Ch. 5 - 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