No, she did not love him any more, she was quite sure of that. She watched his tall, elegant figure---he was as beautiful as Lucifer-- moving about the rooms, and it seemed that his very face had grown ugly to her sight. She shivered to think that once--thank G.o.d, only once!--his lips had pressed hers; that she had let him say to her fond words, and write to her fond letters, and had even written back to him others, which, if not exactly love-letters, were of the sort that no girl could write except to a man in whom she wholly believed--in his goodness and in his love for herself.
What had become of those letters she had no idea; what was in them she hardly remembered; but the thought of them made her grow pale and terrible. In an agony of shame, as if all the world were pointing at her--at Dr. Grey"s wife--she hid herself in a corner, behind the voluminous presence of Miss Gascoigne, and sat waiting, counting minutes like hours till her husband should appear.
He came at last, his kind face all beaming.
"Christian I have been having a long talk with--But you are very tired."
His eye caught--she knew it would at once--the change in her face, "My darling," he whispered, "would you not like to go home!"
"Oh yes, home! Take me home!" Christian replied almost with a sob.
She clung to his arm, and pa.s.sed through the crowd with him. And whether she fully loved him or not, from the very bottom of her soul she thanked G.o.d for her husband.
Chapter 9.
_"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 soiree 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. .h.i.therto 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l.
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 circ.u.mstances 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 Let.i.tia 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 circ.u.mstances, "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."