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Christian's Mistake, a novel by Dinah M. Mulock Craik |
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Chapter 15 |
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_ "It may be under palace roof, Princely and wide; No pomp foregone, no pleasure lost, No wish denied; But if beneath the diamonds' flash Sweet, kind eyes hide, A pleasant place, a happy place, Is our fireside. "It may be 'twixt four lowly walls,
He listened, not making any answer, but only holding her fast in his arms, till at length she took courage to look up in his face. "What! you are not angry or grieved? Nay, I could fancy you were almost smiling." "Yes, my child! Because, to tell you the plain truth, I knew all this before." "Knew it before!" cried Christian, in the utmost astonishment. "I really did. Nobody told me. I found it out--found it out even before I knew you. It was the strangest thing, and yet quite natural." And then he explained to her that, after the disgraceful circumstance occurred which caused Mr. Uniacke's rustication, he had fled, from justice it might be, or, in any case, from the dread of it, leaving all his papers open, and his rooms at the mercy of all comers. But, of course, the master and dean of his college had taken immediate possession there; and Dr. Grey, being known to the young man's widowed mother, from whom he had received much kindness in his youth, was deputed by her to overlook every thing, and investigate every thing, if by any means his relatives might arrive at the real truth of that shameful story which, now as heretofore, Dr. Grey passed over unexplained. "It would serve no purpose to tell it," he said, "and it is all safely ended now." How far his own strong, clear common sense and just judgment had succeeded in hushing it up, and saving the young man from a ruined life, and his family from intolerable disgrace, Dr. Grey was not likely to say. But his wife guessed all, then and afterward. He proceeded to tell her how, in searching these papers, among a heap of discreditable letters he had lighted upon two or three, pure as white lilies found lying upon a refuse heap, signed "Christian Oakley." "I read them--I was obliged to read them--but I did so privately, and I put them in my pocket before the dean saw them. No one ever cast eyes upon them except myself. I took them home with me and kept them, And I keep them now, for they first taught me what she was--this chosen wife of mine. They let me into the secret of that simple, gentle. innocent, girlish heart; they made me feel the worth of it, even though it was being thrown away on a worthless man. And I suspect, from that time I wanted it for my own." He went on to say how he had first made acquaintance with her--on business grounds partly, connected with her father's sudden death, but also intending, as soon as he felt himself warranted in taking such a liberty, to return these letters, and tell her in a plain, honest, fatherly manner what a risk she had run, and what a merciful escape she had made from this young man, who, Dr. Grey then felt certain, would never again dare to appear at Avonsbridge. But the opportunity never came. The "fatherly" feeling was swallowed up in another, which effectually sealed the good man's tongue. He determined to make her his wife, and then the letters, the whole story, in which he had read her heart as clear as a book, and was afraid of nothing, concerned himself alone. He felt at liberty to tell her how or when he chose. At least so he persuaded himself. "But perhaps I, too, was a little bit of a coward, my child. I, too, might have avoided much misery if I had had the strength to speak out. But we all make mistakes sometimes, as I told you once. The great thing is not to leave them as mistakes, not to sink under them, but to recognize them for what they are, and try to remedy them if possible. Even if we married too hastily--I, because it was the only way in which I could shelter and protect my darling, and you--well, perhaps because I over- persuaded you, still, we are happy now." Happy? It was a word too small--any word would be. The only expression for such happiness was silence. "And what are we to do about him?" "Him! who?" Christian said it quite naturally for, woman-like, in that rapture of content, the whole world dwindled down into but two beings, herself and her husband. Dr. Grey smiled--not dissatisfied. "I meant Sir Edwin Uniacke. May I read his letter?" "Certainly." She turned her face away, blushing in bitter shame. But there was no need. Either "the de'il is not so black as he's painted," or, what was more probable, that personage himself, incarnate in man's evil nature, shrinks from intruding his worst blackness upon the white purity of a good woman. Probably never was an illicit or disgraceful love-letter written to any woman for which she herself was quite blameless. Dr. Grey perused very composedly Sir Edwin's epistle to his wife, saying at the end of it, "Shall I read this aloud? There is no reason why I should not." And he read:
"If you have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you. A man does not generally meet with a girl like you twice in his lifetime. If, pressed by circumstances, I let you slip through my fingers, it was the worse for me, and, perhaps, the better for you. I bear no grudge against that worthy don and most respectable old fogie, your husband!" Christian recoiled with indignation, but Dr. Grey laughed--actually laughed in the content of his heart, and, putting his arm round his wife's waist, made her read the remainder of the letter with him. "I have followed you pretty closely for some weeks. I can not tell why, except that once I was madly in love with you, and perhaps I am still--I hardly know. But I am a gentleman, and not a fool either. And when a man sees a woman cares no more for him than she does for the dust under her feet, why, if he keeps on caring for her, he's a fool. "The purport of this letter is, therefore, nothing to which you can have the slightest objection, it being merely a warning. There is a young woman in Avonsbridge, Susan Bennett by name, who, from an unfortunate slip of the tongue of mine, hates you, as all women do hate one another (except one woman, whom I once had the honor of meeting every day for four weeks, which fact may have made me a less bad fellow than I used to be, God knows--if there is a God, and if He does know any thing). Well, what I had to say is, beware of Susan Bennett, and beware of another person, who thinks herself much superior to Bennett, and yet they are as like as two peas--Miss Gascoigne. Defend yourself; you may need it. And as the best way to defend you, I mean immediately to leave Avonsbridge--perhaps for personal reasons also, discretion being the better part of valor, and you being so confoundedly like an angel still. Good-by. Yours truly," "Edwin Uniacke"
The husband and wife sat silent for a little, and then Dr. Grey said, "I always thought he was not altogether bad--there was some good in him, and he may be the better, poor fellow, all his life for having once had a month's acquaintance with Christian Oakley." Christian pressed her husband's hand gratefully. That little word or two carried in it a world of healing. But she was not able to say much; her heart was too full. "And now what is to be done?" said Dr. Grey, meditatively. "He must have had some motive in writing this letter--a not unkindly motive either. He must be aware of some strong reason for it when he tells you to 'defend yourself.' He forgets." added Christian's husband, tenderly, "that now there is some body else to do it for you." Christian burst into tears. All her forlorn, unprotected youth, the more forlorn that in her father's lifetime it was under a certain hollow sham of protection; the total desolation afterward, exposed to every insult of the bitter world, or at least that bitter portion of it which is always ready to trample down a woman if she is helpless, and to hunt her down if she is strong enough to help herself--all this was gone by forever. She was afraid of nothing any more. She did not need to defend herself again. She had been taken out of all her misery, and placed in the safe shelter of a good man's love. What had she done to deserve such blessedness? What could she do to show her recognition of the same? She could only weep, poor child! and feel like a child, whom the Great Father has ceased to punish--forgiven, and taken back to peace. "I think," she said, looking up from her hiding-place, "I am so happy, I should almost like to die." "No, no. Not just yet, my foolish little woman," said Dr. Grey. "We have, I trust, a long lifetime before us. Mine seems only just beginning." Strange, but true. He was forty-five and she twenty-one and yet to both this was the real spring-time of their lives. After a pause, during which he sat thinking rather deeply, the master rose and rang the bell. "Barker, do you know whether Sir Edwin Uniacke is still in Avonsbridge?" Barker had seen him not an hour ago, near the senate-house. "Will you go to his lodgings?--let me see; can you make out this address, my dear?" and Dr. Grey pointedly handed over the letter--the fatal letter, which had doubtless been discussed by every servant in the house--to his wife. "Yes, that is it. Go, Barker, present my compliments, and say that Mrs. Grey and myself shall be happy to see Sir Edwin at the Lodge this morning." "Very well, master," said Barker, opening his round eyes to their roundest as he disappeared from the room. "What shall you say to him?" asked Christian. "The plain truth," answered Dr. Grey, smiling. "It is the only weapon, offensive or defensive, that an honest man need ever use." But there was no likelihood of using it against Sir Edwin, for Barker brought word that he was absent from his lodgings, and his return was quite indefinite. So in some other way must be inquired into and met this cruel gossip which had been set afloat, and doubtless was now swimming about every where on the slow current of Avonsbridge society. "But perhaps it may be needless, alter all," said Dr. Grey, cheerfully. "We give ourselves a good deal of trouble by fancying our affairs are as important to the world as they are to ourselves. Whether or not, be content, my darling. One and one makes two. I think we two can face the world." Long after her husband had gone to his study, and Christian had returned to her routine of household duties, one of which was teaching Arthur and Letitia--not the pleasantest of tasks--the peace of his words remained in her heart, comforting her throughout the day. She ceased to trouble or perplex herself about what was to come; it seemed, indeed, as if nothing would ever trouble her any more. She rested in a deep dream of tranquility, so perfect that it beautified and glorified her whole appearance. Arthur more than once stopped in his lessons to say, in his fondling way, in which to the clinging love of the child was added a little of the chivalrous admiration of the boy, "Mother, how very pretty you do look!" "Do I? I am so glad!" At which answer Letitia, who was still prim and precise, though a little less so than she used to be, looked perfectly petrified with astonishment. And her step-mother could not possibly explain to the child why she was "so glad." Glad, for the only reason which makes a real woman care to be lovely, because she loves and is beloved. The day wore by; the days at the Lodge went swiftly enough now, even under the haunting eyes of the pale foundress, and the grim, defunct masters, which Christian used to fancy pursued her, and glared at her from morning till night. Now the sad queen seemed to gaze at her with a pensive envy, and the dark-visaged mediaeval doctors to look after her with a good-natured smile. They had alike become part and portions of her home--the dear home in which her life was to pass--and she dreaded neither them nor it any more. In the evening the family were all gathered together in their accustomed place, round Christian's new piano in the drawing-room; for, since Miss Gascoigne's departure, she had earned out her own pleasure in a long contested domestic feud, and persisted in using the drawing-room every night. She did not see why its pleasant splendors should gratify the public and not the family; so she let Arthur and Letitia, and even Oliver, enjoy the sight of the beautiful room, and learn to behave themselves in it accordingly even toward her lovely piano which was kept open for a full hour every evening, for a sort of family concert. She had taken much pains, at what personal cost keen lovers of music will understand, to teach her little folk to sing. It was possible, for they had all voices, but it had its difficulties, especially when Oliver insisted on joining the concert, as he did now, tossing his curls, and opening his rosy mouth like a great round O, but, nevertheless, looking so exceeding like a singing cherub that Christian caught him up and kissed him with a passionate delight. And then she proceeded gravely with the song, words and music of which she had to compose and to arrange, as she best could, so as to suit the capacity of her performers. And this was what her musical genius had come to--singing and making baby-songs for little children, to which the only chorus of applause was a faint "Bravo!" and a clapping of hands from the distant fireside. "Papa, we never thought you heard us. We thought when you were deep in that big book you heard nothing." "Indeed? Very well" said papa, and disappeared below the surface again, until he revived to take out his watch and observe that it was nearly time for little people to be safe asleep in their little beds. Papa was always unquestioningly and instantaneously obeyed, so the young trio ceased their laughing over their funny songs, and prepared for one--a serious one--which always formed the conclusion of the night's entertainments. Every body knows it; most people have been taught it, the first song they were ever taught, from their mother's lips. Christian had learned it from her mother, and it was the first thing she taught to these her children--the Evening Hymn--"Glory to Thee, my God, this night." She had explained its meaning to them, and made them sing it seriously--not carelessly. As they stood round the piano, Titia and Atty one at each side, and Oliver creeping in to lean upon his step-mothers knee, there was a sweet grave look on all their faces, which made even the two eldest not unpretty children; for their hearts were in their faces--their once frightened, frozen, or bad and bitter hearts. They had no need to hide any thing, or be afraid of any thing. They were loved. The sunshine of that sweet nature, which had warmed their father's heart, and made it blossom out, when past life's summer, with all the freshness of spring, had shined down upon these poor little desolate, motherless children, and made them good and happy--good, perhaps, because they were happy, and most certainly happy because they were good. For that mother--their real mother, who, living, had been to them--what Christian never allowed herself to inquire or even to speculate--she was gone now. And being no longer an imperfect woman, but a disembodied spirit--perhaps--who knows?--she might be looking down on them all, purified from every feeling but gladness; content that her children were taken care of and led so tenderly into the right way. Clear and sweet rose up their voices in the familiar words, over which their step-mother's voice, keeping them all steady with its soft undertone, faltered more than once, especially when she thought of all the "blessings" which had to come to herself since the dawning "light:"
Certainly the young man was no coward, or he never would have entered there. When he did so, bold as he looked, with his easy "fast" air, his handsome face flushed, as if with just a little too long lingering over wine, he involuntarily drew back a step, apparently feeling that the atmosphere of this peaceful home was not fitted for him, or that he himself was not fitted to be present there. "I fear that I may be intruding, but I have only just received a message you sent me; I had been out all day, and I leave Avonsbridge early tomorrow," he began to say, hesitatingly, apologetically. "I am glad to see you," said the master. "Christian, will you send the children away? or rather, Sir Edwin, will you come to my study?" "With pleasure," was the answer, as with an altogether perplexed air, and vainly striving to keep up his usual exceeding courtesy of manner, the young man bowed to Mrs. Grey and passed out. "How funny! That's Sir Edwin Uniacke, Titia--the gentleman that met me, and--" "And that you were always talking about, till Phillis told us we mustn't speak of him any more. And I think I know why, mother." hanging down her head with rosy blushes that made the thin face almost pretty. "Mother, I think I ought to tell you--I always do tell you every thing now--that that was the gentleman who met me and Miss Bennett. But I will never do any thing, or meet any body you don't like again." "No, dear." "And, mother," said Arthur, sliding up to her, "don't you think, if you were to say something yourself about it, Sir Edwin would ask me again to go and see him, and let me row on the lake at Lake Hall." "I don't know, my boy but I can not speak to Sir Edwin. We must leave every thing to papa--he always knows best." And in that firm faith, almost as simple and unreasoning as that of the child, and which it sometimes seemed, God had specially sent this good man to teach her--her, who had hitherto had so little cause to trust or to reverence any body--Christian rested as completely and contentedly as Arthur. Happy son and happy wife, who could so rest upon father and husband. For nearly an hour Dr. Grey and Sir Edwin remained in the study together. What passed between them the former never told, even to his wife, and she did not inquire. She was quite certain in this, as in all other matters, that "papa knew best." When he did come in he found her sitting quietly sewing. She looked up hastily, but saw that he was alone, and smiled. Dr. Grey smiled too--at least not exactly, but there was a brightness in his face such as--not to liken it profanely--might have been seen in the one Divine face after saying to any sinner "Go, and sin no more." "My dearest," said Dr. Grey, sitting down beside his wife and taking her hand, "you maybe quite content; all is well." "I am very glad." "We have talked over every thing, and come to a right understanding. But it is necessary to bring our neighbors to a right understanding also, and to stop people's mouths if we can. To-morrow is Sunday. I have arranged with Sir Edwin that he shall meet me in chapel, and sit with me, in face of all the world, in the master's pew. Do you dislike this, Christian?" "No." "We have likewise settled that he shall start off for a long tour in Greece and Egypt with an old friend of mine, who will be none the worse for the companionship of such a brilliant young fellow. Besides, it will break off all bad associations, and give him a chance of 'turning over a new leaf,' as people say. Somehow I feel persuaded that he will." "Thank God!" "I too say thank God; for his mother was a good friend to me when I was his age. He is only just one-and-twenty. There may be a long successful life before him yet." "I hope so," said Christian, earnestly. "And perhaps a happy one too. But it could never be half so happy as mine." Thus did these two, secure and content, rejoice over the "lost piece of silver," believing, with a pertinacity that some may smile at, that it was silver after all. "One thing more. He will be at least three years away; and no one knows what may happen to him in the mean time, he says. He would like to shake hands with you before he goes. Have you any objection to this?" "None." "Come then with me into the study." They found Sir Edwin leaning against the mantelpiece, with his head resting on his arms. When he raised it, it was the same dashing, handsome head, which a painter might have painted for an angel or an evil spirit, according as the mood seized him. But now it was the former face, with the mouth quivering with emotion, and something not unlike tears in the brilliant eyes. "Sir Edwin, according to your desire, my wife has come to wish you good-by and good speed." Christian held out her hand gently and gravely: "I do wish it you--good speed wherever you go." "Thank you, Mrs. Grey, Good-by." "Good-by." And so they parted--these two, whose fates had so strangely met and mingled for a little while--parted kindly, but, totally without one desire on either side that it should be otherwise. They never have met, probably never will meet again in this world. _ |
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