"The little griefs-the
petty wounds-
The stabs of daily care-
‘Crackling of
thorns beneath the pot,’
As life’s fire
burns-now cold, now hot-
How hard they are to
bear!
"But on the fire burns,
clear and still;
The cankering sorrow
dies;
The small wounds heal;
the clouds are rent,
And through this shattered
mortal tent
Shine down the eternal
skies."
“Dr. Grey, as to-day is your
’at home’-at least, as much
of an ‘at home’ as is possible under the
circumstances-I wished to inquire, once
for all, what is to be done about the Fergusons?”
“About whom? I beg pardon.
Henrietta, but what were you talking about?”
Which, as she had been talking “even
on” all breakfast-time, either to or at the
little circle, including Letitia and Arthur, was not
an unnecessary question.
“I referred to your wife’s
friends and late employers, the Fergusons, of High
Street. As she was married from their house,
and as, of course, they will only be too glad to keep
up her acquaintance, they will doubtless appear to-day.
In that case, much as we should regret it, your sister
and myself must decline being present. We can
not possibly admit such people into our society.
Isn’t it so-eh, Maria?”
Maria, thus sharply appealed to, answered
with her usual monosyllable.
Dr. Grey looked at his wife in a puzzled,
absent way. He was very absent-there
was no doubt of it-and sometimes, seemed
as shut up in himself as if he had lived a bachelor
all his life. Besides, he did not readily take
in the small wrongs-petty offenses-which
make half the misery of domestic life, and are equally
contemptible in the offender and the offended.
There was something pathetically innocent in the
way he said.
“I really do not quite understand.
Christian, what does it all mean?”
“It means,” said Christian,
trying hard to restrain an indignant answer, “that
Miss Gascoigne is giving herself a great deal of needless
trouble about a thing which will never happen.
My friends, the Fergusons, may call to-day-I
did not invite them, though I shall certainly not shut
the door upon them-but they have no intention
whatever of being on visiting terms at the Lodge,
nor have I of asking them.”
“I am glad to hear it,”
said Miss Gascoigne-“glad to see that
you have so much good taste and proper feeling, and
that all my exertions in bringing you-as
I hope to do to-day-for the first time into
our society will not be thrown away.”
Christian was not a very proud woman-that
is, her pride lay too deep below the surface to be
easily ruffled, but she could not bear this.
“If by our ‘society’
you mean my husband’s friends, to whom he is
to introduce me, I shall be most happy always to welcome
them to his house; but if you imply that I am to exclude
my own-honest, worthy, honorable people,
uneducated though they may be-I must altogether
decline agreeing with you. I shall do no such
thing.”
“Shall you do, then?”
said Miss Gascoigne, after a slight pause; for she
did not expect such resistance from the young, pale,
passive creature, about whom, for the last few days
she had rather changed her mind, and treated with
a patronizing consideration, for Aunt Henrietta liked
to patronize; it pleased her egotism; besides, she
was shrewd enough to see that an elegant, handsome
girl, married to the Master of Saint Bede’s,
was sure soon to be taken up by somebody; better, perhaps;
by her own connections than by strangers. So-more
blandly than might have been expected-she
asked, “What shall you do?”
“What seems to me-as
I think it will to Dr. Grey”-with
a timid glance at him, and a wish she had found courage
to speak to him first on this matter, “the only
right thing I can do. Not to drag my friends
into society where they would not feel at home, and
which would only look down upon them, but to make
them understand clearly that I-and my husband-do
not look down upon them; that we respect them, and
remember their kindness. We may not ask Mr. Ferguson
to dinner-he would find little to say to
University dons; and as for his wife”-she
could not forbear a secret smile at the thought of
the poor dear woman, with her voluble affectionateness
and her gowns of all colors, beside the stately, frigid,
perfectly dressed, and unexceptionably-mannered
Miss Gascoigne-“whether or not Mrs.
Ferguson is invited to the series of parties that
you are planning, I shall go and see her, and she shall
come to see me, as often as ever I please.”
This speech, which began steadily
enough, ended with a shaky voice and flashing eye,
which, the moment it met Dr. Grey’s, gravely
watching her, sank immediately.
“That is,” she added gently,
“If my husband has no objection.”
“None,” he said, but drew
ink and paper to him, and sat down to write a note,
which he afterward handed over to Christian, then addressing
his sister-in-law, “I have invited Mr. and Mrs.
Ferguson to dine with us- just ourselves,
as you and Maria will be out-at six o’clock
to-morrow. And oh!”-with a weary
look, as if he were not so insensible to this petty
domestic martyrdom as people imagined-“do,
Henrietta, let us have a little peace.”
It was in vain. Even Dr. Grey’s
influence could not heal the wounded egotism of this
unfortunate lady.
“Peace! Do you mean to
say that it is I who make dispeace! But if you,
having known what a good, obedient wife really is,
can submit to such unwarrantable dictation; and if
I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why don’t
you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to a
young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely
ignorant of the usages of society-is, in
fact, a perfect child-”
“She is my wife!” said
Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even Christian,
who had been reading the note with a grateful heart
for kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started.
My wife. He said only those
two words, yet somehow they brought a tear in her
eye. The sense of protection, so new and strange,
was also pleasant. She could have fought her
own battles-at least she could once-without
bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with
his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words,
which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that
man is to woman, and every thing that woman needs,
she became no longer warlike and indignant, but humble,
passive, and content.
And long after Dr. Gray was gone away,
with his big book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne,
in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned from her
and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the
fireside, the feeling of content remained.
There was a long pause, during which
the two children, Letitia and Arthur, who had listened
with open eyes and ears to what was passing among
their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for
their usual half-hour of after-breakfast play in the
end window of the dining-room.
Christian also took her work, and
began thinking of other things. She neither
wished to fight or be fought for, particularly in such
a petty domestic war. One of the many advantages
among the many disadvantages of a girlhood almost
entirely removed from the society of women was that
it had saved her from women’s smallnesses.
Besides, her nature itself was large, like her person-large,
and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take in those
petty motives which disturb petty minds. Life
to her was a grand romantic drama,-perhaps,
alas! a tragedy-but it never could be made
into a genteel comedy, with childish intrigues, Liliputian
battles, tempests in teapots, or thunders made upon
kettle-drums.
Thus, concluding the temporary storm
was over, and almost forgetting it at the half-hour’s
end, she called cheerfully to the children to get
ready for a walk with her this sunshiny morning.
Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes
flashing: “Children, you will not leave
the house. You will walk with nobody but your
own proper nurse. It was your poor mamma’s
custom and, though she is dead, her wishes shall be
carried out, at least so long as I am alive.”
Christian stood utterly amazed.
Her intention had been so harmless; she had thought
the walk good for the children, and perhaps good for
herself to have their company. She had meant
to take them out with her the first available day,
and begin a regular series of rambles, which perhaps
might win their little hearts toward her, for they
still kept aloof and shy; and now all her pleasant
plans were set aside.
And there the children stood, half
frightened, half amused, watching the conflict of
authority between their elders. One thing was
clear. There must be no bringing them into the
contest. Christian saw that, and with a strong
effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne,
“I think, before we discuss
this matter, the children had better leave the room.
Go, Atty and Titia; your aunts and I will send word
to the nursery by-and-by.”
The children went obediently, though
Christian heard Arthur whisper to his sister something
about “such a jolly row?” But there was
none.
Miss Gascoigne burst forth into a
perfect torrent of words directed not to Mrs. Grey,
but at her, involving such insinuations, such accusations,
that Christian, who had never been used to this kind
of things stood literally astounded.
She answered not a word; she could
not trust herself to speak. She had meant so
kindly: was so innocent of any feeling save a
wish to be good and motherly to these motherless children.
Besides, she had such an intense craving for their
affection, and even their companionship, for there
were times when her life felt withering up within her-chilled
to death by the gloom of the dull home, with its daily
round of solemn formalities. If she had spoken,
she would have burst into tears. To save herself
from this, she rose and left the parlor.
It might have been weak, unworthy
a woman of spirit; but Christian was, in one sense-not
Miss Gascoigne’s-still a very child.
And most childlike in their passionate bitterness,
their keen sense of injustice, were the tears she
shed in her own room, alone. For she did not
go to Dr. Grey: why should she? Her complaints
could only wound him: and somehow she scorned
to complain. She had not been a governess for
two years without learning that authority propped up
by extraneous power is nearly useless, and that, between
near connections, love commanded, not won, generally
results in something very like hatred.
Besides, was there not some truth
in what the aunt said? Had she-the
second wife-authority over the first Mrs.
Grey’s children? Would it not be better
to let them alone, for good or for evil, and trouble
herself about their welfare no more? But just
that minute Oliver’s little feet went pattering
outside the door-Oliver, who, still a nursery
pet, was freer than the others, and who had already
learned where to come of forenoons for biscuits to
eat or toys to be mended. There was now a one-wheeled
cart and a three-legged horse requiring Christian’s
tenderest attention; and as she sat down on the crimson
sofa, and busied herself over them, with the little
eager face creeping close to hers, and the little
fat arm steadying itself round her neck, her wet eyes
soon grew dry and bright, and her heart less sore,
less hopeless. The small, necessities of the
present, which make children’s company so soothing,
quieted her now; and by the time she had watched the
little fellow run away, dragging his cart and horse
down the oak floor, shouting “Gee-ho!”
and turning round often to laugh at her, Christian
felt that life looked less blank and dreary than it
had done an hour ago.
Still, when she had dressed herself
in the violet silk and Honiton lace which Miss Gascoigne
had informed her were necessary-oh, how
she had been tormented about the etiquette of this
“at home”-the cloud darkened
over her again. What should she do or say to
these strange people?-the worse, that they
were not quite strangers-that she knew
them by report or by sight-and, alack! from
her father’s ill name they knew her only too
well. How they would talk her over and criticise
her, in that small way in which women do criticise
one another, and which she now, for the first time
in her life, had experienced. Was it the habit
of all University ladies? If so, how would she
endure a whole lifetime of that trivial ceremoniousness
in outside things, those small back-bitings and fault-findings,
such as the two aunts indulged in? It was worse,
far worse, than poor Mrs. Ferguson’s stream of
foolish maternalities-vulgar, but warm
and kindly, and never ill-natured; and oh! ten times
worse than anything Christian had known in her girlhood,
which had been forlorn indeed, but free; when she had
followed through necessity her nomadic father, who
had at any rate, left her alone, to form her own mind
and character as she best could. Of man’s
selfishness and badness she knew enough; but of women’s
small sillinesses, narrow formalities, and petty unkindnesses,
she was utterly ignorant till now.
“How shall I bear them?
Let Dr. Grey be ever so good to me, still, how shall
I bear them?” She sighed, she almost sobbed,
and pressed her cheek wearily against the frosty pane,
for she was sitting in a window-seat on the staircase,
lingering till the last possible instant before the
hour when Miss Gascoigne had said she ought to be in
her place in the drawing-room.
“My dear, are you not afraid
of catching cold?” said the hesitating voice
of Miss Grey. “Besides, will not the servants
think it rather odd, your sitting here on the staircase?
Bless me, my dear, were you crying?”
“No,” answered Christian,
energetically, “no!” and then belied her
truthfulness by bursting immediately into tears.
Miss Grey was melted at once.
“There, now, my dear, take my smelling-bottle;
you will be better soon; it is only a little over-excitement.
But, indeed, you need not mind; our friends-that
is, Henrietta’s-for you know I seldom
visit-are all very nice people, and they
will pay every respect to my brother’s wife.
Do not be frightened at them.”
“I was not frightened,”
replied Mrs. Grey, more inclined to smile than to
be offended at this earnest condolence. “What
troubled me was quite another thing.”
“Henrietta. perhaps?”
with an uneasy glance up the staircase. “But
my dear, you must not mind Henrietta; she means well.
You don’t know how busy she has been all the
morning, arranging every thing. ‘For,’
says she to me, ’since your brother has married
again, we must make the best of it, and introduce
his wife into society, and be very kind to her.’
And I am sure I hope we are,”
“Thank you,” said Christian,
somewhat haughtily, till touched by the mild deprecation
of that foolish, gentle face, so gentle as half to
atone for its foolishness.
“You see, my dear, your marriage
was much worse to her than to me, because Mrs. Grey
was her own sister, while Arnold is my brother.
And all I want in the wide world is to see my brother
happy. I hope it isn’t wrong of me, but
I don’t think quite as dear Henrietta does.
I always felt that dear Arnold might marry any body
he pleased, and I should be sure to love her if only
she made him happy. But, hush! I hear
somebody coming.”
And the poor little lady composed
herself into some pretense of indifference when Christian
rose from the windowsill, and stood like a queen-or
rather like what she tried to say to herself, so as
to keep up her matronly dignity, whenever passionate,
girlish grief or anger threatened to break it down,
“like Dr. Grey’s wife.”
Miss Gascoigne stopped benignly, much
to Christian’s surprise, for she did not guess
what a wonderful influence clothes have in calming
down ill tempers. And Miss Gascoigne was beautifully
dressed-quite perfect from top to toe;
and she was such a handsome woman still, that it was
quite a pleasure to look at her, as she very well knew.
She had come direct from her mirror, and was complacent
accordingly. Also, she felt that domestic decorum
must be preserved on the “at home” day.
“That is a very pretty dress
you have on; I suppose Dr. Grey bought it in London?”
“Yes.”
“Did he choose it likewise?”
“I believe so.”
“My sister always chose her
own dresses; but then she paid for them too.
She had a little income of her own, which is a very
good thing for a wife to have.”
“A very good thing.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Grey, I scarcely expected you
to think so.”
“I think,” said Christian,
firmly, though for the moment the silk gown seemed
to burn her arms, and the pearl brooch and lace collar
to weigh like lead on her bosom, “I think that
in any true marriage it does not signify one jot whether
the husband or the wife has the money. Shall
we go down stairs?”
There was time for the hot cheek to
cool and the angry heart to be stilled a little before
the visitors came.
Miss Gascoigne had truly remarked
that the master’s wife was unaccustomed to society-that
society which forms the staple of all provincial towns,
well dressed, well mannered, well informed. But
it seemed to Christian as if these ladies, though
thoroughly ladylike in manner, which was very grateful
to her innate sense of refinement, all dressed after
one fashion, and talked mostly about the same things.
To her, ungifted with the blessed faculty of small
talk, the conversation appeared somewhat frivolous,
unreal, and uninteresting. She hardly knew what
to say or how to say it, yet was painfully conscious
that her every word and every look were being sharply
criticised, either in the character of Edward Oakley’s
daughter or Dr. Grey’s wife.
“At least he shall not be ashamed
of me,” was the thought that kept her up through
both weariness and resentment, and she found herself
involuntarily looking toward the door every time it
opened. Would he come in? At least his
presence would bring her that sense of relief and
protection which she had never failed to feel from
the first hour she knew Dr. Arnold Grey.
He did come in, though not immediately,
and passing her with a smile, which doubtless furnished
the text for a whole week’s gossip in Avonsbridge,
went over to talk to a group of ladies belonging to
Saint Bede’s.
And now for the first time Christian
saw what her husband was “in society.”
Next to a bad man or a fool, of all
things most detestable is “a man of society;”
a brilliant, showy person, who gathers round him a
knot of listeners, to whom his one object is to exhibit
himself. But it is no small advantage for a
man, even a clever or learned man, to feel and appear
at home in any company; to be neither eccentric, nor
proud nor shy; to have a pleasant word or smile for
every body both; to seem and to be occupied with other
people instead of with himself, and with what other
people are thinking about him; in short, a frank, kindly,
natural gentleman, so sure both of his position and
himself that he takes no trouble in the assertion
of either, but simply devotes himself to making all
about him as comfortable and happy as he can.
And this was Dr. Arnold Grey.
He talked little and not brilliantly,
but he knew how to make other people talk. By
some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed
to extract the best aroma from every other; and better
than most conversation was it to look at his kindly,
earnest, listening face, as, in the pauses of politeness,
Christian did look more than once; and a thrill shot
through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman,
of being proud of her husband. Ay, whether she
loved him, or not, she was certainly proud of him.
In all good hearts, love’s root
is in goodness. Deeper than even love itself
is that ideal sense of being satisfied-satisfied
in all one’s moral nature, in the craving of
one’s soul after what seems nearest perfection.
And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak,
or strong- which is it?-that
we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because
we love it with a sort of passionate pity, ever hoping
to have its longings realized, still this kind of
love is not the love which exalts, strengthens,
glorifies. Sooner or later it must die the death.
It had no root, and it withers away whereas, let
there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves,
sometimes merciful nature makes it grow.
Christian looked at her husband many
times, stealthily, whenever he did not notice her.
She liked to look at him. She liked to judge
his face, not with the expression it wore toward herself;
that she knew well-alas! too well; but
as it was when turned toward other people, interested
in them and in the ordinary duties of life, which sometimes,
when absorbed in a passionate love, a man lets slip
for the time. Now she saw him as he was in reality,
the head of his family, the master of his college,
the center of a circle of friends; doing his work in
the world as a man ought to do it, and as a woman
dearly loves to see him do it. Christian’s
eye brightened, and a faint warmth seemed creeping
into her dull, deadened heart.
While she was thinking thus, and wondering
if it were real, her heart suddenly stopped still.
It was only at the sound of a name,
repeated in idle conversation by two ladies behind
her.
“Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it
is quite true. My husband was speaking of it
only this morning. He is Sir Edwin Uniacke now,
with a large fortune besides.”
“He didn’t deserve it.
If ever there was an utter scapegrace, it was he.
He broke his poor mother’s heart; she died during
that affair. The dean must have known all about
it?”
“Yes, but he and the master
kept it very much to themselves. My husband
hates talking; and as for Dr. Grey-”
“The dean paid me a long visit
this morning, Mrs. Brereton,” suddenly interrupted
Dr. Grey. “We were congratulating ourselves
on our prospects. We think there are one or
two men who will do Saint Bede’s great credit
next year.”
“That is well. But my
husband says it will be long before we get a man like
one whom I was just speaking of-Mr. Uniacke-Sir
Edwin he is now. He has succeeded to the baronetcy.
Of course you have heard of this?”
“I have,” briefly answered Dr. Grey.
And the dean’s wife, who had
all the love of talking which the dean had not, mingled
with a little nettled sense of balked curiosity, then
turned to Mrs. Grey.
“You must have heard of that
young man, and the scandal about him; it was only
a year ago that he was rusticated. Such a pity!
He was a most clever fellow-good at every
thing. And quite a genius for music. To
hear him sing and play was delightful! And yet
he was such a scamp-a downright villain.”
“My dear Mrs. Brereton,”
said Dr. Grey, “nobody is quite a villain at
twenty. And if he were, don’t you think
that the less we talk about villains the better?”
So the conversation dropped-dropped
as things do drop every day, under the smooth surface
of society, which handles so lightly edged tools,
and treads so gaily upon bomb-shells, with the fuses
just taken out in time.
“I am very tired,” said
Mrs. Grey, while Dr. Grey was seeing the last of the
visitors to their carriage. “I think I
will go at once to my own room”.
“Do so,” replied Aunt
Maria. “Indeed, it has been a very fatiguing
day for you, and for us all. Go, and I will
tell Arnold you are dressing. It only wants
half an hour to dinner.”
“I will be ready.”
And so she was. But for twenty
of the thirty minutes she had lain motionless on her
bed, almost like a dead figure, as passive and as
white. Then she rose, dressed herself, and went
down to the formal meal, and to the somber, safe routine
of her present existence, as it would flow on-and
she prayed with all her heart it might-until
she died.