"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,
No
show, no pride;
Where sorrows oftimes
enter in,
But
never abide.
Yet, if she sits beside
the hearth,
Help,
comfort, guide,
A blessed place, a heavenly
place,
Is
our fireside."
The very instant Miss Gascoigne was
gone, Christian, throwing herself on her husband’s
neck, clasping him, clinging to him, ready almost to
fling herself at his knees in her passion of humility
and love, told him without reserve, without one pang
of hesitation or shame-perhaps, indeed,
there was little or nothing to be ashamed of-every
thing concerning herself and Edwin Uniacke.
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:
“My dear Christian,
“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”
A strange “love-letter”
certainly, yet not an ill one, and one which it was
better to have received than not. Better than
any uncomfortable mystery to have had this clearing
up of the doings and intentions of that strange, brilliant,
erratic spirit which had flashed across the quiet
atmosphere of Saint Bede’s and then vanished
away in darkness- darkness not hopelessly
dark. No one could believe so-at least
no good Christian soul could, after reading that letter.
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:”
"Glory to Thee, my God,
this night,
For all the blessings
of the light.
Keep me, oh keep me,
King of kings,
Beneath Thine own almighty
wings!"
The strain had just ended-as
if he had waited for its ending-when the
drawing-room door opened, and there entered for the
second time into the family circle at the Lodge-Sir
Edwin Uniacke.
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.