Christian's Mistake Part 7

"Peace! Do you mean to say that it is I who make dispeace! But if you, having known what a good, obedient wife really is, can submit to such unwarrantable dictation; and if I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why don't you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to a young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely ignorant of the usages of society--is, in fact, a perfect child--"

"She is my wife!" said Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even Christian, who had been reading the note with a grateful heart for kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started.

_My wife._ He said only those two words, yet somehow they brought a tear in her eye. The sense of protection, so new and strange, was also pleasant. She could have fought her own battles--at least she could once--without bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that man is to woman, and every thing that woman needs, she became no longer warlike and indignant, but humble, pa.s.sive, and content.

And long after Dr. Gray was gone away, with his big book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned from her and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside, the feeling of content remained.

There was a long pause, during which the two children, Let.i.tia and Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was pa.s.sing among their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual half-hour of after-breakfast play in the end window of the dining-room.

Christian also took her work, and began thinking of other things. She neither wished to fight or be fought for, particularly in such a petty domestic war. One of the many advantages among the many disadvantages of a girlhood almost entirely removed from the society of women was that it had saved her from women's smallnesses.

Besides, her nature itself was large, like her person--large, and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take in those petty motives which disturb petty minds. Life to her was a grand romantic drama,--perhaps, alas! a tragedy--but it never could be made into a genteel comedy, with childish intrigues, Liliputian battles, tempests in teapots, or thunders made upon kettle-drums.

Thus, concluding the temporary storm was over, and almost forgetting it at the half-hour's end, she called cheerfully to the children to get ready for a walk with her this suns.h.i.+ny morning.

Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes flas.h.i.+ng: "Children, you will not leave the house. You will walk with n.o.body but your own proper nurse. It was your poor mamma's custom and, though she is dead, her wishes shall be carried out, at least so long as I am alive."

Christian stood utterly amazed. Her intention had been so harmless; she had thought the walk good for the children, and perhaps good for herself to have their company. She had meant to take them out with her the first available day, and begin a regular series of rambles, which perhaps might win their little hearts toward her, for they still kept aloof and shy; and now all her pleasant plans were set aside.

And there the children stood, half frightened, half amused, watching the conflict of authority between their elders. One thing was clear. There must be no bringing them into the contest. Christian saw that, and with a strong effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne,

"I think, before we discuss this matter, the children had better leave the room. Go, Atty and t.i.tia; your aunts and I will send word to the nursery by-and-by."

The children went obediently, though Christian heard Arthur whisper to his sister something about "such a jolly row?" But there was none.

Miss Gascoigne burst forth into a perfect torrent of words directed not to Mrs. Grey, but at her, involving such insinuations, such accusations, that Christian, who had never been used to this kind of things stood literally astounded.

She answered not a word; she could not trust herself to speak. She had meant so kindly: was so innocent of any feeling save a wish to be good and motherly to these motherless children. Besides, she had such an intense craving for their affection, and even their companions.h.i.+p, for there were times when her life felt withering up within her--chilled to death by the gloom of the dull home, with its daily round of solemn formalities. If she had spoken, she would have burst into tears. To save herself from this, she rose and left the parlor.

It might have been weak, unworthy a woman of spirit; but Christian was, in one sense--not Miss Gascoigne's--still a very child. And most childlike in their pa.s.sionate bitterness, their keen sense of injustice, were the tears she shed in her own room, alone. For she did not go to Dr. Grey: why should she? Her complaints could only wound him: and somehow she scorned to complain. She had not been a governess for two years without learning that authority propped up by extraneous power is nearly useless, and that, between near connections, love commanded, not won, generally results in something very like hatred.

Besides, was there not some truth in what the aunt said? Had she--the second wife--authority over the first Mrs. Grey's children? Would it not be better to let them alone, for good or for evil, and trouble herself about their welfare no more? But just that minute Oliver's little feet went pattering outside the door--Oliver, who, still a nursery pet, was freer than the others, and who had already learned where to come of forenoons for biscuits to eat or toys to be mended. There was now a one-wheeled cart and a three-legged horse requiring Christian's tenderest attention; and as she sat down on the crimson sofa, and busied herself over them, with the little eager face creeping close to hers, and the little fat arm steadying itself round her neck, her wet eyes soon grew dry and bright, and her heart less sore, less hopeless. The small, necessities of the present, which make children's company so soothing, quieted her now; and by the time she had watched the little fellow run away, dragging his cart and horse down the oak floor, shouting "Gee- ho!" and turning round often to laugh at her, Christian felt that life looked less blank and dreary than it had done an hour ago.

Still, when she had dressed herself in the violet silk and Honiton lace which Miss Gascoigne had informed her were necessary--oh, how she had been tormented about the etiquette of this "at home"--the cloud darkened over her again. What should she do or say to these strange people?--the worse, that they were not quite strangers--that she knew them by report or by sight--and, alack! from her father's ill name they knew her only too well. How they would talk her over and criticise her, in that small way in which women do criticise one another, and which she now, for the first time in her life, had experienced. Was it the habit of all University ladies? If so, how would she endure a whole lifetime of that trivial ceremoniousness in outside things, those small back-bitings and fault-findings, such as the two aunts indulged in? It was worse, far worse, than poor Mrs. Ferguson's stream of foolish maternalities--vulgar, but warm and kindly, and never ill-natured; and oh! ten times worse than anything Christian had known in her girlhood, which had been forlorn indeed, but free; when she had followed through necessity her nomadic father, who had at any rate, left her alone, to form her own mind and character as she best could. Of man's selfishness and badness she knew enough; but of women's small sillinesses, narrow formalities, and petty unkindnesses, she was utterly ignorant till now.

"How shall I bear them? Let Dr. Grey be ever so good to me, still, how shall I bear them?" She sighed, she almost sobbed, and pressed her cheek wearily against the frosty pane, for she was sitting in a window- seat on the staircase, lingering till the last possible instant before the hour when Miss Gascoigne had said she ought to be in her place in the drawing-room.

"My dear, are you not afraid of catching cold?" said the hesitating voice of Miss Grey. "Besides, will not the servants think it rather odd, your sitting here on the staircase? Bless me, my dear, were you crying?"

"No," answered Christian, energetically, "no!" and then belied her truthfulness by bursting immediately into tears.

Miss Grey was melted at once. "There, now, my dear, take my smelling-bottle; you will be better soon; it is only a little over- excitement. But, indeed, you need not mind; our friends--that is, Henrietta's--for you know I seldom visit--are all very nice people, and they will pay every respect to my brother's wife. Do not be frightened at them."

"I was not frightened," replied Mrs. Grey, more inclined to smile than to be offended at this earnest condolence. "What troubled me was quite another thing."

"Henrietta. perhaps?" with an uneasy glance up the staircase. "But my dear, you must not mind Henrietta; she means well. You don't know how busy she has been all the morning, arranging every thing. 'For,'

says she to me, 'since your brother has married again, we must make the best of it, and introduce his wife into society, and be very kind to her.' And I am sure I hope we are,"

"Thank you," said Christian, somewhat haughtily, till touched by the mild deprecation of that foolish, gentle face, so gentle as half to atone for its foolishness.

"You see, my dear, your marriage was much worse to her than to me, because Mrs. Grey was her own sister, while Arnold is my brother.

And all I want in the wide world is to see my brother happy. I hope it isn't wrong of me, but I don't think quite as dear Henrietta does. I always felt that dear Arnold might marry any body he pleased, and I should be sure to love her if only she made him happy. But, hus.h.!.+ I hear somebody coming."

And the poor little lady composed herself into some pretense of indifference when Christian rose from the windowsill, and stood like a queen--or rather like what she tried to say to herself, so as to keep up her matronly dignity, whenever pa.s.sionate, girlish grief or anger threatened to break it down, "like Dr. Grey's wife."

Miss Gascoigne stopped benignly, much to Christian's surprise, for she did not guess what a wonderful influence clothes have in calming down ill tempers. And Miss Gascoigne was beautifully dressed--quite perfect from top to toe; and she was such a handsome woman still, that it was quite a pleasure to look at her, as she very well knew. She had come direct from her mirror, and was complacent accordingly. Also, she felt that domestic decorum must be preserved on the "at home" day.

"That is a very pretty dress you have on; I suppose Dr. Grey bought it in London?"

"Yes."

"Did he choose it likewise?"

"I believe so."

"My sister always chose her own dresses; but then she paid for them too. She had a little income of her own, which is a very good thing for a wife to have."

"A very good thing."

"Indeed, Mrs. Grey, I scarcely expected you to think so."

"I think," said Christian, firmly, though for the moment the silk gown seemed to burn her arms, and the pearl brooch and lace collar to weigh like lead on her bosom, "I think that in any true marriage it does not signify one jot whether the husband or the wife has the money. Shall we go down stairs?"

There was time for the hot cheek to cool and the angry heart to be stilled a little before the visitors came.

Miss Gascoigne had truly remarked that the master's wife was unaccustomed to society--that society which forms the staple of all provincial towns, well dressed, well mannered, well informed. But it seemed to Christian as if these ladies, though thoroughly ladylike in manner, which was very grateful to her innate sense of refinement, all dressed after one fas.h.i.+on, and talked mostly about the same things. To her, ungifted with the blessed faculty of small talk, the conversation appeared somewhat frivolous, unreal, and uninteresting. She hardly knew what to say or how to say it, yet was painfully conscious that her every word and every look were being sharply criticised, either in the character of Edward Oakley's daughter or Dr. Grey's wife.

"At least he shall not be ashamed of me," was the thought that kept her up through both weariness and resentment, and she found herself involuntarily looking toward the door every time it opened. Would he come in? At least his presence would bring her that sense of relief and protection which she had never failed to feel from the first hour she knew Dr. Arnold Grey.

He did come in, though not immediately, and pa.s.sing her with a smile, which doubtless furnished the text for a whole week's gossip in Avonsbridge, went over to talk to a group of ladies belonging to Saint Bede's.

And now for the first time Christian saw what her husband was "in society."

Next to a bad man or a fool, of all things most detestable is "a man of society;" a brilliant, showy person, who gathers round him a knot of listeners, to whom his one object is to exhibit himself. But it is no small advantage for a man, even a clever or learned man, to feel and appear at home in any company; to be neither eccentric, nor proud nor shy; to have a pleasant word or smile for every body both; to seem and to be occupied with other people instead of with himself, and with what other people are thinking about him; in short, a frank, kindly, natural gentleman, so sure both of his position and himself that he takes no trouble in the a.s.sertion of either, but simply devotes himself to making all about him as comfortable and happy as he can. And this was Dr.

Arnold Grey.

He talked little and not brilliantly, but he knew how to make other people talk. By some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma from every other; and better than most conversation was it to look at his kindly, earnest, listening face, as, in the pauses of politeness, Christian did look more than once; and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman, of being proud of her husband. Ay, whether she loved him, or not, she was certainly proud of him.

In all good hearts, love's root is in goodness. Deeper than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied--satisfied in all one's moral nature, in the craving of one's soul after what seems nearest perfection.

And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, or strong-- which is it?--that we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because we love it with a sort of pa.s.sionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still this kind of love is not _the_ love which exalts, strengthens, glorifies. Sooner or later it must die the death. It had no root, and it withers away whereas, let there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow.

Christian looked at her husband many times, stealthily, whenever he did not notice her. She liked to look at him. She liked to judge his face, not with the expression it wore toward herself; that she knew well--alas! too well; but as it was when turned toward other people, interested in them and in the ordinary duties of life, which sometimes, when absorbed in a pa.s.sionate love, a man lets slip for the time. Now she saw him as he was in reality, the head of his family, the master of his college, the center of a circle of friends; doing his work in the world as a man ought to do it, and as a woman dearly loves to see him do it.

Christian's eye brightened, and a faint warmth seemed creeping into her dull, deadened heart.

While she was thinking thus, and wondering if it were real, her heart suddenly stopped still.

It was only at the sound of a name, repeated in idle conversation by two ladies behind her.

"Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it is quite true. My husband was speaking of it only this morning. He is Sir Edwin Uniacke now, with a large fortune besides."