“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.”