_"The little griefs--the petty wounds--The stabs of daily care--
'Crackling of thorns beneath the pot,' As life's fire burns--now cold,
now hot-- How hard they are to bear!_
_"But on the fire burns, clear and still;
The cankering sorrow dies;
The small wounds heal; the clouds are rent,
And through this shattered mortal tent
Shine down the eternal skies."_
"Dr. Grey, as to-day is your 'at home'--at least, as much of an 'at
home' as is possible under the circumstances--I wished to inquire, once
for all, what is to be done about the Fergusons?"
"About whom? I beg pardon. Henrietta, but what were you talking about?"
Which, as she had been talking "even on" all breakfast-time, either
to or at the little circle, including Letitia and Arthur, was not an
unnecessary question.
"I referred to your wife's friends and late employers, the Fergusons,
of High Street. As she was married from their house, and as, of course,
they will only be too glad to keep up her acquaintance, they will
doubtless appear to-day. In that case, much as we should regret it, your
sister and myself must decline being present. We can not possibly admit
such people into our society. Isn't it so--eh, Maria?"
Maria, thus sharply appealed to, answered with her usual monosyllable.
Dr. Grey looked at his wife in a puzzled, absent way. He was very
absent--there was no doubt of it--and sometimes, seemed as shut up in
himself as if he had lived a bachelor all his life. Besides, he did not
readily take in the small wrongs--petty offenses--which make half the
misery of domestic life, and are equally contemptible in the offender
and the offended. There was something pathetically innocent in the way
he said.
"I really do not quite understand. Christian, what does it all mean?"
"It means," said Christian, trying hard to restrain an indignant answer,
"that Miss Gascoigne is giving herself a great deal of needless trouble
about a thing which will never happen. My friends, the Fergusons, may
call to-day--I did not invite them, though I shall certainly not shut
the door upon them--but they have no intention whatever of being on
visiting terms at the Lodge, nor have I of asking them."
"I am glad to hear it," said Miss Gascoigne--"glad to see that you have
so much good taste and proper feeling, and that all my exertions in
bringing you--as I hope to do to-day--for the first time into our
society will not be thrown away."
Christian was not a very proud woman--that is, her pride lay too deep
below the surface to be easily ruffled, but she could not bear this.
"If by our 'society' you mean my husband's friends, to whom he is to
introduce me, I shall be most happy always to welcome them to his house;
but if you imply that I am to exclude my own--honest, worthy, honorable
people, uneducated though they may be--I must altogether decline
agreeing with you. I shall do no such thing."
"Shall you do, then?" said Miss Gascoigne, after a slight pause; for she
did not expect such resistance from the young, pale, passive creature,
about whom, for the last few days she had rather changed her mind, and
treated with a patronizing consideration, for Aunt Henrietta liked to
patronize; it pleased her egotism; besides, she was shrewd enough to see
that an elegant, handsome girl, married to the Master of Saint Bede's,
was sure soon to be taken up by somebody; better, perhaps; by her own
connections than by strangers. So--more blandly than might have been
expected--she asked, "What shall you do?"
"What seems to me--as I think it will to Dr. Grey"--with a timid glance
at him, and a wish she had found courage to speak to him first on this
matter, "the only right thing I can do. Not to drag my friends into
society where they would not feel at home, and which would only look
down upon them, but to make them understand clearly that I--and my
husband--do not look down upon them; that we respect them, and remember
their kindness. We may not ask Mr. Ferguson to dinner--he would find
little to say to University dons; and as for his wife"--she could not
forbear a secret smile at the thought of the poor dear woman, with
her voluble affectionateness and her gowns of all colors, beside the
stately, frigid, perfectly dressed, and unexceptionably--mannered Miss
Gascoigne--"whether or not Mrs. Ferguson is invited to the series of
parties that you are planning, I shall go and see her, and she shall
come to see me, as often as ever I please."
This speech, which began steadily enough, ended with a shaky voice and
flashing eye, which, the moment it met Dr. Grey's, gravely watching her,
sank immediately.
"That is," she added gently, "If my husband has no objection."
"None," he said, but drew ink and paper to him, and sat down to write a
note, which he afterward handed over to Christian, then addressing
his sister-in-law, "I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson to dine
with us--just ourselves, as you and Maria will be out--at six o'clock
to-morrow. And oh!"--with a weary look, as if he were not so insensible
to this petty domestic martyrdom as people imagined--"do, Henrietta, let
us have a little peace."
It was in vain. Even Dr. Grey's influence could not heal the wounded
egotism of this unfortunate lady.
"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, passive,
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, Letitia and
Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was passing
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 sunshiny morning.
Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes flashing: "Children, you will not
leave the house. You will walk with nobody 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 Titia; 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 companionship, 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 passionate 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, hush! 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 passionate, 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 fashion, 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 passing 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 assertion 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 passionate 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 passionate 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."
"He didn't deserve it. If ever there was an utter scapegrace, it was he.
He broke his poor mother's heart; she died during that affair. The dean
must have known all about it?"
"Yes, but he and the master kept it very much to themselves. My husband
hates talking; and as for Dr. Grey--"
"The dean paid me a long visit this morning, Mrs. Brereton," suddenly
interrupted Dr. Grey. "We were congratulating ourselves on our
prospects. We think there are one or two men who will do Saint Bede's
great credit next year."
"That is well. But my husband says it will be long before we get a man
like one whom I was just speaking of--Mr. Uniacke--Sir Edwin he is now.
He has succeeded to the baronetcy. Of course you have heard of this?"
"I have," briefly answered Dr. Grey.
And the dean's wife, who had all the love of talking which the dean
had not, mingled with a little nettled sense of balked curiosity, then
turned to Mrs. Grey.
"You must have heard of that young man, and the scandal about him; it
was only a year ago that he was rusticated. Such a pity! He was a most
clever fellow--good at every thing. And quite a genius for music. To
hear him sing and play was delightful! And yet he was such a scamp--a
downright villain."
"My dear Mrs. Brereton," said Dr. Grey, "nobody is quite a villain at
twenty. And if he were, don't you think that the less we talk about
villains the better?"
So the conversation dropped--dropped as things do drop every day, under
the smooth surface of society, which handles so lightly edged tools, and
treads so gaily upon bomb-shells, with the fuses just taken out in time.
"I am very tired," said Mrs. Grey, while Dr. Grey was seeing the last
of the visitors to their carriage. "I think I will go at once to my own
room".
"Do so," replied Aunt Maria. "Indeed, it has been a very fatiguing day
for you, and for us all. Go, and I will tell Arnold you are dressing. It
only wants half an hour to dinner."
"I will be ready."
And so she was. But for twenty of the thirty minutes she had lain
motionless on her bed, almost like a dead figure, as passive and as
white. Then she rose, dressed herself, and went down to the formal meal,
and to the somber, safe routine of her present existence, as it would
flow on--and she prayed with all her heart it might--until she died.