Chapter 5

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_ "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. _

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