_"He stands a-sudden at the door,
And no one hears his soundless tread,
And no one sees his veiled head,
Or silent hand, put forth so sure,_
_"To grasp and snatch from mortal sight;
Or else benignly turn away,
And let us live our little day,
And tremble back into the light:_
_"But though thus awful to our eyes,
He is an angel in disguise."_
Every human being, and certainly every woman, has, among the various
ideals of happiness, good to make, if never to enjoy, one special
ideal---that great necessity of every tender heart---Home.
Christian had made hers, built her castle in Spain, and furnished and
adorned it from basement to battlement, even when she was a girl of
fourteen. Sitting night after night alone, listening for the father's
footstep, and then trembling when she heard it, or hidden away up in
her own bedroom, her sole refuge from the orgies that took place below,
where the sound of music, exquisite music, went up like the cry of an
angel imprisoned in a den of brutes, the girl had imagined it all. And
through every vicissitude, hidden closer for its utter contrast to all
the associations and experience of her daily life, Christian Oakley had
kept in her heart its innocent, womanly ideal of home.
Now, she had the reality. And what was it?
Externally it looked _very_ bright. Peeping into that warm,
crimson-tinted dining-room at the hour between dinner and tea, when
the whole family at the lodge were sure to be assembled there, any body
would say what a happy family it was, and what a pleasant picture it
made. Father and mother at either end of the table; children on both
sides of it; and the two elderly aunts seated comfortably in their two
arm-chairs at the fireside, one knitting--_q. e. d._--, sleeping, the
other-- No. Miss Gascoigne never slept. Her sharp,
_"Flaw-seeking eyes, like needles' points,"_
were always open, and more especially when the circle consisted, as now,
of her brother-in-law, his children, and his new wife. Doubtless she
considered watchfulness her duty. Indeed, as she explained over and over
again to Aunt Maria, the principal reason which made her consent still
to remain at the Lodge, instead of returning to her own pretty cottage
at Avonside, was to overlook and guard the interests of "those poor
motherless children."
Now it happened, unfortunately for Miss Gascoigne, that if Christian
had one bright spot in the future of her married life to which she had
looked forward earnestly, longingly, it was those children--how she
would take care of them; fill up her weary days with them; love them,
and be loved by them; in short, find in them the full satisfaction of
her motherly heart--that heart in which she then thought there was no
instincts or emotions left except the motherly. How she yearned and
craved for this, God and her own soul only knew.
Yet, how she hardly knew, but so it was, none of these hopes had been
fulfilled. She saw almost nothing of the children save during the one
hour after dinner, when she sat silently watching them, one on each side
of their father, and one on his knee, all so happy together. Dr. Grey
always looked happy when he was with his little folk. And they, their
very faults faded off into sweetnesses when they came within the
atmosphere of that good, loving, fatherly nature, for love makes love,
and goodness creates goodness. Titia lost her prim conceit, Atty his
selfish roughness, and Oliver became a perfect little angel of a child
for at least one hour a day--the hour they spent with their father.
It was a pretty picture. Christian, sitting apart, with the gulf of
shining mahogany between, bridged it often with her wistful eyes, but
she never said a word.
She was not jealous, not in the slightest degree; for hers was the large
nature which, deeply recognizing other's rights, and satisfied with its
own, is incapable of any of the lower forms of jealousy; but she was
sad. The luxurious aimlessness of her present life was a little heavy to
the once poor, active, hard-working young governess, who had never known
an idle or even a restful hour. The rest was sweet--oh! how sweet! but
the idleness was difficult to bear. She had tried sometimes in the long
mornings, when the master was shut up in his study, to get the children
with her, and teach them a little; but Miss Gascoigne had replied that
"my late sister" did not approve of any but paid governesses, and
that it was impossible the wife of the Master of St. Bede's could go
"trapesing about like a nursemaid," taking walks with the children.
Their own mamma never thought of doing such a thing.
And this reference to her predecessor, given about twenty times a day,
always effectually silenced Christian, though it did not silence--it
could not--the cry of her heart to be of some use to somebody; to have
some young, fresh, happy creatures to love and be loved by, even though
they were another woman's children.
So she sat this evening and many evenings, quiet but sad-eyed; and it
was a relief when Barker entered with the tea-tray, and three or four
letters for Mrs. Grey.
"How very odd! Who can be writing to me? I know nobody!"
At which simple speech Miss Gascoigne looked daggers, and, the minute
Barker was gone, spoke them too.
"I must beg you, Mrs. Grey, if only for our sakes, to be a little
more circumspect. How could you let out before Barker that you 'knew
nobody'?"
"It is the truth--why should I not say it?" was all Christian answered,
as she opened the letters, almost the first which had come to her still
unfamiliar name. "They are all invitations. Oh dear! what shall I do?"
Dr. Grey looked up at the exclamation; he never seemed to hear much of
what passed around him except when his wife spoke, and then some slight
movement often showed that though, silent, he was not an unobservant
man.
"Invitations!" cried Miss Gascoigne; "the very thing I was expecting.
And to the best houses in Avonsbridge, too. This is the result of your
At home. I feel quite pleased at having so successfully introduced you
into good society."
"Thank you," said Christian, half amused, half--well, it is not worth
while being annoyed at such a small thing. She only looked across at her
husband to see how he felt on the matter.
"I think," said the master with a comical twinkling in his eye, "that no
society is half so good or so pleasant as our own."
Christian looked puzzled a minute, but afterward smiled gratefully.
"We may decline it, then?"
"Should you like it best?"
"I should, indeed." For, somehow, though she did not shrink from her
new life--that strange, perplexing life for which her sense of duty was
making her every day more strong--she did shrink from the outward shows
of it. To be stared at by cold, sharp, Avonsbridge eyes, or pointed at
as "the governess" whom Dr. Grey had married--worse, perhaps, as
Edward Oakley's daughter, the Edward Oakley whose failings every body
knew--"Yes," she added, quickly, "I would much rather decline."
"Decline! when I have taken so much trouble--bought a new dress
expressly for these parties! They are bridal parties, Mrs. Grey, given
for you, meant to welcome you into Society. Society always does it,
except when the marriage is one to be ashamed of?"
Christian started; the hot flush which now twenty times a day was
beginning to burn in her once pale cheek, burnt there now; but she
restrained herself, for the children sat there--Letitia, preternaturally
sharp, and noticing every thing; Arthur, who rarely spoke except to say
something rude; and also the children's father.
Christian sought his eyes; she was convinced he had heard and understood
every word. But still it had not affected him, except to a wistful
watchfulness of herself, so tender that her indignation sank down.
"Shall I wait till to-morrow before I write? Perhaps, Dr. Grey, after
all, it would be as well for us to accept these invitations?"
"Perhaps," said he, and said no more. There was no need. Whether or not
they loved, without doubt the husband and wife perfectly understood
one another. So next morning, after a brief consultation with Dr. Grey,
Christian sat down and wrote to these grand University ladies, who,
though not an atom better than herself, would, she knew well--and
smiled, half amused at the knowledge--a year ago have scarcely
recognized her existence, that Mrs. Grey "accepted with pleasure" their
kind invitations.
When the day came round she dressed herself, for the first time in
her whole life, in proper evening costume--white silk, white lace,
ornaments, and flowers. Not too youthful a toilet, for she had no
wish to appear young now, but still bridal--a "bride adorned with her
jewels," only these were but few. She was fastening her one opal brooch,
and looking into the mirror, half sad, half wondering to see herself so
fair, when Dr. Grey entered.
He had a jeweler's case in his hand. Awkwardly, even nervously, he
fastened a cross round her neck, and put a bracelet on her arm. Both
were simple enough, but, little as she knew about such things, Christian
could see they were made of very magnificent diamonds,
"Do you like them? They are for you."
"You have not bought them on purpose?"
"Oh no, that extravagance was quite beyond me; but I had them re-set.
They belonged to my mother, and have never been worn till now. Will my
wife wear them?"
Christian drooped her head. Great tears were gathering under her
eyelids.
"I am so foolish--so very foolish; and you are so good to me--so
unfailingly, unceasingly good. I try to be good too; I do indeed. Don't
be angry with me."
"Angry! My darling!"
People may write sentiment by the page, or talk it by the hour, but
there is something in real love which will neither be discussed nor
described. Let us draw over it the holy veil of silence: these things
ought to belong to two alone.
Dr. Grey's wife knew how he loved her. And when he quitted her to order
the carriage which was to take them to the grand dinner party,
she stood, all in her fine garments, a fair, white, bridal-like
vision--stood and wept.
It is a law most absolute and inevitable that love, however great,
however small, never remains quite stationary; it must either diminish
or increase. When Christian awoke out of the stunned condition which had
been hers both before and after her marriage, she began to awake also
to the dawning consciousness of what real marriage ought to be--the
perfect, sacred union, so seldom realized or even sought for, and yet
none the less the right aim and just desire of every true man and woman,
which, when not attained, makes the life imperfect, and the marriage, if
not a sin, a terrible mistake.
"I have sinned! I have sinned!" was the perpetual cry of Christian's
heart, which she had thought was dead as a stone, and now discovered to
be a living, throbbing woman's heart, which needed its lord, was ready
to obey him, love and serve him, nay, fall down in the very dust before
him, if only he could be found! And she knew now--knew by the agony of
regret for all she had missed, that he never had been found; that the
slain love over which she had mourned had been a mere fancy, not a vital
human love at all.
Now her husband never kissed her that she would not have given worlds to
feel that his were the only lover's lips which had ever touched hers; he
never called her by one tender name that she did not shiver to think
she had ever heard it from any other man. There was coming into her
that sense of awed self-appropriation, that fierce revulsion from
any intrusion on the same, which comes into any woman's nature when
beginning to love as she is beloved. Christian did not as yet; but she
recognized her husband's love, and it penetrated with a strong sweetness
to her inmost soul. Mingled with it was an acute pain, a profound
regret, a sad humility. Not hers, alas! the joyful pride, the full
content, of a heart which is conscious in its sweetest depths that it
gives as much as it receives.
This was all. She had done nothing wrong, nothing unworthy of either
herself or Dr. Grey; nothing but what hundreds of women do every day,
and neither blame themselves nor are blamed by others. She had but
suffered a new footstep to enter her young life's garden, without having
had the courage to say of one little corner in it, "Do not tread there,
it is a grave." Only a grave; a very harmless grave now, tricked with
innocent, girlish flowers, but still containing the merest handful of
dust. It would never corrupt, and might even serve to fertilize that
simple heart, which, out of its very simplicity, had made for itself a
passing idol out of what was essentially fake and base, which would have
shortly crumbled to pieces out of its own baseness, had not Fate--or
Providence--with kindly cruel hand forever thrown it down. Still, this
was a grave, and her husband did not know it was there.
Nobody ever had known. The day of delusion had been so short, and the
only relics left of it were those four letters, burnt by herself on her
marriage morning. The whole story, occupying in all only four weeks, had
gone by exactly like a dream, and she had awakened--awakened to find out
what love really was, or what it might have been.
She wept, not loudly, but quietly, till she dared not weep any more.
A sudden thought made her struggle at once for composure, and try to
efface every external trace of tears.
"I am Dr. Grey's wife," she said to herself and resolved that the grand
University magnates should find out nothing in her unworthy of that
name--nothing that could make people say, even the most ill-natured of
them--and, alas! she had lately come to learn that the world is filled,
not, as she thought, with only bad and good, but with an intermediate
race, which is merely ill-natured--say, with a sneer, that Dr. Grey's
second marriage had been "a mistake."
Never before had Christian thought much of these outside things; but she
did now--at least she tried her best. There was not a lock unsmoothed in
her fair hair, not a fold awry in her silks or laces, and not a trace of
agitation visible in her manner or countenance when Mrs. Grey opened her
door to descend the stairs.
She was considering whether it would not be courteous to knock at Miss
Gascoigne's door, and ask if she too were ready, when she heard a loud
outcry in the nursery above. This, alas! was no novelty. More than
once Christian had rushed wildly up stairs, expecting some dreadful
catastrophe, but it was only the usual warfare between Phillis and the
children, especially Arthur, who was no longer a baby to be petted and
scolded, or a little girl to be cowed into obedience, but a big boy
to be ruled, if at all, _vi et armis_--as Mrs. Grey had more than once
suspected Phillis did rule.
"I wont! I won't! and you shan't make me!" was the fierce scream which
caught her ear before she entered the nursery door.
There stood Phillis, her face red with passion, grasping Arthur with one
hand, and beating him with the other, while the boy, holding on to her
with the tenacity of a young bull-dog, was, with all the might of his
little fists, returning blow for blow--in short, a regular stand-up
fight, in which the two faces, elder and younger, woman and child, were
alike in obstinacy and fury. No wonder at Titia's sullenness or Atty's
storms of rage. The children only learned what they were taught.
"Phillis, what is the matter? What has the boy done amiss?"
Phillis turned round with the defiant look which she assumed every time
Mrs. Grey entered the nursery, only a little harder, a little fiercer,
with the black brows bent, and the under-hung mouth almost savage in its
expression.
"What has he done, ma'am? he has disobeyed me. I'll teach you to do it
again, you little villain you!"
"Phillis!"
Never before had Phillis's new mistress addressed her in that tone; it
made her pause a second, and then her blows fell with redoubled strength
on the shrinking shoulders, even the head, of the frantic, furious boy.
Now there was one thing which in all her life Christian never could
stand, and that was, to see a child beaten, or in any way ill used. The
tyranny which calls itself authority, the personal revenge which hides
under the name of punishment, and both used, cowardly, by the stronger
against the weaker, were, to her keen sense of justice, so obnoxious, so
detestable that they always roused in her a something, which is at the
root of all the righteous rebellions in the world--a something which
God, who ordained righteous authority, implants in every honest human
heart as a safeguard against authority unrighteous and therefore
authority no longer. If Christian had been a mother, and seen the father
of her own children beating one of them in the way Phillis beat Arthur,
it would have made her, as she was wont to say, with a curious flash of
her usually quiet eyes, "dangerous."
She wasted no words. It was not her habit. She merely with her firm,
strong hand, wrenched the victim out of the oppressor's grasp.
"Arthur, go to my room. I will hear what you have done amiss. Phillis,
remember, henceforward no children in my house shall be struck or
punished except by their father or myself."
Clear and determined rang out the mistress's voice--mother and
mistress--in this, her first assertion of both her rights. Phillis
drew back astonished, and then, recovering herself, darted after
the retreating boy. But it was too late; he had already gained the
staircase. It was steep, dark, twisted, very unsafe for children; still,
in his fear, Arthur plunged down it. In a minute there was heard a cry
and a heavy fall.
Fierce-tempered woman as she was, Phillis had a heart. She rushed
down after the child, but he turned screaming from her, and it was his
stepmother who lifted him up and carried him into her own room.
Christian, young as she was, had had necessarily much experience with
children. She soothed the boy, and felt that no limbs were broken;
indeed, he complained of nothing, but he turned whiter and whiter, and
shrank from the slightest touch.
"Something is certainly wrong with him. We must send for the doctor.
Whom do you have ordinarily?"
The question was put to Phillis, who, her fury all gone, stood behind
the sofa almost as pale as the poor child. She answered humbly, and
named Dr. Anstruther, whom Christian well knew by report; an old man,
who for forty years had been the depository of the sicknesses and the
sorrows of half Avonsbridge.
"Go, then, tell your master I think Barker ought to be sent for him at
once; and say to Dr. Grey--only don't frighten him, for it may be a mere
trifle after all--that I am afraid he will have to dine out without me
today. Go quick, Phillis; there is no time to lose." For the little
face was sinking back paler and paler, and there was an occasional faint
moan.
Almost for the first time since her entrance into the Grey family,
Phillis, against her will, actually obeyed orders and slipped away so
hastily that she stumbled over Letitia, and gave her a good box on the
ear; however, the little girl did not cry, but gathered herself up, as
if quite used to such treatment, and crept over to the sofa.
"Will Atty die, do you think?" she whispered in much curiosity--only
curiosity there was not a tear in her eyes. "Because then he would never
thump me any more."
Christian's very soul recoiled, and then melted into the deepest pity.
What sort of bringing up could it have been which had resulted in
feelings like these?
She took no notice of what was said, but merely desired the little
girl to bring pillows and a footstool, so that she could hold Arthur as
easily as possible till the doctor came. And then she bade her take off
the diamond bracelets and the hanging lace, and told her where to put
all this finery away, which Letitia accomplished with aptitude and
neatness.
"There, that will do. Thank you, my dear. You are a tidy little girl.
Will you come and give me a kiss."
Letitia obeyed, though with some hesitation, and then came and stood by
her step-mother, watching her intently. At last she said,
"You are crumpling your pretty white silk dress. Won't that vex you very
much?"
"Not very much--if it can not be helped."
"That is odd. I thought you liked fine clothes, and married papa that he
might give you them: Phillis said so."
"Phillis was mistaken."
More than that Christian did not answer; indeed, she hardly took in what
the child said, being fully engrossed with her charge.
Letitia spoke again.
"Are you really sorry for Atty? Aunt Henrietta said you did not care for
any of us."
"Not care for any of you!" And almost as if it were a real mother's
heart, Christian felt hers yearn over the poor pale face, growing every
minute more ghastly.
"I wonder where papa can be! Letitia, go and look for him. Tell him to
send Barker for the doctor at once."
And then she gave her whole attention to Arthur, forgetting everything
except that she had taken upon herself toward these children all the
duties and anxieties of motherhood. How many--perhaps none--would she
ever win of its joys? But to women like her duty alone constitutes
happiness.
She felt happier than she had done for very, very long, when at last
Arthur lay soothed and quieted in her arms, which clasped round him
close and warm, as finding in him something to comfort, something to
love. She had almost lost sigh of danger and fear, when the door opened
and Phillis entered, Dr. Grey following.
On Christian's first look at the latter, she found out one thing--which
hardly so much lessened her reverence as converted it into a strange
tenderness--that her husband was one of the many men who, brave enough
morally, are the most utter cowards at sight of physical suffering.
Completely unhinged, trembling all over, Dr. Grey knelt down by his
boy's side.
"What must we do, Christian? What must we do?"
She knew at once that whatever was done she must do it; but before she
had time to say a word there appeared Miss Gascoigne.
"What is wrong? Why is the doctor sent for? That child hurt? Nonsense!
Hurt seriously with just a mere slip down a few stairs! I will never
believe it. It is just making a fuss about nothing. Dr. Grey, we must go
to the dinner-party, or what would people say? Phillis, take Arthur from
Mrs. Grey and carry him up to the nursery."
But Arthur screamed, and clung with all his might to his step-mother's
neck.
"He is hurt," said Christian, firmly, "and I can not have him moved.
Hush, Atty! you grieve papa. Be quiet, and nobody shall touch you but
papa and me."
Miss Cascoigne stood mute--then again ordered Phillis to take the child.
"I won't go! She will beat me again. Please, please;" and he clung again
to his step-mother. "I'll be good--I'll be so good, if you will only
take care of me."
"I will," said Christian. And the desperate instinct of protection,
which some women have toward all helpless things, gleamed in her eyes as
she added, "Miss Gascoigne, you must leave this child to me. I know what
to do with him. Shall it be so, Dr. Grey?"
"Certainly."
With one furious glance at her brother-in-law, Miss Gascoigne turned and
walked out of the room.
But there was no time to heed her, for that instant, bubbling over the
boy's white lips, Christian saw a red drop or two; they made her own
heart stand still.
It so happened that during her stay with the Fergusons one of the little
boys had broken his collar-bone; a slight accident in itself, had not
the bone pierced the lung, causing a long and severe illness. Quick as
lightning Christian recollected all that had not been done, and all that
the doctor said they ought to have done, in the case of little Jamie. It
was useless speaking out what she feared; indeed, one look at Dr. Grey's
terrified face showed her it was impossible; so she merely laid Arthur
down very gently from her arms, persuaded him to let her place him on
his back along the sofa, and wiped the few drops from his mouth.
"Do not be frightened, papa"--and she made an effort at a smile--"as I
said, I think I know what is amiss with him."
"I am used to children. The doctor will be here soon. Suppose you were
to go down stairs and see if he is coming,"
Dr. Grey obeyed mechanically. When he came back he found Letitia and the
nurse sent away. Christian hardly knew how she managed it, but she did
do it, for it was necessary; Arthur must be kept quiet. She was now
sitting in the silent, half-dark room, with the boy lying quite still
and patient now, his little hot hand clinging fast to hers.
"How content he seems with you! He does not want Phillis, I think."
"No! no! no!" cried Arthur, violently. "Phillis beats me; she always
does, every day of my life. I hate her! If I die, Phillis ought to be
hanged, for it was she that killed me."
"Hush! hush! no speaking," said Christian; and her soft compelling hand
pressed the boy down again. She was now almost certain that the lung was
injured, and her eyes were full of foreboding compassion as they rested
on the poor little fellow, so unused to suffering.
"Is this all true about Phillis?" whispered Dr. Grey.
"I fear it is; but we can not talk of that just now. Ah! here is the
doctor."
It was an inexpressible relief to Christian when, after his first glance
at the patient, Dr. Anstruther said, in his quick, firm, cheery way,
"Now, Dr. Grey, we'll soon put your little man right. But we only want
women here. The best thing you can do is to walk out of the room. This
young lady?"
"Mrs. Grey--Dr. Anstruther."
"I see--I beg your pardon, madam;" and his keen eyes took in at a glance
the graceful figure, the brilliant evening dress. "I was to have met
you today at dinner at the vice chancellor's, but this prevented you, I
suppose?"
"Yes," said Christian; and then, in a few whispered words, told about
the accident, and her suspicions of what it was. The freemasonry of
trust which springs up instantaneously between any honest doctor and
sensible nurse made them friends in five minutes.
Mrs. Grey's fears had been only too true. Many weeks of illness and of
anxious nursing lay before her and her poor boy. After all had been done
that could be done, Dr. Grey was recalled, and the facts explained to
him; though Dr. Anstruther, who seemed to understand him well, dwelt as
lightly upon them as possible, consistent with that strict truth which
was always spoken by the good doctor. Still, it was enough.
When Dr. Anstruther was gone, Dr. Grey caine and stood by the sofa, in
great distress.
"An illness of weeks--delicate for months--and perhaps weakly for life.
Oh, my poor boy!"
"Hush!" said Christian; "the child might hear. Go, and sit down for a
minute, and I will come to you."
She came, and, leaning over him, laid her hand tenderly on her husband's
shoulder. She could do no more, even though he was her husband. She felt
helpless to comfort him, for the key which unlocks all consolation was
in her heart not yet found. Only there came over her, with a solemn
presentiment which had its sweetness still, the conviction that whatever
happiness her lot might have missed, its duties were very plain, very
sure. All her life she would have, more or less, to take care of, not
only these her children, but their father.
She stood beside him, holding his shaking hands between her two firm
ones, till she heard Arthur call faintly.
"I must leave you now. You will go to bed; and oh, do try to sleep. Poor
papa!"
"And you?"
"I shall sit up, of course. Never mind me; I have done it many a time."
"Will you have nobody with you?"
"No. It would disturb Arthur, Hush! there is no time for speaking. This
once you must let me have my way. Good-night, papa."
But for all that, in the dead of the night, she heard the study-door
open, and saw Dr. Grey come stealing in to where she sat watching--as
she was to watch for many a weary day and night--beside his boy's
pillow. He saw her likewise--a figure, the like of which, husband and
father as he had been, he had never seen before. No household experience
of his had ever yet shown him a woman in that light--the dearest light
in which any man can behold her.
A figure, quite different from the stately lady in white splendors of
six hours before, sitting, dressed in a sober, soundless, dark-colored
gown, motionless by the dim lamplight, but with the soft eyes open and
watchful, and the tender hands ever ready for those endless wants of
sickness at night, especially sickness that may be tending unto death,
or unto the awful struggle between life and death, which most women
have at some time of their lives to keep ward over till danger has gone
by--just the sort of figure, in short, that every man is sure to need
beside him, once or more, in his journey between the cradle and the
grave. Happy he over whose cradle it has bent, and who, nearing the
grave, shalt have such a one upon whose bosom he may close his weary
eyes.
When Christian saw her husband, she stirred, and put up a linger far
silence, Dr. Grey crossed the room, trying hard to make his step light
and noiseless, but piteously failing in the attempt. Still Arthur was
not disturbed.
"He sleeps sound, Christian. Does he suffer very much, do you think?"
"Not now."
"Will he ever recover?"
"I hope so. Oh, please God, I trust so! Dr. Anstruther said there was no
reason why he should not."
"And you--you think so too?" with a touching appeal.
"Yes, I do think so"
Dr. Grey seemed relieved. In a kind of helpless, childlike way, he stood
behind her and watched all she did for the child, who waked thirsty, and
cried and moaned, but by-and--by was soothed to sleep again.
His father shuddered as he gazed upon him.
"He looks as if he were dead--my poor boy!"
"You must not look at him, You must go to bed," said Christian, with a
gentle authority.
"Presently. And you--are you not afraid to sit up here alone?"
"Oh no."
"You never seem to be afraid of any thing."
"Not of much--I have gone through such a deal" said Christian, with a
faint smile. "But, papa, indeed you must go to bed."
Nevertheless, they stood a little longer looking down upon Arthur, whose
breathing grew softer into natural sleep. Then, with a mutual impulse
given by the unity of a common grief the husband and wife turned and
kissed one another.
"God bless you, my darling, my poor children's mother, the first they
ever--"
He stopped, and never finished the sentence.