had all the world before her where to choose, and that
her next step ought to take her up at least one round higher on the
ladder she was climbing, Christie decided not to try going out to
service again. She knew very well that she would never live with Irish
mates, and could not expect to find another Hepsey. So she tried to get
a place as companion to an invalid, but failed to secure the only
situation of the sort that was offered her, because she mildly objected
to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, and reading aloud half the
night. The old lady called har an “impertinent baggage,” and Christie
retired in great disgust, resolving not to be a slave to anybody.

Things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after much waiting and
hoping for other work Christie at last accepted about the only
employment which had not entered her mind.

Among the boarders at Mrs. Flint’s were an old lady and her pretty
daughter, both actresses at a respectable theatre. Not stars by any
means, but good second-rate players, doing their work creditably and
earning an honest living. The mother had been kind to Christie in
offering advice, and sympathizing with her disappointments. The
daughter, a gay little lass, had taken Christie to the theatre several
times, there to behold her in all the gauzy glories that surround the
nymphs of spectacular romance.

To Christie this was a great delight, for, though she had pored over
her father’s Shakespeare till she knew many scenes by heart, she had
never seen a play till Lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted
world. Her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, and
sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses made her grateful to
Christie.

The girl’s despondent face, as she came in day after day from her
unsuccessful quest, told its own story, though she uttered no
complaint, and these friendly souls laid their heads together, eager to
help her in their own dramatic fashion.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! All hail to the queen!” was the cry that one
day startled Christie as she sat thinking anxiously, while sewing
mock-pearls on a crown for Mrs. Black.

Looking up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a
series of pantomimic evolutions suggestive of a warrior doing battle
with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art of
self-defence.

“What have you got? Who is the queen?” she asked, laughing, as the
breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at Christie’s
feet.

“You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our new spectacle, at half a
dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes well.”

“No!” cried Christie, with a gasp.

“Yes!” cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to tell
her news with theatrical volubility. “Mr. Sharp, the manager, wants a
lot of tallish girls, and I told him I knew of a perfect dear. He said:
‘Bring her on, then,’ and I flew home to tell you. Now, don’t look
wild, and say no. You’ve only got to sing in one chorus, march in the
grand procession, and lead your band in the terrific battle-scene. The
dress is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin over shoulder, helmet, shield,
lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down, and as much cork to your eyebrows
as you like.”

Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst into the room like
a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the listeners’
ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust. While Christie still sat
with her mouth open, too bewildered to reply, Mrs. Black said in her
cosey voice:

“Try it, me dear, it’s just what you’ll enjoy, and a capital beginning
I assure ye; for if you do well old Sharp will want you again, and
then, when some one slips out of the company, you can slip in, and
there you are quite comfortable. Try it, me dear, and if you don’t like
it drop it when the piece is over, and there’s no harm done.”

“It’s much easier and jollier than any of the things you are after.
We’ll stand by you like bricks, and in a week you’ll say it’s the best
lark you ever had in your life. Don’t be prim, now, but say yes, like a
trump, as you are,” added Lucy, waving a pink satin train temptingly
before her friend.

“I will try it!” said Christie, with sudden decision, feeling that
something entirely new and absorbing was what she needed to expend the
vigor, romance, and enthusiasm of her youth upon.

With a shriek of delight Lucy swept her off her chair, and twirled her
about the room as excitable young ladies are fond of doing when their
joyful emotions need a vent. When both were giddy they subsided into a
corner and a breathless discussion of the important step.

Though she had consented, Christie had endless doubts and fears, but
Lucy removed many of the former, and her own desire for pleasant
employment conquered many of the latter. In her most despairing moods
she had never thought of trying this. Uncle Enos considered
“play-actin’” as the sum of all iniquity. What would he say if she went
calmly to destruction by that road? Sad to relate, this recollection
rather strengthened her purpose, for a delicious sense of freedom
pervaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to rise up within
her at the memory of her Uncle’s grim prophecies and narrow views.

“Lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can’t I be so too if I
have any talent? It isn’t exactly what I should choose, but any thing
honest is better than idleness. I’ll try it any way, and get a little
fun, even if I don’t make much money or glory out of it.”

So Christie held to her resolution in spite of many secret misgivings,
and followed Mrs. Black’s advice on all points with a docility which
caused that sanguine lady to predict that she would be a star before
she knew where she was.

“Is this the stage? How dusty and dull it is by daylight!” said
Christie next day, as she stood by Lucy on the very spot where she had
seen Hamlet die in great anguish two nights before.

“Bless you, child, it’s in curl-papers now, as I am of a morning. Mr.
Sharp, here’s an Amazon for you.”

As she spoke, Lucy hurried across the stage, followed by Christie,
wearing any thing but an Amazonian expression just then.

“Ever on before?” abruptly asked, a keen-faced, little man, glancing
with an experienced eye at the young person who stood before him bathed
in blushes.

“No, sir.”

“Do you sing?”

“A little, sir.”

“Dance, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just take a turn across the stage, will you? Must walk well to lead a
march.”

As she went, Christie heard Mr. Sharp taking notes audibly:

“Good tread; capital figure; fine eye. She’ll make up well, and behave
herself, I fancy.”

A strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, remembering that she
had presented herself for inspection, she controlled the impulse, and
returned to him with no demonstration of displeasure, but a little more
fire in “the fine eye,” and a more erect carriage of the “capital
figure.”

“All right, my dear. Give your name to Mr. Tripp, and your mind to the
business, and consider yourself engaged,”—with which satisfactory
remark the little man vanished like a ghost.

“Lucy, did you hear that impertinent ‘my dear’?” asked Christie, whose
sense of propriety had received its first shock.

“Lord, child, all managers do it. They don’t mean any thing; so be
resigned, and thank your stars he didn’t say ‘love’ and ‘darling,’ and
kiss you, as old Vining used to,” was all the sympathy she got.

Having obeyed orders, Lucy initiated her into the mysteries of the
place, and then put her in a corner to look over the scenes in which
she was to appear. Christie soon caught the idea of her part,—not a
difficult matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece, after
which she sat watching the arrival of the troop she was to lead. A most
forlorn band of warriors they seemed, huddled together, and looking as
if afraid to speak, lest they should infringe some rule; or to move,
lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected trap-door.

Presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra struck up, and
Christie found herself marching and counter-marching at word of
command. At first, a most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of her
position oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous contrast
between the solemn anxiety of the troop and the fantastic evolutions
they were performing amused her till the novelty wore off; the martial
music excited her; the desire to please sharpened her wits; and natural
grace made it easy for her to catch and copy the steps and poses given
her to imitate. Soon she forgot herself, entered into the spirit of the
thing, and exerted every sense to please, so successfully that Mr.
Tripp praised her quickness at comprehension, Lucy applauded heartily
from a fairy car, and Mr. Sharp popped his head out of a palace window
to watch the Amazon’s descent from the Mountains of the Moon.

When the regular company arrived, the troop was dismissed till the
progress of the play demanded their reappearance. Much interested in
the piece, Christie stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of which
was strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella, enjoying the
novel sights and sounds about her.

Yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed languidly about
with much incoherent jabbering of parts, and frequent explosions of
laughter. Princes, with varnished boots and suppressed cigars, fought,
bled, and died, without a change of countenance. Damsels of
unparalleled beauty, according to the text, gaped in the faces of
adoring lovers, and crocheted serenely on the brink of annihilation.
Fairies, in rubber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves on
flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft with hooks in their
backs like young Hindoo devotees. Demons, guiltless of hoof or horn,
clutched their victims with the inevitable “Ha! ha!” and vanished
darkly, eating pea-nuts. The ubiquitous Mr. Sharp seemed to pervade the
whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly from above or spectrally from
below, and his active little figure darted to and fro like a critical
will-o-the-wisp.

The grand march and chorus in the closing scene were easily
accomplished; for, as Lucy bade her, Christie “sung with all her
might,” and kept step as she led her band with the dignity of a
Boadicea. No one spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on
their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang died away without
lifting the roof by its din, she could hardly believe that the dreaded
first rehearsal was safely over.

A visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came next; and here
Christie had a slight skirmish with the mistress of that department
relative to the length of her classical garments. As studies from the
nude had not yet become one of the amusements of the elite of Little
Babel, Christie was not required to appear in the severe simplicity of
a costume consisting of a necklace, sandals, and a bit of gold fringe
about the waist, but was allowed an extra inch or two on her tunic, and
departed, much comforted by the assurance that her dress would not be
“a shock to modesty,” as Lucy expressed it.

“Now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an honor to your
country and a terror to the foe,” said Lucy, as she led her _protégée_
before the green-room mirror on the first night of “The Demon’s
Daughter, or The Castle of the Sun!! The most Magnificent Spectacle
ever produced upon the American Stage!!!”

Christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glittering helmet,
shield and lance, streaming hair and savage cloak. She liked the
picture, for there was much of the heroic spirit in the girl, and even
this poor counterfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with martial
memories of Joan of Arc, Zenobia, and Britomarte.

“Go to!” cried Lucy, who affected theatrical modes of speech. “Don’t
admire yourself any longer, but tie up your sandals and come on. Be
sure you rush down the instant I cry, ‘Demon, I defy thee!’ Don’t break
your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, but come with
effect, for I want that scene to make a hit.”

[Illustration: CHRISTIE AS QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS.]

Princess Caremfil swept away, and the Amazonian queen climbed to her
perch among the painted mountains, where her troop already sat like a
flock of pigeons shining in the sun. The gilded breast-plate rose and
fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook with the
trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her head dizzy, and more than
once, as she waited for her cue, she was sorely tempted to run away and
take the consequences.

But the thought of Lucy’s good-will and confidence kept her, and when
the cry came she answered with a ringing shout, rushed down the
ten-foot precipice, and charged upon the foe with an energy that
inspired her followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling in
the demon’s grasp.

With clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescuers of innocence
assailed the sooty fiends who fell before their unscientific blows with
a rapidity which inspired in the minds of beholders a suspicion that
the goblins’ own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry kept
them prostrate. As the last groan expired, the last agonized squirm
subsided, the conquerors performed the intricate dance with which it
appears the Amazons were wont to celebrate their victories. Then the
scene closed with a glare of red light and a “grand tableau” of the
martial queen standing in a bower of lances, the rescued princess
gracefully fainting in her arms, and the vanquished demon scowling
fiercely under her foot, while four-and-twenty dishevelled damsels sang
a song of exultation, to the barbaric music of a tattoo on their
shields.

All went well that night, and when at last the girls doffed crown and
helmet, they confided to one another the firm opinion that the success
of the piece was in a great measure owing to their talent, their
exertions, and went gaily home predicting for themselves careers as
brilliant as those of Siddons and Rachel.

It would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes and victories of
a successful actress; but Christie was no dramatic genius born to shine
before the world and leave a name behind her. She had no talent except
that which may be developed in any girl possessing the lively fancy,
sympathetic nature, and ambitious spirit which make such girls
naturally dramatic. This was to be only one of many experiences which
were to show her her own weakness and strength, and through effort,
pain, and disappointment fit her to play a nobler part on a wider
stage.

For a few weeks Christie’s illusions lasted; then she discovered that
the new life was nearly as humdrum as the old, that her companions were
ordinary men and women, and her bright hopes were growing as dim as her
tarnished shield. She grew unutterably weary of “The Castle of the
Sun,” and found the “Demon’s Daughter” an unmitigated bore. She was not
tired of the profession, only dissatisfied with the place she held in
it, and eager to attempt a part that gave some scope for power and
passion.

Mrs. Black wisely reminded her that she must learn to use her wings
before she tried to fly, and comforted her with stories of celebrities
who had begun as she was beginning, yet who had suddenly burst from
their grub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid butterflies.

“We’ll stand by you, Kit; so keep up your courage, and do your best. Be
clever to every one in general, old Sharp in particular, and when a
chance comes, have your wits about you and grab it. That’s the way to
get on,” said Lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star for years.

“If I had beauty I should stand a better chance,” sighed Christie,
surveying herself with great disfavor, quite unconscious that to a
cultivated eye the soul of beauty was often visible in that face of
hers, with its intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines about
the forehead, making it a far more significant and attractive
countenance than that of her friend, possessing only piquant
prettiness.

“Never mind, child; you’ve got a lovely figure, and an actress’s best
feature,—fine eyes and eyebrows. I heard old Kent say so, and he’s a
judge. So make the best of what you’ve got, as I do,” answered Lucy,
glancing at her own comely little person with an air of perfect
resignation.

Christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the advice, and,
though she fretted in private, was cheerful and alert in public. Always
modest, attentive, and obliging, she soon became a favorite with her
mates, and, thanks to Lucy’s good offices with Mr. Sharp, whose
favorite she was, Christie got promoted sooner than she otherwise would
have been.

A great Christmas spectacle was brought out the next season, and
Christie had a good part in it. When that was over she thought there
was no hope for her, as the regular company was full and a different
sort of performance was to begin. But just then her chance came, and
she “grabbed it.” The first soubrette died suddenly, and in the
emergency Mr. Sharp offered the place to Christie till he could fill it
to his mind. Lucy was second soubrette, and had hoped for this
promotion; but Lucy did not sing well. Christie had a good voice, had
taken lessons and much improved of late, so she had the preference and
resolved to stand the test so well that this temporary elevation should
become permanent.

She did her best, and though many of the parts were distasteful to her
she got through them successfully, while now and then she had one which
she thoroughly enjoyed. Her Tilly Slowboy was a hit, and a proud girl
was Christie when Kent, the comedian, congratulated her on it, and told
her he had seldom seen it better done.

To find favor in Kent’s eyes was an honor indeed, for he belonged to
the old school, and rarely condescended to praise modern actors. His
own style was so admirable that he was justly considered the first
comedian in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the old
theatre where he had played for years. Of course he possessed much
influence in that little world, and being a kindly man used it
generously to help up any young aspirant who seemed to him deserving.

He had observed Christie, attracted by her intelligent face and modest
manners, for in spite of her youth there was a native refinement about
her that made it impossible for her to romp and flirt as some of her
mates did. But till she played Tilly he had not thought she possessed
any talent. That pleased him, and seeing how much she valued his
praise, and was flattered by his notice, he gave her the wise but
unpalatable advice always offered young actors. Finding that she
accepted it, was willing to study hard, work faithfully, and wait
patiently, he predicted that in time she would make a clever actress,
never a great one.

Of course Christie thought he was mistaken, and secretly resolved to
prove him a false prophet by the triumphs of her career. But she meekly
bowed to his opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took a paternal
sort of interest in her, which, coming from the powerful favorite, did
her good service with the higher powers, and helped her on more rapidly
than years of meritorious effort.

Toward the end of that second season several of Dickens’s dramatized
novels were played, and Christie earned fresh laurels. She loved those
books, and seemed by instinct to understand and personate the humor and
pathos of many of those grotesque creations. Believing she had little
beauty to sacrifice, she dressed such parts to the life, and played
them with a spirit and ease that surprised those who had considered her
a dignified and rather dull young person.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Sharp, that girl is going to make a capital
character actress. When her parts suit, she forgets herself entirely
and does admirably well. Her Miggs was nearly the death of me to-night.
She’s got that one gift, and it’s a good one. You’d better give her a
chance, for I think she’ll be a credit to the old concern.”

Kent said that,—Christie heard it, and flew to Lucy, waving Miggs’s cap
for joy as she told the news.

“What did Mr. Sharp say?” asked Lucy, turning round with her face half
“made up.”

“He merely said ‘Hum,’ and smiled. Wasn’t that a good sign?” said
Christie, anxiously.

“Can’t say,” and Lucy touched up her eyebrows as if she took no
interest in the affair.

Christie’s face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought of failure; but
she kept up her spirits by working harder than ever, and soon had her
reward. Mr. Sharp’s “Hum” did mean yes, and the next season she was
regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars a week.

It was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to Kent, Christie did
her utmost to show that she deserved his good opinion. New trials and
temptations beset her now, but hard work and an innocent nature kept
her safe and busy. Obstacles only spurred her on to redoubled exertion,
and whether she did well or ill, was praised or blamed, she found a
never-failing excitement in her attempts to reach the standard of
perfection she had set up for herself. Kent did not regret his
patronage. Mr. Sharp was satisfied with the success of the experiment,
and Christie soon became a favorite in a small way, because behind the
actress the public always saw a woman who never “forgot the modesty of
nature.”

But as she grew prosperous in outward things, Christie found herself
burdened with a private cross that tried her very much. Lucy was no
longer her friend; something had come between them, and a steadily
increasing coldness took the place of the confidence and affection
which had once existed. Lucy was jealous for Christie had passed her in
the race. She knew she could not fill the place Christie had gained by
favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was bitterly
envious, though ashamed to own it.

Christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her gratitude to her
first friend, and to show that her heart was unchanged. But she failed
to win Lucy back and felt herself injured by such unjust resentment.
Mrs. Black took her daughter’s part, and though they preserved the
peace outwardly the old friendliness was quite gone.

Hoping to forget this trouble in excitement Christie gave herself
entirely to her profession, finding in it a satisfaction which for a
time consoled her.

But gradually she underwent the sorrowful change which comes to strong
natures when they wrong themselves through ignorance or wilfulness.

Pride and native integrity kept her from the worst temptations of such
a life, but to the lesser ones she yielded, growing selfish, frivolous,
and vain,—intent on her own advancement, and careless by what means she
reached it. She had no thought now beyond her art, no desire beyond the
commendation of those whose opinion was serviceable, no care for any
one but herself.

Her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till the sound of
applause became the sweetest music to her ear. She rose with this hope,
lay down with this satisfaction, and month after month passed in this
feverish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing appetite for
its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing forgetfulness of any
higher aspiration than dramatic fame.

“Give me joy, Lucy, I’m to have a benefit next week! Everybody else has
had one, and I’ve played for them all, so no one seemed to begrudge me
my turn when dear old Kent proposed it,” said Christie, coming in one
night still flushed and excited with the good news.

“What shall you have?” asked Lucy, trying to look pleased, and failing
decidedly.

“‘Masks and Faces.’ I’ve always wanted to play Peg. and it has good
parts for you and Kent, and St. George I chose it for that reason, for
I shall need all the help I can get to pull me through, I dare say.”

The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Christie was suddenly
seized with a suspicion that Lucy was not only jealous of her as an
actress, but as a woman. St. George was a comely young actor who
usually played lovers’ parts with Christie, and played them very well,
too, being possessed of much talent, and a gentleman. They had never
thought of falling in love with each other, though St. George wooed and
won Christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. But it was very
easy to imagine that so much mock passion had a basis of truth, and
Lucy evidently tormented herself with this belief.

“Why didn’t you choose Juliet: St. George would do Romeo so well?” said
Lucy, with a sneer.

“No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare will never be my line,
and I believe him. I should think you’d be satisfied with ‘Masks and
Faces,’ for you know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end,”
answered Christie, watching the effect of her words.

“As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other people’s leavings won’t
suit me,” cried Lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied her
words.

“Not even though he has ‘heavenly eyes,’ ‘distracting legs,’ and ‘a
melting voice?’” asked Christie maliciously, quoting Lucy’s own
rapturous speeches when the new actor came.

“Come, come, girls, don’t quarrel. I won’t ’ave it in me room. Lucy’s
tired to death, and it’s not nice of you, Kitty, to come and crow over
her this way,” said Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for Lucy was in
tears, and Christie looking dangerous.

“It’s impossible to please you, so I’ll say good-night,” and Christie
went to her room with resentment burning hotly in her heart.

As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected in
the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she tinned up the gas, wiped
the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied her own
face intently for several moments. It was pale and jaded now, and all
its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about the mouth, a
feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie
the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face. If one could
believe the testimony of that countenance things were not going well
with Christie, and she owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked
herself, “Am I what I hoped I should be? No, and it is my fault. If
three years of this life have made me this, what shall I be in ten? A
fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?”

With gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood a moment
struggling with herself. Then the hard look returned, and she spoke out
defiantly, as if in answer to some warning voice within herself. “No
one cares what I am, so why care myself? Why not go on and get as much
fame as I can? Success gives me power if it cannot give me happiness,
and I must have some reward for my hard work. Yes! a gay life and a
short one, then out with the lights and down with the curtain!”

But in spite of her reckless words Christie sobbed herself to sleep
that night like a child who knows it is astray, yet cannot see the
right path or hear its mother’s voice calling it home.

On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exasperating mood,
Christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their
dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the Rival Queens
with great effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked none, but
putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed her mind on the task
before her.

As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt her
spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened up,
every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at herself,
for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge, her eyes
shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with the resolve to
make a hit or die.

Christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the hearty
welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved how kind a
regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only by a
fictitious name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much, for she
was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew nothing of.

The other players were full of kindly interest in her success, but Lucy
took a naughty satisfaction in harassing her by all the small slights
and unanswerable provocations which one actress has it in her power to
inflict upon another.

Christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and retaliated by an
ominous frown when her position allowed, threatening asides when a
moment’s by-play favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever
she met Lucy off the stage.

But in spite of all annoyances she had never played better in her life.
She liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted,
sharp-tongued Peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those who
knew her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with Triplet, for
Kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with many an
encouraging look and word. Anxious to do honor to her patron and friend
she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene where she comes
like a good angel to the home of the poor play-wright, she brought
tears to the eyes of her audience; and when at her command Triplet
strikes up a jig to amuse the children she “covered the buckle” in
gallant style, dancing with all the frolicsome abandon of the Irish
orange-girl who for a moment forgot her grandeur and her grief.

That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature that
need very little art to make them effective; and when a great bouquet
fell with a thump at Christie’s feet, as she paused to bow her thanks
for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height of earthly
bliss.

In the studio scene Lucy seemed suddenly gifted with unsuspected skill;
for when Mabel kneels to the picture, praying her rival to give her
back her husband’s heart, Christie was amazed to see real tears roll
down Lucy’s cheeks, and to hear real love and longing thrill her
trembling words with sudden power and passion.

“That is not acting. She does love St. George, and thinks I mean to
keep him from her. Poor dear! I’ll tell her all about it to-night, and
set her heart at rest,” thought Christie; and when Peg left the frame,
her face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her voice was
beautifully tender as she promised to restore the stolen treasure.

Lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the piece went smoothly on
to its last scene. Peg was just relinquishing the repentant husband to
his forgiving wife with those brave words of hers, when a rending sound
above their heads made all look up and start back; all but Lucy, who
stood bewildered. Christie’s quick eye saw the impending danger, and
with a sudden spring she caught her friend from it. It was only a
second’s work, but it cost her much; for in the act, down crashed one
of the mechanical contrivances used in a late spectacle, and in its
fall stretched Christie stunned and senseless on the stage.

A swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a crowd of actors
hurried forward, and the panic-stricken audience caught glimpses of
poor Peg lying mute and pallid in Mabel’s arms, while Vane wrung his
hands, and Triplet audibly demanded, “Why the devil somebody didn’t go
for a doctor?”

Then a brilliant view of Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Nine
Muses in full blast, shut the scene from sight, and soon Mr. Sharp
appeared to ask their patience till the after-piece was ready, for Miss
Douglas was too much injured to appear again. And with an unwonted
expression of feeling, the little man alluded to “the generous act
which perhaps had changed the comedy to a tragedy and robbed the
beneficiary of her well-earned reward at their hands.”

All had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, the danger, and
this unpremeditated action won heartier applause than Christie ever had
received for her best rendering of more heroic deeds.

But she did not hear the cordial round they gave her. She had said she
would “make a hit or die;” and just then it seemed as if she had done
both, for she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the sympathy
bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the first, last benefit she
ever was to have.




CHAPTER IV.
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.”




CHAPTER V.
COMPANION.


Before she had time to find a new situation, Christie received a note
from Miss Tudor, saying that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall she
wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, where
the duties were light and the compensation large.

“How kind of her to think of me,” said Christie, gratefully. “I’ll go
at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing or she
wouldn’t recommend it.”

Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss Tudor, and as she waited
at the door she thought:

“What a happy family the Carrols must be!” for the house was one of an
imposing block in a West End square, which had its own little park
where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children
played among the fallen leaves.

Mrs. Carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty
years. But though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver
threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious
smile showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of
unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had
brought some heavy cross, from which her wealth could purchase no
release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen.

She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened attentively when
she spoke, and seemed testing her with covert care as if the place she
was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill.

“Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a
cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly
grateful to an invalid,” began Mrs. Carrol, with that keen yet wistful
gaze, and an anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie’s heart.

“Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few
accomplishments. I have never been with an invalid, but I think I can
promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. My own experience of
illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten
pain. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have any fitness for
the place.”

“I do,” and Mrs. Carrol’s face softened as she spoke, for something in
Christie’s words or manner seemed to please her. Then slowly, as if the
task was a hard one, she added:

“My daughter has been very ill and is still weak and nervous. I must
hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the
illness and the melancholy which now oppresses her. Therefore we must
avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. She cares for
nothing as yet, will see no one, and prefers to live alone. She is
still so feeble this is but natural; yet solitude is bad for her, and
her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society
of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do
her good. You see it is a little difficult to find just what we want,
for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet and firm, as few
young people are.”

Fancying from Mrs. Carrol’s manner that Miss Tudor had said more in her
favor than had been repeated to her, Christie in a few plain-words told
her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling
that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and
discretion than many women of her age possessed. Mrs. Carrol seemed to
find it so; the anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when
Christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief:

“Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the one we want. Come
and try it for a week and then we can decide. Can you begin to-day?”
she added, as Christie rose. “Every hour is precious, for my poor
girl’s sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope.”

“I will stay with pleasure,” answered Christie, thinking Mrs. Carrol’s
anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother’s pain, for something in her
face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her
daughter’s state.

With secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, Christie took off
her things and followed Mrs. Carrol upstairs. Entering a room in what
seemed to be a wing of the great house, they found an old woman sewing.

“How is Helen to-day, Nurse?” asked Mrs. Carrol, pausing.

“Poorly, ma’am. I’ve been in every hour, but she only says: ‘Let me be
quiet,’ and lies looking up at the picture till it’s fit to break your
heart to see her,” answered the woman, with a shake of the head.

“I have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little while. Doctor
advises it, and I fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse
the dear child, and make her forget herself and her troubles.”

“As you please, ma’am,” said the old woman, looking with little favor
at the new-comer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference
between herself and the child she had tended for years.

“I won’t disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon in and tell Helen
mamma sends her love, and hopes she will make an effort for all our
sakes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go, my dear, and do your best.” With these words Mrs. Carrol hastily
left the room, and Christie followed Nurse.

A quick glance showed her that she was in the daintily furnished
boudoir of a rich man’s daughter, but before she could take a second
look her eyes were arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and
she forgot all else. On a low luxurious couch lay a girl, so beautiful
and pale and still, that for an instant Christie thought her dead or
sleeping. She was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes
opened wide, darkening and dilating with a strange expression as they
fell on the unfamiliar face.

“Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no one. I’m too ill to be
so worried,” she said, in an imperious tone.

[Illustration: HELEN CARROL]

“Yes, dear, I know, but your mamma wished you to make an effort. Miss
Devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit,” said the old
woman in a dissatisfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender
way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about
the girl’s shoulders.

Helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to
be civil, for with a courteous wave of her hand toward an easy chair in
the sunny window she said, quietly:

“Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a little while. I’ve
had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. There are books of
all sorts, or the conservatory if you like it better.”

“Thank you. I’ll read quietly till you want me. Then I shall be very
glad to do any thing I can for you.”

With that Christie retired to the big chair, and fell to reading the
first book she took up, a good deal embarrassed by her reception, and
very curious to know what would come next.

The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over
her darling’s feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep.

For a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the
marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich hangings,
the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the half-open door that
led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant
carriage broke the silence now and then.

Christie’s eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and
motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess, hung the
portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of
flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it
were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped still.

As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its
quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and happiness,
her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of
pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to hide them, and
as she hastily looked down upon her book a treacherous drop fell
glittering on the page.

“What have you there so interesting?” asked Helen, in that softly
imperious tone of hers.

“Don Quixote,” answered Christie, too much abashed to have her wits
about her.

Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily:

“They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not find it funny;
neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do.”

“I was not reading, I was”—there Christie broke down, and could have
cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made. But that
involuntary tear was better balm to Helen than the most perfect tact,
the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won her without words,
for sympathy works miracles. Her whole face changed, and her mournful
eyes grew soft as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted
Christie’s downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice:

“I know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and from you I’ll take
it, because you don’t force it on me. Have you been ill and wretched
too? I think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up
here with me!”

“I have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get one’s spirits back
again. I’ve had my troubles, too, but not heavier than I could bear,
thank God.”

“What made you ill? Would you mind telling me about it? I seem to fancy
hearing other people’s woes, though it can’t make mine seem lighter.”

“A piece of the Castle of the Sun fell on my head and nearly killed
me,” and Christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment in
Helen’s face. “I was an actress once; your mother knows and didn’t
mind,” she added, quickly.

“I’m glad of that. I used to wish I could be one, I was so fond of the
theatre. They should have consented, it would have given me something
to do, and, however hard it is, it couldn’t be worse than this.” Helen
spoke vehemently and an excited flush rose to her white cheeks; then
she checked herself and dropped into a chair, saying, hurriedly:

“Tell about it: don’t let me think; it’s bad for me.” Glad to be set to
work, and bent on retrieving her first mistake, Christie plunged into
her theatrical experiences and talked away in her most lively style.
People usually get eloquent when telling their own stories, and true
tales are always the most interesting. Helen listened at first with a
half-absent air, but presently grew more attentive, and when the
catastrophe came sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this
glimpse behind the curtain.

Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right and left,
stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously
supplied by memory. Before she knew it, she was telling her whole
history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable
together, and Helen’s interest flattered her immensely. Once she made
her laugh at some droll trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had
startled her, old nurse popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss
retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up
Miss Helen so.

“Tell about your lovers: you must have had some; actresses always do.
Happy women, they can love as they like!” said Helen, with the
inquisitive frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to
exist.

Remembering in time that this was a forbidden subject, Christie smiled
and shook her head.

“I had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know.”

Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at being reminded of
her want of good-breeding, Helen got up and began to wander restlessly
about the room. Presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience,
she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following her, the new
companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer
reigned. Vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy
walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled
in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and ferneries stood all about, and
the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and
fell.

Helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cushions that lay beside
the basin, and beckoning Christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her
hands to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness
in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them:

“Please sing to me; any humdrum air will do. I am so tired, and yet I
cannot sleep. If my head would only stop this dreadful thinking and let
me forget one hour it would do me so much good.”

“I know the feeling, and I’ll try what Lucy used to do to quiet me. Put
your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while I cool and
comfort it.”

Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless while Christie,
dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fro
across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed
so fast. And while she soothed she sang the “Land o’ the Leal,” and
sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive air were dear to her,
because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy
eyelids drooped, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the
broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew still, and Helen lay asleep.

So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot herself till the
discomfort of her position reminded her that she had a body. Fearing to
wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin,
but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. An
unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, she saw two young
men standing behind her.

Helen’s brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly unlike in
expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. The
elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with
melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an
inward life. The younger had a more attractive face, for, though
bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous, ardent nature,
proud and wilful, yet lovable in spite of all defects. He was very
boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod
to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a whisper:

“Look at her, Augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! What a comfort it is
to see her like herself again.”

“Ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, I could find it in my heart to
wish she might never wake!” returned the other, gloomily.

“Don’t say that! How could we live without her?” Then, turning to
Christie, the younger said, in a friendly tone:

“You must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. It is very damp
here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness.”

Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her
room, and laid her down. She sighed as her head touched the pillow, and
her arm clung to Harry’s neck, as if she felt his nearness even in
sleep. He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an
affectionate solicitude beautiful to see. Augustine stood silent, grave
and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever
this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed
her, then, with another grave bow to Christie, went away as noiselessly
as he had come. But Harry kissed the sleeper tenderly, whispered, “Be
kind to her,” with an imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if
to hide the feeling that he must not show.

A few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from Mrs. Carrol.

“My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look very tired. Leave
her to Hester, now; you have done enough to-day, so let me thank you
heartily, and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your
good work to-morrow.”

Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home very
happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship.

The next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and
good-will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head
and hand. Many things surprised, and some things perplexed her, as she
came to know the family better. But she discreetly held her tongue,
used her eyes, and did her best to please.

Mrs. Carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to
Helen, but seldom visited her daughter, never seemed surprised or
grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her; and, though her
handsome face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon felt very
sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious
world.

Augustine never came except when Helen was asleep: then, like a shadow,
he passed in and out, always silent, cold, and grave, but in his eyes
the gloom of some remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed
powerless to heal.

Harry came every day, and no matter how melancholy, listless, or
irritable his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an
affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against
the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. The love between them
was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing pleasure in
watching them together, for then Helen showed what she once had been,
and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his
one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen’s room was a safe
refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and
impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies with
the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly charming in a
good-hearted young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively
descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. All
his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told
to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life,
forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to
her. For his sake she smiled, to him she talked when others got no word
from her, and Harry’s salvation was the only duty that she owned or
tried to fulfil.

A younger sister was away at school, but the others seldom spoke of
her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote to
Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity
to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great
drawing-room below.

It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for
she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed
that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by bestowing
sympathy and care with generous devotion.

Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; Augustine showed that
he was grateful, and Mrs. Carrol sometimes forgot to put on her mask
before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion.

In the spring the family went to the fine old country-house just out of
town, and here Christie and her charge led a freer, happier life.
Walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the
wide terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock, while Christie
read or talked to her; and summer twilights beguiled with music, or the
silent reveries more eloquent than speech, which real friends may enjoy
together, and find the sweeter for the mute companionship.

Harry was with them, and devoted to his sister, who seemed slowly to be
coming out of her sad gloom, won by patient tenderness and the cheerful
influences all about her.

Christie’s heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the
altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice,
and felt each day more sure that Helen had outlived the loss that
seemed to have broken her heart.

Alas, for Christie’s pride, for Harry’s hope, and for poor Helen’s
bitter fate! When all was brightest, the black shadow came; when all
looked safest, danger was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the
ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is
as inevitable as death.

When settled in town again Bella came home, a gay, young girl, who
should have brought sunshine and happiness into her home. But from the
hour she returned a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs.
Carrol watched over her with sleepless care, was evidently full of
maternal pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about
her future. She seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to
Christie, as if to explain this wish:

“Bella was away when Helen’s trouble and illness came, she knows very
little of it, and I do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge.
Helen cares only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use to my
poor girl; therefore the less they see of each other the better for
both. I am sure you agree with me?” she added, with that covert
scrutiny which Christie had often felt before.

She could but acquiesce in the mother’s decision, and devote herself
more faithfully than ever to Helen, who soon needed all her care and
patience, for a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless
nights again, moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled
force.

Bella “came out” and began her career as a beauty and a belle most
brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men’s
admiration for his charming sister, and would excite both Helen and
himself over the flirtations into which “that child” as they called
her, plunged with all the zest of a light-hearted girl whose head was a
little turned with sudden and excessive adoration.

In vain Christie begged Harry not to report these things, in vain she
hinted that Bella had better not come to show herself to Helen night
after night in all the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty; in vain
she asked Mrs. Carrol to let her go away to some quieter place with
Helen, since she never could be persuaded to join in any gayety at home
or abroad. All seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the
gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event occurred which
enlightened Christie, with startling abruptness, and showed her the
skeleton that haunted this unhappy family.

Going in one morning to Helen she found her walking to and fro as she
often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven
by some power beyond her control.

“Good morning, dear. I’m so sorry you had a restless night, and wish
you had sent for me. Will you come out now for an early drive? It’s a
lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good,” began
Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl.

But as she spoke Helen turned on her, crying passionately:

“My mother! don’t speak of her to me, I hate her!”

“Oh, Helen, don’t say that. Forgive and forget if she has displeased
you, and don’t exhaust yourself by brooding over it. Come, dear, and
let us soothe ourselves with a little music. I want to hear that new
song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you do.”

“Sing!” echoed Helen, with a shrill laugh, “you don’t know what you
ask. Could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a
sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? Don’t try to quiet
me, I must talk whether you listen or not; I shall go frantic if I
don’t tell some one; all the world will know it soon. Sit down, I’ll
not hurt you, but don’t thwart me or you’ll be sorry for it.”

Speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, Helen thrust
Christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face
that bereft the listener of power to move or speak.

“Harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, and I saw it, and
made him tell me. Poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. I’ve been
dreading it, and now it’s coming. You don’t know it, then? Young Butler
is in love with Bella, and no one has prevented it. Think how wicked
when such a curse is on us all.”

The question, “What curse?” rose involuntarily to Christie’s lips, but
did not pass them, for, as if she read the thought, Helen answered it
in a whisper that made the blood tingle in the other’s veins, so full
of ominous suggestion was it.

“The curse of insanity I mean. We are all mad, or shall be; we come of
a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this
awful inheritance to our descendants. It should end with us, we are the
last; none of us should marry; none dare think of it but Bella, and she
knows nothing. She must be told, she must be kept from the sin of
deceiving her lover, the agony of seeing her children become what I am,
and what we all may be.”

Here Helen wrung her hands and paced the room in such a paroxysm of
impotent despair that Christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if
this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carrol’s
face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did
Augustine’s gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his
sleeping sister long ago. Harry’s reckless, aimless life might be
explained in this way; and all that had perplexed her through that
year. Every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical assertion was
true, and Christie covered up her face, murmuring, with an involuntary
shiver:

“My God, how terrible!”

Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her
countenance that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken
bounds.

“We should have told you this at first; I longed to do it, but I was
afraid you’d go and leave me. I was so lonely, so miserable, Christie.
I could not give you up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn
very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more
than I. For your sake I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered
nerves, and hide my desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and
your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful. Forgive me; don’t desert
me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than
ever.”

Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her hands, with a face full
of pity, love, and grief. Poor Helen clung to them as if her only help
lay there, and for a moment was quite still. But not long; the old
anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence
once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breaking loose, she went
to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing
upon heart and conscience for a year.

“You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why. When she was
beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father’s
family. He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and
she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his
children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes
free it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she
married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love
her though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but
they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell
you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and
women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change
affection and respect to hatred or contempt.”

The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed
Christie too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of
ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her
apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart’s
core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many
never see or wilfully deny,—the awful responsibility that lies on every
man and woman’s soul forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the
burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their
own sins.

Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke:

“If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will
not, and till she does, God has forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her
pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides
me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption; not a word
about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but
doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year
was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you
look in, you’ll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and
other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful
things were meant for me.”

“Don’t speak, don’t think of them! Don’t talk any more; let me do
something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this,” cried
Christie, panic-stricken at the picture Helen’s words had conjured up.

“I must go on! There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten
this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself
out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and
comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and
you’ll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three years ago my father died,
and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy!”

Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale
image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish
in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no
words to tell the story of a broken heart.

“How I loved him!” she said, softly, while her whole face glowed for an
instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. “How I loved
him, and how he loved me! Too well to let me darken both our lives with
a remorse which would come too late for a just atonement. I thought him
cruel then,—I bless him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent
sufferer I am, than a wretched woman like my mother. I shall never see
him any more, but I know he thinks of me far away in India, and when I
die one faithful heart will remember me.”

There her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment the fire of her
eyes was quenched in tears. Christie thought the reaction had come, and
rose to go and comfort her. But instantly Helen’s hand was on her
shoulder, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost
fiercely:

“I’m not done yet; yon must hear the whole, and help me to save Bella.
We knew nothing of the blight that hung over us till father told
Augustine upon his death-bed. August, urged by mother, kept it to
himself, and went away to bear it as he could. He should have spoken
out and saved me in time. But not till he came home and found me
engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So
Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, and I—do you see
that?”

With a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and on her bosom Christie
saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before.

“Yes, I tried to kill myself; but they would not let me die, so the old
tragedy of our house begins again. August became a priest, hoping to
hide his calamity and expiate his father’s sin by endless penances and
prayers. Harry turned reckless; for what had he to look forward to? A
short life, and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will
spare himself long suffering, as I tried to do it. Bella was never
told; she was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even
the knowledge of my state. She was long away at school, but now she has
come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went,
because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. Mamma will
not. August hesitates, remembering me. Harry swears he will speak out,
but I implore him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and I am
powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told me to-day. Bella
only comes in for a moment, and I have no chance to tell her she must
not love him.”

Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed her restless march
again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before:

“Now do you wonder why I am half frantic? Now will you ask me to sing
and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? You have done
much for me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me
sane. Death is the only cure for a mad Carrol, and I’m so young, so
strong, it will be long in coming unless I hurry it.”

She clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready
for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and
dreadful future that lay before her.

For a moment Christie feared and trembled; then pity conquered fear.
She forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless,
helpless, and afflicted. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms
about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness
better than any bonds. At first, Helen seemed unconscious of it, as she
stood rigid and motionless, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of
earth and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave
her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop that
sustained her.

Still silent, Christie laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied
herself about her till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan
and weak, it was pitiful to see her.

“It’s over now,” she whispered, with a desolate sigh. “Sing to me, and
keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. To-morrow, if I’m strong
enough, we’ll talk about poor little Bella.”

And Christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a
soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns which soothed this troubled
soul as David’s music brought repose to Saul.

When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, Christie executed the
resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene
was over. She went straight to Mrs. Carrol’s room, and, undeterred by
the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. They were evidently
not unprepared for it, thanks to old Hester, who had overheard enough
of Helen’s wild words to know that something was amiss, and had
reported accordingly; but none of them had ventured to interrupt the
interview, lest Helen should be driven to desperation as before.

“Mother, Helen is right; we should speak out, and not hide this bitter
fact any longer. The world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but
it would condemn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condemnation
if we let this misery go on. Living a lie will ruin us all. Bella will
be destroyed as Helen was; I am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal
is killing himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread.”

Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carrol sat speechless with her trouble
as Christie paused.

“Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, it’s the shortest,”
muttered Harry, with his face hidden, and his head down on his folded
arms.

“Boys, boys, you’ll kill me if you say such things! I have more now
than I can bear. Don’t drive me wild with your reproaches to each
other!” cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came
too late.

“No fear of that; you are not a Carrol,” answered Harry, with the
pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious boy.

Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a warning
ring in his stern voice, as he pointed to the door.

“You shall not insult your mother! Ask her pardon, or go!”

“She should ask mine! I’ll go. When you want me, you’ll know where to
find me.” And, with a reckless laugh, Harry stormed out of the room.

Augustine’s indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door
banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying,
as if to himself:

“Heaven help me! Yes, I do know; for, night after night, I find and
bring the poor lad home from gambling-tables and the hells where souls
like his are lost.”

Here Christie thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for
her now that her errand was done. But Mrs. Carrol called her back.

“Miss Devon—Christie—forgive me that I did not trust you sooner. It was
so hard to tell; I hoped so much from time; I never could believe that
my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. Do not
forsake us: Helen loves you so. Stay with her, I implore you, and let a
most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child.” Then Christie went
to the poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty;
for now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her.

“What shall we do?” they said to her, with pathetic submission, turning
like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort.

“Tell Bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her lover. Do this
just thing, and God will strengthen you to bear the consequences,” was
her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon
her.

“Not yet,” cried Mrs. Carrol. “Let the poor child enjoy the holidays
with a light heart,—then we will tell her; and then Heaven help us
all!”

So it was decided; for only a week or two of the old year remained, and
no one had the heart to rob poor Bella of the little span of blissful
ignorance that now remained to her.

A terrible time was that to Christie; for, while one sister, blessed
with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest,
the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied
Heaven with piteous prayers for her relief.

“The old horror is coming back; I feel it creeping over me. Don’t let
it come, Christie! Stay by me! Help me! Keep me sane! And if you
cannot, ask God to take me quickly!”

With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christie; and, soul and
body, Christie devoted herself to the afflicted girl. She would not see
her mother; and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering
for the look, the word, that never came to her. Augustine was her
consolation, and, during those troublous days, the priest was forgotten
in the son. But Harry was all in all to Helen then; and it was touching
to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one another, she
tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely
hastening the fate he might otherwise escape for years, and he
patiently bearing all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad
captivity from which he could not save her.

These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last; and Christie
began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom
succeeded to wild excitement. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed
to reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for others, Helen
seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts,—peace for herself.

On New Year’s morning, Christie found her garlanding her lover’s
picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brides wear.

“These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to make my wedding wreath
of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me,” she said, with
a look that made Christie’s eyes grow dim. “Don’t grieve for me, dear;
we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far asunder here. Nothing can
part us there, I devoutly believe; for we leave our burdens all behind
us when we go.” Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on
Christie’s neck:

“This day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. I’m
going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there’s such a
word as sorrow. Help me to dress, so that when the boys come up they
may find the sister Nell they have not seen for two long years.”

“Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother sends it, and she tried to
have it dainty and beautiful enough to please you. See, your own
colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for
others if you like.”

As she spoke Christie lifted the cover of the box old Hester had just
brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined,
down-trimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries
lying upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for several minutes,
then gathering up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said:

“I like it better so; but I’ll not wear it yet.”

“Bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of color somewhere, else
it looks just like a shroud,” cried Hester, and then wrung her hands in
dismay as Helen answered, quietly:

“Ah, well, keep it for me, then. I shall be happier when I wear it so
than in the gayest gown I own, for when you put it on, this poor head
and heart of mine will be quiet at last.”

Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christie tried to banish the cloud
her unlucky words had brought to Helen’s face, by chatting cheerfully
as she helped her make herself “pretty for the boys.”

All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield
herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour, gave and received
her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight; and
unconscious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving
admiration in her eyes:

“I always thought you would get well, and now I’m sure of it, for you
look as you used before I went away to school, and seem just like our
own dear Nell.”

“I’m glad of that; I wanted you to feel so, my Bella. I’ll accept your
happy prophecy, and hope I may get well soon, very soon.”

So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, that all rejoiced
over her believing, with love’s blindness, that she might yet conquer
her malady in spite of their forebodings.

It was a very happy day to Christie, not only that she was generously
remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this
change for the better in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had
given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope
they had not been given in vain. One thing only marred her happiness,
the sad estrangement of the daughter from her mother, and that evening
she resolved to take advantage of Helen’s tender mood, and plead for
the poor soul who dared not plead for herself.

As the brothers and sisters said good-night, Helen clung to them as if
loth to part, saying, with each embrace:

“Keep hoping for me, Bella; kiss me, Harry; bless me, Augustine, and
all wish for me a happier New Year than the last.”

When they were gone she wandered slowly round the room, stood long
before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to
herself, and came at last to Christie, saying, like a tired child:

“I have been good all day; now let me rest.”

“One thing has been forgotten, dear,” began Christie, fearing to
disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought.

Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane sweet face, out of
which all resentful bitterness had passed.

“No, Christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. To-day is a
good day to forgive, as we would be forgiven, and I mean to do it
before I sleep,” Then holding Christie close, she added, with a quiver
of emotion in her voice: “I have no words warm enough to thank you, my
good angel, for all you have been to me, but I know it will give you a
great pleasure to do one thing more. Give dear mamma my love, and tell
her that when I am quiet for the night I want her to come and get me to
sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when I was a little child.”

No gift bestowed that day was so precious to Christie as the joy of
carrying this loving message from daughter to mother. How Mrs. Carrol
received it need not be told. She would have gone at once, but Christie
begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts of the day,
had prepared Helen for an interview which might undo all that had been
done if too hastily attempted.

Hester always waited upon her child at night; so, feeling that she
might be wanted later, Christie went to her own room to rest. Quite
sure that Mrs. Carrol would come to tell her what had passed, she
waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the visit had
sped.

“Her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so I
wouldn’t let her be disturbed, and Mrs. Carrol went away again,” said
the old woman, rousing from a nap.

Grieved at the mother’s disappointment, Christie stole in, hoping that
Helen might rouse. She did not, and Christie was about to leave her,
when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at
her feet. Only a little pearl-handled penknife of Harry’s; but her
heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and, as she took it up, a
red stain came off upon her hand.

Helen’s face was turned away, and, bending nearer, Christie saw how
deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She listened
at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up
the averted head, and on the white throat saw a little wound, from
which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of light, the meaning
of the sudden change which came over her grew clear,—her brave efforts
to make the last day happy, her tender good-night partings, her wish to
be at peace with every one, the tragic death she had chosen rather than
live out the tragic life that lay before her.

Christie’s nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this
discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help,
she fainted, for the first time in her life.

When she was herself again, the room was full of people;
terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered, “It
is too late,” and, as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for
unconsciousness again.

Helen lay in her mother’s arms at last, quietly breathing her life
away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had been
tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had done its
work, and this world held no more suffering for her. Harry was down
upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his passionate grief.
Augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words
comforted all hearts but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to
the kind old doctor, who was sobbing like a boy, for he had loved and
served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had been his own.

“Can nothing save her?” Christie whispered, as the prayer ended, and a
sound of bitter weeping filled the room.

“Nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank God!”

Christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed
tranquillity of the girl’s countenance was such as none but death, the
great healer, can bring; and, as they looked, her eyes opened,
beautifully clear and calm before they closed for ever. From face to
face they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her lips moved in
vain efforts to speak.

Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the
room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing that conquered the mortal
weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry:

“My mother—I want my mother!”

There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips,
she saw her mother’s face bending over her, and felt her mother’s arms
gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had
set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between
those reunited hearts.

When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother made her ready for
her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white
garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid
the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. So
beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they
called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed
peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new
year had happily begun.

“Now my work here is done, and I must go,” thought Christie, when the
waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone
down. But she found that one more task remained for her before she left
the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy.

Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross,
broke down entirely under this last blow, and besought Christie to tell
Bella all that she must know. It was a hard task, but Christie accepted
it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be
told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned
much of the sad truth. Thus prepared, she listened to all that was most
carefully and tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was
done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength she showed. No
tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother’s daughter, and
inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne
unseen.

“Tell me what I must do, and I will do it,” she said, with the quiet
despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain.

When Christie with difficulty told her that she should give up her
lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then
lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely:

“It shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for me, because I
love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again. I should be
glad of that, and I’ll try to wish it for his sake. He is young, and
if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much
the better. What next, Christie?”

Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a
sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, Christie took
heart, and, instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best
fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. What inspired
her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying
service she had rendered for pity’s sake; such devotion is its own
reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers.

“Live for your mother and your brothers, Bella; they need you sorely,
and in time I know you will find true consolation in it, although you
must relinquish much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch over
Harry, and be to them what Helen longed to be.”

“And fail to do it, as she failed!” cried Bella, with a shudder.

“Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sincerely do believe it.
Since I came here, I have read many books, thought much, and talked
often with Dr. Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and
Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your mother in
temperament and temper; you have self-control, strong wills, good
nerves, and cheerful spirits. Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his
chances now; but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save
yourself.”

“Oh, Christie, may I hope it? Give me one chance of escape, and I will
suffer any hardship to keep it. Let me see any thing before me but a
life and death like Helen’s, and I’ll bless you for ever!” cried Bella,
welcoming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sunshine in his
cell.

Christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing
them, she let them uplift this disconsolate soul, trusting that they
might be in time fulfilled through God’s mercy and the saving grace of
sincere endeavor.

Holding fast to this frail spar, Bella bravely took up arms against her
sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. When her lover came to know
his fate, she hid her heart, and answered “no,” finding a bitter
satisfaction in the end, for Harry was right, and, when the fortune was
denied him, young Butler did not mourn the woman long. Pride helped
Bella to bear it; but it needed all her courage to look down the coming
years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so
desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny way, and the
haunting shadow of her race lurking in the background.

Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one
learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift
and bless. Dimly discerning this, poor Bella put her hands in theirs,
saying, “Lead me, teach me; I will follow and obey you.”

All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so full of heavy
memories, and decided to return to their old home. They begged Christie
to go with them, using every argument and entreaty their affection
could suggest. But Christie needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt
that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live
among them any longer. Her healthy nature needed brighter influences,
stronger comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily upon her
heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and
other work.

So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden with good gifts
Christie went on her way weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned
her rest.




CHAPTER VI.
SEAMSTRESS.


For some weeks Christie rested and refreshed herself by making her room
gay and comfortable with the gifts lavished on her by the Carrols, and
by sharing with others the money which Harry had smuggled into her
possession after she had steadily refused to take one penny more than
the sum agreed upon when she first went to them.

She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred dollars to Uncle
Enos, for she had accepted what he gave her as a loan, and set her
heart on repaying every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave to
Hepsey, who found her out and came to report her trials and
tribulations. The good soul had ventured South and tried to buy her
mother. But “ole missis” would not let her go at any price, and the
faithful chattel would not run away. Sorely disappointed, Hepsey had
been obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for she
liberated several brothers and sent them triumphantly to Canada.

“You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest happy if I put it away
to lie idle while you can save men and women from torment with it. I’d
give it if it was my last penny, for I can help in no other way; and if
I need money, I can always earn it, thank God!” said Christie, as
Hepsey hesitated to take so much from a fellow-worker.

The thought of that investment lay warm at Christie’s heart, and never
woke a regret, for well she knew that every dollar of it would be
blessed, since shares in the Underground Railroad pay splendid
dividends that never fail.

Another portion of her fortune, as she called Harry’s gift, was
bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, who at length succeeded in
winning the heart of the owner of the “heavenly eyes” and “distracting
legs;” and, having gained her point, married him with dramatic
celerity, and went West to follow the fortunes of her lord.

The old theatre was to be demolished and the company scattered, so a
farewell festival was held, and Christie went to it, feeling more
solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long good-bye.

The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it by
for a rainy day, and fell to work again when her brief vacation was
over.

Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large and
well-conducted mantua-making establishment, she secured it as a
temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last sad
experience by entirely different employment and surroundings. She liked
to return at night to her own little home, solitary and simple as it
was, and felt a great repugnance to accept any place where she would be
mixed up with family affairs again.

So day after day she went to her seat in the workroom where a dozen
other young women sat sewing busily on gay garments, with as much
lively gossip to beguile the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman, would
allow.

For a while it diverted Christie, as she had a feminine love for pretty
things, and enjoyed seeing delicate silks, costly lace, and all the
indescribable fantasies of fashion. But as spring came on, the old
desire for something fresh and free began to haunt her, and she had
both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the country somewhere,
with cows and flowers, clothes bleaching on green grass, bob-o’-links
making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of new-mown hay, all
lending their charms to the picture she painted for herself.

Most assuredly she would have gone to find these things, led by the
instincts of a healthful nature, had not one slender tie held her till
it grew into a bond so strong she could not break it.

Among her companions was one, and one only, who attracted her. The
others were well-meaning girls, but full of the frivolous purposes and
pleasures which their tastes prompted and their dull life fostered.
Dress, gossip, and wages were the three topics which absorbed them.
Christie soon tired of the innumerable changes rung upon these themes,
and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them
undisturbed by the clack of many tongues about her. Her evenings at
home were devoted to books, for she had the true New England woman’s
desire for education, and read or studied for the love of it. Thus she
had much to think of as her needle flew, and was rapidly becoming a
sort of sewing-machine when life was brightened for her by the finding
of a friend.

Among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, whose black dress,
peculiar face, and silent ways attracted Christie. Her evident desire
to be let alone amused the new comer at first, and she made no effort
to know her. But presently she became aware that Rachel watched her
with covert interest, stealing quick, shy glances at her as she sat
musing over her work. Christie smiled at her when she caught these
glances, as if to reassure the looker of her good-will. But Rachel only
colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was more reserved than
ever.

This interested Christie, and she fell to studying this young woman
with some curiosity, for she was different from the others. Though
evidently younger than she looked, Rachel’s face was that of one who
had known some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there were lines
on the forehead that contrasted strongly with the bright, abundant hair
above it; in repose, the youthfully red, soft lips had a mournful
droop, and the eyes were old with that indescribable expression which
comes to those who count their lives by emotions, not by years.

Strangely haunting eyes to Christie, for they seemed to appeal to her
with a mute eloquence she could not resist. In vain did Rachel answer
her with quiet coldness, nod silently when she wished her a cheery
“good morning,” and keep resolutely in her own somewhat isolated
corner, though invited to share the sunny window where the other sat.
Her eyes belied her words, and those fugitive glances betrayed the
longing of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself to the genial
companionship so freely offered it.

Christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed; for her own heart
was very solitary. She missed Helen, and longed to fill the empty
place. She wooed this shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a
lover might, determined to win her confidence, because all the others
had failed to do it. Sometimes she left a flower in Rachel’s basket,
always smiled and nodded as she entered, and often stopped to admire
the work of her tasteful fingers. It was impossible to resist such
friendly overtures, and slowly Rachel’s coldness melted; into the
beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude, the more touching for its
wordlessness, and an irrepressible smile broke over her face in answer
to the cordial ones that made the sunshine of her day.

Emboldened by these demonstrations, Christie changed her seat, and
quietly established between them a daily interchange of something
beside needles, pins, and spools. Then, as Rachel did not draw back
offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when they chanced to be
left alone to finish off a delicate bit of work, she spoke out frankly:

“Why can’t we be friends? I want one sadly, and so do you, unless your
looks deceive me. We both seem to be alone in the world, to have had
trouble, and to like one another. I won’t annoy you by any impertinent
curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting confidences; I only want
to feel that you like me a little and don’t mind my liking you a great
deal. Will you be my friend, and let me be yours?”

A great tear rolled down upon the shining silk in Rachel’s hands as she
looked into Christie’s earnest face, and answered with an almost
passionate gratitude in her own:

“You can never need a friend as much as I do, or know what a blessed
thing it is to find such an one as you are.”

“Then I may love you, and not be afraid of offending?” cried Christie,
much touched.

“Yes. But remember I didn’t ask it first,” said Rachel, half dropping
the hand she had held in both her own.

“You proud creature! I’ll remember; and when we quarrel, I’ll take all
the blame upon myself.”

Then Christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to
paint the delights in store for them in her most enthusiastic way,
being much elated with her victory; while Rachel listened with a newly
kindled light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how winsome
her face had been before many tears washed its bloom away, and much
trouble made it old too soon.

Christie kept her word,—asked no questions, volunteered no confidences,
but heartily enjoyed the new friendship, and found that it gave to life
the zest which it had lacked before. Now some one cared for her, and,
better still, she could make some one happy, and in the act of
lavishing the affection of her generous nature on a creature sadder and
more solitary than herself, she found a satisfaction that never lost
its charm. There was nothing in her possession that she did not offer
Rachel, from the whole of her heart to the larger half of her little
room.

“I’m tired of thinking only of myself. It makes me selfish and
low-spirited; for I’m not a bit interesting. I must love somebody, and
‘love them hard,’ as children say; so why can’t you come and stay with
me? There’s room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings with our
books and work. I know you need some one to look after you, and I love
dearly to take care of people. Do come,” she would say, with most
persuasive hospitality.

But Rachel always answered steadily: “Not yet, Christie, not yet. I’ve
got something to do before I can think of doing any thing so beautiful
as that. Only love me, dear, and some day I’ll show you all my heart,
and thank you as I ought.”

So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, enjoyed much; for, with
Rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures, found
happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere daily bread,
and never thought of change; for love can make a home for itself
anywhere.

A very bright and happy time was this in Christie’s life; but, like
most happy times, it was very brief. Only one summer allowed for the
blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then
the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long
underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence.

Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly room
in confusion. Some of the girls were crying; some whispering
together,—all looking excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat majestically
at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss Cotton stood
beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the ancient virgin’s
temper was not of the best. Alone, before them all, with her face
hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping figure,
stood Rachel,—a meek culprit at the stern bar of justice, where women
try a sister woman.

“What’s the matter?” cried Christie, pausing on the threshold.

[Illustration: MRS. KING AND MISS COTTON.]

Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh
wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a
nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle
dismally:

“A very sad thing, Miss Devon,—very sad, indeed; a thing which never
occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. It appears
that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl,
has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what the consequences of
my taking her without a character (a thing I never do, and was only
tempted by her superior taste as a trimmer) might have been if Miss
Cotton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and confirmed
them.”

“That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud of
it,” said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr. Fletcher’s
“cautious inquiries” about herself.

“It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and I thank her for her
care of my interests.” And Mrs. King bowed her acknowledgment of the
service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat Miss Cotton
bridled with malicious complacency.

“Mrs. King, are you sure of this?” said Christie. “Miss Cotton does not
like Rachel because her work is so much praised. May not her jealousy
make her unjust, or her zeal for you mislead her?”

“I thank you for your polite insinuations, miss,” returned the irate
forewoman. “I never make mistakes; but you will find that you have made
a very great one in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend instead of
some one who would be a credit to you. Ask the creature herself if all
I’ve said of her isn’t true. She can’t deny it.”

With the same indefinable misgiving which had held her aloof, Christie
turned to Rachel, lifted up the hidden face with gentle force, and
looked into it imploringly, as she whispered: “Is it true?”

The woful countenance she saw made any other answer needless.
Involuntarily her hands fell away, and she hid her own face, uttering
the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed
harder to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before.

“Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you!”

The grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her voice roused
Rachel from her state of passive endurance and gave h

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