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 hitherto 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 gratitude 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 God 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 hell.