Ch. 4 - Governess

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