Christian, too, was surprised, and something more. She had thought her husband so exceedingly quiet that sometimes her own high spirit winced a little at his passiveness; that is, she knew it would have done had she been her own natural self, and not in the strange, dreamy, broken-down state, which seemed to take interest in nothing. Still, she felt some interest in seeing Dr. Grey appear, though but in a trivial thing, rather different from what she had at first supposed him. And when, after an interval of awful silence, during which Miss Gascoigne looked like a brooding hurricane, and Miss Grey frightened out of her life at what was next to happen, he rose and said, "Now remember, Aunt Henrietta, you or my wife are to give orders to Phillis that the children come to us at lunchtime to-day," Christian was conscious of a slight throb at heart. It was to see in her husband—the man to whom, whatever he was, she was tied and bound for life—that something without which no woman can wholly respect any man—the power of asserting and of maintaining authority; not that arbitrary, domineering rule which springs from the blind egotism of personal will, and which every other conscientious will, be it of wife, child, servant, or friend, instinctively resists, and, ought to resist, but calm, steadfast, just, righteous authority. There is an old rhyme,
"A spaniel, a woman, and a walnut-tree, the more ye thrash 'em, the better they be;"
which rhyme is not true. But there lies a foundation of truth under it, that no woman ever perfectly loves a man who is not strong enough to make her also obey.
As Dr. Grey went out of the room, and the minute following, as with an after-thought, put in his head again, saying, "Christian, I want you!" she followed him with a lighter heart than she had had for many weary days.
Chapter 4.
"The little griefs—the petty wounds—The stabs of daily care— 'Crackling of thorns beneath the pot,' As life's fire burns—now cold, now hot— How hard they are to bear!
"But on the fire burns, clear and still;
The cankering sorrow dies;
The small wounds heal; the clouds are rent,
And through this shattered mortal tent
Shine down the eternal skies."
"Dr. Grey, as to-day is your 'at home'—at least, as much of an 'at home' as is possible under the circumstances—I wished to inquire, once for all, what is to be done about the Fergusons?"
"About whom? I beg pardon. Henrietta, but what were you talking about?"
Which, as she had been talking "even on" all breakfast-time, either to or at the little circle, including Letitia and Arthur, was not an unnecessary question.