"Teach me to feel for others’
woes,
To hide the fault I
see;
The mercy I to others
show,
That mercy show to me."
Breakfast was just over on the morning
following the soirée at the vice chancellor’s.
Christian sat with the two aunts, quietly sewing.
Ay, very quietly, even after last
night. She had taken counsel with her own heart,
through many wakeful hours, and grown calm and still.
Neither her husband nor Miss Gascoigne had once named
Sir Edwin. Probably Aunt Henrietta did not know
him, and in the crowded party Dr. Grey might not have
chanced to recognize him. Indeed, most likely
the young man would take every means of avoiding recognition
from the master of his own college, whence he had
been ignominiously dismissed. His appearance
at St. Mary’s Lodge was strange enough, and
only to be accounted for by his having been invited
by the vice chancellor’s young wife, who knew
him only as Sir Edwin Uniacke, the rich young baronet.
But, under shadow of these advantages,
no doubt he could easily get into society again, even
at Avonsbridge, and would soon be met every where.
She might have to meet him-she, who knew
what she did know about him, and who, though there
had been no absolute engagement between them, had
suffered him to address her as a lover for four bright
April weeks, ending in that thunderbolt of horror and
pain, after which he never came again to the farm-house,
and she never heard from or of him one word more.
Ought she to have told all this to
her husband-was it her duty to tell him
now? Again and again the question recurred to
her, full of endless perplexities. She and Dr.
Grey were not like two young people of equal years.
Why trouble him, a man of middle age, with what he
might think a silly, girlish love-story? and, above
all, why wound him by what is the sharpest pain to
a loving heart, the sudden discovery of things hitherto
concealed, but which ought to have been told long ago?
He might feel it thus-or thus-she
could not tell; she did not, even yet, know him well
enough to be quite sure. The misfortune of all
hasty unions had been hers-she had to find
out everything after marriage. The sweet familiarity
of long courtship, which makes peculiarities and faults
excusable, nay, dear, just because they are so familiar
that the individual would not be himself or herself
without them-this sacred guarantee for
all wedded happiness had not been the lot of Christian
Grey.
Even now, though it was the mere ghost
of a dead love, or dead fancy, which she had to confess
to her husband, she shrank from confessing it.
She would rather let it slip to its natural Hades.
This was the conclusion she came to
when cold, clear daylight put to flight all the bewilderments
and perplexities which had troubled her through the
dark hours; and she sat at the head of her breakfast-table
with her own little circle around her-the
circle which, with all its cares, became every day
dearer and more satisfying, if only because it was
her own.
And when she looked across to the
husband and father, sitting so content, with the morning
sun lighting up his broad forehead-wrinkled,
it is true, but still open and clear, the honest brow
of an honest man-it was with a trembling
gratitude that made religious every throb of Christian’s
once half-heathen heart. The other man, with
his bold eyes that made her shiver, the grasp of his
hand from which her very soul recoiled-oh,
thank God for having delivered her from him, and brought
her into this haven of purity, peace and love!
As she stopped her needlework to cross
to Arthur’s sofa-he insisted on being
carried every where beside her, her poor, spoiled,
sickly boy-as she arranged his pillows
and playthings, and gave him a kiss or two, taking
about a dozen in return-she felt that the
hardest duty, the most unrequited toil, in this her
home would be preferable to that dream of Paradise
in which she had once indulged, and out of which she
must inevitably have wakened to find it a living hell.
The thanksgiving was still in her
heart when she heard a ring at the hall bell, and
remembered, with sudden compunction, that this was
Miss Bennett’s hour, and that she had to speak
to her about the very painful matter which occurred
yesterday.
She had quite forgotten it till this
minute, as was not surprising. Now, with an
effort, she threw off all thoughts about herself; this
business was far more important, and might involve
most serious consequences to the young governess if
obliged to be dismissed under circumstances which,
unless Miss Gascoigne’s tongue could be stopped,
would soon be parroted about to every lady in Avonsbridge.
“Poor girl!” thought Christian,
“she may never get another situation. And
yet perhaps she has done nothing actually wrong, no
worse wrong than many do-than I did!”-she
sighed-“in letting myself be made
love to, and believing it all true, and sweet, and
sacred, when it was all-But that is over
now. And perhaps she has no friends any more
than I had- no home to cling to, no mother
to comfort her. Poor thing! I must be
very tender over her-very careful what I
say to her.”
And following this intention, instead
of sending for Miss Bennett into the dining-room,
as Miss Gascoigne probably expected, for she sat in
great state, determined to “come to the root
of the matter,” as she expressed it, Mrs. Grey
went out and met her in the hall.
“You are the lady whom my sister-in-law
engaged as governess?”
“Yes, ma’am. And
you are Mrs. Grey?” peering at her with some
curiosity; for, as every body knew every thing in Avonsbridge,
no doubt Miss Bennett was perfectly well aware that
Dr. Grey’s young wife was the ci-devant
governess at Mr. Ferguson’s.
“Will you walk up into my room?
I wanted a word with you before lessons.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Grey.
I hope you are quite satisfied with my instruction
of Miss Grey. Indeed, my recommendations-as
I told Miss Gascoigne-include some of the
very first families-”
“I have no doubt Miss Gascoigne
was satisfied,” interrupted Mrs. Grey, not quite
liking the flippant manner, the showy style of dress,
and the air, at once subservient and forward; in truth,
something which, despite her prettiness, stamped the
governess as underbred, exactly what Aunt Henrietta
had said-“not a lady.”
“Your qualifications for teaching
I have no wish to investigate; what I have to speak
about is a totally different thing.”
Miss Bennett looked uneasy for a minute,
but Christian’s manner was so studiously polite,
even kindly, that she seemed to think nothing could
be seriously wrong. She sat down composedly on
the crimson sofa, and began investigating, with admiring,
curious, and rather envious eyes, the handsome room,
half boudoir, half bed-chamber.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey, what a nice
room this is! How you must enjoy it! It’s
a hard life, teaching children.”
“It is a hard life, as I know,
for I was once a governess myself.”
This admission, given so frankly,
without the least hesitation, evidently quite surprised
Miss Bennett. With still greater curiosity than
the fine room, she regarded the fine lady who had
once been a governess, and was not ashamed to own
it.
“Well, all I can say is, you
have been very lucky in your marriage, Mrs. Grey;
I only wish I might be the same.”
“That is exactly-”
said Christian, catching at any thing in her nervous
difficulty as to how she should open such an unpleasant
subject-“no, not exactly, but partly,
what I wished to speak to you about. Excuse a
plain, almost rude question, which you can refuse to
answer if you like; but, Miss Bennett, I should be
very glad to know if you are engaged?”
“Engaged by Miss Gascoigne?”
“No; engaged to be married.”
Miss Bennett drew back, blushed a
little, looked much annoyed, and answered sharply,
apparently involuntarily, “No!”
“Then-excuse me again-I
would not ask if I did not feel it absolutely my duty,
in order that we may come to a right understanding-but
the gentleman you were walking with yesterday, when
you asked Letitia to meet you in Walnut-tree Court,
was he a brother, or cousin, or what?”
Susan Bennett was altogether confounded.
“How did you find it all out? Did the
child tell?-the horrid little-but
of course she did. And then you set on and watched
me! That was a nice trick for one lady to play
another.”
“You are mistaken,” replied
Christian, gravely; “I found this out by the
merest accident; and as I can not allow the child to
do the same thing again, I thought it the most honest
course to tell you at once of the discovery I made,
and receive your explanations.”
“You can’t get them; I
have a perfect right to walk with whom I please?”
“Most certainly; but not to
take Dr. Grey’s little daughter with you as a
companion. Don’t you see, Miss Bennett”-feeling
sorry for the shame and pain she fancied she must
be inflicting-“how injurious these
sort of proceedings must be to a little girl, who
ought to know nothing about love at all-(pardon
my concluding this is a love affair)-till
she comes to it seriously, earnestly, and at a fitting
age? And then the deception, underhandedness-can
not you see how wrong it was to make secret appointments
with a child, and induce her to steal out of the house
unknown to both nurse and mother?”
“You are not her own mother,
Mrs. Grey, it don’t affect you.”
“Pardon me,” returned
Christian very distantly, as she perceived her delicacy
was altogether wasted upon this impertinent young woman,
who appeared well able to hold her own under any circumstances,
“it does affect me so much that, deeply as I
shall regret it, I must offer you a check for your
three months’ salary. Your engagement,
I believe, was quarterly, and I must beg of you to
consider it canceled.”
Miss Bennett turned red and pale;
the offensive tone sank into one pitifully weak and
cringing.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey! don’t
be hard upon me; I’m a poor governess, doing
my best, and father has a large family of us, and the
shop isn’t as thriving as it was. Don’t
turn me away, and I’ll never meet the young
fellow again.”
There was a little natural feeling
visible through the ultra-humility of the girl’s
manner, and when she took out a coarse but elaborately
laced pocket-handkerchief, and wept upon it abundantly,
Christian’s heart melted.
“I am very sorry for you-very
sorry indeed; but what can I do? Will you tell
me candidly, are you engaged to this gentleman?”
“No, not exactly; but I am sure I shall be by-and-by.”
“He is your lover, then? he
ought to be, if, as Letitia says, you go walking together
every evening.”
“Well, and if I do, it’s
nobody’s business but my own, I suppose; and
it’s very hard it should lose me my situation.”
So it was. Mrs. Grey remembered
her own “young days,” as she now called
them-remembered them with pity rather than
shame; for she had done nothing wrong. She had
deceived no one, only been herself deceived-in
a very harmless fashion, just because, in her foolish,
innocent heart, which knew nothing of the world and
the world’s wiles, she thought no man would
ever be so mean, so cowardly, as to tell a girl he
loved her unless he meant it in the true, noble, knightly
way-a lover
“Who loved one woman,
and who clave to her”
“Will you give me your confidence?
Who is this friend of yours, and why does he not
at once ask you for his wife? Perhaps he is poor
and can not afford to marry?”
“Oh. dear me! I’m
not so stupid as to think of a poor man, Bless you!
he has a title and an estate too. If I get him
I shall make a splendid marriage.”
Christian recoiled. Her sympathy
was altogether thrown away. There evidently
was not a point in common between foolish Christian
Oakley, taking dreamy twilight saunters under the
apple-trees-not alone; looking up to her
companion as something between Sir Launcelot and the
Angel Gabriel-and this girl, carrying on
a clandestine flirtation, which she hoped would-and
was determined to make-end in a marriage,
with a young man much above her own station, and just
because he was so. As for loving him in the sense
that Christian had understood love, Miss Bennett was
utterly incapable of it. She never thought of
love at all-only of matrimony.
Still, the facts of the case boded
ill. A wealthy young nobleman, and a pretty,
but coarse and half-educated shopkeeper’s daughter-no
good could come of the acquaintance-perhaps
fatal harm. Once more Christian thought she
would try to conquer her disgust, and win the girl
to better things.
“I do not wish to intrude-no
third person has a right to intrude upon these affairs;
but I wish I could be of any service. You must
perceive, Miss Bennett, that your proceedings are
not quite right-not quite safe. Are
you sure you know enough about this gentleman?
How long have you been acquainted with him?
He probably belongs to the University.”
Miss Bennnett laughed. “Not
he-at least not now. He got into a
scrape and left it, and has only been back here a
week; but I have found out where his estate is, and
all about him. He has the prettiest property,
and is perfectly independent, and a baronet likewise.
Only think”-and the girl, recovering
her spirits, tossed her handsome head, and spread out
her showy, tawdry gown-“only think
of being called ’Lady!’-Lady
Uniacke.”
Had Miss Bennett been less occupied
in admiring herself in the mirrors she must have seen
the start Mrs. Grey gave-for the moment
only, however-and then she spoke.
“Sir Edwin Uniacke’s character
here is well known. He is a bad man. For
you to keep up any acquaintance with him is positive
madness.”
“Not in the least; I know perfectly
what I am about, and can take care of myself, thank
you. He has sown his wild oats, and got a title
and estate, which makes a very great difference.
Besides, I hope I’m as sharp as he. I
shall not let myself down, no fear. I’ll
make him make me Lady Uniacke.”
Christian’s pity changed into
something very like disgust. Many a poor, seduced
girl would have appeared to her less guilty, less degraded
than this girl, who, knowing all a man’s antecedents,
which she evidently did-bad as he was,
set herself deliberately to marry him-a
well-planned, mercenary marriage, by which she might
raise herself out of her low station into a higher,
and escape from the drudgery of labor into ease and
splendor.
And yet is not the same thing done
every day in society by charming young ladies, aided
and abetted by most prudent, respectable, and decorous
fathers and mothers? Let these, who think themselves
so sinless, cast the first stone at Susan Bennett.
But to Christian, who had never been
in society, and did not know the ways of it, the sensation
conveyed was one of absolute repulsion. She
rose.
“I fear, Miss Bennett, that
if we continued this conversation forever we should
never agree. It only proves to me more and more
the impossibility of your remaining my daughter’s
governess. Allow me to pay you, and then let
us part at once.”
But the look of actual dismay which
came over the girl’s face once more made her
pause.
“You send me away with no recommendation-and
I shall never get another situation-and
I have hardly a thing to put on-and I’m
in debt awfully. You are cruel to me, Mrs. Grey-you
that have been a governess yourself.”
And she burst into a passion of hysterical crying.
“What can I do?” said
Christian sadly. “I can not keep you -I
dare not. And it is equally true that I dare
not recommend you. If I could find any thing
else-not with children-something
you really could do, and which would take you away
from this town-”
“I’d go any where -do
any thing to get my bread, for it comes to that.
If I went home and told father this-if he
found out why I had lost my situation, he’d
turn me out of doors. And except this check,
which is owed nearly all, I haven’t one halfpenny-I
really haven’t. Mrs. Grey. It’s
all very well for you to talk-you in your
fine house and comfortable clothes; but you don’t
know what it is to be shabby, cold, miserable.
You don’t know what it is to be in dread of
starving.”
“I do,” said Christian, solemnly.
It was true.
The shudder which came over her at
thought of these remembered days obliterated every
feeling about the girl except the desire to help her,
blameworthy though she was, in some way that could
not possibly injure any one else.
Suddenly she recollected that Mrs.
Ferguson was in great need of some one to take care
of Mr. Ferguson’s old blind mother, who lived
forty miles distant from Avonsbridge. If she
spoke to her about Miss Bennett, and explained, without
any special particulars, that, though unfit to be
trusted with children, she might do well enough with
an old woman in a quiet village, Mrs. Ferguson, whose
kind-heartedness was endless, might send her there
at once.
“Will you go? and I will tell
nobody my reasons for dismissing you,” said
Christian, as earnestly as if she had been asking instead
of conferring a favor. Her kindness touched
even that bold, hard nature.
“You are very good to me; and perhaps I don’t
deserve it.”
“Try to deserve it. If
I get this situation for you, will you make me one
promise?”
“A dozen,”
“One is enough-that you will give
up Sir Edwin Uniacke.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t meet him, don’t
write to him-don’t hold any communication
with him for three months. If he wants you, let
him come and ask you like an honest man.”
Miss Bennett shook her head. “He’s
a baronet, you know.”
“No matter. An honest
man and an honest woman are perfectly equal, even
though one is a baronet and the other a daily governess.
And, if love is worth any thing, it will last three
months; if worth nothing, it had better go.”
But even while she was speaking-plain
truths which she believed with her whole heart-Christian
felt, in this case, the bitter satire of her words.
Susan Bennett only smiled at them
in a vague, uncomprehending way. “Would
you have trusted your lover-that means Dr.
Grey, I suppose- for three months?”
Mrs. Grey did not reply. But
her heart leaped to think how well she knew the answer.
No need to speak of it, though. It would be
almost profanity to talk to this women, who knew about
as much of it as an African fetish-worshipper knows
of the Eternal-of that love which counts
fidelity not by months and years; which, though it
has its root in mortal life, stretches out safely
and fearlessly into the life everlasting.
“Well, I’ll go, and perhaps
my going away will bring him to the point,”
was the fond resolution of Miss Susan Bennett.
Mrs. Grey, infinitely relieved, wrote
the requisite letters and dismissed her, determined
to call that day and explain as much of the matter
to honest Mrs. Ferguson as might put the girl in a
safe position, where she would have a chance of turning
out well, or, at least, better than if she had remained
at Avonsbridge.
Then Christian had time to think of
herself. Here was Sir Edwin Uniacke-this
daring, unscrupulous man, close at her very doors;
meeting her at evening parties; making acquaintance
with her children, for Titia had told her how kind
the gentleman was, and how politely he had inquired
after her “new mamma.”
Of vanity, either to be wounded or
flattered, Christian had absolutely none. And
she had never read French novels. It no more
occurred to her that Sir Edwin would come and make
love to her, now she was Dr. Grey’s wife, than
that she herself should have any feeling-except
pity- in knowing of his love-affair with
Miss Bennett. She was wholly and absolutely
indifferent with regard to him and all things concerning
him. Even the events of last night and this morning
were powerless to cast more than a momentary gravity
over her countenance-gone the instant she
heard her husband calling her from his open study door.
“I wanted to hear how you managed
Miss Bennett, you wise woman. Is it a lover?”
“I fear so, and not a creditable
one. But I am certain of one thing. She
does not love him-she only wants to marry
him.”
“A distinction with a difference,”
said Dr. Grey, smiling. “And you don’t
agree with her, my dear?”
“I should think not!”
Again Dr. Grey smiled. “How
fiercely she speaks! What a tiger this little
woman of mine could be if she chose. And so she
absolutely believes in the old superstition that love
is an essential element of matrimony.”
“You are laughing at me.”
“No, my darling, God forbid. I am only-happy.”
“Are you really, really happy?
Do you think I can make you so-I, with
all my unworthiness?”
“I am sure of it.”
She looked up in his face from out
of his close arms, and they talked no more.