_"A warm hearth, and a bright hearth, and a hearth swept clean,
Where tongs don't raise a dust, and the broom isn't seen;
Where the coals never fly abroad, and the soot doesn't fall,
Oh, that's the fire for a man like me, in cottage or in hall._
_"A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well,
Though the waves leap around it and the winds blow snell:
A full boat, and a merry boat, we'll meet any weather,
With a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether."_
Sir Edwin Uniacke did not appear again at the Ledge, or not farther than
the hall, where Christian, in passing, saw several of his cards lying in
the card-basket. And, two Sundays, in glancing casually down the row
of strangers who so often frequented the beautiful old chapel of St.
Bede's, she thought she caught sight of that dark, handsome face, which
had once seemed to her the embodiment of all manly beauty. But she
looked steadily forward, neither seeking nor shrinking from recognition.
There was no need. As she passed out of the chapel, leaning on her
husband's arm, the grave, graceful woman, composed rather than proud,
Sir Edwin Uniacke must have felt that Christian Grey was as far removed
from him and the like of him as if she dwelt already in the world beyond
the grave. But this, perhaps, only made him the more determined to see
her.
Now and then, in her walks with Phillis and the children--she now never
walked alone--she was certain she perceived him in the distance,
his slight, tan figure, and peculiar way of swinging his cane, as he
strolled down the long avenues, now glowing into the beauty of that
exquisite May time which Avonsbridge people never weary of praising.
But still, if it were he, and if they did meet, what harm could it do to
her? She could always guard herself by a lady's strongest armor--perfect
courtesy. Even should he recognize her, it was easy to bow and pass on,
as she made up her mind to do, should the occasion arrive.
It never did, though several times she had actually been in the same
drawing-room with him. But it was in a crowded company, and he either
did not see her, or had the good taste to assume that he had not done
so. And Miss Gascoigne, whose eye he caught, had only given him a
distant bow.
"I shall bow, in spite of Dr. Grey and his crotchets," said she. "But
I suppose you are too much afraid of your husband." Christian did not
reply, and the conversation dropped.
One good thing cheered her. Sir Edwin Uniacke remained in Avonsbridge,
and Miss Susan Bennett was still staying, and doing well in the house of
the blind old woman forty miles away.
Shortly her mind became full of far closer cares.
The domestic atmosphere of the Lodge was growing daily more difficult
to breathe in. What is it that constitutes an unhappy household? Not
necessarily a wicked or warring household but still not happy; devoid
of that sunniness which, be the home ever so poor, makes it feel like
"a little heaven below" to those who dwell in it, or visit it, or even
casually pass it by. "See how these Christians love one another," used
to be said by the old heathen world; and the world says it still--nay,
is compelled to say it, of any real Christian home. Alas it could not
always be said of Dr. Grey's.
Perhaps, in any case, this was unlikely. There were many conflicting
elements therein. Whatever may be preached, and even practiced
sometimes, satisfactorily, about the advantages of communism, the law
of nature is that a family be distinct within itself--should consist
of father, mother, and children, and them only. Any extraneous
relationships admitted therein are always difficult and generally
impossible. In this household, long ruled theoretically by Miss
Gascoigne, and practically by Phillis, who was the cleverest and most
determined woman in it, the elements of strife were always smoldering,
and frequently bursting out into a flame. The one bone of contention
was, as might be expected, the children--who should rule them, and
whether that rule was to be one of love or fear,
Christian, though young, was neither ignorant nor inexperienced; and
when, day by day and week by week, she had to sit still and see that
saddest of all sights to a tender heart, children slowly ruined,
exasperated by injustice, embittered by punishment, made deceitful or
cowardly by continual fear, her spirit wakened up to its full dignity of
womanhood and motherhood.
"They are my children, and I will not have things thus," was her
continual thought. But how to effect her end safely and unobnoxiously
was, as it always is, the great difficulty.
She took quiet methods at first--principally the very simple one of
loving the children till they began to love her. Oliver, and by-and-by
Letitia, seized every chance of escaping out of the noisy nursery, where
Phillis boxed, or beats or scolded all day long, to mother's quiet room,
where they always found a gentle word and a smile--a little rivulet from
that
_"Constant stream of love which knew no fail"_
which was Cowper's fondest memory of his mother, and which should
be perpetually flowing out from the hearts of all mothers toward all
children. These poor children had never known it till now.
Their little hearts opened to it, and bathed in it as in a fountain of
joy. It washed away all their small naughtinesses, made them strong and
brave, gradually lessened the underhandedness of the girl, the roughness
and selfishness of the boy, and turned the child Oliver into a little
angel--that is, if children ever are angels except in poetry; but it is
certain, and Christian often shuddered to see it, that mismanagement and
want of love can change them into little demons.
And at last there came a day when, passive resistance being useless, she
had to strike with strong hand; the resolute hand which, as before
seen, Christian, gentle as she was, could lift up against injustice, and
especially injustice shown to children.
It happened thus: One day Arthur had been very naughty, or so his Aunt
Henrietta declared, when Mrs. Grey, who heard the disturbance, came
to inquire into it. She thought it not such great wickedness--rather a
piece of boyish mischief than intentional "insult," as Miss Gascoigne
affirmed it was. The lady had lost her spectacles; Arthur had pretended
deeply to sympathize, had aided in the search; and finally, after his
aunt had spent several minutes of time and fuss, and angry accusations
against every body, he had led her up to the dining-room mirror, where
she saw the spectacles--calmly resting on her own nose!
"But I only meant it as a joke, mother. And oh! it was so funny!" cried
Arthur, between laughing and sobbing; for his ears tingled still with
the sharp blow which had proved that the matter was no fun at all to
Aunt Henrietta.
"It was a very rude joke, and you ought to beg your aunt's pardon
immediately," said Christian, gravely.
But begging pardon was not half enough salve to the wounded dignity of
Miss Gascoigne. She had been personally offended--that greatest of all
crimes in her eyes--and she demanded condign punishment. Nothing short
of that well-known instrument which, in compliment to Arthur's riper
years, Phillis had substituted for the tied up posy of twigs chosen out
of her birch broom--a little, slender yellow thing, which black children
might once upon a time have played with, and the use of which towards
white children inevitably teaches them a sense of burning humiliation,
rising into fierce indignation and desire for revenge, not unlike the
revenge of negro slaves. And naturally; for while chastisement makes
Christians, punishment only makes brutes.
Almost brutal grew the expression of Arthur's poor thin face when his
aunt insisted on a flogging with the old familiar cane, and after the
old custom, by Phillis's hands.
"Do it, and I'll kill Phillis!" was all he said, but he looked as if he
could, and would.
And when Phillis appeared, not unready or unwilling to execute the
sentence--for she had bitterly resented Arthur's secession from
nursery rule--the boy clung desperately with both his arms round his
step-mother's waist, and the shriek of "Mother mother!" half fury, half
despair, pierced Christian's very heart.
Now Mrs. Grey had a few rather strong opinions of her own on the subject
of punishment, especially corporal punishment. She thought it degraded
rather than reformed, in most cases; and wherever she herself had seen
it tried, it had always signally and fatally failed. At the utmost, the
doubtfulness of the experiment was so great that she felt it ought never
to be administered for any but grave moral offenses--theft, lying, or
the like. Not certainly in such a case as the present--a childish fault,
perhaps only a childish folly, where no moral harm was either done or
intended.
"I didn't mean it! I didn't, mother!" cried the boy, incessantly, as he
clung to her for protection. And Christian held him fast.
"Miss Gascoigne, if you will consider a little, I think you will see
that Arthur's punishment had better be of some other sort than flogging.
We will discuss it between ourselves. Phillis, you can go."
But Phillis did not offer to stir.
"Nurse, obey my orders," screamed Miss Gascoigne. "Take that wicked boy
and cane him soundly."
"Nurse," said Christian, turning very pale, and speaking in an unusually
suppressed voice, "if you lay one finger on my son you quit my service
immediately."
The assumption of authority was so unexpected, so complete, and yet not
overstepping one inch the authority which Mrs. Grey really possessed,
that both sister-in-law and servant stood petrified, and offered no
resistance, until Miss Gascoigne said, quivering with passion.
"This can not go on. I will know at once my rights in this house, or
quit it. Phillis, knock at the study-door and say I wish to speak to Dr.
Grey--that is, if Mrs. Grey, your mistress, will allow you."
"Certainly," said Christian.
And then, drawing Arthur beside her, and sitting down, for she felt
shaking in every limb, she waited the event; for it was a struggle which
she had long felt must come, and the sooner it came the better.
There are crises when the "peace-at-any-price" doctrine becomes a
weakness--more, an absolute wrong. Much as she would have suffered, and
had suffered, so long as all the suffering lay with herself alone, when
it came to involve another, she saw her course was clear. As Arthur
stood by her, convulsed with sobs crying at one minute, "Mother, it's
not fair, I meant no harm," and the next, clenching his little fist
with, "If Phillis touches me, I'll murder Phillis," she felt that it
was no longer a question of pleasantness or ease, or even of saving her
husband from pain. It became a matter or duty--her duty to act to the
best of her conscience and ability toward the children whom Providence
had sent to her. It was no kindness to her husband to allow these to be
sacrificed, as, if she did not stand firm, Arthur might be sacrificed
for life.
So she sat still, uttering not a word except an occasional whisper of
"Be quiet, Arthur," until Dr. Grey entered the room. Even then, she
restrained herself so far as to let Miss Gascoigne tell the story. She
trusted--as she knew she could trust--to her husband's sense of justice
and quick-sightedness, even through any amount of cloudy exaggeration.
When the examination came to an end, and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed
and troubled, looked toward his wife questioningly, all she said was a
suggestion that both the children--for Letitia had watched the matter
with eager curiosity from a corner--should be sent out of the room.
"Yes, yes, certainly Arthur, let go your mother's hand, and run up to
the nursery."
But Arthur's plaintive sobs began again. "I can't go, papa--I daren't;
Phillis will beat me!"
"Is this true, Christian?"
"I am afraid it is. Had not the children better wait in my room?"
This order given, and the door closed, Dr. Grey sat down with very
piteous countenance. He was such a lover of peace and quietness and
now to be brought from his study into the midst of this domestic
hurricane--it was rather hard. He looked from his wife to his sister,
and back again to his wife. There his eyes rested and brightened a
little. The contrast between the two faces was great--one so fierce and
bitter, the other sad indeed, but composed and strong. Nature herself,
who, in the long run, usually decides between false and true authority,
showed at once who possessed the latter--which of the two women was the
most fitted to govern children.
"Henrietta," said Dr. Grey, "what is it you wish me to do? if my boy has
offended you, of course he must be punished. Leave him to Mrs. Grey; she
will do what is right."
"Then I have no longer any authority in this house?"
"Authority in my wife's house my sister could hardly desire. Influence
she might always have; and respect and affection will, I trust, never be
wanting."
Dr. Grey spoke very kindly, and held out his hand, but Miss Gascoigne
threw it angrily aside; and then, breaking through even the unconscious
restraint in which most women, even the most violent, are held by the
presence of a man, and especially such a man as the master, she burst
out--this poor passionate woman, cursed with that terrible pre-dominance
of self which in men is ugly enough, in women absolutely hateful--
"Never! Keep your hypocrisies to yourself, and your wife too--the
greatest hypocrite I know. But she can not deceive me. Maria"--and she
rushed at luckless Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was
quietly entering the room--"come here, Maria, and be a witness to what
your brother is doing. He is turning me out of his house--me, who, since
my poor sister died, have been like a mother to his children. He is
taking them from me, and giving them over to that woman--that bad, low,
cunning woman!"
"Stop!" cried Dr. Grey. "One word more like that, and I _will_ turn you
out of my house--ay, this very night!"
There was a dead pause. Even Miss Gascoigne was frightened. Christian,
who had never in all her life witnessed such a scene, wished she had
done any thing--borne any thing, rather than have given cause for it.
And yet the children! Looking at that furious woman, she felt--any
observer would have felt--that to leave children in Miss Gascoigne's
power was to ruin them for life. No; what must be done had better be
done now than when too late. Yet her heart failed her at sight of poor
Aunt Maria's sobs.
"Oh, dear Arnold, what is the matter? You haven't been vexing Henrietta?
But you never vex any body, you are so good. Dear Henrietta, are we
really to go back to our own house at Avonside? Well, I don't mind. It
is a pretty house, far more cheerful than the Lodge; and our tenants are
just leaving, and they have kept the furniture in the best of order--the
nice furniture that dear Arnold gave us, you know. Even if he does want
us to leave the Lodge, it is quite natural. I always said so. And we
shall only be a mile away, and can have the children to spend long days
with us, and--"
Simple Aunt Maria, in her hasty jumping at conclusions, had effected
more than she thought of--more harm and more good.
"I assure you, Maria," said Dr. Grey with a look of sudden relief, which
he tried hard--good man!--to conceal, "it never was my intention to
suggest your leaving but since you have suggested it--"
"I will go," interrupted Miss Gascoigne. "Say not another word; we
will go. I will not stay to be insulted here; I will return to my own
house--my own poor humble cottage, where at least I can live independent
and at peace--yes, Dr. Grey, I will, however you may try to prevent me."
"I do not prevent you. On the contrary, I consider it would be an
excellent plan, and you have my full consent to execute it whenever you
choose."
This quiet taking of her at her word--this brief, determined, and
masculine manner of settling what she had no intention of doing unless
driven to it through a series of feminine arguments, contentions, and
storms, was quite too much for Miss Gascoigne.
"Go back to Avonside Cottage! Shut myself up in that poor miserable
hole--"
"Oh, Henrietta!" expostulated Aunt Maria, "when it is so nicely
furnished--with the pretty little green-house that dear Arnold built for
us too!"
"Don't tell me of green-houses! I say it is only a hole. And I to settle
down in it--to exile myself from Avonsbridge society, that Mrs. Grey may
rule here, and boast that she has driven me out of the field--me, the
last living relative of your dear lost wife, to say nothing of poor
Maria, your excellent sister to whom you owe so much--"
"Oh, Henrietta!" pleaded Miss Grey once more. "Never mind her, dear,
dear Arnold."
Dr. Grey looked terribly hurt, but he and Aunt Maria exchanged one
glance and one long hand-clasp. Whatever debt there was between the
brother and sister, love had long since canceled it all.
"Pacify her, Maria--you know you can. Make her think better of all this
nonsense. My wife and my sisters could never be rivals; it is ridiculous
to suppose such a thing. But, indeed, I believe we should all be much
better friends if you were in your own house at Avonside."
"I think so, too," whispered Aunt Maria. "I have thought so ever so
long."
"Then it is settled," replied Dr. Grey, in the mild way in which he did
sometimes settle things, and after which you might just as well attempt
to move him as to move the foundations of St. Bede's.
It was all so sudden, this total domestic revolution, which yet every
body inwardly recognized as a great relief, that for a minute or two
nobody found a word more to say, until Miss Gascoigne, who generally had
both the first word and the last, broke out again.
"Yes, you have done it, and it shall never be undone, however you may
live to repent it. Dr. Grey, I quit your house, shaking the dust off my
feet: see that it does not rise up in judgment against you. Maria--my
poor Maria--your own brother may forsake you, but I never will. We go
away together--tomorrow."
"Not tomorrow," said Dr. Grey. "Your tenants have only just left, and we
must have the cottage made comfortable for you. Let me see, this is the
8th; suppose we settle that you leave on the 20th of June. Will that do,
Maria?"
As he spoke he took her little fat hand, patted it lovingly, and then
kissed her.
"You'll not be unhappy, sister? You know it is only going back to the
old ways, and to the old country life, which you always liked much
better than this."
"Much--much better. You are quite right, as you always are, dear
Arnold,"
This was said in a whisper, but Miss Gascoigne caught it.
"Ah! yes, I see what you are doing--stealing from me the only heart that
loves me--persuading her to stay behind. Very well. Do it, Maria. Remain
with your brother and your brother's wife. Forget me, who am nothing to
any body--of no use to one creature living."
Poor woman without meaning it, she had hit upon something very near the
truth. It always is so--always must be. People win what they earn;
those who sow the wind reap the whirlwind. Handsome, clever, showy, and
admired, as she had been in her day, probably not one living soul did
now care for Henrietta Gascoigne except foolish, faithful Aunt Maria.
And yet there must have been some good in her, something worth caring
for, even to retain that affection, weak and submissive as it may have
been. Christian's heart smote her as if she herself had been guilty of
injustice toward Miss Gascoigne when she saw Miss Grey creep up to her
old friend, the tears flowing like a mill-stream.
"No, dear, I shall not stay behind. Arnold doesn't want me. And I have
always put up with you somehow--I mean, you have put with me--we shall
manage to do it still. We'll live together again, as we did for so many
years, in our pretty cottage and garden that dear Arnold gave us, and
I will look after my poultry, and you shall do your visiting. Yes, dear
Henrietta, it will be all for the best. We shall be so independent, so
happy."
Happy! It was not a word in Miss Gascoigne's dictionary. But she looked
with a certain tenderness at the fond little woman who had loved her,
borne with her, never in the smallest degree resisted her since they
were girls together. It was a strange tie, perhaps finding its origin in
something deeper than itself--in that dead captain, whose old-fashioned
miniature still lay in poor Maria's drawer--the fierce, handsome face,
proving that, had he lived, he might have been as great a tyrant over
her as his sister Henrietta. Still, however it arose, the bond was
there, and nothing but death could ever break it between these two
lonely women.
"Come, then, Maria, we shall share our last crust together. You, at
least, have never wronged me. Come away."
Gathering her dress about her with a tragical air, and plucking it, as
she passed Mrs. Grey, as though the possible touch were pollution, Aunt
Henrietta swept from the room; Aunt Maria, after one deprecatory look
behind, as if to say, "You see I can't do otherwise," slowly following.
And so it was all over--safely over--this great change, which, however
longed for, had not been contemplated as a possibility one hour before.
It had arranged itself out of the most trivial elements, as great events
often do. There could be no question that every body felt it to be the
best thing, and every body was thankful; and yet Christian watched her
husband with a little uncertainty until she heard him heave a sigh of
relief.
"Yes, I am sure it was right to be done, and I am glad it is done. Are
not you, Christian?"
"Oh, so glad! I hope it is not wicked in me, but I am so glad!"
"Why--to have me all to yourself?" said he, smiling at her energy.
A strange, unwonted thrill ran through Christian's heart as she
recognized, beyond possibility of doubt, that this was the secret source
of her delight--of the feeling as if a new existence were opening before
her--as if the heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken off, and
she could move through those old gloomy rooms, which had once struck a
chill through her whole being, with a sense as if she were as light as
air, and as merry as a bird in the spring.
To have the Lodge made into a real home--a home altogether her own--and
emptied of all but those who were really her own, with a glad welcome
for any visitors, but still only as visitors, coming and going, and
never permanently interfering with the sweet, narrow circle of the
family fireside; to be really mistress in her own house; to have her
time to herself; to spend long mornings with the children; long evenings
alone with her husband, even if he sat for hours poring over his big
books and did not speak a word--oh, how delicious it would be!
"Yes, all to myself--I'll have you all to myself," she murmured, as she
put her arms round his neck, and looked right up into his eyes. For the
first time she was sure--quite sure that she loved him. And as she
stood embraced, encircled and protected by his love, and thought of her
peaceful life now and to come, full of duties, blessings, and delights,
ay, though it had also no lack of cares. Christian felt sorry--oh, so
infinitely sorry for poor Aunt Henrietta.