Christians Mistake | Page 4

against their
domestic bliss were that she visited a good deal, while he was deeply
absorbed in his studies. And when, after a good many childless years,
she brought him a girl and boy, he became excessively fond of his
children. Whether this implied that he had been disappointed in his
wife, nobody could tell. He certainly did not publish his woes. Men
seldom do. At the birth of a third child Mrs. Grey died, and then the
widower's grief; though unobtrusive, was sufficiently obvious to make
Avonsbridge put all unkindly curiosity aside, and conclude that the
departed lady must have been the most exemplary and well-beloved of
wives and mothers.
All this, being town's talk, Christian already knew; more she had never
inquired, not even when she was engaged to him. Nor did Dr. Grey

volunteer any information. The strongest and most soothing part of his
influence over her was his exceeding silence. He had never troubled her
with any great demonstrations, nor frightened her with questionings.
From the time of their engagement he had seemed to take every thing
for granted, and to treat her tenderly, almost reverently, without fuss or
parade, yet with the consideration due from a man to his future wife; so
much so that she had hardly missed, what, indeed, in her simplicity she
hardly expected, the attention usually paid to an affianced bride from
the relatives of her intended. Dr. Grey had only two, his own sister and
his late wife's. These ladies, Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey, had
neither called upon nor taken the least notice of Miss Oakley. But Miss
Oakley--if she thought about the matter at all-- ascribed it to a fact well
recognized in Avonsbridge, as in most University towns, that one might
as soon expect the skies to fall as for a college lady to cross, save for
purely business purposes, the threshold of a High Street tradesman. The
same cause, she concluded, made them absent from her wedding; and
when Dr. Grey had said simply, "I shall desire my sisters to send the
children," Christian had inquired no farther. Only for a second, hanging
on the brink of this first meeting with the children--her husband's
children, hers that were to be--did her heart fail her, and then she came
forward to meet the little group.
Letitia and Arthur were thin, prim-looking, rather plain children; but
Oliver was the very picture of a father's darling, a boy that any childless
man would bitterly covet, any childless woman crave and yearn for,
with a longing that women alone can understand; a child who, beautiful
as most childhood is, had a beauty you rarely see-- bright, frank, merry,
bold; half a Bacchus and half a Cupid, he was a perfect image of the
Golden Age. Though three years old, he was evidently still "the baby,"
and rode on his father's shoulder with a glorious tyranny charming to
behold.
"Who's that?" said he, pointing his fat fingers and shaking his curls that
undulated like billows of gold.
"Papa, who's that?"
Hardly could there have been put by anyone a more difficult question.

Dr. Grey did not answer, but avoided it, taking the whole three to
Christian's side, and bidding them, in a rather nervous voice, to "kiss
this lady."
But that ceremony the two elder obstinately declined.
"I am a big boy, and I don't like to be kissed," said Arthur.
"Nurse told us, since we had no mamma of our own, we were not to
kiss any body but our aunts," added Letitia.
Dr. Grey looked terribly annoyed, but Christian said calmly, "Very well,
then shake hands only. We shall be better friends by-and-by."
They suffered her to touch a little hand of each, passively rather than
unwillingly, and let it go. For a minute or so the boy and girl stood
opposite her, holding fast by one another, and staring with all their eyes;
but they said nothing more, being apparently very "good" children, that
is, children brought up under the old-fashioned rules, which are
indicated in the celebrated rhyme,
"Come when you're called, Do as you're bid: Shut the door after you,
And you'll never be chid."
Therefore, on being told to sit down, they gravely took their places on
the sofa, and continued to stare.
The father and bridegroom looked on, silent as they. What could he say
or do? It was the natural and necessary opening up of that vexed
question--second marriages, concerning which moralists,
sentimentalists, and practical people argue forever, and never come to
any conclusion. Of course not, because each separate case should
decide itself. The only universal rule or law, if there be one, is that
which applies equally to the love before marriage; that as to a complete,
mutual first love, any after love