Christian's Mistake by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

D >> Dinah Maria Mulock Craik >> Christian\'s Mistake

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Chapter 15.

_"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.

Chapter 16.

Conclusion.

And what became of every body--the every body of this simple record
of six months' household history, such as might have happened in any
life? For it includes no extraordinary events, and is the history of mere
ordinary people, neither better nor worse than their neighbors, making
mistakes, suffering for them, retrieving them, and then struggling on,
perhaps to err again. Is not this the chronicle of all existence? For we
are none of us either bad or good, all perfect or wholly depraved, and
our merits go as often unrewarded as our sins.

Whether the future career of Sir Edwin Uniacke be fair or foul, time
alone can prove. At present the chances seem in favor of the former,
especially as he has done the best thing a man of fortune, or any man
who earns an honest livelihood, can do--he has married early, and
report says, married well. She is an earl's daughter, not beautiful,
and rather poor, but gentle, simple-minded, and good, as many a
nobleman's daughter is, more so than girls of lesser degree and greater
presumption.

Except sending marriage-cards, Sir Edwin has attempted no
communication with Dr. and Mrs. Grey. Nor do they wish it. The
difference between themselves and him, in wealth, rank, habits, tastes,
would always make such association undesirable, even had they
expected it renewed. But they did not. In their complete and contented
life they had--until the marriage-cards came--almost forgotten the
young man's existence.

The aunts still live at Avonside Cottage, one cultivating flowers and the
other society with equal assiduity. It is to be hoped both find an equal
reward. As Aunt Henrietta grows to be no longer a middle-aged, but an
elderly lady, less active, less clever, and more dependent upon other
people's kindness and especially upon that of the Lodge--which never
fails her--she sometimes is thought to be growing a little gentler in her
manner and ways, a little less suspicious, less ill-natured, less ready to
see always the black and hard side of things instead of the sunny and
sweet.

At any rate, there is never now the shadow of dispute between herself
and her brother-in-law's family! and she always talks a great deal
"about about dear Mrs. Grey," her elegant looks and manners (which
are certainly patent to all), what a very good wife she has settled down
into, and how much attached she is to the master. Even darkly hinting--
in moments confidential--that "to my certain knowledge" Mrs. Grey
had, as Christian Oakley, the opportunity of making an excellent
marriage with a gentleman of family and position, who was devotedly
in love with her, but whom she refused for the love of Dr. Arnold Grey.
Which statement, when she came to hear it--which of course she did:
every body hears every thing in Avonsbridge--only made Christian
smile, half amused, half sad, to think how strangely truth can be twisted
sometimes, even by well-meaning people, who are perfectly convinced
in their own minds and consciences that they never tell a lie, and
wouldn't do such a thing for the world.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16