Christian's Mistake Part 30

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 Let.i.tia--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 Let.i.tia, 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 pa.s.s--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 Let.i.tia, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d, this night."

She had explained its meaning to them, and made them sing it seriously--not carelessly. As they stood round the piano, t.i.tia 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed out.

"How funny! That's Sir Edwin Uniacke, t.i.tia--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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociations, and give him a chance of 'turning over a new leaf,' as people say. Somehow I feel persuaded that he will."

"Thank G.o.d!"

"I too say thank G.o.d; 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?"