Christian's Mistake Part 29

Such simple words, such a natural feeling! if that hard heart were only natural and soft enough to take it in. And it was--for once.

Miss Gascoigne looked incredulously up, then down again, in a shamefaced, uncomfortable way, then held out her hand, and kissed Christian, while two tears--only two--gathered and dropped from her eyes.

But the worst was over. The ice was broken and the stream ran clear.

How long it would run good angels only could tell. But they sang, and kept on singing, all that day, in Christian's heart, the song of peace-- "peace on earth"--for the battle was over and the foes were reconciled.

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 pa.s.sion 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. n.o.body 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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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, G.o.d knows--if there is a G.o.d, 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?"