Chapter 11.

    "A warm hearth, and a bright hearth, and a hearth swept clean,
     Where tongs don't raise a dust, and the broom isn't seen;
     Where the coals never fly abroad, and the soot doesn't fall,
     Oh, that's the fire for a man like me, in cottage or in hall.

    "A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well,
     Though the waves leap around it and the winds blow snell:
     A full boat, and a merry boat, we'll meet any weather,
     With a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether."

Sir Edwin Uniacke did not appear again at the Ledge, or not farther than the hall, where Christian, in passing, saw several of his cards lying in the card-basket. And, two Sundays, in glancing casually down the row of strangers who so often frequented the beautiful old chapel of St. Bede's, she thought she caught sight of that dark, handsome face, which had once seemed to her the embodiment of all manly beauty. But she looked steadily forward, neither seeking nor shrinking from recognition. There was no need. As she passed out of the chapel, leaning on her husband's arm, the grave, graceful woman, composed rather than proud, Sir Edwin Uniacke must have felt that Christian Grey was as far removed from him and the like of him as if she dwelt already in the world beyond the grave. But this, perhaps, only made him the more determined to see her.

Now and then, in her walks with Phillis and the children—she now never walked alone—she was certain she perceived him in the distance, his slight, tan figure, and peculiar way of swinging his cane, as he strolled down the long avenues, now glowing into the beauty of that exquisite May time which Avonsbridge people never weary of praising.

But still, if it were he, and if they did meet, what harm could it do to her? She could always guard herself by a lady's strongest armor—perfect courtesy. Even should he recognize her, it was easy to bow and pass on, as she made up her mind to do, should the occasion arrive.

It never did, though several times she had actually been in the same drawing-room with him. But it was in a crowded company, and he either did not see her, or had the good taste to assume that he had not done so. And Miss Gascoigne, whose eye he caught, had only given him a distant bow.

"I shall bow, in spite of Dr. Grey and his crotchets," said she. "But I suppose you are too much afraid of your husband." Christian did not reply, and the conversation dropped.

One good thing cheered her. Sir Edwin Uniacke remained in Avonsbridge, and Miss Susan Bennett was still staying, and doing well in the house of the blind old woman forty miles away.

Shortly her mind became full of far closer cares.

The domestic atmosphere of the Lodge was growing daily more difficult to breathe in. What is it that constitutes an unhappy household? Not necessarily a wicked or warring household but still not happy; devoid of that sunniness which, be the home ever so poor, makes it feel like "a little heaven below" to those who dwell in it, or visit it, or even casually pass it by. "See how these Christians love one another," used to be said by the old heathen world; and the world says it still—nay, is compelled to say it, of any real Christian home. Alas it could not always be said of Dr. Grey's.

Perhaps, in any case, this was unlikely. There were many conflicting elements therein. Whatever may be preached, and even practiced sometimes, satisfactorily, about the advantages of communism, the law of nature is that a family be distinct within itself—should consist of father, mother, and children, and them only. Any extraneous relationships admitted therein are always difficult and generally impossible. In this household, long ruled theoretically by Miss Gascoigne, and practically by Phillis, who was the cleverest and most determined woman in it, the elements of strife were always smoldering, and frequently bursting out into a flame. The one bone of contention was, as might be expected, the children—who should rule them, and whether that rule was to be one of love or fear,

Christian, though young, was neither ignorant nor inexperienced; and when, day by day and week by week, she had to sit still and see that saddest of all sights to a tender heart, children slowly ruined, exasperated by injustice, embittered by punishment, made deceitful or cowardly by continual fear, her spirit wakened up to its full dignity of womanhood and motherhood.

"They are my children, and I will not have things thus," was her continual thought. But how to effect her end safely and unobnoxiously was, as it always is, the great difficulty.

She took quiet methods at first—principally the very simple one of loving the children till they began to love her. Oliver, and by-and-by Letitia, seized every chance of escaping out of the noisy nursery, where Phillis boxed, or beats or scolded all day long, to mother's quiet room, where they always found a gentle word and a smile—a little rivulet from that

"Constant stream of love which knew no fail"

which was Cowper's fondest memory of his mother, and which should be perpetually flowing out from the hearts of all mothers toward all children. These poor children had never known it till now.

Their little hearts opened to it, and bathed in it as in a fountain of joy. It washed away all their small naughtinesses, made them strong and brave, gradually lessened the underhandedness of the girl, the roughness and selfishness of the boy, and turned the child Oliver into a little angel—that is, if children ever are angels except in poetry; but it is certain, and Christian often shuddered to see it, that mismanagement and want of love can change them into little demons.

And at last there came a day when, passive resistance being useless, she had to strike with strong hand; the resolute hand which, as before seen, Christian, gentle as she was, could lift up against injustice, and especially injustice shown to children.

It happened thus: One day Arthur had been very naughty, or so his Aunt Henrietta declared, when Mrs. Grey, who heard the disturbance, came to inquire into it. She thought it not such great wickedness—rather a piece of boyish mischief than intentional "insult," as Miss Gascoigne affirmed it was. The lady had lost her spectacles; Arthur had pretended deeply to sympathize, had aided in the search; and finally, after his aunt had spent several minutes of time and fuss, and angry accusations against every body, he had led her up to the dining-room mirror, where she saw the spectacles—calmly resting on her own nose!

"But I only meant it as a joke, mother. And oh! it was so funny!" cried
Arthur, between laughing and sobbing; for his ears tingled still with
the sharp blow which had proved that the matter was no fun at all to
Aunt Henrietta.

"It was a very rude joke, and you ought to beg your aunt's pardon immediately," said Christian, gravely.

But begging pardon was not half enough salve to the wounded dignity of Miss Gascoigne. She had been personally offended—that greatest of all crimes in her eyes—and she demanded condign punishment. Nothing short of that well-known instrument which, in compliment to Arthur's riper years, Phillis had substituted for the tied up posy of twigs chosen out of her birch broom—a little, slender yellow thing, which black children might once upon a time have played with, and the use of which towards white children inevitably teaches them a sense of burning humiliation, rising into fierce indignation and desire for revenge, not unlike the revenge of negro slaves. And naturally; for while chastisement makes Christians, punishment only makes brutes.

Almost brutal grew the expression of Arthur's poor thin face when his aunt insisted on a flogging with the old familiar cane, and after the old custom, by Phillis's hands.

"Do it, and I'll kill Phillis!" was all he said, but he looked as if he could, and would.

And when Phillis appeared, not unready or unwilling to execute the sentence—for she had bitterly resented Arthur's secession from nursery rule—the boy clung desperately with both his arms round his step-mother's waist, and the shriek of "Mother mother!" half fury, half despair, pierced Christian's very heart.

Now Mrs. Grey had a few rather strong opinions of her own on the subject of punishment, especially corporal punishment. She thought it degraded rather than reformed, in most cases; and wherever she herself had seen it tried, it had always signally and fatally failed. At the utmost, the doubtfulness of the experiment was so great that she felt it ought never to be administered for any but grave moral offenses—theft, lying, or the like. Not certainly in such a case as the present—a childish fault, perhaps only a childish folly, where no moral harm was either done or intended.

"I didn't mean it! I didn't, mother!" cried the boy, incessantly, as he clung to her for protection. And Christian held him fast.

"Miss Gascoigne, if you will consider a little, I think you will see that Arthur's punishment had better be of some other sort than flogging. We will discuss it between ourselves. Phillis, you can go."

But Phillis did not offer to stir.

"Nurse, obey my orders," screamed Miss Gascoigne. "Take that wicked boy and cane him soundly."

"Nurse," said Christian, turning very pale, and speaking in an unusually suppressed voice, "if you lay one finger on my son you quit my service immediately."

The assumption of authority was so unexpected, so complete, and yet not overstepping one inch the authority which Mrs. Grey really possessed, that both sister-in-law and servant stood petrified, and offered no resistance, until Miss Gascoigne said, quivering with passion.

"This can not go on. I will know at once my rights in this house, or quit it. Phillis, knock at the study-door and say I wish to speak to Dr. Grey—that is, if Mrs. Grey, your mistress, will allow you."

"Certainly," said Christian.

And then, drawing Arthur beside her, and sitting down, for she felt shaking in every limb, she waited the event; for it was a struggle which she had long felt must come, and the sooner it came the better. There are crises when the "peace-at-any-price" doctrine becomes a weakness—more, an absolute wrong. Much as she would have suffered, and had suffered, so long as all the suffering lay with herself alone, when it came to involve another, she saw her course was clear. As Arthur stood by her, convulsed with sobs crying at one minute, "Mother, it's not fair, I meant no harm," and the next, clenching his little fist with, "If Phillis touches me, I'll murder Phillis," she felt that it was no longer a question of pleasantness or ease, or even of saving her husband from pain. It became a matter or duty—her duty to act to the best of her conscience and ability toward the children whom Providence had sent to her. It was no kindness to her husband to allow these to be sacrificed, as, if she did not stand firm, Arthur might be sacrificed for life.

So she sat still, uttering not a word except an occasional whisper of "Be quiet, Arthur," until Dr. Grey entered the room. Even then, she restrained herself so far as to let Miss Gascoigne tell the story. She trusted—as she knew she could trust—to her husband's sense of justice and quick-sightedness, even through any amount of cloudy exaggeration. When the examination came to an end, and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed and troubled, looked toward his wife questioningly, all she said was a suggestion that both the children—for Letitia had watched the matter with eager curiosity from a corner—should be sent out of the room.

"Yes, yes, certainly Arthur, let go your mother's hand, and run up to the nursery."

But Arthur's plaintive sobs began again. "I can't go, papa—I daren't;
Phillis will beat me!"

"Is this true, Christian?"

"I am afraid it is. Had not the children better wait in my room?"

This order given, and the door closed, Dr. Grey sat down with very piteous countenance. He was such a lover of peace and quietness and now to be brought from his study into the midst of this domestic hurricane—it was rather hard. He looked from his wife to his sister, and back again to his wife. There his eyes rested and brightened a little. The contrast between the two faces was great—one so fierce and bitter, the other sad indeed, but composed and strong. Nature herself, who, in the long run, usually decides between false and true authority, showed at once who possessed the latter—which of the two women was the most fitted to govern children.

"Henrietta," said Dr. Grey, "what is it you wish me to do? if my boy has offended you, of course he must be punished. Leave him to Mrs. Grey; she will do what is right."

"Then I have no longer any authority in this house?"

"Authority in my wife's house my sister could hardly desire. Influence she might always have; and respect and affection will, I trust, never be wanting."

Dr. Grey spoke very kindly, and held out his hand, but Miss Gascoigne threw it angrily aside; and then, breaking through even the unconscious restraint in which most women, even the most violent, are held by the presence of a man, and especially such a man as the master, she burst out—this poor passionate woman, cursed with that terrible pre-dominance of self which in men is ugly enough, in women absolutely hateful— "Never! Keep your hypocrisies to yourself, and your wife too—the greatest hypocrite I know. But she can not deceive me. Maria"—and she rushed at luckless Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was quietly entering the room—"come here, Maria, and be a witness to what your brother is doing. He is turning me out of his house—me, who, since my poor sister died, have been like a mother to his children. He is taking them from me, and giving them over to that woman—that bad, low, cunning woman!"

"Stop!" cried Dr. Grey. "One word more like that, and I will turn you out of my house—ay, this very night!"

There was a dead pause. Even Miss Gascoigne was frightened. Christian, who had never in all her life witnessed such a scene, wished she had done any thing—borne any thing, rather than have given cause for it. And yet the children! Looking at that furious woman, she felt—any observer would have felt—that to leave children in Miss Gascoigne's power was to ruin them for life. No; what must be done had better be done now than when too late. Yet her heart failed her at sight of poor Aunt Maria's sobs.

"Oh, dear Arnold, what is the matter? You haven't been vexing Henrietta? But you never vex any body, you are so good. Dear Henrietta, are we really to go back to our own house at Avonside? Well, I don't mind. It is a pretty house, far more cheerful than the Lodge; and our tenants are just leaving, and they have kept the furniture in the best of order—the nice furniture that dear Arnold gave us, you know. Even if he does want us to leave the Lodge, it is quite natural. I always said so. And we shall only be a mile away, and can have the children to spend long days with us, and—"

Simple Aunt Maria, in her hasty jumping at conclusions, had effected more than she thought of—more harm and more good.

"I assure you, Maria," said Dr. Grey with a look of sudden relief, which he tried hard—good man!—to conceal, "it never was my intention to suggest your leaving but since you have suggested it—"

"I will go," interrupted Miss Gascoigne. "Say not another word; we will go. I will not stay to be insulted here; I will return to my own house—my own poor humble cottage, where at least I can live independent and at peace—yes, Dr. Grey, I will, however you may try to prevent me."

"I do not prevent you. On the contrary, I consider it would be an excellent plan, and you have my full consent to execute it whenever you choose."

This quiet taking of her at her word—this brief, determined, and masculine manner of settling what she had no intention of doing unless driven to it through a series of feminine arguments, contentions, and storms, was quite too much for Miss Gascoigne.

"Go back to Avonside Cottage! Shut myself up in that poor miserable hole—"

"Oh, Henrietta!" expostulated Aunt Maria, "when it is so nicely furnished—with the pretty little green-house that dear Arnold built for us too!"

"Don't tell me of green-houses! I say it is only a hole. And I to settle down in it—to exile myself from Avonsbridge society, that Mrs. Grey may rule here, and boast that she has driven me out of the field—me, the last living relative of your dear lost wife, to say nothing of poor Maria, your excellent sister to whom you owe so much—"

"Oh, Henrietta!" pleaded Miss Grey once more. "Never mind her, dear, dear Arnold."

Dr. Grey looked terribly hurt, but he and Aunt Maria exchanged one glance and one long hand-clasp. Whatever debt there was between the brother and sister, love had long since canceled it all.

"Pacify her, Maria—you know you can. Make her think better of all this nonsense. My wife and my sisters could never be rivals; it is ridiculous to suppose such a thing. But, indeed, I believe we should all be much better friends if you were in your own house at Avonside."

"I think so, too," whispered Aunt Maria. "I have thought so ever so long."

"Then it is settled," replied Dr. Grey, in the mild way in which he did sometimes settle things, and after which you might just as well attempt to move him as to move the foundations of St. Bede's.

It was all so sudden, this total domestic revolution, which yet every body inwardly recognized as a great relief, that for a minute or two nobody found a word more to say, until Miss Gascoigne, who generally had both the first word and the last, broke out again.

"Yes, you have done it, and it shall never be undone, however you may live to repent it. Dr. Grey, I quit your house, shaking the dust off my feet: see that it does not rise up in judgment against you. Maria—my poor Maria—your own brother may forsake you, but I never will. We go away together—tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow," said Dr. Grey. "Your tenants have only just left, and we must have the cottage made comfortable for you. Let me see, this is the 8th; suppose we settle that you leave on the 20th of June. Will that do, Maria?"

As he spoke he took her little fat hand, patted it lovingly, and then kissed her.

"You'll not be unhappy, sister? You know it is only going back to the old ways, and to the old country life, which you always liked much better than this."

"Much—much better. You are quite right, as you always are, dear
Arnold,"

This was said in a whisper, but Miss Gascoigne caught it.

"Ah! yes, I see what you are doing—stealing from me the only heart that loves me—persuading her to stay behind. Very well. Do it, Maria. Remain with your brother and your brother's wife. Forget me, who am nothing to any body—of no use to one creature living."

Poor woman without meaning it, she had hit upon something very near the truth. It always is so—always must be. People win what they earn; those who sow the wind reap the whirlwind. Handsome, clever, showy, and admired, as she had been in her day, probably not one living soul did now care for Henrietta Gascoigne except foolish, faithful Aunt Maria.

And yet there must have been some good in her, something worth caring for, even to retain that affection, weak and submissive as it may have been. Christian's heart smote her as if she herself had been guilty of injustice toward Miss Gascoigne when she saw Miss Grey creep up to her old friend, the tears flowing like a mill-stream.

"No, dear, I shall not stay behind. Arnold doesn't want me. And I have always put up with you somehow—I mean, you have put with me—we shall manage to do it still. We'll live together again, as we did for so many years, in our pretty cottage and garden that dear Arnold gave us, and I will look after my poultry, and you shall do your visiting. Yes, dear Henrietta, it will be all for the best. We shall be so independent, so happy."

Happy! It was not a word in Miss Gascoigne's dictionary. But she looked with a certain tenderness at the fond little woman who had loved her, borne with her, never in the smallest degree resisted her since they were girls together. It was a strange tie, perhaps finding its origin in something deeper than itself—in that dead captain, whose old-fashioned miniature still lay in poor Maria's drawer—the fierce, handsome face, proving that, had he lived, he might have been as great a tyrant over her as his sister Henrietta. Still, however it arose, the bond was there, and nothing but death could ever break it between these two lonely women.

"Come, then, Maria, we shall share our last crust together. You, at least, have never wronged me. Come away."

Gathering her dress about her with a tragical air, and plucking it, as she passed Mrs. Grey, as though the possible touch were pollution, Aunt Henrietta swept from the room; Aunt Maria, after one deprecatory look behind, as if to say, "You see I can't do otherwise," slowly following.

And so it was all over—safely over—this great change, which, however longed for, had not been contemplated as a possibility one hour before. It had arranged itself out of the most trivial elements, as great events often do. There could be no question that every body felt it to be the best thing, and every body was thankful; and yet Christian watched her husband with a little uncertainty until she heard him heave a sigh of relief.

"Yes, I am sure it was right to be done, and I am glad it is done. Are not you, Christian?"

"Oh, so glad! I hope it is not wicked in me, but I am so glad!"

"Why—to have me all to yourself?" said he, smiling at her energy.

A strange, unwonted thrill ran through Christian's heart as she recognized, beyond possibility of doubt, that this was the secret source of her delight—of the feeling as if a new existence were opening before her—as if the heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken off, and she could move through those old gloomy rooms, which had once struck a chill through her whole being, with a sense as if she were as light as air, and as merry as a bird in the spring.

To have the Lodge made into a real home—a home altogether her own—and emptied of all but those who were really her own, with a glad welcome for any visitors, but still only as visitors, coming and going, and never permanently interfering with the sweet, narrow circle of the family fireside; to be really mistress in her own house; to have her time to herself; to spend long mornings with the children; long evenings alone with her husband, even if he sat for hours poring over his big books and did not speak a word—oh, how delicious it would be!

"Yes, all to myself—I'll have you all to myself," she murmured, as she put her arms round his neck, and looked right up into his eyes. For the first time she was sure—quite sure that she loved him. And as she stood embraced, encircled and protected by his love, and thought of her peaceful life now and to come, full of duties, blessings, and delights, ay, though it had also no lack of cares. Christian felt sorry—oh, so infinitely sorry for poor Aunt Henrietta.

Chapter 12.

    "Weave, weave, weave,
     The tiniest thread will do;
     The filmiest thread from a spider's bed
     Is stout enough for you.

    "Twist, twist, twist,
     With fingers dainty and small;
     Let the wily net be quietly set,
     That the innocent may fall."

Arthur never got his thrashing. The serious results, of which he had been the primary cause, for a while put his naughtiness out of every body's head; and when, after an hour or more, Christian went up stairs, and found the poor little fellow waiting patiently and obediently in mother's bedroom, it seemed rather hard to punish him.

She went down again into the study, and had a long talk with her husband, in which she spoke her mind very freely—more freely than she had ever done before, and told him things which had come to her knowledge concerning the children of which he, poor man! had hitherto been kept in total ignorance.

Thus taking counsel together, the father and mother decided that, except in very rare instances, corporal punishment should be entirely abolished, and never, under any circumstances, should be administered by Phillis. That Phillis's sway was to be narrowed as much as possible, without any absolute laws being made that would wound her feelings, or show indifference to her long fidelity.

"For," said Dr. Grey, "we must not forget, Christian, that she loved the children when they had not quite so much love as they have now."

No, Arthur was not thrashed—was promised faithfully that Phillis should never be allowed to thrash him any more; but his step-mother made him write the meekest, humblest letter of apology to his Aunt Henrietta, which that lady returned unanswered. This, however, as Christian took some pains to explain to him, was a matter of secondary consequence. Whatever she did, he had done only what was his duty. And he was enjoined, when they did meet, to address her politely and respectfully, as a nephew and a gentleman should—as his father always addressed her, even in answer to those sharp speeches which, though in his children's presence, Miss Gascoigne continually let fall.

Nevertheless, Dr. Grey bore them, and so did his wife, which was harder. She did not mind rudeness to herself, but to hear her husband thus spoken to and spoken of was a sufficient trial to make her long for the time of release. And yet through it all came the deep sense of pity that any woman who could show herself in so pleasant a light abroad—for many of the morning visitors quite condoled with Mrs. Grey on the impending change at the Lodge, and of the great loss she would have in her sister-in-law—should be so obnoxious at home that her nearest relatives counted the days until her shadow should cease to darken their doors.

And so, gradually and often painfully, but still with a firm conviction on every body's mind that the plan so suddenly decided on had been the best for all parties, came round the time of the aunts' departure.

Christian had spent all the previous day at Avonside, which she found a very pretty cottage, all woodbine and roses, with nothing at all poverty-stricken about it, either within or without. She had gone over it from garret to basement, making every thing as comfortable as possible, as she had carte blanche from her husband to do, and gladly did; for on her tender conscience rankled every bitter word of Miss Gascoigne's as though it were real truth; and sometimes, in spite of herself, she could not suppress an uneasy feeling as if the aunts were being "turned out." The last day of their stay at the Lodge was so exceedingly painful, that, having done all she could, she at length rushed out of the house with Arthur for a breath of fresh air and a quiet half hour before dinner, if such were possible.

She did not go far, only just crossing the bridge to the cottage grounds opposite where, in sight of the Lodge windows, she could walk up and down the beautiful avenue, which still bears the name of the old philosopher who loved it. If his wise, gentle ghost still haunted the place, it might well have watched with pleasure this fair, grave, sweet-looking young woman sauntering up and down with the boy in her hand, listening vaguely to his chatter, and now and then putting in a smiling answer. She had a smiling, peaceful face, and her thoughts were peaceful too. She was thinking to herself how pretty Avonsbridge was in its June dress of freshest green, how quietly and innocently life passed under shadow of these college walls, and how could any one have the heart to make it otherwise?

She would not after today. She would cease to vex herself, or let her husband vex himself about Miss Gascoigne. With a mile and a half between them, the Lodge would certainly feel safe from her. And oh! what a wonderful peace would come into the house when she left it! How good the children would be! How happy their father!—yes, he could be made happy, Christian knew that, and it was she who could make him so. The consciousness of power in this sweet sense, and the delight of exercising it was becoming the most exquisite happiness Christian had ever known. She sat dreaming over it almost like a girl in her first love-dream—only this dream was deeper and calmer, with all the strength of daily duty added to the joy of loving and being loved. Not that she reasoned much—she was not given to much analyzing of herself—she only knew that she was content, and found content in every thing—in the ripple of the river at her feet, the flutter of the leaves over her head, the soft blue sky above the colleges, and the green grass gemmed with daisies, where an old man was mowing on the one side, and a large thrush, grown silent with summer, was hopping about on the other. Every thing seemed beautiful, for the beauty began in her own heart.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Grey."

People talk about "looking as if they had seen a ghost"—and perhaps that look was not unlike Christian's as she started at this salutation behind her. He must have come stealthily across the grass, for she had heard nothing, did not even know that any body was near, till she looked up and saw Sir Edwin Uniacke.

The surprise was so great that it brought (oh, what shame to feel it, and feel sure that he saw it!) the blood up to her face—to her very forehead. She half rose, and then sat down again, with a blind instinct that any thing was better than either to be or to appear afraid.

Without waiting for either a reply or a recognition—which indeed came not, nothing but that miserable blush—the young man seated himself on the bench and began to make acquaintance with Arthur.

"I believe I have seen you before, my little friend. You are Dr. Grey's son, and I once offered to carry you, but was refused. Are you quite well now, Master Albert? Isn't that your name?"

"No; Arthur," said the boy, rather flattered at being noticed. "Are you one of the men at our college? You haven't your gown on."

"Not now," with a queer look, half amusement, half irritation. "I don't belong to Avonsbridge. I have a house of my own in the country—such a pretty place, with a park, and deer, and a lake, and a boat to row on it. Wouldn't you like to see it?"

"Yes." said Arthur, all eyes and ears.

"I live there, but I am always coming over to Avonsbridge. Do what I will, I can not keep away."

The tone, the glance across the child, were unmistakable. Christian rose, her momentary stupefaction gone.

"Come, Arthur, papa will be waiting dinner. We never keep papa waiting, you know."

Simple as the words were, they expressed volumes.

For an instant her composed matronly grace—her perfect indifference, silenced, nay, almost awed the young man, and then irritated him into resistance. He caught hold of Arthur in passing.

"You need not go yet. It is only just five, and your papa does not dine till six."

"How do you know?" asked the child.

"Oh. I know every thing. I watch you in and out of the Lodge, and am aware of all you do. But about the boat I promised you. It is at my place, Lake Hall, near—"

"Arthur. we must go."

Arthur jumped up at once. Gentle as it was, he had learned that that voice must never be disobeyed.

"I can't stay, sir; mother calls me. But I'll tell papa we met you, and ask him to let me come and see you, if you will tell me your name."

Sir Edwin hesitated.

"There is no necessity," said Mrs. Grey. "Arthur, I know this gentleman.
I myself shall tell your papa that we have met him here. Good-morning,
Sir Edwin Uniacke."

She bowed with that perfect, repellant courtesy against which there is no appeal, and passed on; had she seen—she did not, for she looked straight on and saw nothing—but had she seen the look of mingled hate and love which darkened over Sir Edwin's face, it might have terrified her. But no, she was too courageous a woman to fear anything save doing wrong.

After a minute's angry beating of his boot with his stick, the young man rose and followed them down the avenue, contriving, by dint of occasional conversation with Arthur, to keep along side of them the whole way as far as the bridge which connected the college grounds with the college buildings, and which was overlooked by the whole frontage of the Lodge.

With a vague sense of relief and protection, Christian glanced to the windows of her home, and there, at the open nursery casement, she saw a group, Phillis, Oliver, Letitia, and behind Letitia another person—Miss Susan Bennett, who had come with a message from old Mrs. Ferguson, and whom, in her kindness, Mrs. Grey had sent to have a cup of tea in the nursery before returning to the village, where the girl said she was "quite comfortable." There she stood, she and Phillis, watching, as they doubtless had watched the whole interview, from the time Sir Edwin sat down, on the bench till his parting shake of the hand to Arthur, and farewell bow to herself, which bow was rather easy and familiar than distantly ceremonious.

Had he done it on purpose? Had he too seen the group at the window, and, moved by a contemptible vanity, or worse, behaved so that these others ought notice his manner to Mrs. Grey, and put upon it any construction they pleased?

Yet what possible construction could be put upon it, even by the most ill-natured and malicious witnesses? The college grounds were free to all; this meeting was evidently accidental and all that had passed thereat was a few words with the boy, which Arthur would be sure to repent at once; nor did Christian desire to prevent him.

It was a hard position. She had done no wrong—not the shadow of wrong—and yet here was she, Christian Grey, discovered meeting and walking with a man whom her husband had distinctly forbidden the house—discovered both by her servant, who, having an old servant's love of prying into family affairs, no doubt knew of this prohibition, and by Miss Bennett, to whom she herself had said that Sir Edwin was a man unfit for any respectable woman's acquaintance.

"What would they both think? And, moreover, when she heard of it—as assuredly she would—what would Miss Gascoigne think and say?"

That overpowering dread, "What will people say?" for the first time in her life began to creep over Christian's fearless heart. Such an innocent heart it was, and oh, such a contented one only half an hour ago.

"How dare he?" she said, fiercely, as she found herself alone in her own room, with but just time enough to dress and take her place as the fair, stately, high-thoughted, pure-hearted mistress of her husband's table. "How dare he?" and, standing at the glass, she looked almost with disgust into the beautiful face that burnt, hotly still only at the remembrance of the last ten minutes. "But he must see—he must surely understand how utterly I despise him. He will not presume again. Oh, if I had only told my husband! It was a terrible mistake?"

What was—her secret or her marriage? or both?

Christian did not stop to think. Whatever it was, she knew that, like most of the mistakes and miseries of this world, it was made to be remedied—made possible of remedy. At all events, the pain must be endured, fought through, struggled with, any thing but succumbed to.

In the five minutes that, after all, she found she had to wait in the drawing-room before the aunts or her husband appeared. Christian took herself seriously to task for this overwhelming, cowardly fear. What had she really to dread? What harm could he do her—the bad man of whom she had so ignorantly made a girl's ideal? The only testimony thereof was her letters, if he still had them in his possession—her poor, innocent, girlish letters—very few—just two or three. Foolish they might have been, sentimental and ridiculous, but she could not remember any thing wrong in them—any thing that a girl in her teens need blush to have written, either to friend or lover, save for the one fact that, a girl is wiser to have no friend at all among men—except her lover. And, whatever they were, most likely he had destroyed them long ago.

"No, no," she thought, "he can not do me any harm; he dare not!"

It was difficult to say what Sir Edwin Uniacke would not dare; for, going back to her room for some trifle forgotten, she discovered that he was still lounging, cigar in mouth, up and down the river-side avenue opposite, where he could plainly see and be seen from almost every window in the Lodge.

And there, hurrying to meet him, she saw Susan Bennett. But the meeting appeared not satisfactory, and after a few minutes the girl had left him and he was again seen walking up and down alone.

A vain woman might have been flattered, perhaps allured, by this persistence. In Christian it produced only repulsion, actual hatred, if so gentle a spirit could hate. An honest love from the very humblest man alive, she would have been tender over; but this, which to her, a wife, was necessarily utter insult and wickedness, awoke in her nothing but abhorrence—the same sort of righteous abhorrence that she would have felt—she knew she would—toward any woman who had tried to win her husband from herself. Win her husband? The fancy almost made her smile, and then filled her with a brimming sense of joy that he was—what he was, a man to whom the bare idea of loving any woman but his own wife was so impossible that it became actually ludicrous.

She smiled, she even laughed, with an ever-growing sense of all he was to her and she to him, when she heard him open his study-door and call "Christian."

She went quickly, to explain in a word or two, before they went down to dinner, her rencontre with Sir Edwin Uniacke. Afterward, in their long, quiet evenings, to which she so looked forward, she would tell her husband the whole story, and give herself the comfort of feeling that now at last he was fully acquainted with her whole outer life and inmost soul, as a husband ought to be.

But there stood the two aunts, one stately and grim, the other silent and tearful; and it took all Dr. Grey's winning ways to smooth matters so as to make their last meal together before the separation any thing like a peaceful one.

He seemed so anxious for this—nervously anxious—that his wife forgot every thing in helping him to put a cheerful face on every thing. And when she watched him, finding a pleasant word for every one, and patient even with Miss Gascoigne, who today seemed in her sharpest mood, gray-haired, quaint, and bookish-looking as he was, it appeared to Christian that not a young man living could bear a moment's comparison with Dr. Arnold Grey.

He tried his best, and she tried her best but it was rather a dull dinner, and she found no opportunity to say, as at last she had decided to say publicly, just as a piece of news, no more, that she had today met Sir Edwin Uniacke. And so it befell that the first who told the fact was Arthur, blurting out between his strawberries, "Oh, papa I want you to let me go to a place called Lake Hall."

"Lake Hall?"

"Yes; the owner of it invited me there; he did, indeed. He is the kindest, pleasantest gentleman I ever met. A 'Sir,' too. His name is Sir Edwin Uniacke."

"My boy, where did you meet Sir Edwin Uniacke?"

So the whole story came out. Dr. Grey listened in grave silence—even a little displeasure, or something less like displeasure than pain. At length, he said,

"I think you must have made some mistake, Arthur. Your mother could never have allowed—"

"She did not say she would allow me to go. She looked rather vexed; I don't think she liked Sir Edwin Uniacke. And if she is very much against my going—well, I won't go," said Arthur, heroically.

"You are a good boy; but I think this gentleman ought to have hesitated a little before he thus intruded himself upon my wife and my son."

"I think so, too," said Christian, the first words she had spoken.

Dr. Grey glanced at her sharply, but the most suspicious husband could have read nothing in her face beyond what she said.

"And I think," burst in Miss Gascoigne, who had listened to it all, her large eyes growing every minute larger and larger, "that it must be somehow a lady's own fault when a gentleman is intrusive, I never believed—I never could have believed—after all Dr. Grey has said about Sir Edwin, that the three figures—a lady, and gentleman, and a child, whom I saw this afternoon sitting so comfortably together on the bench—as comfortably, I vow and declare, as if they had been sitting there an hour, which perhaps they had—"

"Not more than two minutes," interrupted Christian, speaking very quietly, but conscious of a wild desire to fly at Miss Gascoigne and shake her as she stood, putting forward, in her customary way, those mangled fragments of truth which are more irritating than absolute lies. "Indeed, it was only two minutes. I did not choose, even if I had no other reason, that a man of whom Dr. Grey did not approve should hold any communication with Arthur?"

"Thank you, that was right," said Dr. Greg.

"Yet you let him walk with you—I know you did, up to the very Lodge door."

"To the bridge, Miss Gascoigne."

"Well, it's all the same. And I must confess it is most extraordinary conduct. To refuse a gentleman's visits—his open visits here—on the pretext that he is not good enough for your society, and then to meet him, sit with him, walk with him in the college grounds. What will people say."

Christian turned like a hunted creature at bay, "I do not care—not a jot, what people say."

"I thought not. People like you never do care. They fly in the face of society; they—"

"Husband!" with a sort of wild appeal, the first she had ever made for protection—for at least justice.

Dr. Grey looked up, started out of a long fit of thoughtfulness—sadness it might be, during which he had let the conversation pass him by.

"The only thing I care for is what my husband thinks. If he blames me—"

"For what, my dear?"

"Because, when I was walking in the college grounds, as any lady may walk, that man, Sir Edwin Uniacke, whose acquaintance I desire as little as you do, came up and spoke to me, or rather to Arthur. I could not help it, could I?"

"No, my child," with a slight emphasis on the words "my child," that went to Christian's heart. Yes, surely, if she had only had courage to tell him, in his large tenderness he could have understood that childish folly, the dream of a day, and the long misery it had brought her. She would tell him all the very first opportunity; however much it pained and humiliated her, she would tell her good husband all.

"And, papa, have I been naughty too?" said Arthur? "I am sure I did not see any thing so very dreadful in Sir Edwin. He came up and spoke to mother as if he knew her quite well, and then he talked ever so much to me, and said if I would visit him he would give me a boat to row, and a horse to ride. And I'm sure he seemed the very kindest, pleasantest gentleman."

"So he is; and nothing shall ever make me believe he isn't." cried Miss Gascoigne, always delighted to pull against the tide. "And I must say, Dr. Grey, the way you and your wife set up your opinion against that of really good society is perfect nonsense. For my part, when I have a house of my own once more, and can invite whomsoever I please—"

"I would nevertheless advise, so far as a brother may," interrupted Dr. Grey, very seriously, "that you do not invite Sir Edwin Uniacke. And now, aunts both," with that sun-shiny smile which could disperse almost any domestic cloud, "as this conversation is not particularly interesting to the children, suppose we end it. When do you intend to have us all to tea at Avonside?"