_"Get thee behind me, Satan!
I know no other word:
There is a battle that must be fought,
And fought but with the sword--
_"The clear, sharp, stainless, glittering sword
Of purity divine:
I'll hew my way through a host of fiends,
If that strong sword be mine."_
"I wish Mrs. Grey, you would learn to hold yourself a little more
upright, and look a little more like the master's wife--a lady in
as good a position as any in Avonsbridge--and a little less like a
Resignation or a Patience on a monument."
"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Christian, laughing "I have not the
slightest feeling either of resignation or patience. I am afraid I
was thinking over something much more worldly--that plan about Miss
Bennett's new situation of which I have just been telling you"--told as
briefly as she could, for it was not very safe to trust Miss Gascoigne
with any thing. "Also of the people we met last night at the vice
chancellor's."
"And that reminds me--why don't you go and change your dress? I hate a
morning-gown, as I wish you particularly to look as respectable as you
can. We are sure to have callers to-day."
"Are we? Why?"
"To inquire for our health after last night's entertainment. It is
a customary attention; but, of course, you can not be expected to be
acquainted with these sort of things. Besides, one gentleman especially
asked my permission to call today--a man of position and wealth, whose
acquaintance--"
"Oh, please tell me about him after I come back," said Christian,
hopelessly, "and I will go and dress at once."
"Take that boy with you. He never was allowed to be in the drawing-room.
Get up, Arthur," in the sharp tone in which the most trivial commands
were always conveyed to the children, which, no doubt, Miss Gascoigne
thought--as many well-meaning parents and guardians do think--is the
best and safest assertion of authority. But it had made of Letitia
a cringing slave, and of Arthur a confirmed rebel, as he now showed
himself to be.
"I won't go, Aunt Henrietta! I like this sofa. I'll not stir an inch!"
"I command you! Obey me, sir!"
Arthur pulled an insolent face, at which his aunt rose up and boxed his
ears.
This sort of scene had been familiar enough to Christian in the early
days of her marriage. It always made her unhappy, but she attempted no
resistance. Either she felt no right or she had no courage. Now, things
were different.
She caught Miss Gascoigne's uplifted hand, and Arthur's, already raised
to return the blow.
"Stop! you must not touch that child. And, Arthur, how can you be so
naughty! Beg your aunt's pardon, immediately!"
But Arthur began to sob and cough--that ominous cough which was their
dread and pain still. It did not touch the heart of Aunt Henrietta.
"We shall see who is mistress here. I will at once send for Dr. Grey.
Maria, ring the bell."
Poor Aunt Maria, the most subservient of women, was about to do it,
when fate interfered in the shape of Barker and a visiting card, which
changed the whole current of Miss Gascoigne's intentions.
"Sir Edwin Uniacke! the very gentleman I was speaking of. I shall be
delighted to see him. Show him up immediately."
Which was needless, for he had followed Barker to the door. There he
stood, a graceful, well-appointed, fashionable young man, with not
a hair awry in his black curls, not a shadow on his handsome face,
perfectly satisfied with himself and his fortunes--a little flushed,
perhaps, it might be, with what he would call the "pluckiness" of coming
thus to "beard the lion in his den," to visit the master of his late
college. All men have some good in them, and the good in this man was,
that, if a scapegrace, he was not a weak villain, not a coward.
"How kind of you! I am delighted to find a young gentleman so punctual
in his engagements with an old woman," said Miss Gascoigne, with mingled
dignity and _empressement._ "Sir Edwin Uniacke, my sister, Miss Grey;
Mrs. Grey, my sister-in-law."
Certainly Aunt Henrietta's "manners" were superb.
Arthur lay crying and coughing still, but his luckless condition before
visitors was covered over by these beautiful manners, and by the flow of
small-talk which at once began, and in which it was difficult to say who
carried off the position best, the young man or the elderly woman. Both
deserved equal credit from that "world" to which they both belonged.
Presently a diversion was created by Christian's rising to carry Arthur
away.
"You need not go," said Miss Gascoigne. "Ring for Phillis. The child has
been ill, Sir Edwin, and Mrs. Grey has made herself a perfect slave to
him."
"How very--ahem!--charming!" said Sir Edwin Uniacke.
Phillis appeared, but Arthur clung tighter than ever to his
step-mother's neck. Nor did she wish to release him.
"I thank you, no. I can carry him quite easily," she replied to Sir
Edwin's politely offered help, which was, indeed, the only sentence she
had attempted to exchange with him. With her boy in her arms she quitted
the room, and did not return thither all the afternoon.
It was impossible she could. Without any prudishness, without the
slightest atom of self-distrust or fear to meet him, every womanly
feeling in her kept her out of his way. Here was a young man whom
she had once ignorantly suffered to make love to her, nay, loved in a
foolish, girlish way; a young man whom she now knew--and he must know
she knew it--no virtuous girl could or ought to have regarded with a
moment's tenderness. Here was he insulting her by coming to her own
house--her husband's house, without the permission of either. Had he
been humble or shamefaced, she might have pitied him, for all pure
hearts have such infinite pity for sinners. She would have wished him
repentance, peace, and prosperity, and gone on her way, as he on his,
each feeling very kindly to the other, but meeting, and desiring to
meet, no more. Now, when he obtruded himself so unhesitatingly, so
unblushingly, on the very scene of his misdoings and disgrace, pity was
dried up in her heart, and indignation took its place.
"How dare he?" she thought, and nothing else but that. There was not one
reviving touch of girlish admiration, not one thrill of self-complacent
emotion, to see, what she could not help seeing, under his studiedly
courteous manner, that he had forgotten, and meant her to feel he had
forgotten, not a jot of the past. Whatever the episode of Susan Bennett
might mean--if, indeed, such a man was not capable of carrying on a
dozen such little episodes--his manner to Christian plainly showed
that he admired her still; that he saw no difference between the pretty
maiden Christian Oakley and the matron Christian Grey, and expressed
this fact by tender tones and glances, alas! only too familiarly known
by her of old. "How dared he?"
Christian was a very simple woman. She knew nothing at all of that
fashionable world which, in its _blasé_ craving for excitement,
delights, both in life and in books, to tread daintily on the very
confines of guilt. She was not ignorant. She knew what sin was, as set
forth in the Ten Commandments, but she understood absolutely nothing
of that strange leniency or laxity which now-a-days makes vice so
interesting as to look like virtue, or mixes vice and virtue together in
a knot of circumstances until it is difficult to distinguish right from
wrong.
Christian Grey was a wife. Therefore, both as wife and as woman, it
never occurred to her as the remotest possibility that she could indulge
in one tender thought of any man not her husband, or allow any man to
lift up the least corner of that veil of matronly dignity with which
every married woman, under whatever circumstances she has married or
whatever may befall her afterward, ought to enwrap herself forever.
"When I am dead," says Shakspeare's Queen Katherine,
_"Let me be used with honor. Strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave."_
But Christian thought of something beyond the world. The 'honor' lay
with herself alone; or, like her marriage vow, between herself, her
husband, and her God. She was conscious of no dramatic struggles of
conscience, no picturesque persistence in duty: she arrived at her end
without any ethical or metaphysical reasoning, and took her course just
because it seemed to her impossible there could be any other course to
take.
It was a very simple one--total passiveness and silence. The young man
could not come to the Lodge very often, even if Miss Gascoigne invited
him ever so much, and was really as charmed with him as she appeared to
be. And no wonder. He was one of those men who charm every body--perhaps
because he was not deliberately bad, else how could he have attracted
Christian Oakley? He had that rare combination of a brilliant intellect,
an esthetic fancy, strong passions, and a weak moral nature, which makes
some of the most dangerous and fatal characters the world ever sees.
But, be he what he might, he could not force his presence upon Christian
against her will. "No, I am not afraid," she said to herself; "how could
I be--with these?"
For, all the time she sat meditating Arthur lay half asleep, near her;
and little Oliver, who had returned to his old habit of creeping about
her room whenever he could, sat playing with his box of bricks on the
hearth-rug at her feet, every now and then lifting up eyes of such
heavenly depth of innocence that she felt almost a sort of compassion
for the erring man who had no such child-angels in his home--nothing
and no one to make him good, or to teach him, ere it was too late, that,
even in this world, the wages of sin is death, and that the only true
life is that of purity and holiness.
Christian spent the whole afternoon with her children. They tried her
a good deal, for Arthur was fractious, and Oliver went into one of his
storms of passion, which upon him, as once upon his elder brother, were
increasing day by day. It was impossible it should be otherwise under
the present nursery rule.
She sat and thought over plan after plan of getting Oliver more out of
Phillis's hands--not by any open revolution, for she was tender over
even the exaggerated rights of such a long-faithful servant, but by
the quiet influence which generally accomplishes much more than force.
Besides, time would do as much as she could, and a great deal more--it
always does.
Almost smiling at herself for the very practical turn which her
meditations were beginning invariably to take--such a contrast to the
dreamy musings of old--Christian sent the children away, and hastily
dressed for dinner.
It was the first time she had taken her place at the dinner-table since
Arthur's illness, and she felt glad to be there. She sat, with sweet,
calm brow, and lustrous, smiling eyes, a picture such as it does any man
good to gaze at from his table's foot, and know that it is his own wife,
the mistress of his household, the directress of his family, in whom her
husband's heart may safely trust forever.
Dr. Grey seemed to feel it, though he said no more than that "it was
good to have her back again." But his satisfaction did not extend itself
to the rest.
Miss Gascoigne was evidently greatly displeased at something. Angry were
the looks she cast around, and grim was the silence she maintained until
Barker had disappeared.
"Now." said Christian, "shall we send for the children?"
"No," said Miss Gascoigne; "at least not until I have said a word which
I should be sorry to say before young people. Dr. Grey, I wish that you,
who have some knowledge of the usages of society, would instruct your
wife in them a little more. I do not expect much from her, but still,
now that she is your wife, some knowledge of manners, or even common
civility--"
"What have I done?" exclaimed Christian, half alarmed and half amused.
Miss Gascoigne took no notice, but continued addressing Dr. Grey:
"I ask you, as a gentleman, when other gentlemen come to this house to
pay their respects to me--that is, to the ladies generally, ought Mrs.
Grey to take the earliest opportunity of escaping from the drawing-room,
nor return to it the whole time the visitors stay? No doubt she is
unused to society, feels a little awkward in it, but still--"
"I understand now," interrupted Christian. "Yes, I did this afternoon
exactly as she says. I am fully aware of the fact."
"And, pray, who was the gentleman to whom you were so very rude?" asked
Dr. Grey, smiling.
Christian replied without any hesitation--and oh! how thankful that she
was able to do so-- "It was Sir Edwin Uniacke."
But she was not prepared for the start and flash of sudden anger with
which her husband heard the name.
"What! has he called at my house? That is more effrontery than I gave
him credit for."
"Effrontery!" repeated Miss Gascoigne, indignantly. "It is no effrontery
in a gentleman of his rank and fortune, a visitor at Avonsbridge, to pay
a call at Saint Bede's Lodge. Besides, I gave him permission to do so.
He was exceedingly civil to me last night, and I must say he is one of
the pleasantest young men I have met for a long time. What do you know
against him?"
"What do I know?" echoed the master, and stopped. Then added, "Of course
you might not have heard; the dean and I keep these things private as
much as we can; but he was 'rusticated' a year and a half ago."
Miss Gascoigne might have known this fact or not; anyhow, she was
determined not to yield her point.
"Well, and if he were, doubtless it was for some youthful folly--debt,
or the like. Now he has came into his property, he will sow his wild
oats and become perfectly respectable."
"I hope so--I sincerely hope so," said Dr. Grey, not without a trace
of agitation in his manner deeper than the occasion seemed to warrant.
"But, in the meantime, he is not the sort of person whom I should wish
the ladies of my family to have among their visiting acquaintance."
The argument had now waxed so warm that both parties forgot, or appeared
to forget Christian, who sat silent, listening to it all--listening
with a kind of wondering eagerness as to what her husband would say--her
husband, a man in every way the very opposite of this man--Sir Edwin
Uniacke. How would he feel about him? how judge him? Or how much had he
known him to judge him by?
On this last head Dr. Grey was impenetrable, he parried, Or gave vague
general replies to all Miss Gascoigne's questions. She gained nothing
except the firm, decided answer, "I will not have Sir Edwin Uniacke
visiting at the Lodge."
"But why not?" insisted Miss Gascoigne, roused by opposition into
greater obstinacy. "Did we not meet him at the vice chancellor's? And he
told me of two or three houses where we should be sure to meet him again
next week."
"I can not help that, but in my own house I choose my own society."
"Your reasons?" insisted Miss Gascoigne, now seriously angry. "It is
unfair to act so oddly--I must say so ridiculously, without giving a
reason."
Dr. Grey paused a moment, and seemed to ponder before he answered.
"My reason, so far as I can state it, is, that this young man holds, and
puts into open practice, opinions which I wholly condemn, and consider
unworthy of a Christian, an honest man, or even a decent member of
society."
"And, pray, what are they?"
"It is difficult to explain them to a woman. Do not think me hard,"
he added, and his eyes wandered round to his wife, though he still
addressed only his sister. "A man may fail and rise again--and we know
Who pitied and helped to raise all fallen sinners. But sin itself never
ceases to be sin; and, while impenitent, can neither be forgiven nor
blotted out. If a man or a woman--there is no difference--came to me and
said, 'I have erred, but I mean to err no more,' I hope I would never
shut my door against either; I would help, and comfort, and save both,
in every possible way. But a man who continues in sin, hugs it, loves
it, calls it by all manner of fine names, and makes excuses for it after
the fashion of the world--the world may act as it chooses toward him,
but there is only one way in which I can act."
"And what is that?" asked Miss Gascoigne, in astonishing meekness.
"I shut my door against him. Not injuring him, nor pharisaically
condemning him, but merely showing to him, and to all others, that I
consider sin to be sin and call it so. Likewise, that I will have no
fellowship with it, whether it is perpetrated by the beggar in the
streets or the prince on the throne. That no consideration, either of
worldly advantage, or dread of what society may say, or do, or think,
shall ever induce me to let cross my threshold, or bring into personal
association with my family, any man who, to my knowledge, leads an
unvirtuous life."
"Which most indecorous fact, as regards Sir Edwin, not only yourself,
but your wife apparently, was quite aware of. Very extraordinary!"
This Parthian thrust was sharp indeed, but Dr. Grey bore it.
"If she was aware of it--which is not at all extraordinary--my wife did
perfectly right in acting as she has done. It only shows, what I knew
well before, that she and her husband think alike on this, as on most
other subjects."
And he held out his hand to Christian. She could willingly have fallen
at his feet. Oh, how small seemed all dreams of fancy, or folly
of passionate youth, compared to the intense emotion--what was it,
reverence or love?--that was creeping slowly and surely into every fiber
of her being, for the man, her own wedded husband, who satisfied at once
her conscience, her judgment, and her heart.
While these two exchanged a hand-grasp and a look--no more; but that
was enough--Miss Cascoigne sat, routed, but unconquered still. She might
have made one more effort at warfare but that Barker opportunely entered
with the evening post-bag.
"Barker!" said Dr. Grey, as the man was closing the door.
"Yes master."
The master paused a second before speaking. "You know Sir Edwin
Uniacke?"
"To be sure, sir," with a repressed twitch of the mouth, which showed he
knew only too much, as Barker was apt to do of all college affairs.
"If he should call again, say the ladies are engaged; but should he ask
for me, show him at once to my study."
"Very well, master."
And Barker, as he went out of the dining-room, broke into a broad grin;
but it was behind the back of the master.