This speech, which began steadily enough, ended with a shaky voice and flashing eye, which, the moment it met Dr. Grey's, gravely watching her, sank immediately.
"That is," she added gently, "If my husband has no objection."
"None," he said, but drew ink and paper to him, and sat down to write a note, which he afterward handed over to Christian, then addressing his sister-in-law, "I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson to dine with us—just ourselves, as you and Maria will be out—at six o'clock to-morrow. And oh!"—with a weary look, as if he were not so insensible to this petty domestic martyrdom as people imagined—"do, Henrietta, let us have a little peace."
It was in vain. Even Dr. Grey's influence could not heal the wounded egotism of this unfortunate lady.
"Peace! Do you mean to say that it is I who make dispeace! But if you, having known what a good, obedient wife really is, can submit to such unwarrantable dictation; and if I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why don't you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to a young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely ignorant of the usages of society—is, in fact, a perfect child—"
"She is my wife!" said Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even Christian, who had been reading the note with a grateful heart for kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started.
My wife. He said only those two words, yet somehow they brought a tear in her eye. The sense of protection, so new and strange, was also pleasant. She could have fought her own battles—at least she could once—without bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that man is to woman, and every thing that woman needs, she became no longer warlike and indignant, but humble, passive, and content.
And long after Dr. Gray was gone away, with his big book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned from her and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside, the feeling of content remained.
There was a long pause, during which the two children, Letitia and Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was passing among their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual half-hour of after-breakfast play in the end window of the dining-room.
Christian also took her work, and began thinking of other things. She neither wished to fight or be fought for, particularly in such a petty domestic war. One of the many advantages among the many disadvantages of a girlhood almost entirely removed from the society of women was that it had saved her from women's smallnesses. Besides, her nature itself was large, like her person—large, and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take in those petty motives which disturb petty minds. Life to her was a grand romantic drama,—perhaps, alas! a tragedy—but it never could be made into a genteel comedy, with childish intrigues, Liliputian battles, tempests in teapots, or thunders made upon kettle-drums.