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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. + + + + + +JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN + +by Dinah Maria Mulock (Mrs. Craik) + + + + +CHAPTER I + +"Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, ye idle, lounging, little--" + +"Vagabond," I think the woman (Sally Watkins, once my nurse), was +going to say, but she changed her mind. + +My father and I both glanced round, surprised at her unusual +reticence of epithets: but when the lad addressed turned, fixed his +eyes on each of us for a moment, and made way for us, we ceased to +wonder. Ragged, muddy, and miserable as he was, the poor boy looked +anything but a "vagabond." + +"Thee need not go into the wet, my lad. Keep close to the wall, and +there will be shelter enough both for us and thee," said my father, +as he pulled my little hand-carriage into the alley, under cover, +from the pelting rain. The lad, with a grateful look, put out a hand +likewise, and pushed me further in. A strong hand it was--roughened +and browned with labour--though he was scarcely as old as I. What +would I not have given to have been so stalwart and so tall! + +Sally called from her house-door, "Wouldn't Master Phineas come in +and sit by the fire a bit?"--But it was always a trouble to me to +move or walk; and I liked staying at the mouth of the alley, watching +the autumnal shower come sweeping down the street: besides, I wanted +to look again at the stranger-lad. + +He had scarcely stirred, but remained leaning against the wall-- +either through weariness, or in order to be out of our way. He took +little or no notice of us, but kept his eyes fixed on the pavement-- +for we actually boasted pavement in the High Street of our town of +Norton Bury--watching the eddying rain-drops, which, each as it fell, +threw up a little mist of spray. It was a serious, haggard face for +a boy of only fourteen or so. Let me call it up before me--I can, +easily, even after more than fifty years. + +Brown eyes, deep-sunken, with strongly-marked brows, a nose like most +other Saxon noses, nothing particular; lips well-shaped, lying one +upon the other, firm and close; a square, sharply outlined, resolute +chin, of that type which gives character and determination to the +whole physiognomy, and without which in the fairest features, as in +the best dispositions, one is always conscious of a certain want. + +As I have stated, in person the lad was tall and strongly-built; and +I, poor puny wretch! so reverenced physical strength. Everything in +him seemed to indicate that which I had not: his muscular limbs, his +square, broad shoulders, his healthy cheek, though it was sharp and +thin--even to his crisp curls of bright thick hair. + +Thus he stood, principal figure in a picture which is even yet as +clear to me as yesterday--the narrow, dirty alley leading out of the +High Street, yet showing a glimmer of green field at the further end; +the open house-doors on either side, through which came the drowsy +burr of many a stocking-loom, the prattle of children paddling in the +gutter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato parings. In front the +High Street, with the mayor's house opposite, porticoed and grand: +and beyond, just where the rain-clouds were breaking, rose up out of +a nest of trees, the square tower of our ancient abbey--Norton Bury's +boast and pride. On it, from a break in the clouds, came a sudden +stream of light. The stranger-lad lifted up his head to look at it. + +"The rain will be over soon," I said, but doubted if he heard me. +What could he be thinking of so intently?--a poor working lad, whom +few would have given credit for thinking at all. + +I do not suppose my father cast a second glance or thought on the +boy, whom, from a sense of common justice, he had made take shelter +beside us. In truth, worthy man, he had no lack of matter to occupy +his mind, being sole architect of a long up-hill but now thriving +trade. I saw, by the hardening of his features, and the restless way +in which he poked his stick into the little water-pools, that he was +longing to be in his tan-yard close by. + +He pulled out his great silver watch--the dread of our house, for it +was a watch which seemed to imbibe something of its master's +character; remorseless as justice or fate, it never erred a moment. + +"Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my son, how am I +to get thee safe home? unless thee wilt go with me to the tan-yard--" + +I shook my head. It was very hard for Abel Fletcher to have for his +only child such a sickly creature as I, now, at sixteen, as helpless +and useless to him as a baby. + +"Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee." For though +my father had got me a sort of carriage in which, with a little +external aid, I could propel myself, so as to be his companion +occasionally in his walks between our house, the tanyard, and the +Friends' meeting-house--still he never trusted me anywhere alone. +"Here, Sally--Sally Watkins! do any o' thy lads want to earn an +honest penny?" + +Sally was out of earshot; but I noticed that as the lad near us heard +my father's words, the colour rushed over his face, and he started +forward involuntarily. I had not before perceived how wasted and +hungry-looking he was. + +"Father!" I whispered. But here the boy had mustered up his courage +and voice. + +"Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?" + +He spoke in tolerably good English--different from our coarse, broad, +G---shire drawl; and taking off his tattered old cap, looked right up +into my father's face, The old man scanned him closely. + +"What is thy name, lad?" + +"John Halifax." + +"Where dost thee come from?" + +"Cornwall." + +"Hast thee any parents living?" + +"No." + +I wished my father would not question thus; but possibly he had his +own motives, which were rarely harsh, though his actions often +appeared so. + +"How old might thee be, John Halifax?" + +"Fourteen, sir." + +"Thee art used to work?" + +"Yes." + +"What sort of work?" + +"Anything that I can get to do." + +I listened nervously to this catechism, which went on behind my back. + +"Well," said my father, after a pause, "thee shall take my son home, +and I'll give thee a groat. Let me see; art thee a lad to be +trusted?" And holding him at arm's length, regarding him meanwhile +with eyes that were the terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel +Fletcher jingled temptingly the silver money in the pockets of his +long-flapped brown waistcoat. "I say, art thee a lad to be trusted?" + +John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He seemed to +feel that this was a critical moment, and to have gathered all his +mental forces into a serried square, to meet the attack. He met it, +and conquered in silence. + +"Lad, shall I give thee the groat now?" + +"Not till I've earned it, sir." + +So, drawing his hand back, my father slipped the money into mine, and +left us. + +I followed him with my eyes, as he went sturdily plashing down the +street; his broad, comfortable back, which owned a coat of true +Quaker cut, but spotless, warm, and fine; his ribbed hose and +leathern gaiters, and the wide-brimmed hat set over a fringe of grey +hairs, that crowned the whole with respectable dignity. He looked +precisely what he was--an honest, honourable, prosperous tradesman. +I watched him down the street--my good father, whom I respected +perhaps even more than I loved him. The Cornish lad watched him +likewise. + +It still rained slightly, so we remained under cover. John Halifax +leaned in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. Once only, +when the draught through the alley made me shiver, he pulled my cloak +round me carefully. + +"You are not very strong, I'm afraid?" + +"No." + +Then he stood idly looking up at the opposite--the mayor's--house, +with its steps and portico, and its fourteen windows, one of which +was open, and a cluster of little heads visible there. + +The mayor's children--I knew them all by sight, though nothing more; +for their father was a lawyer, and mine a tanner; they belonged to +Abbey folk and orthodoxy, I to the Society of Friends--the mayor's +rosy children seemed greatly amused by watching us shivering +shelterers from the rain. Doubtless our position made their own +appear all the pleasanter. For myself it mattered little; but for +this poor, desolate, homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in sight of +their merry nursery window, and hear the clatter of voices, and of +not unwelcome dinner-sounds--I wondered how he felt it. + +Just at this minute another head came to the window, a somewhat older +child; I had met her with the rest; she was only a visitor. She +looked at us, then disappeared. Soon after, we saw the front door +half opened, and an evident struggle taking place behind it; we even +heard loud words across the narrow street. + +"I will--I say I will." + +"You shan't, Miss Ursula." + +"But I will!" + +And there stood the little girl, with a loaf in one hand and a +carving-knife in the other. She succeeded in cutting off a large +slice, and holding it out. + +"Take it, poor boy!--you look so hungry. Do take it." But the +servant forced her in, and the door was shut upon a sharp cry. + +It made John Halifax start, and look up at the nursery window, which +was likewise closed. We heard nothing more. After a minute he +crossed the street, and picked up the slice of bread. Now in those +days bread was precious, exceedingly. The poor folk rarely got it; +they lived on rye or meal. John Halifax had probably not tasted +wheaten bread like this for months: it appeared not, he eyed it so +ravenously;--then, glancing towards the shut door, his mind seemed to +change. He was a long time before he ate a morsel; when he did so, +it was quietly and slowly; looking very thoughtful all the while. + +As soon as the rain ceased, we took our way home, down the High +Street, towards the Abbey church--he guiding my carriage along in +silence. I wished he would talk, and let me hear again his pleasant +Cornish accent. + +"How strong you are!" said I, sighing, when, with a sudden pull, he +had saved me from being overturned by a horseman riding past--young +Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, who never cared where he galloped +or whom he hurt--"So tall and so strong." + +"Am I? Well, I shall want my strength." + +"How?" + +"To earn my living." + +He drew up his broad shoulders, and planted on the pavement a firmer +foot, as if he knew he had the world before him--would meet it +single-handed, and without fear. + +"What have you worked at lately?" + +"Anything I could get, for I have never learned a trade." + +"Would you like to learn one?" + +He hesitated a minute, as if weighing his speech. "Once I thought I +should like to be what my father was." + +"What was he?" + +"A scholar and a gentleman." + +This was news, though it did not much surprise me. My father, tanner +as he was, and pertinaciously jealous of the dignity of trade, yet +held strongly the common-sense doctrine of the advantages of good +descent; at least, in degree. For since it is a law of nature, +admitting only rare exceptions, that the qualities of the ancestors +should be transmitted to the race--the fact seems patent enough, that +even allowing equal advantages, a gentleman's son has more chances of +growing up a gentleman than the son of a working man. And though he +himself, and his father before him, had both been working men, still, +I think, Abel Fletcher never forgot that we originally came of a good +stock, and that it pleased him to call me, his only son, after one of +our forefathers, not unknown--Phineas Fletcher, who wrote the "Purple +Island." + +Thus it seemed to me, and I doubted not it would to my father, much +more reasonable and natural that a boy like John Halifax--in whom +from every word he said I detected a mind and breeding above his +outward condition--should come of gentle than of boorish blood. + +"Then, perhaps," I said, resuming the conversation, "you would not +like to follow a trade?" + +"Yes, I should. What would it matter to me? My father was a +gentleman." + +"And your mother?" + +And he turned suddenly round; his cheeks hot, his lips quivering: +"She is dead. I do not like to hear strangers speak about my +mother." + +I asked his pardon. It was plain he had loved and mourned her; and +that circumstances had smothered down his quick boyish feelings into +a man's tenacity of betraying where he had loved and mourned. I, +only a few minutes after, said something about wishing we were not +"strangers." + +"Do you?" The lad's half amazed, half-grateful smile went right to +my heart. + +"Have you been up and down the country much?" + +"A great deal--these last three years; doing a hand's turn as best I +could, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, harvesting; only this summer +I had typhus fever, and could not work." + +"What did you do then?" + +"I lay in a barn till I got well--I'm quite well now; you need not be +afraid." + +"No, indeed; I had never thought of that." + +We soon became quite sociable together. He guided me carefully out +of the town into the Abbey walk, flecked with sunshine through +overhanging trees. Once he stopped to pick up for me the large brown +fan of a horse-chestnut leaf. + +"It's pretty, isn't it?--only it shows that autumn is come." + +"And how shall you live in the winter, when there is no out-of-door +work to be had?" + +"I don't know." + +The lad's countenance fell, and that hungry, weary look, which had +vanished while we talked, returned more painfully than ever. I +reproached myself for having, under the influence of his merry talk, +temporarily forgotten it. + +"Ah!" I cried eagerly, when we left the shade of the Abbey trees, and +crossed the street; "here we are, at home!" + +"Are you?" The homeless lad just glanced at it--the flight of +spotless stone-steps, guarded by ponderous railings, which led to my +father's respectable and handsome door. "Good day, then--which means +good-bye." + +I started. The word pained me. On my sad, lonely life--brief +indeed, though ill health seemed to have doubled and trebled my +sixteen years into a mournful maturity--this lad's face had come like +a flash of sunshine; a reflection of the merry boyhood, the youth and +strength that never were, never could be, mine. To let it go from me +was like going back into the dark. + +"Not good-bye just yet!" said I, trying painfully to disengage myself +from my little carriage and mount the steps. John Halifax came to my +aid. + +"Suppose you let me carry you. I could--and--and it would be great +fun, you know." + +He tried to turn it into a jest, so as not to hurt me; but the +tremble in his voice was as tender as any woman's--tenderer than any +woman's _I_ ever was used to hear. I put my arms round his neck; he +lifted me safely and carefully, and set me at my own door. Then with +another good-bye he again turned to go. + +My heart cried after him with an irrepressible cry. What I said I do +not remember, but it caused him to return. + +"Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?" + +"Don't call me 'sir'; I am only a boy like yourself. I want you; +don't go yet. Ah! here comes my father!" + +John Halifax stood aside, and touched his cap with a respectful +deference, as the old man passed. + +"So here thee be--hast thou taken care of my son? Did he give thee +thy groat, my lad?" + +We had neither of us once thought of the money. + +When I acknowledged this my father laughed, called John an honest +lad, and began searching in his pocket for some larger coin. I +ventured to draw his ear down and whispered something--but I got no +answer; meanwhile, John Halifax for the third time was going away. + +"Stop, lad--I forget thy name--here is thy groat, and a shilling +added, for being kind to my son." + +"Thank you, but I don't want payment for kindness." + +He kept the groat, and put back the shilling into my father's hand. + +"Eh!" said the old man, much astonished, "thee'rt an odd lad; but I +can't stay talking with thee. Come in to dinner, Phineas. I say," +turning back to John Halifax with a sudden thought, "art thee +hungry?" + +"Very hungry." Nature gave way at last, and great tears came into +the poor lad's eyes. "Nearly starving." + +"Bless me! then get in, and have thy dinner. But first--" and my +inexorable father held him by the shoulder; "thee art a decent lad, +come of decent parents?" + +"Yes," almost indignantly. + +"Thee works for thy living?" + +"I do, whenever I can get it." + +"Thee hast never been in gaol?" + +"No!" thundered out the lad, with a furious look. "I don't want your +dinner, sir; I would have stayed, because your son asked me, and he +was civil to me, and I liked him. Now I think I had better go. Good +day, sir." + +There is a verse in a very old Book--even in its human histories the +most pathetic of all books--which runs thus: + +"And it came to pass when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, +that the soul of Jonathan was knit unto the soul of David; and +Jonathan loved him as his own soul." + +And this day, I, a poorer and more helpless Jonathan, had found my +David. + +I caught him by the hand, and would not let him go. + +"There, get in, lads--make no more ado," said Abel Fletcher, sharply, +as he disappeared. + +So, still holding my David fast, I brought him into my father's +house. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Dinner was over; my father and I took ours in the large parlour, +where the stiff, high-backed chairs eyed one another in opposite rows +across the wide oaken floor, shiny and hard as marble, and slippery +as glass. Except the table, the sideboard and the cuckoo clock, +there was no other furniture. + +I dared not bring the poor wandering lad into this, my father's +especial domain; but as soon as he was away in the tan-yard I sent +for John. + +Jael brought him in; Jael, the only womankind we ever had about us, +and who, save to me when I happened to be very ill, certainly gave no +indication of her sex in its softness and tenderness. There had +evidently been wrath in the kitchen. + +"Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you mustn't keep 'un long. +I bean't going to let you knock yourself up with looking after a +beggar-boy." + +A beggar-boy! The idea seemed so ludicrous, that I could not help +smiling at it as I regarded him. He had washed his face and combed +out his fair curls; though his clothes were threadbare, all but +ragged, they were not unclean; and there was a rosy, healthy +freshness in his tanned skin, which showed he loved and delighted in +what poor folk generally abominate--water. And now the sickness of +hunger had gone from his face, the lad, if not actually what our +scriptural Saxon terms "well-favoured," was certainly "well-liking." +A beggar-boy, indeed! I hoped he had not heard Jael's remark. But +he had. + +"Madam," said he, with a bow of perfect good-humour, and even some +sly drollery, "you mistake: I never begged in my life: I'm a person +of independent property, which consists of my head and my two hands, +out of which I hope to realise a large capital some day." + +I laughed. Jael retired, abundantly mystified, and rather cross. +John Halifax came to my easy chair, and in an altered tone asked me +how I felt, and if he could do anything for me before he went away. + +"You'll not go away; not till my father comes home, at least?" For I +had been revolving many plans, which had one sole aim and object, to +keep near me this lad, whose companionship and help seemed to me, +brotherless, sisterless, and friendless as I was, the very thing that +would give me an interest in life, or, at least, make it drag on less +wearily. To say that what I projected was done out of charity or +pity would not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be +selfishness which makes one leap towards, and cling to, a possible +strength and good, which I conclude to be the secret of all those +sudden likings that spring more from instinct than reason. I do not +attempt to account for mine: I know not why "the soul of Jonathan +clave to the soul of David." I only know that it was so, and that +the first day I beheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, +"loved him as my own soul." + +Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that it +apparently touched the friendless boy to the core. + +"Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against the +fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his face: +"you are very kind; I'll stay an hour or so, if you wish it." + +"Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk." + +What this talk was, I cannot now recall, save that it ranged over +many and wide themes, such as boys delight in--chiefly of life and +adventure. He knew nothing of my only world--books. + +"Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly. + +"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being +somewhat proud of my erudition. + +"And write?" + +"Oh, yes; certainly." + +He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, +and I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put +down something in a book for me." + +"That I will." + +He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under one +of black silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it +go out of his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves. It +was a Greek Testament. + +"Look here." + +He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read: + +"Guy Halifax, his Book. + +"Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in +the year of our Lord 1779. + +"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780." + +There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "Guy +Halifax, died Jannary 4, 1781." + +"What shall I write, John?" said I, after a minute or so of silence. + +"I'll tell you presently. Can I get you a pen?" + +He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his right never once +let go of the precious book. + +"Write--'Muriel Halifax, died January 1, 1791.'" + +"Nothing more?" + +"Nothing more." + +He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it carefully by +the fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it into his +pocket. He said no other word but "Thank you," and I asked him no +questions. + +This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage: nor do I believe +he knew more himself. He was indebted to no forefathers for a family +history: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether +his own making. No romantic antecedents ever turned up: his lineage +remained uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his +own honest name--John Halifax. + +Jael kept coming in and out of the parlour on divers excuses, eyeing +very suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when she heard me +laughing--a rare and notable fact--for mirth was not the fashion in +our house, nor the tendency of my own nature. Now this young lad, +hardly as the world had knocked him about even already, had an +overflowing spirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to +me an inexpressible relief. It gave me something I did not possess-- +something entirely new. I could not look at the dancing brown eyes, +at the quaint dimples of lurking fun that played hide-and-seek under +the firm-set mouth, without feeling my heart cheered and delighted, +like one brought out of a murky chamber into the open day. + +But all this was highly objectionable to Jael. + +"Phineas!"--and she planted herself before me at the end of the +table--"it's a fine, sunshiny day: thee ought to be out." + +"I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I went on talking. + +"Phineas!"--a second and more determined attack--"too much laughing +bean't good for thee; and it's time this lad were going about his own +business." + +"Hush!--nonsense, Jael." + +"No--she's right," said John Halifax, rising, while that look of +premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased +all the boyish fun from his face. "I've had a merry day--thank you +kindly for it! and now I'll be gone." + +Gone! It was not to be thought of--at least, not till my father came +home. For now, more determinedly than ever, the plan which I had +just ventured to hint at to my father fixed itself on my mind. +Surely he would not refuse me--me, his sickly boy, whose life had in +it so little pleasure. + +"Why do you want to go? You have no work?" + +"No; I wish I had. But I'll get some." + +"How?" + +"Just by trying everything that comes to hand. That's the only way. +I never wanted bread, nor begged it, yet--though I've often been +rather hungry. And as for clothes"--he looked down on his own, light +and threadbare, here and there almost burst into holes by the stout +muscles of the big growing boy--looked rather disconsolately. "I'm +afraid SHE would be sorry--that's all! She always kept me so tidy." + +By the way he spoke, "SHE" must have meant his mother. There the +orphan lad had an advantage over me; alas! I did not remember mine. + +"Come," I said, for now I had quite made up my mind to take no +denial, and fear no rebuff from my father; "cheer up. Who knows what +may turn up?" + +"Oh yes, something always does; I'm not afraid!" He tossed back his +curls, and looked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; +that steady, brave, honest smile, which will meet Fate in every turn, +and fairly coax the jade into good humour. + +"John, do you know you're uncommonly like a childish hero of mine-- +Dick Whittington? Did you ever hear of him?" + +"No." + +"Come into the garden then"--for I caught another ominous vision of +Jael in the doorway, and I did not want to vex my good old nurse; +besides, unlike John, I was anything but brave. "You'll hear the +Abbey bells chime presently--not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy +sometimes; and we'll lie on the grass, and I'll tell you the whole +true and particular story of Sir Richard Whittington." + +I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John found and +put them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look. + +"You don't need those sort of things," I said, making pretence to +laugh, for I had not grown used to them, and felt often ashamed. + +"I hope you will not need them always." + +"Perhaps not--Dr. Jessop isn't sure. But it doesn't matter much; +most likely I shan't live long." For this was, God forgive me, +always the last and greatest comfort I had. + +John looked at me--surprised, troubled, compassionate--but he did not +say a word. I hobbled past him; he following through the long +passage to the garden door. There I paused--tired out. John Halifax +took gentle hold of my shoulder. + +"I think, if you did not mind, I'm sure I could carry you. I carried +a meal-sack once, weighing eight stone." + +I burst out laughing, which maybe was what he wanted, and forthwith +consented to assume the place of the meal-sack. He took me on his +back---what a strong fellow he was!--and fairly trotted with me down +the garden walk. We were both very merry; and though I was his +senior I seemed with him, out of my great weakness and infirmity, to +feel almost like a child. + +"Please to take me to that clematis arbour; it looks over the Avon. +Now, how do you like our garden?" + +"It's a nice place." + +He did not go into ecstasies, as I had half expected; but gazed about +him observantly, while a quiet, intense satisfaction grew and +diffused itself over his whole countenance. + +"It's a VERY nice place." + +Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as a +bowling-green, with borders round. Beyond, divided by a low hedge, +was the kitchen and fruit garden--my father's pride, as this +old-fashioned pleasaunce was mine. When, years ago, I was too weak +to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, +daisy-patterned carpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk; and above +that, apparently shut in as with an impassable barrier from the outer +world, by a three-sided fence, the high wall, the yew-hedge, and the +river. + +John Halifax's comprehensive gaze seemed to take in all. + +"Have you lived here long?" he asked me. + +"Ever since I was born." + +"Ah!--well, it's a nice place," he repeated, somewhat sadly. "This +grass plot is very even--thirty yards square, I should guess. I'd +get up and pace it; only I'm rather tired." + +"Are you? Yet you would carry--" + +"Oh--that's nothing. I've often walked farther than to-day. But +still it's a good step across the country since morning." + +"How far have you come?" + +"From the foot of those hills--I forget what they call them--over +there. I have seen bigger ones--but they're steep enough--bleak and +cold, too, especially when one is lying out among the sheep. At a +distance they look pleasant. This is a very pretty view." + +Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever now, when I had +some one to say to how "very pretty" it was. Let me describe it-- +this first landscape, the sole picture of my boyish days, and vivid +as all such pictures are. + +At the end of the arbour the wall which enclosed us on the riverward +side was cut down--my father had done it at my asking--so as to make +a seat, something after the fashion of Queen Mary's seat at Stirling, +of which I had read. Thence, one could see a goodly sweep of +country. First, close below, flowed the Avon--Shakspeare's Avon-- +here a narrow, sluggish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury +sometimes knew to our cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. +Now it slipped on quietly enough, contenting itself with turning a +flour-mill hard by, the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant +monotone which I was fond of hearing. + +From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called the Ham-- +dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it was a second +river, forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But the +stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you +could only trace the line of its course by the small white sails that +glided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, and +across meadow lands. + +They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, surely. Is +there water there?" + +"To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn; +though at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough +too, as you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly +believe so, to look at it here--but I believe it gets broader and +broader, and turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the +King's Roads, and forms the Bristol Channel." + +"I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I like the +Severn." + +He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his +eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought +grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely +divine. + +All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start. + +"What's that?" + +"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang to the bells; +and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low +degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten +to tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our garden +wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the +grim old Abbey tower. + +"Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time--our +orchard is so fine. The monks may have planted it; they liked fruit, +those old fellows." + +"Oh! did they!" He evidently did not quite comprehend, but was +trying, without asking, to find out what I referred to. I was almost +ashamed, lest he might think I wanted to show off my superior +knowledge. + +"The monks were parsons, John, you know. Very good men, I dare say, +but rather idle." + +"Oh, indeed. Do you think they planted that yew hedge?" And he went +to examine it. + +Now, far and near, our yew-hedge was noted. There was not its like +in the whole country. It was about fifteen feet high, and as many +thick. Century after century of growth, with careful clipping and +training, had compacted it into a massive green barrier, as close and +impervious as a wall. + +John poked in and about it--peering through every interstice--leaning +his breast against the solid depth of branches; but their close +shield resisted all his strength. + +At last he came back to me, his face glowing with the vain efforts he +had made. + +"What were you about? Did you want to get through?" + +"I wanted just to see if it were possible." + +I shook my head. "What would you do, John, if you were shut up here, +and had to get over the yew-hedge? You could not climb it?" + +"I know that, and, therefore, should not waste time in trying." + +"Would you give up, then?" + +He smiled--there was no "giving up" in that smile of his. "I'll tell +you what I'd do--I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced +my way through, and got out safe at the other side." + +"Well done, lad!--but if it's all the same to thee, I would rather +thee did not try that experiment upon MY hedge at present." + +My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. We were +both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of aspect showed +that he was not displeased--nay, even amused. + +"Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend-- +what's thy name?" + +I supplied the answer. The minute Abel Fletcher appeared, John +seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go back to that premature +gravity and hardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh +experience of the world and of men had necessarily taught him; but +which was very sad to see in a lad so young. + +My father sat down beside me on the bench--pushed aside an intrusive +branch of clematis--finally, because it would come back and tickle +his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river: then, +leaning on his stick with both hands, eyed John Halifax sharply, all +over, from top to toe. + +"Didn't thee say thee wanted work? It looks rather like it." + +His glance upon the shabby clothes made the boy colour violently. + +"Oh, thee need'st not be ashamed; better men than thee have been in +rags. Hast thee any money?" + +"The groat you gave, that is, paid me; I never take what I don't +earn," said the lad, sticking a hand in either poor empty pocket. + +"Don't be afraid--I was not going to give thee anything--except, +maybe--Would thee like some work?" + +"O sir!" + +"O father!" + +I hardly know which was the most grateful cry. + +Abel Fletcher looked surprised, but on the whole not ill-pleased. +Putting on and pulling down his broad-brimmed hat, he sat +meditatively for a minute or so; making circles in the gravel walk +with the end of his stick. People said--nay, Jael herself, once, in +a passion, had thrown the fact at me--that the wealthy Friend himself +had come to Norton Bury without a shilling in his pocket. + +"Well, what work canst thee do, lad?" + +"Anything," was the eager answer. + +"Anything generally means nothing," sharply said my father; "what +hast thee been at all this year?--The truth, mind!" + +John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him right +again. He said quietly and respectfully, "Let me think a minute, and +I'll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer's, riding the +plough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with some +sheep: in June I tried hay-making, and caught a fever--you needn't +start, sir, I've been well these six weeks, or I wouldn't have come +near your son--then--" + +"That will do, lad--I'm satisfied." + +"Thank you, sir." + +"Thee need not say 'sir'--it is folly. I am Abel Fletcher." For my +father retained scrupulously the Friend's mode of speech, though he +was practically but a lax member of the Society, and had married out +of its pale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, I +fancy, more pride than humility. + +"Very well, I will remember," answered the boy fearlessly, though +with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. "And now, +Abel Fletcher, I shall be willing and thankful for any work you can +give me." + +"We'll see about it." + + +I looked gratefully and hopefully at my father--but his next words +rather modified my pleasure. + +"Phineas, one of my men at the tan-yard has gone and 'listed this +day--left an honest livelihood to be a paid cut-throat. Now, if I +could get a lad--one too young to be caught hold of at every +pot-house by that man of blood, the recruiting sergeant--Dost thee +think this lad is fit to take the place?" + +"Whose place, father?" + +"Bill Watkins'." + +I was dumb-foundered! I had occasionally seen the said Bill Watkins, +whose business it was to collect the skins which my father had bought +from the farmers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to +me of Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae of +defunct animals, while in front the said Bill sat enthroned, +dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, with his pipe in his mouth. The idea +of John Halifax in such a position was not agreeable. + +"But, father--" + +He read deprecation in my looks--alas! he knew too well how I +disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. "Thee'rt a fool, and +the lad's another. He may go about his business for me." + +"But, father, isn't there anything else?" + +"I have nothing else, or if I had I wouldn't give it. He that will +not work neither shall he eat." + +"I will work," said John, sturdily--he had listened, scarcely +comprehending, to my father and me. "I don't care what it is, if +only it's honest work." + +Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me--but that I +little minded--and addressed himself solely to John Halifax. + +"Canst thee drive?" + +"That I can!" and his eyes brightened with boyish delight. + +"Tut! it's only a cart--the cart with the skins. Dost thee know +anything of tanning?" + +"No, but I can learn." + +"Hey, not so fast! still, better be fast than slow. In the meantime, +thee can drive the cart." + +"Thank you, sir--Abel Fletcher, I mean--I'll do it well. That is, as +well as I can." + +"And mind! no stopping on the road. No drinking, to find the king's +cursed shilling at the bottom of the glass, like poor Bill, for thy +mother to come crying and pestering. Thee hasn't got one, eh? So +much the better, all women are born fools, especially mothers." + +"Sir!" The lad's face was all crimson and quivering; his voice +choked; it was with difficulty he smothered down a burst of tears. +Perhaps this self-control was more moving than if he had wept--at +least, it answered better with my father. + +After a few minutes more, during which his stick had made a little +grave in the middle of the walk, and buried something there--I think +something besides the pebble--Abel Fletcher said, not unkindly: + +"Well, I'll take thee; though it isn't often I take a lad without a +character of some sort--I suppose thee hast none." + +"None," was the answer, while the straightforward, steady gaze which +accompanied it unconsciously contradicted the statement; his own +honest face was the lad's best witness--at all events I thought so. + +"'Tis done then," said my father, concluding the business more +quickly than I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even +such a seemingly trifling matter. I say SEEMINGLY. How blindly we +talk when we talk of "trifles." + +Carelessly rising, he, from some kindly impulse, or else to mark the +closing of the bargain, shook the boy's hand, and left in it a +shilling. + +"What is this for?" + +"To show I have hired thee as my servant." + +"Servant!" John repeated hastily, and rather proudly. "Oh yes, I +understand--well, I will try and serve you well." + +My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. He was +too busy calculating how many more of those said shillings would be a +fair equivalent for such labour as a lad, ever so much the junior of +Bill Watkins, could supply. After some cogitation he hit upon the +right sum. I forget how much--be sure it was not over much; for +money was scarce enough in this war-time; and besides, there was a +belief afloat, so widely that it tainted even my worthy father, that +plenty was not good for the working-classes; they required to be kept +low. + +Having settled the question of wages, which John Halifax did not +debate at all, my father left us, but turned back when half-way +across the green-turfed square. + +"Thee said thee had no money; there's a week in advance, my son being +witness I pay it thee; and I can pay thee a shilling less every +Saturday till we get straight." + +"Very well, sir; good afternoon, and thank you." + +John took off his cap as he spoke--Abel Fletcher, involuntarily +almost, touched his hat in return of the salutation. Then he walked +away, and we had the garden all to ourselves--we, Jonathan and his +new-found David. + +I did not "fall upon his neck," like the princely Hebrew, to whom I +have likened myself, but whom, alas! I resembled in nothing save my +loving. But I grasped his hand, for the first time, and looking up +at him, as he stood thoughtfully by me, whispered, "that I was very +glad." + +"Thank you--so am I," said he, in a low tone. Then all his old +manner returned; he threw his battered cap high up in the air, and +shouted out, "Hurrah!"--a thorough boy. + +And I, in my poor, quavering voice, shouted too. + + + +CHAPTER III + +When I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I had the very +useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish habit of keeping a +diary. To me, at least, it has been less foolish and harmful than to +most; and out of it, together with much drawn out of the stores of a +memory, made preternaturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, +colourless itself, had nothing to do but to reflect and retain clear +images of the lives around it--out of these two sources I have +compiled the present history. + +Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur. These I shall not try +to fill up, but merely resume the thread of narration as recollection +serves. + +Thus, after this first day, many days came and went before I again +saw John Halifax--almost before I again thought of him. For it was +one of my seasons of excessive pain; when I found it difficult to +think of anything beyond those four grey-painted walls; where +morning, noon, and night slipped wearily away, marked by no changes, +save from daylight to candle-light, from candle-light to dawn. + +Afterwards, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by occasional +memories of something pleasant that had crossed my dreary life; +visions of a brave, bright young face, ready alike to battle with and +enjoy the world. I could hear the voice that, speaking to me, was +always tender with pity--yet not pity enough to wound: I could see +the peculiar smile just creeping round his grave mouth--that +irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thorough +heart-cheerfulness, which ripens all the fruits of a noble nature, +and without which the very noblest has about it something +unwholesome, blank, and cold. + +I wondered if John had ever asked for me. At length I put the +question. + +Jael "thought he had--but wasn't sure. Didn't bother her head about +such folk." + +"If he asked again, might he come up-stairs?" + +"No." + +I was too weak to combat, and Jael was too strong an adversary; so I +lay for days and days in my sick room, often thinking, but never +speaking, about the lad. Never once asking for him to come to me; +not though it would have been life to me to see his merry face--I +longed after him so. + +At last I broke the bonds of sickness--which Jael always riveted as +long and as tightly as she could--and plunged into the outer world +again. + +It was one market-day--Jael being absent--that I came down-stairs. A +soft, bright, autumn morning, mild as spring, coaxing a wandering +robin to come and sing to me, loud as a quire of birds, out of the +thinned trees of the Abbey yard. I opened the window to hear him, +though all the while in mortal fear of Jael. I listened, but caught +no tone of her sharp voice, which usually came painfully from the +back regions of the house; it would ill have harmonised with the +sweet autumn day and the robin's song. I sat, idly thinking so, and +wondering whether it were a necessary and universal fact that human +beings, unlike the year, should become harsh and unlovely as they +grow old. + +My robin had done singing, and I amused myself with watching a spot +of scarlet winding down the rural road, our house being on the verge +where Norton Bury melted into "the country." It turned out to be the +cloak of a well-to-do young farmer's wife riding to market in her +cart beside her jolly-looking spouse. Very spruce and self-satisfied +she appeared, and the market-people turned to stare after her, for +her costume was a novelty then. Doubtless, many thought as I did, +how much prettier was scarlet than duffle grey. + +Behind the farmer's cart came another, which at first I scarcely +noticed, being engrossed by the ruddy face under the red cloak. The +farmer himself nodded good-humouredly, but Mrs. Scarlet-cloak turned +up her nose. "Oh, pride, pride!" I thought, amused, and watched the +two carts, the second of which was with difficulty passing the +farmer's, on the opposite side of the narrow road. At last it +succeeded in getting in advance, to the young woman's evident +annoyance, until the driver, turning, lifted his hat to her with such +a merry, frank, pleasant smile. + +Surely, I knew that smile, and the well-set head with its light curly +hair. Also, alas! I knew the cart with relics of departed sheep +dangling out behind. It was our cart of skins, and John Halifax was +driving it. + +"John! John!" I called out, but he did not hear, for his horse had +taken fright at the red cloak, and required a steady hand. Very +steady the boy's hand was, so that the farmer clapped his two great +fists, and shouted "Bray-vo!" + +But John--my John Halifax--he sat in his cart, and drove. His +appearance was much as when I first saw him--shabbier, perhaps, as if +through repeated drenchings; this had been a wet autumn, Jael had +told me. Poor John!--well might he look gratefully up at the clear +blue sky to-day; ay, and the sky never looked down on a brighter, +cheerier face, the same face which, whatever rags it surmounted, +would, I believe, have ennobled them all. + +I leaned out, watching him approach our house; watching him with so +great pleasure that I forgot to wonder whether or no he would notice +me. He did not at first, being busy over his horse; until, just as +the notion flashed across my mind that he was passing by our house-- +also, how keenly his doing so would pain me--the lad looked up. + +A beaming smile of surprise and pleasure, a friendly nod, then all at +once his manner changed; he took off his cap, and bowed ceremoniously +to his master's son. + +For the moment I was hurt; then I could not but respect the honest +pride which thus intimated that he knew his own position, and wished +neither to ignore nor to alter it; all advances between us must +evidently come from my side. So, having made his salutation, he was +driving on, when I called after him, + +"John! John!" + +"Yes, sir. I am so glad you're better again." + +"Stop one minute till I come out to you." And I crawled on my +crutches to the front door, forgetting everything but the pleasure of +meeting him--forgetting even my terror of Jael. What could she say? +even though she held nominally the Friends' doctrine--obeyed in the +letter at least, 'Call no man your master'--what would Jael say if +she found me, Phineas Fletcher, talking in front of my father's +respectable mansion with the vagabond lad who drove my father's cart +of skins? + +But I braved her, and opened the door. "John, where are you?" + +"Here" (he stood at the foot of the steps, with the reins on his +arm); "did you want me?" + +"Yes. Come up here; never mind the cart." + +But that was not John's way. He led the refractory horse, settled +him comfortably under a tree, and gave him in charge to a small boy. +Then he bounded back across the road, and was up the steps to my side +in a single leap. + +"I had no notion of seeing you. They said you were in bed +yesterday." (Then he HAD been inquiring for me!) "Ought you to be +standing at the door this cold day?" + +"It's quite warm," I said, looking up at the sunshine, and shivering. + +"Please go in." + +"If you'll come too." + +He nodded, then put his arm round mine, and helped me in, as if he +had been a big elder brother, and I a little ailing child. Well +nursed and carefully guarded as I had always been, it was the first +time in my life I ever knew the meaning of that rare thing, +tenderness. A quality different from kindliness, affectionateness, +or benevolence; a quality which can exist only in strong, deep, and +undemonstrative natures, and therefore in its perfection is oftenest +found in men. John Halifax had it more than any one, woman or man, +that I ever knew. + +"I'm glad you're better," he said, and said no more. But one look of +his expressed as much as half-a-dozen sympathetic sentences of other +people. + +"And how have you been, John? How do you like the tan-yard? Tell me +frankly." + +He pulled a wry face, though comical withal, and said, cheerily, +"Everybody must like what brings them their daily bread. It's a +grand thing for me not to have been hungry for nearly thirty days." + +"Poor John!" I put my hand on his wrist--his strong, brawny wrist. +Perhaps the contrast involuntarily struck us both with the truth-- +good for both to learn--that Heaven's ways are not so unequal as we +sometimes fancy they seem. + +"I have so often wanted to see you, John. Couldn't you come in now?" + +He shook his head, and pointed to the cart. That minute, through the +open hall-door, I perceived Jael sauntering leisurely home from +market. + +Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. The +avalanche of ill-words I knew must fall--but it should not fall on +him, if I could help it. + +"Jump up on your cart, John. Let me see how well you can drive. +There--good-bye, for the present. Are you going to the tan-yard?" + +"Yes--for the rest of the day." And he made a face as if he did not +quite revel in that delightful prospect. No wonder! + +"I'll come and see you there this afternoon." + +"No?"--with a look of delighted surprise. "But you must not--you +ought not." + +"But I WILL!" And I laughed to hear myself actually using that +phrase. What would Jael have said? + +What--as she arrived just in time to receive a half-malicious, +half-ceremonious bow from John, as he drove off--what that excellent +woman did say I have not the slightest recollection. I only remember +that it did not frighten and grieve me as such attacks used to do; +that, in her own vernacular, it all "went in at one ear, and out at +t'other;" that I persisted in looking out until the last glimmer of +the bright curls had disappeared down the sunshiny road--then shut +the front door, and crept in, content. + +Between that time and dinner I sat quiet enough even to please Jael. +I was thinking over the beautiful old Bible story, which latterly had +so vividly impressed itself on my mind; thinking of Jonathan, as he +walked "by the stone Ezel," with the shepherd-lad, who was to be king +of Israel. I wondered whether he would have loved him, and seen the +same future perfection in him, had Jonathan, the king's son, met the +poor David keeping his sheep among the folds of Bethlehem. + +When my father came home he found me waiting in my place at table. +He only said, "Thee art better then, my son?" But I knew how glad he +was to see me. He gave token of this by being remarkably conversible +over our meal--though, as usual, his conversation had a sternly moral +tone, adapted to the improvement of what he persisted in considering +my "infant" mind. It had reference to an anecdote Dr. Jessop had +just been telling him--about a little girl, one of our doctor's +patients, who in some passionate struggle had hurt herself very much +with a knife. + +"Let this be a warning to thee, my son, not to give way to violent +passions." (My good father, thought I, there is little fear.) "For, +this child--I remember her father well, for he lived at Kingswell +here; he was violent too, and much given to evil ways before he went +abroad--Phineas, this child, this miserable child, will bear the mark +of the wound all her life." + +"Poor thing!" said I, absently. + +"No need to pity her; her spirit is not half broken yet. Thomas +Jessop said to me, 'That little Ursula--'" + +"Is her name Ursula?" And I called to mind the little girl who had +tried to give some bread to the hungry John Halifax, and whose cry of +pain we heard as the door shut upon her. Poor little lady! how sorry +I was. I knew John would be so infinitely sorry too--and all to no +purpose--that I determined not to tell him anything about it. The +next time I saw Dr. Jessop I asked him after the child, and learned +she had been taken away somewhere, I forgot where; and then the whole +affair slipped from my memory. + +"Father," said I, when he ceased talking--and Jael, who always ate +her dinner at the same time and table as ourselves, but "below the +salt," had ceased nodding a respectful running comment on all he +said--"Father?" + +"Well, my son." + +"I should like to go with thee to the tan-yard this afternoon." + +Here Jael, who had been busy pulling back the table, replacing the +long row of chairs, and re-sanding the broad centre Sahara of the +room to its dreary, pristine aridness, stopped, fairly aghast with +amazement. + +"Abel--Abel Fletcher! the lad's just out of his bed; he is no more +fit to--" + +"Pshaw, woman!" was the sharp answer. "So, Phineas, thee art really +strong enough to go out?" + +"If thou wilt take me, father." + +He looked pleased, as he always did when I used the Friends' mode of +phraseology--for I had not been brought up in the Society; this +having been the last request of my mother, rigidly observed by her +husband. The more so, people said, as while she lived they had not +been quite happy together. But whatever he was to her, in their +brief union, he was a good father to me, and for his sake I have +always loved and honoured the Society of Friends. + +"Phineas," said he (after having stopped a volley of poor Jael's +indignations, beseechings, threats, and prognostications, by a +resolute "Get the lad ready to go")--"Phineas, my son, I rejoice to +see thy mind turning towards business. I trust, should better health +be vouchsafed thee, that some day soon--" + +"Not just yet, father," said I, sadly--for I knew what he referred +to, and that it would never be. Mentally and physically I alike +revolted from my father's trade. I held the tan-yard in abhorrence-- +to enter it made me ill for days; sometimes for months and months I +never went near it. That I should ever be what was my poor father's +one desire, his assistant and successor in his business, was, I knew, +a thing totally impossible. + +It hurt me a little that my project of going with him to-day should +in any way have deceived him; and rather silently and drearily we set +out together; progressing through Norton Bury streets in our old way, +my father marching along in his grave fashion, I steering my little +carriage, and keeping as close as I could beside him. Many a person +looked at us as we passed; almost everybody knew us, but few, even of +our own neighbours, saluted us; we were Nonconformists and Quakers. + +I had never been in the town since the day I came through it with +John Halifax. The season was much later now, but it was quite warm +still in the sunshine, and very pleasant looked the streets, even the +close, narrow streets of Norton Bury. I beg its pardon; antiquaries +hold it a most "interesting and remarkable" place: and I myself have +sometimes admired its quaint, overhanging, ornamented house-fronts-- +blackened, and wonderfully old. But one rarely notices what has been +familiar throughout life; and now I was less struck by the beauty of +the picturesque old town than by the muddiness of its pathways, and +the mingled noises of murmuring looms, scolding women, and squabbling +children, that came up from the alleys which lay between the High +Street and the Avon. In those alleys were hundreds of our poor folk +living, huddled together in misery, rags, and dirt. Was John Halifax +living there too? + +My father's tan-yard was in an alley a little further on. Already I +perceived the familiar odour; sometimes a not unpleasant barky smell; +at other times borne in horrible wafts, as if from a lately forsaken +battle-field. I wondered how anybody could endure it--yet some did; +and among the workmen, as we entered, I looked round for the lad I +knew. + +He was sitting in a corner in one of the sheds, helping two or three +women to split bark, very busy at work; yet he found time to stop now +and then, and administered a wisp of sweet hay to the old blind mare, +as she went slowly round and round, turning the bark mill. Nobody +seemed to notice him, and he did not speak to anybody. + +As we passed John did not even see us. I asked my father, in a +whisper, how he liked the boy. + +"What boy?--eh, him?--Oh, well enough--there's no harm in him that I +know of. Dost thee want him to wheel thee about the yard? Here, I +say, lad--bless me! I've forgot thy name." + +John Halifax started up at the sharp tone of command; but when he saw +me he smiled. My father walked on to some pits where he told me he +was trying an important experiment, how a hide might be tanned +completely in five months instead of eight. I stayed behind. + +"John, I want you." + +John shook himself free of the bark-heap, and came rather +hesitatingly at first. + +"Anything I can do for you, sir?" + +"Don't call me 'sir'; if I say 'John,' why don't you say 'Phineas'?" + +And I held out my hand--his was all grimed with bark-dust. + +"Are you not ashamed to shake hands with me?" + +"Nonsense, John." + +So we settled that point entirely. And though he never failed to +maintain externally a certain gentle respectfulness of demeanour +towards me, yet it was more the natural deference of the younger to +the elder, of the strong to the weak, than the duty paid by a +serving-lad to his master's son. And this was how I best liked it to +be. + +He guided me carefully among the tan-pits--those deep fosses of +abomination, with a slender network of pathways thrown between--until +we reached the lower end of the yard. It was bounded by the Avon +only, and by a great heap of refuse bark. + +"This is not a bad place to rest in; if you liked to get out of the +carriage I'd make you comfortable here in no time." + +I was quite willing; so he ran off and fetched an old horserug, which +he laid upon the soft, dry mass. Then he helped me thither, and +covered me with my cloak. Lying thus, with my hat over my eyes, just +distinguishing the shiny glimmer of the Avon running below, and +beyond that the green, level Ham, dotted with cows, my position was +anything but unpleasant. In fact, positively agreeable--ay, even +though the tan-yard was close behind; but here it would offend none +of my senses. + +"Are you comfortable, Phineas?" + +"Very, if you would come and sit down too." + +"That I will." + +And we then began to talk. I asked him if he often patronised the +bark-heap, he seemed so very much at home there. + +"So I am," he answered, smiling; "it is my castle--my house." + +"And not unpleasant to live at, either." + +"Except when it rains. Does it always rain at Norton Bury?" + +"For shame, John!" and I pointed to the bluest of autumn skies, +though in the distance an afternoon mist was slowly creeping on. + +"All very fine now, but there's a fog coming over Severn; and it is +sure to rain at nightfall. I shall not get my nice little bit of +October evening." + +"You must spend it within doors then." John shook his head. "You +ought; it must be dreadfully cold on this bark-heap after sunset." + +"Rather, sometimes. Are you cold now? Shall I fetch--but I haven't +anything fit to wrap you in, except this rug." + +He muffled it closer round me; infinitely light and tender was his +rough-looking boy's hand. + +"I never saw anybody so thin as you; thinner much since I saw you. +Have you been very, very ill, Phineas? What ailed you?" + +His anxiety was so earnest, that I explained to him what I may as +well explain here, and dismiss, once for all; the useless topic, that +from my birth I had been puny and diseased; that my life had been a +succession of sicknesses, and that I could hope for little else until +the end. + +"But don't think I mind it; John;" for I was grieved to see his +shocked and troubled look. "I am very content; I have a quiet home, +a good father, and now I think and believe I have found the one thing +I wanted--a good friend." + +He smiled, but only because I did. I saw he did not understand me. +In him, as in most strong and self-contained temperaments, was a +certain slowness to receive impressions, which, however, being once +received, are indelible. Though I, being in so many things his +opposite, had none of this peculiarity, but felt at once quickly and +keenly, yet I rather liked the contrary in him, as I think we almost +always do like in another those peculiarities which are most +different from our own. Therefore I was neither vexed nor hurt +because the lad was slow to perceive all that he had so soon become, +and all that I meant him to become, to me. I knew from every tone of +his voice, every chance expression of his honest eyes, that he was +one of those characters in which we may be sure that for each feeling +they express lies a countless wealth of the same, unexpressed, below; +a character the keystone of which was that whereon is built all +liking and all love--DEPENDABLENESS. He was one whom you may be long +in knowing, but whom the more you know the more you trust; and once +trusting, you trust for ever. + +Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature in +discovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; and +possibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a little +from after-experience; however, being the truth, let it stand. + +"Come," said I, changing the conversation, "we have had enough of me; +how goes the world with you? Have you taken kindly to the tan-yard? +Answer frankly." + +He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, and began to +whistle a tune. + +"Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the real +truth." + +"Well, then, I hate the tan-yard." + +Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small +heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed. + +"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to +get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a +worse thing. It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is the +only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because +it's disagreeable." + +"You are a wise lad of your age, John." + +"Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was in solemn +earnest). "And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially that +I'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the +world--the first I ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, +perhaps I may climb." + +"I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. "But you +seem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things." + +"Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's thoughts +travel fast enough lying on this bark-heap--faster than indoors. I +often wish I could read--that is, read easily. As it is, I have +nothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, and +what I should like to be." + +"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to your +master's business, should you like to be a tanner?" + +He paused--his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, +resolutely, "I would like to be anything that was honest and +honourable. It's a notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his +trade does not make him--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I +can't put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own +head yet--I'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this--that +whether I like it or not, I'll stick to the tanning as long as I +can." + +"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as he +stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting +bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling-- +"Nevertheless, John, it's my opinion that you might be anything you +liked." + +He laughed. "Questionable that--at least at present. Whatever I may +be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works +in your father's tan-yard--John Halifax, and very much at your +service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher." + +Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow +so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily +recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However, +that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like +many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence-- +Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon. + +The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part +with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was. + +"How do you mean?" + +"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?" + +"Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking. +Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there's lots +of blackberries by way of pudding--which is grand! Supper, when I do +get it, I like best on this bark-heap, after the men are away, and +the tan-yard's clear. Your father lets me stay." + +"And where is your lodging, then? Where do you sleep?" + +He hesitated--coloured a little. "To tell the truth--anywhere I can. +Generally, here." + +"What, out-of-doors?" + +"Just so." + +I was much shocked. To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me the very +lowest ebb of human misery: so degrading, too--like a common tramp +or vagabond, instead of a decent lad. + +"John, how can you--why do you--do such a thing?" + +"I'll tell you," said he, sitting down beside me in a dogged way, as +if he had read my thoughts, guessed at my suspicions, and was +determined to show that he feared neither--that he would use his own +judgment, and follow his own will, in spite of anybody. "Look here. +I get three shillings a week, which is about fivepence a day; out of +that I eat threepence--I'm a big, growing lad, and it's hard to be +hungry. There's twopence left to pay for lodging. I tried it once-- +twice--at the decentest place I could find, but--" here an expression +of intolerable disgust came over the boy's face--"I don't intend to +try that again. I was never used to it. Better keep my own company +and the open air. Now you see." + +"Oh, John!" + +"Nay--there's no need to be sorry. You don't know how comfortable it +is to sleep out of doors; and so nice to wake in the middle of the +night and see the stars shining over your head." + +"But isn't it very cold?" + +"No--not often. I scoop out a snug little nest in the bark and curl +up in it like a dormouse, wrapped in this rug, which one of the men +gave me. Besides, every morning early I take a plunge and a swim in +the stream, and that makes me warm all day." + +I shivered--I who feared the touch of cold water. Yet there with all +his hardships, he stood before me, the model of healthy boyhood. +Alas! I envied him. + +But this trying life, which he made so light of, could not go on. +"What shall you do when winter comes?" + +John looked grave. "I don't know: I suppose I shall manage somehow- +-like the sparrows," he answered, perceiving not how apposite his +illustration was. For truly he seemed as destitute as the birds of +the air, whom ONE feedeth, when they cry to Him. + +My question had evidently made him thoughtful; he remained silent a +good while. + +At last I said: "John, do you remember the woman who spoke so +sharply to you in the alley that day?" + +"Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened that day," he +answered, softly. + +"She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, though trouble +has sharpened her temper. Her biggest boy Bill, who is gone off for +a soldier, used to drive your cart, you know." + +"Yes?" said John, interrogatively; for I was slow in putting forth my +plans--that is, as much of them as it was needful he should know. + +"Sally is poor--not so very poor, though. Your twopence a night +would help her; and I dare say, if you'll let me speak to her, you +might have Bill's attic all to yourself. She has but one other lad +at home: it's worth trying for." + +"It is indeed. You are very kind, Phineas." He said no more words +than these--but their tone spoke volumes. + +I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxious not to +lose a day in this matter. I persuaded John to go at once with me to +Sally Watkins. My father was not to be seen; but I ventured to leave +word for him that I was gone home, and had taken John Halifax with +me: it was astonishing how bold I felt myself growing, now that +there was another beside myself to think and act for. + +We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place--poorer than I +had imagined; but I remembered what agonies of cleanliness had been +inflicted on me in nursery days; and took hope for John. + +Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old jacket +that had once been Bill's, until, being supplanted by the grand red +coat, it descended upon Jem, the second lad. But Bill still +engrossed the poor mother's heart--she could do nothing but weep over +him, and curse "Bonyparty." Her mind was so full of this that she +apparently failed to recognise in the decent young workman, John +Halifax, the half-starved lad she had belaboured with her tongue in +the alley. She consented at once to his lodging with her--though she +looked up with an odd stare when I said he was "a friend" of mine. + +So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally and I +alone, while John went up to look at his room. I knew I could trust +Sally, whom I was glad enough to help, poor woman! She promised to +make him extra-comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came +down she was quite civil to him--even friendly. + +She said it would really be a comfort to her, that another fine, +strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in and out of +her house just like her poor dear boy. + +I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and indeed half-angry, but +John only smiled. + +"And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now and then about the kitchen- +-I s'pose he bean't above it?" + +"Not a bit!" said John Halifax, pleasantly. + +Before we left I wanted to see his room; he carried me up, and we +both sat down on the bed that had been poor Bill's. It was nothing +to boast of, being a mere sacking stuffed with hay--a blanket below, +and another at top; I had to beg from Jael the only pair of sheets +John owned for a long time. The attic was very low and small, hardly +big enough "to whip a cat round," or even a kitten--yet John gazed +about it with an air of proud possession. + +"I declare I shall be as happy as a king. Only look out of the +window!" + +Ay, the window was the grand advantage; out of it one could crawl on +to the roof, and from the roof was the finest view in all Norton +Bury. On one side, the town, the Abbey, and beyond it a wide stretch +of meadow and woodland as far as you could see; on the other, the +broad Ham, the glittering curve of Severn, and the distant country, +sloping up into "the blue bills far away." A picture, which in its +incessant variety, its quiet beauty, and its inexpressibly soothing +charm, was likely to make the simple, everyday act of "looking out o' +window," unconsciously influence the mind as much as a world of +books. + +"Do you like your 'castle,' John?" said I, when I had silently +watched his beaming face; "will it suit you?" + +"I rather think it will!" be cried in hearty delight. And my heart +likewise was very glad. + +Dear little attic room! close against the sky--so close, that many a +time the rain came pattering in, or the sun beating down upon the +roof made it like a furnace, or the snow on the leads drifted so high +as to obscure the window--yet how merry, how happy, we have been +there! How often have we both looked back upon it in after days! + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Winter came early and sudden that year. + +It was to me a long, dreary season, worse even than my winters +inevitably were. I never stirred from my room, and never saw anybody +but my father, Dr. Jessop, and Jael. At last I took courage to say +to the former that I wished he would send John Halifax up some day. + +"What does thee want the lad for?" + +"Only to see him." + +"Pshaw! a lad out o' the tan-yard is not fit company for thee. Let +him alone; he'll do well enough if thee doesn't try to lift him out +of his place." + +Lift John Halifax out of his "place"! I agreed with my father that +that was impossible; but then we evidently differed widely in our +definition of what the "place" might be. So, afraid of doing him +harm, and feeling how much his future depended on his favour with his +master, I did not discuss the matter. Only at every possible +opportunity--and they were rare--I managed to send John a little +note, written carefully in printed letters, for I knew he could read +that; also a book or two, out of which he might teach himself a +little more. + +Then I waited, eagerly but patiently, until spring came, when, +without making any more fruitless efforts, I should be sure to see +him. I knew enough of himself, and was too jealous over his dignity, +to wish either to force him by entreaties, or bring him by stratagem, +into a house where he was not welcome, even though it were the house +of my own father. + +One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, and soft, +plentiful rain had half melted the great snow-drifts, which, Jael +told me, lay about the country everywhere, I thought I would just put +my head out of doors, to see how long the blessed spring would be in +coming. So I crawled down into the parlour, and out of the parlour +into the garden; Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. My +poor father! he always had the belief that people need not be ill +unless they chose, and that I could do a great deal if I would. + +I felt very strong to-day. It was delicious to see again the green +grass, which had been hidden for weeks; delicious to walk up and down +in the sunshine, under the shelter of the yew hedge. I amused myself +by watching a pale line of snowdrops which had come up one by one, +like prisoners of war to their execution. + +But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, for it +reminded me of poor Bill Watkins, who, taken after the battle of +Mentz, last December, had been shot by the French as a spy. Poor, +rosy, burly Bill! better had he still been ingloriously driving our +cart of skins. + +"Have you been to see Sally lately?" said I, to Jael, who was cutting +winter cabbages hard by; "is she getting over her trouble?" + +"She bean't rich, to afford fretting. There's Jem and three little +'uns yet to feed, to say nought of another big lad as lives there, +and eats a deal more than he pays, I'm sure." + +I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father had lately +raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. This, together with a +few other facts which lay between Sally and me, made me quite easy in +the mind as to his being no burthen, but rather a help to the widow-- +so I let Jael have her say; it did no harm to me nor anybody. + +"What bold little things snowdrops are--stop, Jael, you are setting +your foot on them." + +But I was too late; she had crushed them under the high-heeled shoe. +She was even near pulling me down, as she stepped back in great hurry +and consternation. + +"Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden; and here I be +in my dirty gown, and my apron full o' cabbages." + +And she dropped the vegetables all over the path as the "gentleman" +came towards us. + +I smiled--for, in spite of his transformation, I, at least, had no +difficulty in recognising John Halifax. + +He had on new clothes--let me give the credit due to that wonderful +civiliser, the tailor--clothes neat, decent, and plain, such as any +'prentice lad might wear. They fitted well his figure, which had +increased both in height, compactness, and grace. Round his neck was +a coarse but white shirt frill; and over it fell, carefully arranged, +the bright curls of his bonny hair. Easily might Jael or any one +else have "mistaken" him, as she cuttingly said, for a young +gentleman. + +She looked very indignant, though, when she found out the aforesaid +"mistake." + +"What may be thy business here?" she said, roughly. + +"Abel Fletcher sent me on a message." + +"Out with it then--don't be stopping with Phineas here. Thee bean't +company for him, and his father don't choose it." + +"Jael!" I cried, indignantly. John never spoke, but his cheek burnt +furiously. + +I took his hand, and told him how glad I was to see him--but, for a +minute, I doubt if he heard me. + +"Abel Fletcher sent me here," he repeated, in a well-controlled +voice, "that I might go out with Phineas; if HE objects to my +company, it's easy to say so." + +And he turned to me. I think he must have been satisfied then. + +Jael retired discomfited, and in her wrath again dropped half of her +cabbages. John picked them up and restored them; but got for thanks +only a parting thrust. + +"Thee art mighty civil in thy new clothes. Be off, and be back again +sharp; and, I say, don't thee be leaving the cart o' skins again +under the parlour windows." + +"I don't drive the cart now," was all he replied. + +"Not drive the cart?" I asked, eagerly, when Jael had disappeared, +for I was afraid some ill chance had happened. + +"Only, that this winter I've managed to teach myself to read and add +up, out of your books, you know; and your father found it out, and he +says I shall go round collecting money instead of skins, and it's +much better wages, and--I like it better--that's all." + +But, little as he said, his whole face beamed with pride and +pleasure. It was, in truth, a great step forward. + +"He must trust you very much, John," said I, at last, knowing how +exceedingly particular my father was in his collectors. + +"That's it--that's what pleases me so. He is very good to me, +Phineas, and he gave me a special holiday, that I might go out with +you. Isn't that grand?" + +"Grand, indeed. What fun we'll have! I almost think I could take a +walk myself." + +For the lad's company invariably gave me new life, and strength, and +hope. The very sight of him was as good as the coming of spring. + +"Where shall we go?" said he, when we were fairly off, and he was +guiding my carriage down Norton Bury streets. + +"I think to the Mythe." The Mythe was a little hill on the outskirts +of the town, breezy and fresh, where Squire Brithwood had built +himself a fine house ten years ago. + +"Ay, that will do; and as we go, you will see the floods out--a +wonderful sight, isn't it? The river is rising still, I hear; at the +tan-yard they are busy making a dam against it. How high are the +floods here, generally, Phineas?" + +"I'm sure I can't remember. But don't look so serious. Let us enjoy +ourselves." + +And I did enjoy, intensely, that pleasant stroll. The mere sunshine +was delicious; delicious, too, to pause on the bridge at the other +end of the town, and feel the breeze brought in by the rising waters, +and hear the loud sound of them, as they poured in a cataract over +the flood-gates hard by. + +"Your lazy, muddy Avon looks splendid now. What masses of white foam +it makes, and what wreaths of spray; and see! ever so much of the Ham +is under water. How it sparkles in the sun." + +"John, you like looking at anything pretty." + +"Ah! don't I!" cried he, with his whole heart. My heart leaped too, +to see him so happy. + +"You can't think how fine this is from my window; I have watched it +for a week. Every morning the water seems to have made itself a +fresh channel. Look at that one, by the willow-tree--how savagely it +pours!" + +"Oh, we at Norton Bury are used to floods." + +"Are they ever very serious?" + +"Have been--but not in my time. Now, John, tell me what you have +been doing all winter." + +It was a brief and simple chronicle--of hard work, all day over, and +from the Monday to the Saturday--too hard work to do anything of +nights, save to drop into the sound, dreamless sleep of youth and +labour. + +"But how did you teach yourself to read and add up, then?" + +"Generally at odd minutes going along the road. It's astonishing +what a lot of odd minutes one can catch during the day, if one really +sets about it. And then I had Sunday afternoons besides. I did not +think it wrong--" + +"No," said I; decisively. "What books have you got through?" + +"All you sent--Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the Arabian +Nights. That's fine, isn't it?" and his eyes sparkled. + +"Any more?" + +"Also the one you gave me at Christmas. I have read it a good deal." + +I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. I liked to +hear him own, nor be ashamed to own--that he read "a good deal" in +that rare book for a boy to read--the Bible. + +But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; indeed, it +seemed to me, and seems still, that no more were needed. + +"And you can read quite easily now, John?" + +"Pretty well, considering." Then, turning suddenly to me: "You read +a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were very +clever. How much do you know?" + +"Oh--nonsense!" But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was +short enough; I almost wished it were shorter when I saw John's face. + +"For me--I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen directly!" + +The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to my very +heart. + +"Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon that which +guided me on so steady and so strong; "how could you have had time, +working as hard as you do?" + +"But I ought to learn; I must learn." + +"You shall. It's little I can teach; but, if you like, I'll teach +you all I know." + +"O Phineas!" One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walked +hastily across the road. Thence he came back, in a minute or two, +armed with the tallest, straightest of briar-rose shoots. + +"You like a rose-switch, don't you? I do. Nay, stop till I've cut +off the thorns." And he walked on beside me, working at it with his +knife, in silence. + +I was silent, too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as seen in +profile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by that mouth, +so flexible, sensitive, and, at times, so infinitely sweet. It wore +that expression now. I was satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy. + +We reached the Mythe. "David," I said (I had got into a habit of +calling him "David;" and now he had read a certain history in that +Book I supposed he had guessed why, for he liked the name), "I don't +think I can go any further up the hill." + +"Oh! but you shall! I'll push behind; and when we come to the stile +I'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the Mythe--look at the +sunset. You cannot have seen a sunset for ever so long." + +No--that was true. I let John do as he would with me--he who brought +into my pale life the only brightness it had ever known. + +Ere long we stood on the top of the steep mound. I know not if it be +a natural hill, or one of those old Roman or British remains, +plentiful enough hereabouts, but it was always called the Mythe. +Close below it, at the foot of a precipitous slope, ran the Severn, +there broad and deep enough, gradually growing broader and deeper as +it flowed on, through a wide plain of level country, towards the line +of hills that bounded the horizon. Severn looked beautiful here; +neither grand nor striking, but certainly beautiful; a calm, +gracious, generous river, bearing strength in its tide and plenty in +its bosom, rolling on through the land slowly and surely, like a good +man's life, and fertilising wherever it flows. + +"Do you like Severn still, John?" + +"I love it." + +I wondered if his thoughts had been anything like mine. + +"What is that?" he cried, suddenly, pointing to a new sight, which +even I had not often seen on our river. It was a mass of water, +three or four feet high, which came surging along the midstream, +upright as a wall. + +"It is the eger; I've often seen it on Severn, where the swift +seaward current meets the spring-tide. Look what a crest of foam it +has, like a wild boar's mane. We often call it the river-boar." + +"But it is only a big wave." + +"Big enough to swamp a boat, though." + +And while I spoke I saw, to my horror, that there actually was a +boat, with two men in it, trying to get out of the way of the eger. + +"They never can! they'll assuredly be drowned! O John!" + +But he had already slipped from my side and swung himself by +furze-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the water's edge. + +It was a breathless moment. The eger travelled slowly in its +passage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a whirl of +conflicting currents, in which no boat could live--least of all that +light pleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. In it was a youth I +knew by sight, Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, and another +gentleman. + +They both pulled hard--they got out of the mid-stream, but not close +enough to land; and already there was but two oars' length between +them and the "boar." + +"Swim for it!" I heard one cry to the other: but swimming would not +have saved them. + +"Hold there!" shouted John at the top of his voice; "throw that rope +out and I will pull you in!" + +It was a hard tug: I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in the +stream--but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. The +younger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late. +Already the "water-boar" had clutched it--the rope broke like a +gossamer-thread--the trim, white sail was dragged down--rose up once, +broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--then +disappeared. + +"So it's all over with her, poor thing!" + +"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives," sharply said the other, +an older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in mourning, to whom +life did not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appeared +to value it so highly. + +They both scrambled up the Mythe, without noticing John Halifax: +then the elder turned. + +"But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young friend?" + +John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, "I suppose so." + +"Indeed, we owe you much." + +"Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brithwood, gruffly; "I +know him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard." + +"Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with a +kindly, even half-sad air. "Impossible! Young man, will you tell me +to whom I am so much obliged?" + +"My name is John Halifax." + +"Yes; but WHAT are you?" + +"What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough: I work in the +tan-yard." + +"Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dignity, though +evidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed. + +"I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eyeing John over, "you've been +out at grass, and changed your coat for the better: but you're +certainly the same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day; you +were driving a cart of skins--pah! I remember." + +"So do I," said John, fiercely; but when the youth's insolent +laughter broke out again he controlled himself. The laughter ceased. + +"Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one, young-- +what's-your-name, so here's a guinea for you." He threw it towards +him; it fell on the ground, and lay there. + +"Nay, nay, Richard," expostulated the sickly gentleman, who, after +all, WAS a gentleman. He stood apparently struggling with +conflicting intentions, and not very easy in his mind. "My good +fellow," he said at last, in a constrained voice, "I won't forget +your bravery. If I could do anything for you--and meanwhile if a +trifle like this"--and he slipped something into John's hand. + +John returned it with a bow, merely saying "that he would rather not +take any money." + +The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more +of persistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr. +March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the +while lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure, and flushed, proud +face. + +"How old are you?" + +"Fifteen, nearly." + +"Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned back again. +"My name is March--Henry March; if you should ever--" + +"Thank you, sir. Good-day." + +"Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but John +did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following young +Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at +John. Then they disappeared. + +"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable." He flung +himself down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so +afraid he would take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults. +I sat wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in the +sandy path with the rose-switch he had cut. + +A thought struck me. "John, hand me the stick and I'll give you your +first writing lesson." + +So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a pen, I +taught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join them +together. He learned them very quickly--so quickly, that in a little +while the simple copy-book that Mother Earth obliged us with was +covered in all directions with "J O H N--John." + +"Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing his gigantic +pen, which had done such good service; "bravo! I have gained +something to-day!" + +Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at the +waters that were "out." They had risen considerably, even in that +short time, and were now pouring in several new channels, one of +which was alongside of the high road; we stopped a good while +watching it. The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part +of the Ham; but it awed us to see the fierce power of waters let +loose. An old willow-tree, about whose roots I had often watched the +king-cups growing, was now in the centre of a stream as broad as the +Avon by our tan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent rushed round +it--impatient of the divisions its great roots caused--eager to +undermine and tear it up. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate, +within a few hours more there would be nothing left of the fine old +tree. + +"I don't quite like this," said John, meditatively, as his quick eye +swept down the course of the river, with the houses and wharves that +abutted on it, all along one bank. "Did you ever see the waters thus +high before?" + +"Yes, I believe I have; nobody minds it at Norton Bury; it is only +the sudden thaw, my father says, and he ought to know, for he has had +plenty of experience, the tan-yard being so close to the river." + +"I was thinking of that; but come, it's getting cold." + +He took me safe home, and we parted cordially--nay, affectionately-- +at my own door. + +"When will you come again, David?" + +"When your father sends me." + +And I felt that HE felt that our intercourse was always to be limited +to this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, was possible, even +for friendship's sake, to John Halifax. + +My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and uneasy, and +instead of going to bed, though it was after nine o'clock, sat down +to his pipe in the chimney-corner. + +"Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to the +tan-yard?" + +"What dost thee know about the tan-yard!" + +"Only John Halifax was saying--" + +"John Halifax had better hold his tongue." + +I held mine. + +My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him good-night. +I think the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of a +long meditation, in which his ill-humour had ebbed away. + +"Where didst thee go out to-day, Phineas?--thee and the lad I sent." + +"To the Mythe:" and I told him the incident that had happened there. +He listened without reply. + +"Wasn't it a brave thing to do, father?" + +"Um!"--and a few meditative puffs. "Phineas, the lad thee hast such +a hankering after is a good lad--a very decent lad--if thee doesn't +make too much of him. Remember; he is but my servant; thee'rt my +son--my only son." + +Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an +"only son" as I. + +In the middle of the night--or else to me, lying awake, it seemed so- +-there was a knocking at our hall door. I slept on the ground flat, +in a little room opposite the parlour. Ere I could well collect my +thoughts, I saw my father pass, fully dressed, with a light in his +hand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in the +other--something which always lay near his strong box, at his bed's +head at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolen +from him, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law +refused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker." + +The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at +making a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the +answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine. + +A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are you +here?--don't be frightened." + +I was not--as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar +voice. "It's something about the tan-yard?" + +"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he +may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"--in answer to a loud +call. "Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold. +Don't stir--you'll promise?--I'll see after your father." + +They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole +night. + +That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury. +Bridges were destroyed--boats carried away--houses inundated, or +sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of +property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then +the flood began to turn. + +It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. At +daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight! + +"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast his +hands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did +not repel me. + +"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back +to the fire." + +His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things +in Abel Fletcher. + +"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?" + +"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen +fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this +town, am poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night." + +He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardly +earned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly. + +"Father, never mind; it might have been worse." + +"Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world--save +for--Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in, +John, and shut the door." + +John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I +wanted him to sit down by the fireside. + +"Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly. + +John came. + +I stood between the two--afraid to ask what they had undergone; but +sure, from the old man's grave face, and the lad's bright one-- +flushed all over with that excitement of danger so delicious to the +young--that the peril had not been small. + +"Jael," cried my father, rousing himself, "give us some breakfast; +the lad and me--we have had a hard night's work together." + +Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but either did +not or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more than +one. + +"Another plate," said my father, sharply. + +"The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher: his breakfast is +waiting there." + +My father winced--even her master was sometimes rather afraid of +Jael. But conscience or his will conquered. + +"Woman, do as I desired. Bring another plate, and another mug of +ale." + +And so, to Jael's great wrath, and to my great joy, John Halifax was +bidden, and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact made +an ineffaceable impression on our household. + +After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of that +February morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained to me +all his losses; and how, but for the timely warning he had received, +the flood might have nearly ruined him. + +"So it was well John came," I said, half afraid to say more. + +"Ay, and the lad has been useful, too: it is an old head on young +shoulders." + +John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given. +But directly after it some ill or suspicious thought seemed to come +into Abel Fletcher's mind. + +"Lad," suddenly turning round on John Halifax, "thee told me thee saw +the river rising by the light of the moon. What wast THEE doing +then, out o' thy honest bed and thy quiet sleep, at eleven o'clock at +night?" + +John coloured violently; the quick young blood was always ready +enough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for him with my father. + +"Answer. I will not be hard upon thee--to-night, at least." + +"As you like, Abel Fletcher," answered the boy, sturdily. "I was +doing no harm. I was in the tan-yard." + +"Thy business there?" + +"None at all. I was with the men--they were watching, and had a +candle; and I wanted to sit up, and had no light." + +"What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father, keen and +sharp as a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister hunting a +witness in those courts of law that were never used by, though often +used against, us Quakers. + +John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing blushes tried +him sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. Though I'm such a +big fellow I can't write; and your son was good enough to try and +teach me. I was afraid of forgetting the letters; so I tried to make +them all over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It +did nobody any harm that I know of." + +The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won no +reproof. At last my father said gently enough-- + +"Is that all, lad?" + +"Yes." + +Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked +softly to each other--afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a whole +pipe--his great and almost his only luxury, and then again called +out-- + +"John Halifax." + +"I'm here." + +"It's time thee went away to thy work." + +"I'm going this minute. Good-bye, Phineas. Good day, sir. Is there +anything you want done?" + +He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manliness +pleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such a servant- +-any father of such a son. My poor father--no, he did not once look +from John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the world that +half-smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept back from +him--as, Heaven knows why, it often does from us all!--the one desire +of the heart. + +"John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night. +What reward shall I give thee?" + +And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turned +away. + +"Thank you--I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have +been useful to my master, and that he acknowledges it." + +My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand. "Thee'rt in +the right, lad. I am very much obliged to thee, and I will not +forget it." + +And John--blushing brightly once more--went away, looking as proud as +an emperor, and as happy as a poor man with a bag of gold. + +"Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasure +the lad?" said my father, after we had been talking some time--though +not about John. + +I had thought of something--something I had long desired, but which +seemed then all but an impossibility. Even now it was with some +doubt and hesitation that I made the suggestion that he should spend +every Sunday at our house. + +"Nonsense!--thee know'st nought of Norton Bury lads. He would not +care. He had rather lounge about all First-day at street corners +with his acquaintance." + +"John has none, father. He knows nobody--cares for nobody--but me. +Do let him come." + +"We'll see about it." + +My father never broke or retracted his word. So after that John +Halifax came to us every Sunday; and for one day of the week, at +least, was received in his master's household as our equal and my +friend. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Summers and winters slipped by lazily enough, as the years seemed +always to crawl round at Norton Bury. How things went in the outside +world I little knew or cared. My father lived his life, mechanical +and steady as clock-work, and we two, John Halifax and Phineas +Fletcher, lived our lives--the one so active and busy, the other so +useless and dull. Neither of us counted the days, nor looked +backwards or forwards. + +One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was twenty years +old, and that John Halifax was--a man: the difference between us +being precisely as I have expressed it. + +Our birthdays fell within a week of each other, and it was in +remembering his--the one which advanced him to the dignity of +eighteen--that I called to mind my own. I say, "advanced him to the +dignity"--but in truth that is an idle speech; for any dignity which +the maturity of eighteen may be supposed to confer he had already in +possession. Manhood had come to him, both in character and +demeanour, not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired and +presumptuously-asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance, to be +received humbly, and worn simply and naturally. So naturally, that I +never seemed to think of him as anything but a boy, until this one +June Sunday, when, as before stated, I myself became twenty years +old. + +I was talking over that last fact, in a rather dreamy mood, as he and +I sat in our long-familiar summer seat, the clematis arbour by the +garden wall. + +"It seems very strange, John, but so it is--I am actually twenty." + +"Well, and what of that?" + +I sat looking down into the river, which flowed on, as my years were +flowing, monotonous, dark, and slow,--as they must flow on for ever. +John asked me what I was thinking of. + +"Of myself: what a fine specimen of the noble genus homo I am." + +I spoke bitterly, but John knew how to meet that mood. Very patient +he was with it and with every ill mood of mine. And I was grateful, +with that deep gratitude we feel to those who bear with us, and +forgive us, and laugh at us, and correct us,--all alike for love. + +"Self-investigation is good on birthdays. Phineas, here goes for a +catalogue of your qualities, internal and external." + +"John, don't be foolish." + +"I will, if I like; though perhaps not quite so foolish as some other +people; so listen:--'Imprimis,' as saith Shakspeare--Imprimis, +height, full five feet four; a stature historically appertaining to +great men, including Alexander of Macedon and the First Consul." + +"Oh, oh!" said I, reproachfully; for this was our chief bone of +contention--I hating, he rather admiring, the great ogre of the day, +Napoleon Bonaparte. + +"Imprimis, of a slight, delicate person, but not lame as once was." + +"No, thank God!" + +"Thin, rather-" + +"Very--a mere skeleton!" + +"Face elongated and pale-" + +"Sallow, John, decidedly sallow." + +"Be it so, sallow. Big eyes, much given to observation, which means +hard staring. Take them off me, Phineas, or I'll not lie on the +grass a minute longer. Thank you. To return: Imprimis and finis +(I'm grand at Latin now, you see)--long hair, which, since the powder +tax, has resumed its original blackness, and is--any young damsel +would say, only we count not a single one among our acquaintance-- +exceedingly bewitching." + +I smiled, feeling myself colour a little too, weak invalid as I was. +I was, nevertheless, twenty years old; and although Jael and Sally +were the only specimens of the other sex which had risen on my +horizon, yet once or twice, since I had read Shakspeare, I had had a +boy's lovely dreams of the divinity of womanhood. They began, and +ended--mere dreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth, that my +character was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any woman's +reverence or love. Or, even had this been possible, one sickly as I +was, stricken with hereditary disease, ought never to seek to +perpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put from me, at once and for +ever, every feeling of that kind; and during my whole life--I thank +God!--have never faltered in my resolution. Friendship was given me +for love--duty for happiness. So best, and I was satisfied. + +This conviction, and the struggle succeeding it--for, though brief, +it was but natural that it should have been a hard struggle--was the +only secret that I had kept from John. It had happened some months +now, and was quite over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun, +and shake at him my "bewitching" black locks, calling him a foolish +boy. And while I said it, the notion slowly dawning during the long +gaze he had complained of, forced itself upon me, clear as daylight, +that he was not a "boy" any longer. + +"Now let me turn the tables. How old are YOU, John?" + +"You know. Eighteen next week." + +"And how tall?" + +"Five feet eleven inches and a half." And, rising, he exhibited to +its full advantage that very creditable altitude, more tall perhaps +than graceful, at present; since, like most youths, he did not as yet +quite know what to do with his legs and arms. But he was-- + +I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I only remember +that when I looked at him, and began jocularly "Imprimis," my heart +came up into my throat and choked me. + +It was almost with sadness that I said, "Ah! David, you are quite a +young man now." + +He smiled, of course only with pleasure, looking forward to the new +world into which he was going forth; the world into which, as I knew +well, I could never follow him. + +"I am glad I look rather old for my years," said he, when, after a +pause, he had again flung himself down on the grass. "It tells well +in the tan-yard. People would be slow to trust a clerk who looked a +mere boy. Still, your father trusts me." + +"He does, indeed. You need never have any doubt of that. It was +only yesterday he said to me that now he was no longer dissatisfied +with your working at all sorts of studies, in leisure hours, since it +made you none the worse man of business." + +"No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would not be doing +my duty to myself any more than to my master, if I shirked his work +for my own. I am glad he does not complain now, Phineas." + +"On the contrary; I think he intends to give you a rise this +Midsummer. But oh!" I cried, recurring to a thought which would +often come when I looked at the lad, though he always combated it so +strongly, that I often owned my prejudices were unjust: "how I wish +you were something better than a clerk in a tan-yard. I have a plan, +John." + +But what that plan was, was fated to remain unrevealed. Jael came to +us in the garden, looking very serious. She had been summoned, I +knew, to a long conference with her master the day before--the +subject of which she would not tell me, though she acknowledged it +concerned myself. Ever since she had followed me about, very softly, +for her, and called me more than once, as when I was a child, "my +dear." She now came with half-dolorous, half-angry looks, to summon +me to an interview with my father and Doctor Jessop. + +I caught her parting mutterings, as she marched behind me: "Kill or +cure, indeed,"--"No more fit than a baby,"--"Abel Fletcher be clean +mad,"--"Hope Thomas Jessop will speak out plain, and tell him so," +and the like. From these, and from her strange fit of tenderness, I +guessed what was looming in the distance--a future which my father +constantly held in terrorem over me, though successive illness had +kept it in abeyance. Alas! I knew that my poor father's hopes and +plans were vain! I went into his presence with a heavy heart. + +There is no need to detail that interview. Enough, that after it he +set aside for ever his last lingering hope of having a son able to +assist, and finally succeed him in his business, and that I set aside +every dream of growing up to be a help and comfort to my father. It +cost something on both our parts; but after that day's discussion we +tacitly covered over the pain, and referred to it no more. + +I came back into the garden, and told John Halifax all. He listened +with his hand on my shoulder, and his grave, sweet look--dearer +sympathy than any words! Though he added thereto a few, in his own +wise way; then he and I, also, drew the curtain over an inevitable +grief, and laid it in the peaceful chamber of silence. + +When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax, and I, met at dinner, the +subject had passed into seeming oblivion, and was never afterwards +revived. + +But dinner being over, and the chatty little doctor gone, while Abel +Fletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe, and we two at the window +maintained that respectful and decorous silence which in my young +days was rigidly exacted by elders and superiors, I noticed my +father's eyes frequently resting, with keen observance, upon John +Halifax. Could it be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine, +given faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just entered +my mind, instead of having for months continually dwelt there, until +a fitting moment should arrive?--Could it be that this hint, which he +had indignantly scouted at the time, was germinating in his acute +brain, and might bear fruit in future days? I hoped so--I earnestly +prayed so. And to that end I took no notice, but let it silently +grow. + +The June evening came and went. The service-bell rang out and +ceased. First, deep shadows, and then a bright star, appeared over +the Abbey-tower. We watched it from the garden, where, Sunday after +Sunday, in fine weather, we used to lounge, and talk over all manner +of things in heaven and in earth, chiefly ending with the former, as +on Sunday nights, with stars over our head, was natural and fit we +should do. + +"Phineas," said John, sitting on the grass with his hands upon his +knees, and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shining down into +his eyes, deepening them into that peculiar look, worth any so-called +"handsome eyes;"--"Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to rise +up from this quiet, easy life, and fight our battles in the world? +Also, I wonder if we are ready for it?" + +"I think you are." + +"I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could resist doing anything +wrong, if it were pleasant. So many wrong things are pleasant--just +now, instead of rising to-morrow, and going into the little dark +counting-house, and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn't I +like to break away!--dash out into the world, take to all sorts of +wild freaks, do all sorts of grand things, and perhaps never come +back to the tanning any more." + +"Never any more?" + +"No! no! I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should do such a +wrong thing; but merely that I sometimes feel the wish to do it. I +can't help it; it's my Apollyon that I have to fight with--everybody +keeps a private Apollyon, I fancy. Now, Phineas, be content; +Apollyon is beaten down." + +He rose up, but I thought that, in the red glow of the twilight, he +looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me up from the +grass. We went into the house together, silently. + +After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, John prepared to +leave as usual. He went to bid good-night to my father, who was +sitting meditatively over the fireless hearth-place, sometimes poking +the great bow-pot of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did the +coals: an instance of obliviousness, which, in my sensible and acute +father, argued very deep cogitation on some subject or other. + +"Good-night," said John, twice over, before his master heard him. + +"Eh?--Oh, good-night, good-night, lad! Stay! Halifax, what hast +thee got to do to-morrow?" + +"Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in; I cleared off the +week's accounts last night, as usual." + +"Ay, to-morrow I shall look over all thy books and see how thee +stand'st, and what further work thou art fit for. Therefore, take a +day's holiday, if thee likes." + +We thanked him warmly. "There, John," whispered I, "you may have +your wish, and run wild to-morrow." + +He said, "the wish had gone out of him." So we planned a sweet lazy +day under the Midsummer sky, in some fields about a mile off, called +the Vineyards. + +The morning came, and we took our way thither, under the Abbey walls, +and along a lane, shaded on one side by the "willows in the +water-courses." We came out in those quiet hay-fields, which, +tradition says, had once grown wine for the rosy monks close by, and +history avers, were afterwards watered by a darker stream than the +blood of grapes. The Vineyards had been a battle-field; and under +the long wavy grass, and the roots of the wild apple trees, slept +many a Yorkist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrow +turned out a white bone--but more often the relics were undisturbed, +and the meadows used as pastures or hay-fields. + +John and I lay down on some wind-rows, and sunned ourselves in the +warm and delicious air. How beautiful everything was! so very still! +with the Abbey-tower--always the most picturesque point in our Norton +Bury views--showing so near, that it almost seemed to rise up out of +the fields and hedge-rows. + +"Well, David," and I turned to the long, lazy figure beside me, which +had considerably flattened the hay, "are you satisfied?" + +"Ay." + +Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring to a few of the +infinitude of subjects we used to compare notes upon; though we were +neither of us given to wordiness, and never talked but when we had +something to say. Often--as on this day--we sat for hours in a +pleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word; nevertheless, I +could generally track John's thoughts, as they went wandering on, ay, +as clearly as one might track a stream through a wood; sometimes-- +like to-day--I failed. + +In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and cheese--eaten +slowly and with graceful dignity, in order to make dinner a more +important and lengthy affair--he said abruptly-- + +"Phineas, don't you think this field is rather dull? Shall we go +somewhere else? not if it tires you, though." + +I protested the contrary, my health being much above the average this +summer. But just as we were quitting the field we met two rather +odd-looking persons entering it, young-old persons they seemed, who +might own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially that +of the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness and +homeliness, such as grey ribbed stockings and shining paste shoe- +buckles, rusty velvet small-clothes and a coatee of blue cloth. But +the wearer carried off this anomalous costume with an easy, +condescending air, full of pleasantness, humour, and grace. + +"Sir," said he, approaching John Halifax with a bow that I feel sure +the "first gentleman of his day," as loyal folk then entitled the +Prince Regent, could not have surpassed--"Sir, will you favour me by +informing us how far it is to Coltham?" + +"Ten miles, and the stage will pass here in three hours." + +"Thank you; at present I have little to do with the--at least with +THAT stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert, in +fact, I may say our dinner. Are you connoisseurs in turnips?" + +He offered us--with a polite gesture--one of the "swedes" he was +munching. I declined; but John, out of a deeper delicacy than I +could boast, accepted it. + +"One might dine worse," he said; "I have done, sometimes." + +"It was a whim of mine, sir. But I am not the first remarkable +person who has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury fields--ay, and +turned field-preacher afterwards--the celebrated John Philip--" + +Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers interposed +with a nudge, indicating silence. + +"My companion is right, sir," he continued. "I will not betray our +illustrious friend by mentioning his surname; he is a great man now, +and might not wish it generally known that he had dined off turnips. +May I give you instead my own humble name?" + +He gave it me; but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his reticence, and +not indulge the world therewith. It was a name wholly out of my +sphere, both then and now; but I know it has since risen into note +among the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carried +up to the topmost height of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanly +spirit and kindly heart which he showed when sitting with us and +eating swedes. Still, I will not mention his surname--I will only +call him "Mr. Charles." + +"Now, having satisfactorily 'munched, and munched, and munched,' like +the sailor's wife who had chestnuts in her lap--are you acquainted +with my friend, Mr. William Shakspeare, young gentleman?--I must try +to fulfil the other duties of existence. You said the Coltham mail +passed here in three hours? Very well. I have the honour of wishing +you a very good day, Mr.--" + +"Halifax." + +"And yours?" + +"Fletcher." + +"Any connection with him who went partnership with the worthy +Beaumont?" + +"My father has no partner, sir," said I. But John, whose reading had +lately surpassed mine, and whom nothing ever puzzled, explained that +I came from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and Giles +Fletcher. Upon which Mr. Charles, who till now had somewhat +overlooked me, took off his hat, and congratulated me on my +illustrious descent. + +"That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world," said John, +smiling; "I wonder what the world is like!" + +"Did you not see something of it as a child?" + +"Only the worst and lowest side; not the one I want to see now. What +business do you think that Mr. Charles is? A clever man, anyhow; I +should like to see him again." + +"So should I." + +Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance, +we strolled along till we came to a spot called by the country +people, "The Bloody Meadow," from being, like several other places in +the neighbourhood, the scene of one of those terrible slaughters +chronicled in the wars of the Roses. It was a sloping field, through +the middle of which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end, +where, fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. +Here, too, in all directions, the hay-fields lay, either in green +swathes, or tedded, or in the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lane +was quite populous with waggons and hay-makers--the men in their +corduroys and blue hose--the women in their trim jackets and bright +calamanco petticoats. There were more women than men, by far, for +the flower of the peasant youth of England had been drafted off to +fight against "Bonyparty." Still hay-time was a glorious season, +when half our little town turned out and made holiday in the +sunshine. + +"I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems a crowd +down in the meadow; and who is that man standing on the hay-cart, on +the other side the stream?" + +"Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. Charles. How +he's talking and gesticulating! What can he be at?" + +Without more ado John leaped the low hedge, and ran down the slope of +the Bloody Meadow. I followed less quickly. + +There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the simple- +fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a low framework +on wheels, with a pole stuck at either of the four corners. He was +bare-headed, and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered. I +only hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all then +exclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity. +Despite the powder, the blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches, +Mr. Charles was a very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonder +the poor hay-makers had collected from all parts to hear him +harangue. + +What was he haranguing upon? Could it be, that like his friend, +"John Philip," whoever that personage might be, his vocation was that +of a field preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from the +sanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompanied +him; and who sat in the front of the cart, and folded his hands and +groaned, after the most approved fashion of a methodistical +"revival." + +We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked: but +no! I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no way did he trespass +the bounds of reverence and decorum. His harangue, though given as a +sermon, was strictly and simply a moral essay, such as might have +emanated from any professor's chair. In fact, as I afterwards +learnt, he had given for his text one which the simple rustics +received in all respect, as coming from a higher and holier volume +than Shakspeare-- + + "Mercy is twice blessed: + It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. + 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest." + +And on that text did he dilate; gradually warming with his subject, +till his gestures--which at first had seemed burthened with a queer +constraint, that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch of +the corners of his flexible mouth--became those of a man beguiled +into real earnestness. We of Norton Bury had never heard such +eloquence. + +"Who CAN he be, John? Isn't it wonderful?" + +But John never heard me. His whole attention was riveted on the +speaker. Such oratory--a compound of graceful action, polished +language, and brilliant imagination, came to him as a positive +revelation, a revelation from the world of intellect, the world which +he longed after with all the ardour of youth. + +What that harangue would have seemed like, could we have heard it +with maturer ears, I know not; but at eighteen and twenty it +literally dazzled us. No wonder it affected the rest of the +audience. Feeble men, leaning on forks and rakes, shook their old +heads sagely, as if they understood it all. And when the speaker +alluded to the horrors of war--a subject which then came so bitterly +home to every heart in Britain--many women melted into sobs and +tears. At last, when the orator himself, moved by the pictures he +had conjured up, paused suddenly, quite exhausted, and asked for a +slight contribution "to help a deed of charity," there was a general +rush towards him. + +"No--no, my good people," said Mr. Charles, recovering his natural +manner, though a little clouded, I thought, by a faint shade of +remorse; "no, I will not take from any one more than a penny; and +then only if they are quite sure they can spare it. Thank you, my +worthy man. Thanks, my bonny young lass--I hope your sweetheart will +soon be back from the wars. Thank you all, my 'very worthy and +approved good masters,' and a fair harvest to you!" + +He bowed them away, in a dignified and graceful manner, still +standing on the hay-cart. The honest folk trooped off, having no +more time to waste, and left the field in possession of Mr. Charles, +his co-mate, and ourselves; whom I do not think he had as yet +noticed. + +He descended from the cart. His companion burst into roars of +laughter; but Charles looked grave. + +"Poor, honest souls!" said he, wiping his brows--I am not sure that +it was only his brows--"Hang me if I'll be at this trick again, +Yates." + +"It was a trick then, sir," said John, advancing. "I am sorry for +it." + +"So am I, young man," returned the other, no way disconcerted; +indeed, he seemed a person whose frank temper nothing could +disconcert. "But starvation is--excuse me,--unpleasant; and +necessity has no law. It is of vital consequence that I should reach +Coltham to-night; and after walking twenty miles one cannot easily +walk ten more, and afterwards appear as Macbeth to an admiring +audience." + +"You are an actor?" + +"I am, please your worship-- + + 'A poor player, + That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, + And then is seen no more.'" + +There was inexpressible pathos in his tone, and his fine face looked +thin and worn--it did not take much to soften both John's feelings +and mine towards the "poor player." Besides, we had lately been +studying Shakspeare, who for the first time of reading generally +sends all young people tragedy-mad. + +"You acted well to-day," said John; "all the folk here took you for a +methodist preacher." + +"Yet I never meddled with theology--only common morality. You cannot +say I did." + +John thought a moment, and then answered-- + +"No. But what put the scheme into your head?" + +"The fact that, under a like necessity, the same amusing play was +played out here years ago, as I told you, by John Philip--no, I will +not conceal his name, the greatest actor and the truest gentleman our +English stage has ever seen--John Philip Kemble." + +And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard--at +least John had--of this wonderful man. + +I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles's society was strongly upon him. +It was no wonder. More brilliant, more versatile talent I never saw. +He turned "from grave to gay, from lively to severe"--appearing in +all phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world. +And neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, all +so irresistibly alluring at our age. + +I say OUR, because though I followed where he led, I always did it of +my own will likewise. + +The afternoon began to wane, while we, with our two companions, yet +sat talking by the brook-side. Mr. Charles had washed his face, and +his travel-sore, blistered feet, and we had induced him, and the man +he called Yates, to share our remnants of bread and cheese. + +"Now," he said, starting up, "I am ready to do battle again, even +with the Thane of Fife--who, to-night, is one Johnson, a fellow of +six feet and twelve stone. What is the hour, Mr. Halifax?" + +"Mr. Halifax"--(I felt pleased to hear him for the first time so +entitled)--had, unfortunately, no watch among his worldly +possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near guess +by calculating the position of his unfailing time-piece, the sun.--It +was four o'clock. + +"Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentlemen? Surely you +would not lose such a rare treat as 'Macbeth,' with--I will not say +my humble self--but with that divine Siddons. Such a woman! +Shakspeare himself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You will +join us?" + +John made a silent, dolorous negative; as he had done once or twice +before, when the actor urged us to accompany him to Coltham for a few +hours only--we might be back by midnight, easily. + +"What do you think, Phineas?" said John, when we stood in the +high-road, waiting for the coach; "I have money--and--we have so +little pleasure--we would send word to your father. Do you think it +would be wrong?" + +I could not say; and to this minute, viewing the question nakedly in +a strict and moral sense, I cannot say either whether or no it was an +absolute crime; therefore, being accustomed to read my wrong or right +in "David's" eyes, I remained perfectly passive. + +We waited by the hedge-side for several minutes--Mr. Charles ceased +his urging, half in dudgeon, save that he was too pleasant a man +really to take offence at anything. His conversation was chiefly +directed to me. John took no part therein, but strolled about +plucking at the hedge. + +When the stage appeared down the winding of the road I was utterly +ignorant of what he meant us to do, or if he had any definite purpose +at all. + +It came--the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook hands with us +and mounted--paying his own fare and that of Yates with their handful +of charity-pennies, which caused a few minutes' delay in counting, +and a great deal of good-humoured joking, as good-humouredly borne. + +Meanwhile, John put his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hard +into my face--his was slightly flushed and excited, I thought. + +"Phineas, are you tired?" + +"Not at all." + +"Do you feel strong enough to go to Coltham? Would it do you no +harm? Would you LIKE to go?" + +To all these hurried questions I answered with as hurried an +affirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked to go. + +"It is only for once--your father would not grudge us the pleasure, +and he is too busy to be out of the tan-yard before midnight. We +will be home soon after then, if I carry you on my back all the ten +miles. Come, mount, we'll go." + +"Bravo!" cried Mr. Charles, and leaned over to help me up the coach's +side. John followed, and the crisis was past. + +But I noticed that for several miles he hardly spoke one word. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Near as we lived to Coltham, I had only been there once in my life; +but John Halifax knew the town pretty well, having latterly in +addition to his clerkship been employed by my father in going about +the neighbourhood buying bark. I was amused when the coach stopped +at an inn, which bore the ominous sign of the "Fleece," to see how +well accustomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. He +deported himself with perfect self-possession; the waiter served him +respectfully. He had evidently taken his position in the world--at +least, our little world--he was no longer a boy, but a man. I was +glad to see it; leaving everything in his hands, I lay down where he +placed me in the inn parlour, and watched him giving his orders and +walking about. Sometimes I thought his eyes were restless and +unquiet, but his manner was as composed as usual. + +Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee-house Yard, +where the theatre then was. + +"A poor barn-like place, I believe," said John, stopping in his walk +up and down the room to place my cushions more easy; "they should +build a new one, now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionable +town. I wish I could take you to see the "Well-walk," with all the +fine people promenading. But you must rest, Phineas." + +I consented, being indeed rather weary. + +"You will like to see Mrs. Siddons, whom we have so often talked +about? She is not young now, Mr. Charles says, but magnificent +still. She first came out in this same theatre more than twenty +years ago. Yates saw her. I wonder, Phineas, if your father ever +did." + +"Oh, no my father would not enter a play-house for the world." + +"What!" + +"Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know he did not bring +me up in the Society, and its restrictions are not binding upon me." + +"True, true." And he resumed his walk, but not his cheerfulness. +"If it were myself alone, now, of course what I myself hold to be a +lawful pleasure I have a right to enjoy; or, if not, being yet a lad +and under a master--well, I will bear the consequences," added he, +rather proudly; "but to share them--Phineas," turning suddenly to me, +"would you like to go home?--I'll take you." + +I protested earnestly against any such thing; told him I was sure we +were doing nothing wrong--which was, indeed, my belief; entreated him +to be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeded so well, that in a few +minutes we had started in a flutter of gaiety and excitement for +Coffee-house Yard. + +It was a poor place--little better than a barn, as Mr. Charles had +said--built in a lane leading out of the principal street. This lane +was almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sorts +of equipages, from the coach-and-six to the sedan-chair, mingled with +a motley crowd on foot, all jostling, fighting, and screaming, till +the place became a complete bear-garden. + +"Oh, John! take care!" and I clung to his arm. + +"Never mind! I'm big enough and strong enough for any crowd. Hold +on, Phineas." If I had been a woman, and the woman that he loved, he +could not have been more tender over my weakness. The physical +weakness--which, however humiliating to myself, and doubtless +contemptible in most men's eyes--was yet dealt by the hand of Heaven, +and, as such, regarded by John only with compassion. + +The crowd grew denser and more formidable. I looked beyond it, up +towards the low hills that rose in various directions round the town; +how green and quiet they were, in the still June evening! I only +wished we were safe back again at Norton Bury. + +But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a sedan-chair +was borne through--or attempted to be--for the effort failed. There +was a scuffle, one of the bearers was knocked down and hurt. Some +cried "shame!" others seemed to think this incident only added to the +frolic. At last, in the midst of the confusion, a lady put her head +out of the sedan and gazed around her. + +It was a remarkable countenance; once seen, you could never forget +it. Pale, rather large and hard in outline, an aquiline nose--full, +passionate, yet sensitive lips--and very dark eyes. She spoke, and +the voice belonged naturally to such a face. "Good people, let me +pass--I am Sarah Siddons." + +The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving set up a cheer that +must have rang through all the town. There was a minute's pause, +while she bowed and smiled--such a smile!--and then the sedan curtain +closed. + +"Now's the time--only hold fast to me!" whispered John, as he sprang +forward, dragging me after him. In another second he had caught up +the pole dropped by the man who was hurt; and before I well knew what +we were about we both stood safe inside the entrance of the theatre. + +Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers--a most +simple action--but so elevated in the doing that even it, I thought, +could not bring her to the level of common humanity. The tall, +cloaked, and hooded figure, and the tones that issued thence, made +her, even in that narrow passage, under the one flaring +tallow-candle, a veritable Queen of tragedy--at least so she seemed +to us two. + +The one man was paid--over-paid, apparently, from his thankfulness-- +and she turned to John Halifax. + +"I regret, young man, that you should have had so much trouble. Here +is some requital." + +He took the money, selected from it one silver coin, and returned the +rest. + +"I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that I once had +the honour of being useful to Mrs. Siddons." + +She looked at him keenly, out of her wonderful dark eyes, then +curtsied with grave dignity--"I thank you, sir," she said, and passed +on. + +A few minutes after some underling of the theatre found us out and +brought us, "by Mrs. Siddons' desire," to the best places the house +could afford. + +It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when I look back +upon it my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, it was a glorious +night! + +Before the curtain rose we had time to glance about us on that scene, +to both entirely new--the inside of a theatre. Shabby and small as +the place was, it was filled with all the beau monde of Coltham, +which then, patronized by royalty, rivalled even Bath in its fashion +and folly. Such a dazzle of diamonds and spangled turbans and +Prince-of-Wales' plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which was +then in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to +the stately silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by the +prim and decent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun to +flaunt in the French fashions of flimsy muslins, shortwaisted-- +narrow-skirted. These we had already heard Jael furiously inveighing +against: for Jael, Quakeress as she was, could not quite smother her +original propensity towards the decoration of "the flesh," and +betrayed a suppressed but profound interest in the same. + +John and I quite agreed with her, that it was painful to see gentle +English girls clad, or rather un-clad, after the fashion of our +enemies across the Channel; now, unhappy nation! sunk to zero in +politics, religion, and morals--where high-bred ladies went about +dressed as heathen goddesses, with bare arms and bare sandalled feet, +gaining none of the pure simplicity of the ancient world, and losing +all the decorous dignity of our modern times. + +We two--who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for womanhood in its +most ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I believe, were, in our +ignorance, expecting to behold in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or +a Desdemona--felt no particular attraction towards the ungracefully +attired, flaunting, simpering belles of Coltham. + +But--the play began. + +I am not going to follow it: all the world has heard of the Lady +Macbeth of Mrs. Siddons. This, the first and last play I ever +witnessed, stands out to my memory, after more than half a century, +as clear as on that night. Still I can see her in her first scene, +"reading a letter"--that wondrous woman, who, in spite of her modern +black velvet and point lace, did not act, but WAS, Lady Macbeth: +still I hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sent +an involuntary shudder through the house, as if supernatural things +were abroad--"THEY MADE THEMSELVES--AIR!" And still there quivers +through the silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken--"ALL +THE PERFUMES OF ARABIA WILL NEVER SWEETEN THIS LITTLE HAND!" + +Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on her +every breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But they +have whirled on--whirled her away with them into the infinite, and +into earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation only +smiles at the traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw +her. For me, I shall go down to the grave worshipping her still. + +Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I both +smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued +into that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet +I believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea +with that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during +the first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the +opportunity of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the +paraphernalia of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of +Cawdor aught else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I +never saw him after that night. He is still living--may his old age +have been as peaceful as his youth was kind and gay! + +The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but we +would not stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, both +in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying +me. Then we paused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted +by one of the half-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried to +regain our mental equilibrium. + +John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he bared +it to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was very +pale, I saw. + +"John?" + +He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "What did you say? Are +you cold?" + +"No." He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me, nevertheless. + +"Well," said he, after a pause, "we have had our pleasure, and it is +over. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder what +o'clock it is?" + +He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly over the +silent town. I counted the strokes--ELEVEN! + +Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Until +this minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven o'clock! How +should we get home to Norton Bury that night? + +For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; my limbs +almost sank under me. + +"What must we do, John?" + +"Do! oh! 'tis quite easy. You cannot walk--you shall not walk--we +must hire a gig and drive home. I have enough money--all my month's +wages--see!" He felt in his pockets one after the other; his +countenance grew blank. "Why! where is my money gone to?" + +Where, indeed! But that it was gone, and irretrievably--most likely +stolen when we were so wedged in the crowd--there could be no manner +of doubt. And I had not a groat. I had little use for money, and +rarely carried any. + +"Would not somebody trust us?" suggested I. + +"I never asked anybody for credit in my life--and for a horse and +gig--they'd laugh at me. Still--yes--stay here a minute, and I'll +try." + +He came back, though not immediately, and took my arm with a reckless +laugh. + +"It's of no use, Phineas--I'm not so respectable as I thought. +What's to be done?" + +Ay! what indeed! Here we were, two friendless youths, with not a +penny in our pockets, and ten miles away from home. How to get +there, and at midnight too, was a very serious question. We +consulted a minute, and then John said firmly: + +"We must make the best of it and start. Every instant is precious. +Your father will think we have fallen into some harm. Come, Phineas, +I'll help you on." + +His strong, cheery voice, added to the necessity of the +circumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his arm, and we +marched on bravely through the shut-up town, and for a mile or two +along the high-road leading to Norton Bury. There was a cool fresh +breeze: and I often think one can walk so much further by night than +by day. For some time, listening to John's talk about the stars--he +had lately added astronomy to the many things he tried to learn--and +recalling with him all that we had heard and seen this day, I hardly +felt my weariness. + +But gradually it grew upon me; my pace lagged slower and slower--even +the scented air of the midsummer-night imparted no freshness. John +wound his young arm, strong and firm as iron, round my waist, and we +got on awhile in that way. + +"Keep up, Phineas. There's a hayrick near. I'll wrap you in my +coat, and you shall rest there: an hour or two will not matter now-- +we shall get home by daybreak." + +I feebly assented; but it seemed to me that we never should get home- +-at least I never should. For a short way more, I dragged myself--or +rather, was dragged--along; then the stars, the shadowy fields, and +the winding, white high-road mingled and faded from me. I lost all +consciousness. + +When I came to myself I was lying by a tiny brook at the roadside, my +head resting on John's knees. He was bathing my forehead: I could +not see him, but I heard his smothered moan. + +"David, don't mind. I shall be well directly." + +"Oh! Phineas--Phineas; I thought I had killed you." + +He said no more; but I fancied that under cover of the night he +yielded to what his manhood might have been ashamed of--yet need not- +-a few tears. + +I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. "Why, it is +daybreak! How far are we from Norton Bury?" + +"Not very far. Don't stir a step. I shall carry you." + +"Impossible!" + +"Nonsense; I have done it for half-a-mile already. Come, mount! I +am not going to have Jonathan's death laid at David's door." + +And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. What strength +supported him I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me--with many +rests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile +or so--the whole way to Norton Bury. + +The light broadened and broadened. When we reached my father's door, +haggard and miserable, it was in the pale sunshine of a summer +morning. + +"Thank God!" murmured John, as he set me down at the foot of the +steps. "You are safe at home." + +"And you. You will come in--you would not leave me now?" + +He thought a moment--then said, "No!" + +We looked up doubtfully at the house; there were no watchers there. +All the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment +were taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Bury +households. Even John's loud knocking was some time before it was +answered. + +I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five awful minutes +seemed interminable. I could not have borne them, save for John's +voice in my ear. + +"Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolute +sin, and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!" + +At the five minutes' end my father opened the door. He was dressed +as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or had +suffered any anxiety, I never found out. + +He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed it +behind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. It +was so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains to +tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last place +a Friend's son ought to be seen--the play-house. We knew that it was +by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my +father--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard +daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question-- + +"Phineas, where hast thee been?" + +John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. It was my fault. +He went because I wished to go." + +"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?" + +"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, were +you never young like me?" + +My father made no reply; John gathered courage. + +"It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong--I think +now that it was--but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull; +I long sometimes for a little amusement--a little change." + +"Thee shall have it." + +That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb. + +"And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?" + +"Not a day--not an hour! it was a sudden freak of mine." (My father +shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) "Sir!--Abel Fletcher- +-did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe your +own son. Ask Phineas--No, no, ask him nothing!" And he came in +great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas! how +cruel I have been to you!" + +I tried to smile at him, being past speaking--but my father put John +aside. + +"Young man, _I_ can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead him +into harm's way any more. Go--I have been mistaken in thee!" + +If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us, +and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world +use! but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I have been mistaken in +thee!" was ten times worse. + +John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had ebbed away. + +"I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee! Thee seemed a lad to my +mind; I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, I meant to have +bound thee 'prentice to me, and in good time to have taken thee into +the business. Now--" + +There was silence. At last John muttered, in a low broken-hearted +voice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn my +living elsewhere; shall I?" + +Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh, +David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No--I do not wish that. At +least, not at present." + +I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart. John came over to me, +and we clasped hands. + +"John, you will not go?" + +"No, I will stay to redeem my character with your father. Be +content, Phineas--I won't part with you." + +"Young man, thou must," said my father, turning round. + +"But--" + +"I have said it, Phineas. I accuse him of no dishonesty, no crime, +but of weakly yielding, and selfishly causing another to yield, to +the temptation of the world. Therefore, as my clerk I retain him; as +my son's companion--never!" + +We felt that "never" was irrevocable. + +Yet I tried, blindly and despairingly, to wrestle with it; I might as +well have flung myself against a stone wall. + +John stood perfectly silent. + +"Don't, Phineas," he whispered at last; "never mind me. Your father +is right--at least so far as he sees. Let me go--perhaps I may come +back to you some time. If not--" + +I moaned out bitter words--I hardly knew what I was saying. My +father took no notice of them, only went to the door and called Jael. + +Then, before the woman came, I had strength enough to bid John go. + +"Good-bye--don't forget me, don't!" + +"I will not," he said; "and if I live we shall be friends again. +Good-bye, Phineas." He was gone. + +After that day, though he kept his word, and remained in the +tan-yard, and though from time to time I heard of him--always +accidentally,--after that day for two long years I never once saw the +face of John Halifax. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +It was the year 1800, long known in English households as "the dear +year." The present generation can have no conception of what a +terrible time that was--War, Famine, and Tumult stalking +hand-in-hand, and no one to stay them. For between the upper and +lower classes there was a great gulf fixed; the rich ground the faces +of the poor, the poor hated, yet meanly succumbed to, the rich. +Neither had Christianity enough boldly to cross the line of +demarcation, and prove, the humbler, that they were men,--the higher +and wiser, that they were gentlemen. + +These troubles, which were everywhere abroad, reached us even in our +quiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, personally, they touched me +not, or, at least, only kept fluttering like evil birds outside the +dear home-tabernacle, where I and Patience sat, keeping our solemn +counsel together--for these two years had with me been very hard. + +Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I was seldom told +of any worldly cares, still I often fancied things were going ill +both within and without our doors. Jael complained in an under-key +of stinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in +making ends meet: and my father's brow grew continually heavier, +graver, sterner; sometimes so stern that I dared not wage, what was, +openly or secretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence-- +the bringing back of John Halifax. + +He still remained my father's clerk--nay, I sometimes thought he was +even advancing in duties and trusts, for I heard of his being sent +long journeys up and down England to buy grain--Abel Fletcher having +added to his tanning business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazy +whirr was so familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these +journeys my father never spoke; indeed, he rarely mentioned John at +all. However he might employ and even trust him in business +relations, I knew that in every other way he was inexorable. + +And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No under-hand or +clandestine friendship would he admit--no, not even for my sake. I +knew quite well, that until he could walk in openly, honourably, +proudly, he never would re-enter my father's doors. Twice only he +had written to me--on my two birthdays--my father himself giving me +in silence the unsealed letters. They told me what I already was +sure of--that I held, and always should hold, my steadfast place in +his friendship. Nothing more. + +One other fact I noticed: that a little lad, afterward discovered to +be Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard-working lot of the lost +Bill, had somehow crept into our household as errand-boy, or +gardener's boy; and being "cute," and a "scholard," was greatly +patronized by Jael. I noticed, too, that the said Jem, whenever he +came in my way, in house or garden, was the most capital "little +foot-page" that ever invalid had; knowing intuitively all my needs, +and serving me with an unfailing devotion, which quite surprised and +puzzled me at the time. It did not afterwards. + +Summer was passing. People began to watch with anxious looks the +thin harvest-fields--as Jael often told me, when she came home from +her afternoon walks. "It was piteous to see them," she said; "only +July, and the quartern loaf nearly three shillings, and meal four +shillings a peck." + +And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for several days a +week the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sundays; for my father kept +his grain locked up, waiting for what, he wisely judged, might be a +worse harvest than the last. But Jael, though she said nothing, +often looked at the flour-mill and shook her head. And after one +market-day--when she came in rather "flustered," saying there had +been a mob outside the mill, until "that young man Halifax" had gone +out and spoken to them--she never once allowed me to take my rare +walk under the trees in the Abbey-yard; nor, if she could help it, +would she even let me sit watching the lazy Avon from the +garden-wall. + +One Sunday--it was the 1st of August, for my father had just come +back from meeting, very much later than usual, and Jael said he had +gone, as was his annual custom on that his wedding-day, to the +Friends' burial ground in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from her +own kindred and people, my poor young mother had been laid,--on this +one Sunday I began to see that things were going wrong. Abel +Fletcher sat at dinner wearing the heavy, hard look which had grown +upon his face not unmingled with the wrinkles planted by physical +pain. For, with all his temperance, he could not quite keep down his +hereditary enemy, gout; and this week it had clutched him pretty +hard. + +Dr. Jessop came in, and I stole away gladly enough, and sat for an +hour in my old place in the garden, idly watching the stretch of +meadow, pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, more as a pretty +bit in the landscape than as a fact of vital importance, in how many +places the half-ripe corn was already cut, and piled in +thinly-scattered sheaves over the fields. + +After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his household: +in the which, creeping humbly after the woman-kind, was now numbered +the lad Jem. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved by +the fact that his unlighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoon +tankard of ale sank from foam to flatness untouched. + +He first addressed Jael. "Woman, was it thee who cooked the dinner +to-day?" + +She gave a dignified affirmative. + +"Thee must give us no more such dinners. No cakes, no pastry +kickshaws, and only wheaten bread enough for absolute necessity. Our +neighbours shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour in his mill, +and plenty in his house, while there is famine abroad in the land. +So take heed." + +"I do take heed," answered Jael, staunchly. "Thee canst not say I +waste a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not pity the poor? On +First-day a woman cried after me about wasting good flour in starch-- +to-day, behold." + +And with a spasmodic bridling-up, she pointed to the bouffante which +used to stand up stiffly round her withered old throat, and stick out +in front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alike +departed; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and +yellowish muslin. Poor Jael! I knew this was the most heroic +personal sacrifice she could have made, yet I could not help smiling; +even my father did the same. + +"Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher?" cried she angrily. "Preach not +to others while the sin lies on thy own head." + +And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular intention, as +advancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where his +long-worn powder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age. +He bore the assault gravely and unshrinkingly, merely saying, "Woman, +peace!" + +"Nor while"--pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last and most +poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath--"while the poor folk be +starving in scores about Norton Bury, and the rich folk there will +not sell their wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel +Fletcher." + +My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience; and +then Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out of +the room, and tended her master as carefully as if she had not +insulted him. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, became +the quieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long +fit of pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at +last relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said to +me-- + +"Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I thought the +mill would make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wouldst +thee mind, my son, being left a little poor when I am gone?" + +"Father!" + +"Well, then, in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, as that lad +has advised and begged me to do these weeks past. He is a sharp lad, +and I am getting old. Perhaps he is right." + +"Who, father?" I asked, rather hypocritically. + +"Thee knowest well enough--John Halifax." + +I thought it best to say no more; but I never let go one thread of +hope which could draw me nearer to my heart's desire. + +On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as usual. I +spent the day in my bed-room, which looked over the garden, where I +saw nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over +the smooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, +of the Abbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or +even in the next street, was to me faint as dreams. + +At dinner-time I rose, went down-stairs, and waited for my father; +waited one, two, three hours. It was very strange. He never by any +chance overstayed his time, without sending a message home. So after +some consideration as to whether I dared encroach upon his formal +habits so much, and after much advice from Jael, who betrayed more +anxiety than was at all warranted by the cause she assigned, viz. the +spoiled dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to the tan-yard to see after +his master. + +He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tan-yard was +blocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, starved patience of our +Norton Bury poor had come to an end at last--they had followed the +example of many others. There was a bread-riot in the town. + +God only knows how terrible those "riots" were; when the people rose +in desperation, not from some delusion of crazy, blood-thirsty +"patriotism," but to get food for themselves, their wives, and +children. God only knows what madness was in each individual heart +of that concourse of poor wretches, styled "the mob," when every man +took up arms, certain that there were before him but two +alternatives, starving or--hanging. + +The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was not a large +place, and had always abundance of small-pox and fevers to keep the +poor down numerically. Jem said it was chiefly about our mill and +our tan-yard that the disturbance lay. + +"And where is my father?" + +Jem "didn't know," and looked very much as if he didn't care. + +"Jael, somebody must go at once, and find my father." + +"I am going," said Jael, who had already put on her cloak and hood. +Of course, despite all her opposition, I went too. + +The tan-yard was deserted; the mob had divided, and gone, one half to +our mill, the rest to another that was lower down the river. I asked +of a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was? +She thought he was gone for the "millingtary;" but Mr. Halifax was at +the mill now--she hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax. + +Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. I had not +been in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I did not know John had +come already to be called "Mr. Halifax." + +There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father returned. +He could not surely be so insane as to go to the mill--and John was +there. Terribly was my heart divided, but my duty lay with my +father. + +Jael sat down in the shed, or marched restlessly between the +tan-pits. I went to the end of the yard, and looked down towards the +mill. What a half-hour it was! + +At last, exhausted, I sat down on the bark heap where John and I had +once sat as lads. He must now be more than twenty; I wondered if he +were altered. + +"Oh, David! David!" I thought, as I listened eagerly for any sounds +abroad in the town; "what should I do if any harm came to thee?" + +This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it was not my +father's--it was firmer, quicker, younger. I sprang from the +barkheap. + +"Phineas!" + +"John!" + +What a grasp that was--both hands! and how fondly and proudly I +looked up in his face--the still boyish face. But the figure was +quite that of a man now. + +For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he let go my +hands, saying hurriedly-- + +"Where is your father?" + +"I wish I knew!--Gone for the soldiers, they say." + +"No, not that--he would never do that. I must go and look for him. +Good-bye." + +"Nay, dear John!" + +"Can't--can't," said he, firmly, "not while your father forbids. I +must go." And he was gone. + +Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him; marvelling how +it was that he who had never known his father should uphold so +sternly the duty of filial obedience. I think it ought to act as a +solemn warning to those who exact so much from the mere fact and name +of parenthood, without having in any way fulfilled its duties, that +orphans from birth often revere the ideal of that bond far more than +those who have known it in reality. Always excepting those children +to whose blessed lot it has fallen to have the ideal realized. + +In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tan-yard together. +He was talking earnestly, and my father was listening--ay, listening- +-and to John Halifax! But whatever the argument was, it failed to +move him. Greatly troubled, but staunch as a rock, my old father +stood, resting his lame foot on a heap of hides. I went to meet him. + +"Phineas," said John, anxiously, "come and help me. No, Abel +Fletcher," he added, rather proudly, in reply to a sharp, suspicious +glance at us both; "your son and I only met ten minutes ago, and have +scarcely exchanged a word. But we cannot waste time over that matter +now. Phineas, help me to persuade your father to save his property. +He will not call for the aid of the law, because he is a Friend. +Besides, for the same reason, it might be useless asking." + +"Verily!" said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile. + +"But he might get his own men to defend his property, and need not do +what he is bent on doing--go to the mill himself." + +"Surely," was all Abel Fletcher said, planting his oaken stick +firmly, as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the river-side, +in the direction of the mill. + +I caught his arm--"Father, don't go." + +"My son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," as I used +to call them--tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and +had settled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing could +afterwards alter one form, or erase one line--"My son, no opposition. +Any who try that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days +more I would have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the +quarter; now they shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom +another time. Get thee safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thou +likewise." + +But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father. + +"He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please God, I'll +take care no harm touches him--but you go home." + +That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brief +for argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father +and I followed him. For Jael, she disappeared. + +There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along the +river-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot it +was deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and +saw a number of men breaking down our garden wall. + +"They think he is gone home," whispered John; "we'll get in here the +safer. Quick, Phineas." + +We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, and +let us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that was +barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such +times. + +The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery +room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We +stood there a good while--it was the safest place, having no windows. +Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags +of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a +large fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives. + +"Oh! how could my father--" + +"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know." + +But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel +Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we +heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come. + +Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with +stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my +father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force +seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low +howl that reached us at times. + +"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!" + +"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!" + +"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father, +leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half +cheers of triumph, answered him from below. + +"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you--thank you, Mr. +Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last." + +"Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short. + +"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because it +was right." + +"Help me with this bag," was all the reply. + +It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, +nervous and strong. He hauled it up. + +"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On to +the window, I tell thee." + +"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot--oh, no!- +-you cannot mean that!" + +"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax." + +But John remained immovable. + +"I must do it myself, then;" and, in the desperate effort he made, +somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Tortured +into frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my old +father would not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemed +doubled and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half +through the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash +in the river below. + +Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of +the famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some +plunged into the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had +ceased--but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed +had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled +down the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, +or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there--but by the +mill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon +disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on +shore. Over even that they fought like demons. + +We could not look at them--John and I. He put his hand over his +eyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he was, I had never yet +heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight +that would move any one to cry for pity unto the Great Father of the +human family. + +Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that I +think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, +ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. +He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse. + +John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he listened in +silence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father. + +"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire the +mill next." + +"Let them." + +"Let them?--and Phineas is here!" + +My poor father! He rose at once. + +We got him down-stairs--he was very lame--his ruddy face all drawn +and white with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, or +utter a groan of complaint. + +The flour-mill was built on piles, in the centre of the narrow river. +It was only a few steps of bridge-work to either bank. The little +door was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite +shore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept +forth, and dashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had been +made from the mill to the tan-yard. + +"Will you take my arm? we must get on fast." + +"Home?" said my father, as John led him passively along. + +"No, sir, not home: they are there before you. Your life's not safe +an hour--unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it." + +Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held to +his principles still. + +"Then you must hide for a time--both of you. Come to my room. You +will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas--for your sake and his own." + +But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping more +tightly both John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in his +life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So, +after this long interval of time, I once more stood in Sally Watkins' +small attic; where, ever since I first brought him there, John +Halifax had lived. + +Sally knew not of our entrance; she was out, watching the rioters. +No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honour was safe as a rock. I knew +that in the smile with which he pulled off his cap to "Mr. Halifax." + +"Now," said John, hastily smoothing his bed, so that my father might +lie down, and wrapping his cloak round me--"you must both be very +still. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shall +bring you a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, Abel +Fletcher?" + +"Ay." It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respectfully, John +spoke, and how quietly my father answered. + +"And, Phineas"--he put his arm round my shoulder in his old way--"you +will take care of yourself. Are you any stronger than you used to +be?" + +I clasped his hand without reply. My heart melted to hear that +tender accent, so familiar once. All was happening for the best, if +it only gave me back David. + +"Now good-bye--I must be off." + +"Whither?" said my father, rousing himself. + +"To try and save the house and the tan-yard--I fear we must give up +the mill. No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run no risk: everybody +knows me. Besides, I am young. There! see after your father. I +shall come back in good time." + +He grasped my hands warmly--then unloosed them; and I heard his step +descending the staircase. The room seemed to darken when he went +away. + +The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted with pain, lay +on the bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky over the housetops, +which met in the old angles, with the same blue peeps between. I +half forgot all the day's events--it seemed but two weeks, instead of +two years ago, that John and I had sat in this attic-window, conning +our Shakspeare for the first time. + +Ere twilight I examined John's room. It was a good deal changed; the +furniture was improved; a score of ingenious little contrivances made +the tiny attic into a cosy bed-chamber. One corner was full of +shelves, laden with books, chiefly of a scientific and practical +nature. John's taste did not lead him into the current literature of +the day: Cowper, Akenside, and Peter Pindar were alike indifferent +to him. I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare. + +He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts. There was +lying in the window a telescope--the cylinder made of pasteboard-- +into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted. A rough +telescope-stand, of common deal, stood on the ledge of the roof, from +which the field of view must have been satisfactory enough to the +young astronomer. Other fragments of skilful handiwork, chiefly +meant for machinery on a Lilliputian scale, were strewn about the +floor; and on a chair, just as he had left it that morning, stood a +loom, very small in size, but perfect in its neat workmanship, with a +few threads already woven, making some fabric not so very unlike +cloth. + +I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father was +awake, and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise. + +"The lad works hard," said he, half to himself. "He has useful hands +and a clear head." I smiled, but took no notice whatever. + +Evening began to close in--less peacefully than usual--over Norton +Bury; for, whenever I ventured to open the window, we heard unusual +and ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly. But +John was prudent, as well as brave: besides, "everybody knew him." +Surely he was safe. + +Faithfully, at supper-time, Jem entered. But he could tell us no +news; he had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of +"Mr. Halifax"--so he informed me. My father asked no questions--not +even about his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yet +beheld in fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food, +destroyed so wilfully--nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, if +I too harshly use the word; for I think, till the day of his death, +that cruel sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor +father. + +Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that "master was +looking sprack agin; and warn't this a tidy room, like?" + +I praised it; and supposed his mother was better off now? + +"Ay, she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent; and she sees 'un made +comfortable. Not that he wants much, being out pretty much all day." + +"What is he busy about of nights?" + +"Larning," said Jem, with an awed look. "He's terrible wise. But +for all that, sometimes he'll teach Charley and me a bit o' the +Readamadeasy." (Reading-made-easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupil +meant.) "He's very kind to we, and to mother too. Her says, that +her do, Mr. Halifax--" + +"Send the fellow away, Phineas," muttered my father, turning his face +to the wall. + +I obeyed. But first I asked, in a whisper, if Jem had any idea when +"Mr. Halifax" would be back? + +"He said, maybe not till morning. Them's bad folk about. He was +going to stop all night, either at your house or at the tan-yard, for +fear of a BLAZE." + +The word made my father start; for in these times well we knew what +poor folk meant by "a blaze." + +"My house--my tan-yard--I must get up this instant--help me. He +ought to come back--that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men at +hand--Wilkes, and Johnson, and Jacob Baines--I say, Phineas--but thee +know'st nothing." + +He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, +sick with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed. + +"Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting as +helpless as thee." + +So we kept watch together, all the night through; sometimes dozing, +sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of +the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some +incendiary fire--doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my +father mutter something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. +I only prayed. + +Thus the night wore away. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +After Midnight--I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by +the Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out--after midnight I heard +by my father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see +it for his sake, and also for another reason. + +I could not sleep--all my faculties were preternaturally alive; my +weak body and timid mind became strong and active, able to compass +anything. For that one night, at least, I felt myself a man. + +My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing would disturb him +till daylight; therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him, +and crept down-stairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, +only the faithful warder, Jem, dozed over the dull fire. I touched +him on the shoulder--at which he collared me and nearly knocked me +down. + +"Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas--hope I didn't hurt 'ee, sir?" cried he, all +but whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the most +tender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought it were some of them +folk that Mr. Halifax ha' gone among." + +"Where is Mr. Halifax?" + +"Doan't know, sir--wish I did! wouldn't be long a finding out, +though--on'y he says: 'Jem, you stop 'ere wi' they'" (pointing his +thumb up the staircase). "So, Master Phineas, I stop." + +And Jem settled himself with a doggedly obedient, but most +dissatisfied air down by the fire-place. It was evident nothing +would move him thence: so he was as safe a guard over my poor old +father's slumber as the mastiff in the tan-yard, who was as brave as +a lion and as docile as a child. My last lingering hesitation ended. + +"Jem, lend me your coat and hat--I'm going out into the town." + +Jem was so astonished, that he stood with open mouth while I took the +said garments from him, and unbolted the door. At last it seemed to +occur to him that he ought to intercept me. + +"But, sir, Mr. Halifax said--" + +"I am going to look for Mr. Halifax." + +And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal duty did not +strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the door-sill, and gazed after +me with a hopeless expression. + +"I s'pose you mun have your way, sir; but Mr. Halifax said, 'Jem, you +stop y'ere,'--and y'ere I stop." + +He went in, and I heard him bolting the door, with a sullen +determination, as if he would have kept guard against it--waiting for +John--until doomsday. + +I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very silent--I +need not have borrowed Jem's exterior, in order to creep through a +throng of maddened rioters. There was no sign of any such, except +that under one of the three oil-lamps that lit the night-darkness at +Norton Bury lay a few smouldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, +then, had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction--fire. Had +my terrors been true? Our house--and perhaps John within it! + +On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur, which I fancied I heard; but +still there was no one in the street--no one except the +Abbey-watchman lounging in his box. I roused him, and asked if all +was safe?--where were the rioters? + +"What rioters?" + +"At Abel Fletcher's mill; they may be at his house now--" + +"Ay, I think they be." + +"And will not one man in the town help him; no constables--no law?" + +"Oh! he's a Quaker; the law don't help Quakers." + +That was the truth--the hard, grinding truth--in those days. +Liberty, justice, were idle names to Nonconformists of every kind; +and all they knew of the glorious constitution of English law was +when its iron hand was turned against them. + +I had forgotten this; bitterly I remembered it now. So wasting no +more words, I flew along the church-yard, until I saw, shining +against the boles of the chestnut-trees, a red light. It was one of +the hempen torches. Now, at last, I had got in the midst of that +small body of men, "the rioters." + +They were a mere handful--not above two score--apparently the relics +of the band which had attacked the mill, joined with a few plough- +lads from the country around. But they were desperate; they had come +up the Coltham road so quietly, that, except this faint murmur, +neither I nor any one in the town could have told they were near. +Wherever they had been ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my +father's house; it stood up on the other side the road--barred, +black, silent. + +I heard a muttering--"Th' old man bean't there."--"Nobody knows where +he be." No, thank God! + +"Be us all y'ere?" said the man with the torch, holding it up so as +to see round him. It was well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. +But no one noticed me, except one man, who skulked behind a tree, and +of whom I was rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching. + +"Ready, lads? Now for the rosin! Blaze 'un out." + +But, in the eager scuffle, the torch, the only one alight, was +knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, though whose +fault it was no one seemed to know; but I missed my man from behind +the tree--nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to +the nearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our +own railings. He looked round to see if none were by, and then +sprang over the gate. Dark as it was I thought I recognized him. + +"John?" + +"Phineas?" He was beside me in a bound. "How could you do--" + +"I could do anything to-night. But you are safe; no one has harmed +you. Oh, thank God, you are not hurt!" + +And I clung to his arm--my friend, whom I had missed so long, so +sorely. + +He held me tight--his heart felt as mine, only more silently. + +"Now, Phineas, we have a minute's time. I must have you safe--we +must get into the house." + +"Who is there?" + +"Jael; she is as good as a host of constables; she has braved the +fellows once to-night, but they're back again, or will be directly." + +"And the mill?" + +"Safe, as yet; I have had three of the tan-yard men there since +yesterday morning, though your father did not know. I have been +going to and fro all night, between there and here, waiting till the +rioters should come back from the Severn mills. Hist!--here they +are--I say, Jael?" + +He tapped at the window. In a few seconds Jael had unbarred the +door, let us in, and closed it again securely, mounting guard behind +it with something that looked very like my father's pistols, though I +would not discredit her among our peaceful society by positively +stating the fact. + +"Bravo!" said John, when we stood all together in the barricaded +house, and heard the threatening murmur of voices and feet outside. +"Bravo, Jael! The wife of Heber the Kenite was no braver woman than +you." + +She looked gratified, and followed John obediently from room to room. + +"I have done all as thee bade me--thee art a sensible lad, John +Halifax. We are secure, I think." + +Secure? bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was threatening +us now. + +"They can't mean it--surely they can't mean it," repeated John, as +the cry of "Burn 'un out!" rose louder and louder. + +But they did mean it. From the attic window we watched them light +torch after torch, sometimes throwing one at the house,--but it fell +harmless against the staunch oaken door, and blazed itself out on our +stone steps. All it did was to show more plainly than even daylight +had shown, the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces, furious with +famine. + +John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight. + +"I'll speak to them," he said. "Unbar the window, Jael;" and before +I could hinder, he was leaning right out. "Holloa, there!" + +At his loud and commanding voice a wave of up-turned faces surged +forward, expectant. + +"My men, do you know what you are about? To burn down a gentleman's +house is--hanging." + +There was a hush, and then a shout of derision. + +"Not a Quaker's! nobody'll get hanged for burning out a Quaker!" + +"That be true enough," muttered Jael between her teeth. "We must +e'en fight, as Mordecai's people fought, hand to hand, until they +slew their enemies." + +"Fight!" repeated John, half to himself, as he stood at the now- +closed window, against which more than one blazing torch began to +rattle. "Fight--with these?--What are you doing, Jael?" + +For she had taken down a large Book--the last Book in the house she +would have taken under less critical circumstances, and with it was +trying to stop up a broken pane. + +"No, my good Jael, not this;" and he carefully replaced the volume; +that volume, in which he might have read, as day after day, and year +after year, we Christians generally do read, such plain words as +these--"Love your enemies;" "bless them that curse you;" "pray for +them that despitefully use you and persecute you." + +A minute or two John stood with his hand on the Book, thinking. Then +he touched me on the shoulder. + +"Phineas, I'm going to try a new plan--at least, one so old, that +it's almost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you'll bear me witness +to your father that I did it for the best, and did it because I +thought it right. Now for it." + +To my horror, he threw up the window wide, and leant out. + +"My men, I want to speak to you." + +He might as well have spoken to the roaring sea. The only answer was +a shower of missiles, which missed their aim. The rioters were too +far off--our spiked iron railings, eight feet high or more, being a +barrier which none had yet ventured to climb. But at length one +random stone hit John on the chest. + +I pulled him in, but he declared he was not hurt. Terrified, I +implored him not to risk his life. + +"Life is not always the first thing to be thought of," said he, +gently. "Don't be afraid--I shall come to no harm. But I MUST do +what I think right, if it is to be done." + +While he spoke, I could hardly hear him for the bellowings outside. +More savage still grew the cry-- + +"Burn 'em out! burn 'em out! They be only Quakers!" + +"There's not a minute to lose--stop--let me think--Jael, is that a +pistol?" + +"Loaded," she said, handing it over to him with a kind of stern +delight. Certainly, Jael was not meant to be a Friend. + +John ran down-stairs, and before I guessed his purpose, had unbolted +the hall-door, and stood on the flight of steps, in full view of the +mob. + +There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. A pillar +sheltered me--I do not think he saw me, though I stood close behind +him. + +So sudden had been his act, that even the rioters did not seem to +have noticed, or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch +showed them the young man standing there, with his back to the door-- +OUTSIDE the door. + +The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for the moment he +was safe. They were awed--nay, paralyzed, by his daring. + +But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for one brief +minute. A confusion of voices burst out afresh-- + +"Who be thee?"--"It's one o' the Quakers."--"No, he bean't."--"Burn +'un, anyhow."--"Touch 'un, if ye dare." + +There was evidently a division arising. One big man, who had made +himself very prominent all along, seemed trying to calm the tumult. + +John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him--he stooped and +picked it up. I thought he was going to hurl it back again, but he +did not; he only threw it down, and stamped it out safely with his +foot. This simple action had a wonderful effect on the crowd. + +The big fellow advanced to the gate and called John by his name. + +"Is that you, Jacob Baines? I am sorry to see you here." + +"Be ye, sir." + +"What do you want?" + +"Nought wi' thee. We wants Abel Fletcher. Where is 'um?" + +"I shall certainly not tell you." + +As John said this again the noise arose, and again Jacob Baines +seemed to have power to quiet the rest. + +John Halifax never stirred. Evidently he was pretty well known. I +caught many a stray sentence, such as "Don't hurt the lad."--"He were +kind to my lad, he were."--"No, he be a real gentleman."--"No, he +comed here as poor as us," and the like. At length one voice, sharp +and shrill, was heard above the rest. + +"I zay, young man, didst ever know what it was to be pretty nigh +vamished?" + +"Ay, many a time." + +The answer, so brief, so unexpected, struck a great hush into the +throng. Then the same voice cried-- + +"Speak up, man! we won't hurt 'ee! You be one o' we!" + +"No, I am not one of you. I'd be ashamed to come in the night and +burn my master's house down." + +I expected an outbreak, but none came. They listened, as it were by +compulsion, to the clear, manly voice that had not in it one shade of +fear. + +"What do you do it for?" John continued. "All because he would not +sell you, or give you, his wheat. Even so--it was HIS wheat, not +yours. May not a man do what he likes with his own?" + +The argument seemed to strike home. There is always a lurking sense +of rude justice in a mob--at least a British mob. + +"Don't you see how foolish you were?--You tried threats, too. Now +you all know Mr. Fletcher; you are his men--some of you. He is not a +man to be threatened." + +This seemed to be taken rather angrily; but John went on speaking, as +if he did not observe the fact. + +"Nor am I one to be threatened, neither. Look here--the first one of +you who attempted to break into Mr. Fletcher's house I should most +certainly have shot. But I'd rather not shoot you, poor, starving +fellows! I know what it is to be hungry. I'm sorry for you--sorry +from the bottom of my heart." + +There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor the murmur +which followed it. + +"But what must us do, Mr. Halifax?" cried Jacob Baines: "us be +starved a'most. What's the good o' talking to we?" + +John's countenance relaxed. I saw him lift his head and shake his +hair back, with that pleased gesture I remember so well of old. He +went down to the locked gate. + +"Suppose I gave you something to eat, would you listen to me +afterwards?" + +There arose up a frenzied shout of assent. Poor wretches! they were +fighting for no principle, true or false, only for bare life. They +would have bartered their very souls for a mouthful of bread. + +"You must promise to be peaceable," said John again, very resolutely, +as soon as he could obtain a hearing. "You are Norton Bury folk, I +know you. I could get every one of you hanged, even though Abel +Fletcher is a Quaker. Mind, you'll be peaceable?" + +"Ay--ay! Some'at to eat; give us some'at to eat." + +John Halifax called out to Jael; bade her bring all the food of every +kind that there was in the house, and give it to him out of the +parlour-window. She obeyed--I marvel now to think of it--but she +implicitly obeyed. Only I heard her fix the bar to the closed front +door, and go back, with a strange, sharp sob, to her station at the +hall-window. + +"Now, my lads, come in!" and he unlocked the gate. + +They came thronging up the steps, not more than two score, I +imagined, in spite of the noise they had made. But two score of such +famished, desperate men, God grant I may never again see! + +John divided the food as well as he could among them; they fell to it +like wild beasts. Meat, cooked or raw, loaves, vegetables, meal; all +came alike, and were clutched, gnawed, and scrambled for, in the +fierce selfishness of hunger. Afterwards there was a call for drink. + +"Water, Jael; bring them water." + +"Beer!" shouted some. + +"Water," repeated John. "Nothing but water. I'll have no drunkards +rioting at my master's door." + +And, either by chance or design, he let them hear the click of his +pistol. But it was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightier +weapon still--the best weapon a man can use--his own firm indomitable +will. + +At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. John told +them so; and they believed him. Little enough, indeed, was +sufficient for some of them; wasted with long famine, they turned +sick and faint, and dropped down even with bread in their mouths, +unable to swallow it. Others gorged themselves to the full, and then +lay along the steps, supine as satisfied brutes. Only a few sat and +ate like rational human beings; and there was but one, the little, +shrill-voiced man, who asked me if he might "tak a bit o' bread to +the old wench at home?" + +John, hearing, turned, and for the first time noticed me. + +"Phineas, it was very wrong of you; but there is no danger now." + +No, there was none--not even for Abel Fletcher's son. I stood safe +by John's side, very happy, very proud. + +"Well, my men," he said, looking round with a smile, "have you had +enough to eat?" + +"Oh, ay!" they all cried. + +And one man added--"Thank the Lord!" + +"That's right, Jacob Baines: and, another time, trust the Lord. You +wouldn't then have been abroad this summer morning"--and he pointed +to the dawn just reddening in the sky--"this quiet, blessed summer +morning, burning and rioting, bringing yourselves to the gallows, and +your children to starvation." + +"They be nigh that a'ready," said Jacob, sullenly. "Us men ha' +gotten a meal, thankee for it; but what'll become o' the little 'uns +at home? I say, Mr. Halifax," and he seemed waxing desperate again, +"we must get some food somehow." + +John turned away, his countenance very sad. Another of the men +plucked at him from behind. + +"Sir, when thee was a poor lad I lent thee a rug to sleep on; I +doan't grudge'ee getting on; you was born for a gentleman, sure-ly. +But Master Fletcher be a hard man." + +"And a just one," persisted John. "You that work for him, did he +ever stint you of a halfpenny? If you had come to him and said, +'Master, times are hard, we can't live upon our wages,' he might--I +don't say that he would--but he MIGHT even have given you the food +you tried to steal." + +"D'ye think he'd give it us now?" And Jacob Baines, the big, gaunt, +savage fellow, who had been the ringleader--the same, too, who had +spoken of his "little 'uns"--came and looked steadily in John's face. + +"I knew thee as a lad; thee'rt a young man now, as will be a father +some o' these days. Oh! Mr. Halifax, may'ee ne'er want a meal o' +good meat for the missus and the babbies at home, if ee'll get a bit +o' bread for our'n this day." + +"My man, I'll try." + +He called me aside, explained to me, and asked my advice and consent, +as Abel Fletcher's son, to a plan that had come into his mind. It +was to write orders, which each man presenting at our mill, should +receive a certain amount of flour. + +"Do you think your father would agree?" + +"I think he would." + +"Yes," John added, pondering--"I am sure he would. And besides, if +he does not give some, he may lose all. But he would not do it for +fear of that. No, he is a just man--I am not afraid. Give me some +paper, Jael." + +He sat down as composedly as if he had been alone in the +counting-house, and wrote. I looked over his shoulder, admiring his +clear, firm hand-writing; the precision, concentrativeness, and +quickness, with which he first seemed to arrange and then execute his +ideas. He possessed to the full that "business" faculty, so +frequently despised, but which, out of very ordinary material, often +makes a clever man; and without which the cleverest man alive can +never be altogether a great man. + +When about to sign the orders, John suddenly stopped. "No; I had +better not." + +"Why so?" + +"I have no right; your father might think it presumption." + +"Presumption? after to-night!" + +"Oh, that's nothing! Take the pen. It is your part to sign them, +Phineas." + +I obeyed. + +"Isn't this better than hanging?" said John to the men, when he had +distributed the little bits of paper--precious as pound-notes--and +made them all fully understand the same. "Why, there isn't another +gentleman in Norton Bury, who, if you had come to burn HIS house +down, would not have had the constables or the soldiers, have shot +down one-half of you like mad dogs, and sent the other half to the +county gaol. Now, for all your misdoings, we let you go quietly +home, well fed, and with food for children, too. WHY, think you?" + +"I don't know," said Jacob Baines, humbly. + +"I'll tell you. Because Abel Fletcher is a Quaker and a Christian." + +"Hurrah for Abel Fletcher! hurrah for the Quakers!" shouted they, +waking up the echoes down Norton Bury streets; which, of a surety, +had never echoed to THAT shout before. And so the riot was over. + +John Halifax closed the hall-door and came in--unsteadily-- +staggering. Jael placed a chair for him--worthy soul! she was wiping +her old eyes. He sat down, shivering, speechless. I put my hand on +his shoulder; he took it and pressed it hard. + +"Oh! Phineas, lad, I'm glad; glad it's safe over." + +"Yes, thank God!" + +"Ay, indeed; thank God!" + +He covered his eyes for a minute or two, then rose up pale, but quite +himself again. + +"Now let us go and fetch your father home." + +We found him on John's bed, still asleep. But as we entered he woke. +The daylight shone on his face--it looked ten years older since +yesterday--he stared, bewildered and angry, at John Halifax. + +"Eh, young man--oh! I remember. Where is my son--where's my +Phineas?" + +I fell on his neck as if I had been a child. And almost as if it had +been a child's feeble head, mechanically he smoothed and patted mine. + +"Thee art not hurt? Nor any one?" + +"No," John answered; "nor is either the house or the tan-yard +injured." + +He looked amazed. "How has that been?" + +"Phineas will tell you. Or, stay--better wait till you are at home." + +But my father insisted on hearing. I told the whole, without any +comments on John's behaviour; he would not have liked it; and, +besides, the facts spoke for themselves. I told the simple, plain +story--nothing more. + +Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence. As I proceeded he felt +about for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim close down over +his eyes. Not even when I told him of the flour we had promised in +his name, the giving of which would, as we had calculated, cost him +considerable loss, did he utter a word or move a muscle. + +John at length asked him if he were satisfied. + +"Quite satisfied " + +But, having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked together on +his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the +rigid mouth and chin--sat so long, so motionless, that we became +uneasy. + +John spoke to him gently, almost as a son would have spoken. + +"Are you very lame still? Could I help you to walk home?" + +My father looked up, and slowly held out his hand. + +"Thee hast been a good lad, and a kind lad to us; I thank thee." + +There was no answer, none. But all the words in the world could not +match that happy silence. + +By degrees we got my father home. It was just such another summer +morning as the one, two years back, when we two had stood, exhausted +and trembling, before that sternly-bolted door. We both thought of +that day: I knew not if my father did also. + +He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in the very seat, +in the very room, where he had so harshly judged us--judged him. + +Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young man's +spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold. + +"Come in," said my father, looking up. + +"If I am welcome; not otherwise." + +"Thee art welcome." + +He came in--I drew him in--and sat down with us. But his manner was +irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed nervously. My father, +too, sat leaning his head on his two hands, not unmoved. I stole up +to him, and thanked him softly for the welcome he had given. + +"There is nothing to thank me for," said he, with something of his +old hardness. "What I once did, was only justice--or I then believed +so. What I have done, and am about to do, is still mere justice. +John, how old art thee now?" + +"Twenty." + +"Then, for one year from this time I will take thee as my 'prentice, +though thee knowest already nearly as much of the business as I do. +At twenty-one thee wilt be able to set up for thyself, or I may take +thee into partnership--we'll see. But"--and he looked at me, then +sternly, nay, fiercely, into John's steadfast eyes--"remember, thee +hast in some measure taken that lad's place. May God deal with thee +as thou dealest with my son Phineas--my only son!" + +"Amen!" was the solemn answer. + +And God, who sees us both now--ay, NOW! and, perhaps, not so far +apart as some may deem--He knows whether or no John Halifax kept that +vow. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +"Well done, Phineas--to walk round the garden without once resting! +now I call that grand, after an individual has been ill a month. +However, you must calm your superabundant energies, and be quiet." + +I was not unwilling, for I still felt very weak. But sickness did +not now take that heavy, overpowering grip of me, mind and body, that +it once used to do. It never did when John was by. He gave me +strength, mentally and physically. He was life and health to me, +with his brave cheerfulness--his way of turning all minor troubles +into pleasantries, till they seemed to break and vanish away, +sparkling, like the foam on the top of the wave. Yet, all the while +one knew well that he could meet any great evil as gallantly as a +good ship meets a heavy sea--breasting it, plunging through it, or +riding over it, as only a good ship can. + +When I recovered--just a month after the bread-riot, and that month +was a great triumph to John's kind care--I felt that if I always had +him beside me I should never be ill any more; I said as much, in a +laughing sort of way. + +"Very well; I shall keep you to that bargain. Now, sit down; listen +to the newspaper, and improve your mind as to what the world is +doing. It ought to be doing something, with the new century it began +this year. Did it not seem very odd at first to have to write +'1800'?" + +"John, what a capital hand you write now!" + +"Do I! That's somebody's credit. Do you remember my first lesson on +the top of the Mythe?" + +"I wonder what has become of those two gentlemen?" + +"Oh! did you never hear? Young Mr. Brithwood is the 'squire now. He +married, last month, Lady Somebody Something, a fine lady from +abroad." + +"And Mr. March--what of him?" + +"I haven't the least idea. Come now, shall I read the paper?" + +He read well, and I liked to listen to him. It was, I remember, +something about "the spacious new quadrangles, to be called Russell +and Tavistock Squares, with elegantly laid out nursery-grounds +adjoining." + +"It must be a fine place, London." + +"Ay; I should like to see it. Your father says, perhaps he shall +have to send me, this winter, on business--won't that be fine? If +only you would go too." + +I shook my head. I had the strongest disinclination to stir from my +quiet home, which now held within it, or about it, all I wished for +and all I loved. It seemed as if any change must be to something +worse. + +"Nevertheless, you must have a change. Doctor Jessop insists upon +it. Here have I been beating up and down the country for a week +past--'Adventures in Search of a Country Residence'--and, do you +know, I think I've found one at last. Shouldn't you like to hear +about it?" + +I assented, to please him. + +"Such a nice, nice place, on the slope of Enderley Hill. A cottage-- +Rose Cottage--for it's all in a bush of cluster-roses, up to the very +roof." + +"Where is Enderley?" + +"Did you never hear of Enderley Flat, the highest tableland in +England? Such a fresh, free, breezy spot--how the wind sweeps over +it! I can feel it in my face still." + +And even the description was refreshing, this heavy, sultry day, with +not a breath of air moving across the level valley. + +"Shouldn't you like to live on a hill-side, to be at the top of +everything, overlooking everything? Well, that's Enderley: the +village lies just under the brow of the Flat." + +"Is there a village?" + +"A dozen cottages or so, at each door of which half-a-dozen white +little heads and a dozen round eyes appeared staring at me. But oh, +the blessed quiet and solitude of the place! No fights in filthy +alleys! no tan-yards--I mean"--he added, correcting himself--"it's a +thorough country spot; and I like the country better than the town." + +"Do you, still? Would you really like to take to the 'shepherd's +life and state,' upon which my namesake here is so eloquent? Let us +see what he says." + +And from the handful of books that usually lay strewn about wherever +we two sat, I took up one he had lately got, with no small pains I +was sure, and had had bound in its own proper colour, and presented +it to me--"The Purple Island," and "Sicelides," of Phineas Fletcher. +People seldom read this wise, tender, and sweet-voiced old fellow +now; so I will even copy the verses I found for John to read. + +"Here is the place. Thyrsis is just ending his 'broken lay.' + + 'Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay--'" + +"Stop a minute," interrupted John. "Apropos of 'stealing night,' the +sun is already down below the yew-hedge. Are you cold?" + +"Not a bit of it." + +"Then we'll begin:-- + + 'Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state: + When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!' + +That's not clear," said John, laying down the book. "Now I do like +poetry to be intelligible. A poet ought to see things more widely, +and express them more vividly, than ordinary folk." + +"Don't you perceive--he means the pawns on the chess-board--the +common people." + +"Phineas, don't say the common people--I'm a common person myself. +But to continue:-- + + 'His cottage low, and safely humble gate, + Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns: + No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep. + Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep, + Himself as innocent as are his quiet sheep.' + +(Not many sheep at Enderley, I fancy; the Flat chiefly abounds in +donkeys. Well--) + + 'No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread, + Drew out their silken lives--nor silken pride--' + +Which reminds me that--" + +"David, how can you make me laugh at our reverend ancestor in this +way? I'm ashamed of you." + +"Only let me tell you this one fact--very interesting, you'll allow-- +that I saw a silken gown hanging up in the kitchen at Rose Cottage. +Now, though Mrs. Tod is a decent, comely woman, I don't think it +belonged to her." + +"She may have lodgers." + +"I think she said she had--an old gentleman--but HE wouldn't wear a +silken gown." + +"His wife might. Now, do go on reading." + +"Certainly; I only wish to draw a parallel between Thyrsis and +ourselves in our future summer life at Enderley. So the old +gentleman's wife may appropriate the 'silken pride,' while we emulate +the shepherd. + + 'His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need--' + +I wear a tolerably good coat now, don't I, Phineas?" + +"You are incorrigible." + +Yet, through all his fun, I detected a certain under-tone of +seriousness, observable in him ever since my father's declaration of +his intentions concerning him, had, so to speak, settled John's +future career. He seemed aware of some crisis in his life, arrived +or impending, which disturbed the generally even balance of his +temperament. + +"Nay, I'll be serious;" and passing over the unfinished verse, with +another or two following, he began afresh, in a new place, and in an +altogether changed tone. + + "'His certain life, that never can deceive him, + Is full of thousand sweets and rich content; + The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him + With coolest shades till noon-tide's rage is spent; + His life is neither tost on boisterous seas + Of troublous worlds, nor lost in slothful ease. + Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. + + 'His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, + While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; + His little son into his bosom creeps, + The lively image of his father's face; + Never his humble house or state torment him, + Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; + And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him.'" + +John ceased. He was a good reader--but I had never heard him read +like this before. Ending, one missed it like the breaking of music, +or like the inner voice of one's own heart talking when nobody is by. + +"David," I said, after a pause, "what are you thinking about?" + +He started, with his old quick blush--"Oh, nothing--No, that's not +quite true. I was thinking that, so far as happiness goes, this +'shepherd's' is my ideal of a happy life--ay, down to the 'grassy +tomb.'" + +"Your fancy leaps at once to the grassy tomb; but the shepherd +enjoyed a few intermediate stages of felicity before that." + +"I was thinking of those likewise." + +"Then you do intend some day to have a 'faithful spouse and a little +son'?" + +"I hope so--God willing." + +It may seem strange, but this was the first time our conversation had +ever wandered in a similar direction. Though he was twenty and I +twenty-two--to us both--and I thank Heaven that we could both look up +in the face of Heaven and say so!--to us both, the follies and +wickednesses of youth were, if not equally unknown, equally and alike +hateful. Many may doubt, or smile at the fact; but I state it now, +in my old age, with honour and pride, that we two young men that day +trembled on the subject of love as shyly, as reverently, as +delicately, as any two young maidens of innocent sixteen. + +After John's serious "God willing," there was a good long silence. +Afterwards, I said-- + +"Then you propose to marry?" + +"Certainly! as soon as I can." + +"Have you ever--" and, while speaking, I watched him narrowly, for a +sudden possibility flashed across my mind--"Have you ever seen any +one whom you would like for your wife?" + +"No." + +I was satisfied. John's single "No" was as conclusive as a score of +asseverations. + +We said no more; but after one of those pauses of conversation which +were habitual to us--John used to say, that the true test of +friendship was to be able to sit or walk together for a whole hour in +perfect silence, without wearying of one another's company--we again +began talking about Enderley. + +I soon found, that in this plan, my part was simply acquiescence; my +father and John had already arranged it all. I was to be in charge +of the latter; nothing could induce Abel Fletcher to leave, even for +a day, his house, his garden, and his tan-yard. We two young men +were to set up for a month or two our bachelor establishment at Mrs. +Tod's: John riding thrice a-week over to Norton Bury to bring news +of me, and to fulfil his duties at the tan-yard. One could see plain +enough--and very grateful to me was the sight--that whether or no +Abel Fletcher acknowledged it, his right hand in all his business +affairs was the lad John Halifax. + +On a lovely August day we started for Enderley. It was about eight +miles off, on a hilly, cross-country road. We lumbered slowly along +in our post-chaise; I leaning back, enjoying the fresh air, the +changing views, and chiefly to see how intensely John enjoyed them +too. + +He looked extremely well to-day--handsome, I was about to write; but +John was never, even in his youth, "handsome." Nay, I have heard +people call him "plain"; but that was not true. His face had that +charm, perhaps the greatest, certainly the most lasting, either in +women or men--of infinite variety. You were always finding out +something--an expression strange as tender, or the track of a swift, +brilliant thought, or an indication of feeling different from, +perhaps deeper than, anything which appeared before. When you +believed you had learnt it line by line it would startle you by a +phase quite new, and beautiful as new. For it was not one of your +impassive faces, whose owners count it pride to harden into a mass of +stone those lineaments which nature made as the flesh and blood +representation of the man's soul. True, it had its reticences, its +sacred disguises, its noble powers of silence and self-control. It +was a fair-written, open book; only, to read it clearly, you must +come from its own country, and understand the same language. + +For the rest, John was decidedly like the "David" whose name I still +gave him now and then--"a goodly person;" tall, well-built, and +strong. "The glory of a young man is his strength;" and so I used +often to think, when I looked at him. He always dressed with extreme +simplicity; generally in grey, he was fond of grey; and in something +of our Quaker fashion. On this day, I remember, I noticed an +especial carefulness of attire, at his age neither unnatural nor +unbecoming. His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished +with the snowiest of lawn frills and ruffles; his knee-breeches, +black silk hose, and shoes adorned with the largest and brightest of +steel buckles, made up a costume, which, quaint as it would now +appear, still is, to my mind, the most suitable and graceful that a +young man can wear. I never see any young men now who come at all +near the picture which still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax +as he looked that day. + +Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially of youth +that has struggled up through so many opposing circumstances as his +had done, he noticed my glance. + +"Anything amiss about me, Phineas? You see I am not much used to +holidays and holiday clothes." + +"I have nothing to say against either you or your clothes," replied +I, smiling. + +"That's all right; I beg to state, it is entirely in honour of you +and of Enderley that I have slipped off my tan-yard husk, and put on +the gentleman." + +"You couldn't do that, John. You couldn't put on what you were born +with." + +He laughed--but I think he was pleased. + +We had now come into a hilly region. John leaped out and gained the +top of the steep road long before the post-chaise did. I watched him +standing, balancing in his hands the riding-whip which had replaced +the everlasting rose-switch, or willow-wand, of his boyhood. His +figure was outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown backward +a little, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest zest, on the breezy +flat before him. His hair--a little darker than it used to be, but +of the true Saxon colour still, and curly as ever--was blown about by +the wind, under his broad hat. His whole appearance was full of +life, health, energy, and enjoyment. + +I thought any father might have been proud of such a son, any sister +of such a brother, any young girl of such a lover. Ay, that last +tie, the only one of the three that was possible to him--I wondered +how long it would be before times changed, and I ceased to be the +only one who was proud of him. + +We drove on a little further, and came to the chief landmark of the +high moorland--a quaint hostelry, called the "Bear." Bruin swung +aloft pole in hand, brown and fierce, on an old-fashioned sign, as he +and his progenitors had probably swung for two centuries or more. + +"Is this Enderley?" I asked. + +"Not quite, but near it. You never saw the sea? Well, from this +point I can show you something very like it. Do you see that +gleaming bit in the landscape far away? That's water--that's our +very own Severn, swelled to an estuary. But you must imagine the +estuary--you can only get that tiny peep of water, glittering like a +great diamond that some young Titaness has flung out of her necklace +down among the hills." + +"David, you are actually growing poetical." + +"Am I? Well, I do feel rather strange to-day--crazy like; a high +wind always sends me half crazy with delight. Did you ever feel such +a breeze? And there's something so gloriously free in this high +level common--as flat as if my Titaness had found a little Mont +Blanc, and amused herself with patting it down like a dough-cake." + +"A very culinary goddess." + +"Yes! but a goddess after all. And her dough-cake, her mushroom, her +flattened Mont Blanc, is very fine. What a broad green sweep-- +nothing but sky and common, common and sky. This is Enderley Flat. +We shall come to its edge soon, where it drops abruptly into such a +pretty valley. There, look down--that's the church. We are on a +level with the top of its tower. Take care, my lad,"--to the +post-boy, who was crossing with difficulty the literally "pathless +waste."--"Don't lurch us into the quarry-pits, or topple us at once +down the slope, where we shall roll over and over--facilis descensus +Averni--and lodge in Mrs. Tod's garden hedge." + +"Mrs. Tod would feel flattered if she knew Latin. You don't look +upon our future habitation as a sort of Avernus?" + +John laughed merrily. "No, as I told you before, I like Enderley +Hill. I can't tell why, but I like it. It seems as if I had known +the place before. I feel as if we were going to have great happiness +here." + +And as he spoke, his unwonted buoyancy softened into a quietness of +manner more befitting that word "happiness." Strange word! hardly in +my vocabulary. Yet, when he uttered it, I seemed to understand it +and to be content. + +We wound a little way down the slope, and came in front of Rose +Cottage. It was well named. I never in my life had seen such a bush +of bloom. They hung in clusters--those roses--a dozen in a group; +pressing their pinky cheeks together in a mass of family fragrance, +pushing in at the parlour window, climbing up even to the very attic. +There was a yellow jasmine over the porch at one front door, and a +woodbine at the other; the cottage had two entrances, each distinct. +But the general impression it gave, both as to sight and scent, was +of roses--nothing but roses. + +"How are you, Mrs. Tod?" as a comely, middle-aged body appeared at +the right-hand doorway, dressed sprucely in one of those things Jael +called a "coat and jacket," likewise a red calamanco petticoat tucked +up at the pocket-holes. + +"I be pretty fair, sir--be you the same? The children ha' not +forgotten you--you see, Mr. Halifax." + +"So much the better!" and he patted two or three little white heads, +and tossed the youngest high up in the air. It looked very strange +to see John with a child in his arms. + +"Don't 'ee make more noise than 'ee can help, my lad," the good woman +said to our post-boy, "because, sir, the sick gentleman bean't so +well again to-day." + +"I am sorry for it. We would not have driven up to the door had we +known. Which is his room?" + +Mrs. Tod pointed to a window--not on our side of the house, but the +other. A hand was just closing the casement and pulling down the +blind--a hand which, in the momentary glimpse we had of it, seemed +less like a man's than a woman's. + +When we were settled in the parlour John noticed this fact. + +"It was the wife, most likely. Poor thing! how hard to be shut up +in-doors on such a summer evening as this!" + +It did seem a sad sight--that closed window, outside which was the +fresh, balmy air, the sunset, and the roses. + +"And how do you like Enderley?" asked John, when, tea being over, I +lay and rested, while he sat leaning his elbow on the window-sill, +and his cheek against a bunch of those ever-intruding, inquisitive +roses. + +"It is very, very pretty, and so comfortable--almost like home." + +"I feel as if it were home," John said, half to himself. "Do you +know, I can hardly believe that I have only seen this place once +before; it is so familiar. I seem to know quite well that slope of +common before the door, with its black dots of furze-bushes. And +that wood below; what a clear line its top makes against the yellow +sky! There, that high ground to the right; it's all dusky now, but +it is such a view by daylight. And between it and Enderley is the +prettiest valley, where the road slopes down just under those +chestnut-trees." + +"How well you seem to know the place already." + +"As I tell you, I like it. I hardly ever felt so content before. We +will have a happy time, Phineas." + +"Oh, yes!" How--even if I had felt differently--could I say anything +but "yes" to him then? + +I lay until it grew quite dark, and I could only see a dim shape +sitting at the window, instead of John's known face; then I bade him +good-night, and retired. Directly afterwards, I heard him, as I knew +he would, dash out of the house, and away up the Flat. In the deep +quiet of this lonely spot I could distinguish, for several minutes, +the diminishing sound of his footsteps along the loose, stony road; +and the notes, clear and shrill, of his whistling. I think it was +"Sally in our Alley," or some such pleasant old tune. At last it +faded far off, and I fell into sleep and dreams. + + + +CHAPTER X + +"That Mrs. Tod is an extraordinary woman. I repeat it--a most +extraordinary woman." + +And leaning his elbows on the table, from which the said +extraordinary woman had just removed breakfast, John looked over to +me with his own merry brown eyes. + +"Wherefore, David?" + +"She has a house full of children, yet manages to keep it quiet and +her own temper likewise. Astonishing patience! However people +attain it who have to do with brats, _I_ can't imagine." + +"John! that's mean hypocrisy. I saw you myself half-an-hour ago +holding the eldest Tod boy on a refractory donkey, and laughing till +you could hardly stand." + +"Did I?" said he, half-ashamed. "Well, it was only to keep the +little scamp from making a noise under the windows. And that reminds +me of another remarkable virtue in Mrs. Tod--she can hold her +tongue." + +"How so?" + +"In two whole days she has not communicated to us a single fact +concerning our neighbours on the other half of Rose Cottage." + +"Did you want to know?" + +John laughingly denied; then allowed that he always had a certain +pleasure in eliciting information on men and things. + +"The wife being indicated, I suppose, by that very complimentary word +'thing.' But what possible interest can you have in either the old +gentleman or the old lady?" + +"Stop, Phineas: you have a bad habit of jumping at conclusions. And +in our great dearth of occupation here, I think it might be all the +better for you to take a little interest in your neighbours. So I've +a great mind to indulge you with an important idea, suggestion, +discovery. Harkee, friend!"--and he put on an air of sentimental +mystery, not a bad copy of our old acquaintance, Mr. Charles--"what +if the--the individual should not be an old lady at all?" + +"What! The old gentleman's wife?" + +"Wife? Ahem! more jumping at conclusions. No; let us keep on the +safe side, and call her the--individual. In short; the owner of that +grey silk gown I saw hanging up in the kitchen. I've seen it again." + +"The grey gown! when and where?" + +"This morning, early. I walked after it across the Flat, a good way +behind, though; for I thought that it--well, let me say SHE--might +not like to be watched or followed. She was trotting along very +fast, and she carried a little basket--I fancy a basket of eggs." + +"Capital housekeeper! excellent wife!" + +"Once more--I have my doubts on that latter fact. She walked a great +deal quicker and merrier than any wife ought to walk when her husband +is ill!" + +I could not help laughing at John's original notions of conjugal +duty. + +"Besides, Mrs. Tod always calls her invalid 'the old gentleman!' and +I don't believe this was an elderly lady." + +"Nay, old men do sometimes marry young women." + +"Yes, but it is always a pity; and sometimes not quite right. No,"-- +and I was amused to see how gravely and doggedly John kept to his +point--"though this lady did not look like a sylph or a wood-nymph-- +being neither very small nor very slight, and having a comfortable +woollen cloak and hood over the grey silk gown--still, I don't +believe she's an old woman, or married either." + +"How can you possibly tell? Did you see her face?" + +"Of course not," he answered, rather indignantly. "I should not +think it manly to chase a lady as a schoolboy does a butterfly, for +the mere gratification of staring at her. I stayed on the top of the +Flat till she had gone indoors." + +"Into Rose Cottage?" + +"Why--yes." + +"She had, doubtless, gone to fetch new-laid eggs for her--I mean for +the sick gentleman's breakfast. Kind soul!" + +"You may jest, Phineas, but I think she is a kind soul. On her way +home I saw her stop twice; once to speak to an old woman who was +gathering sticks; and again, to scold a lad for thrashing a donkey." + +"Did you hear her?" + +"No; but I judge from the lad's penitent face as I passed him. I am +sure she had been scolding him." + +"Then she's not young, depend upon it. Your beautiful young +creatures never scold." + +"I'm not so sure of that," said John, meditatively. "For my part, I +should rather not cheat myself, or be cheated after that manner. +Perfection is impossible. Better see the young woman as she really +is, bad and good together." + +"The young woman! The fair divinity, you mean!" + +"No;" shutting his mouth over the negative in his firm way--"I +strongly object to divinities. How unpleasant it would be to woo an +angel of perfection, and find her out at last to be only--only Mrs.-- +" + +"Halifax," suggested I; at which he laughed, slightly colouring. + +"But how woeful must be our dearth of subjects, when we talk such +nonsense as this! What suggested it?" + +"Your friend in the grey gown, I suppose." + +"Requiescat in Pace! May she enjoy her eggs! And now I must go +saddle the brown mare, and be off to Norton Bury. A lovely day for a +ride. How I shall dash along!" + +He rose up cheerily. It was like morning sunshine only to see his +face. No morbid follies had ever tainted his healthy nature, +whatsoever romance was there--and never was there a thoroughly noble +nature without some romance in it. But it lay deep down, calm and +unawakened. His heart was as light and free as air. + +Stooping over my easy chair, he wheeled it to the window, in sight of +the pleasant view. + +"Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll take a walk +before dinner? You'll not be moping?" + +No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent or present, +the blessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts +and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or not--the best things +never are expressed or expressible--knew by a thousand little daily +acts like these, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his +brotherly love for me. As yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how +little else I had, will pardon, if in my unspeakable thankfulness +lurked a taint of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a +priceless boon. + +He lingered about, making me "all right," as he called it, and +planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were +the gayest couple of young bachelors, when, as John said, "the duties +of our responsible position" would allow. + +"Responsible position! It's our good landlady who ought to talk +about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite +number of children. There's one of them got into mischief at last. +Hark!" + +"It's Jack, my namesake. Bless my life! I knew he would come to +grief with that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind. Get up again." + +But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious; and +disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The +next minute I saw him carrying in the unlucky Jack, who was bleeding +from a cut in the forehead, and screaming vociferously. + +"Don't be frightened, Mrs. Tod; it is very slight--I saw it done. +Jack, my lad!--be a man, and never mind it. Don't scream so; you +alarm your mother." + +But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no real +cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for his +carelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman. + +"But he be always getting into mischief, sir--that boy. Three months +back, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with the +carriage-horse, and it kicked him and broke his arm. A deal he +cares: he be just as sprack as ever. As I say to Tod--it bean't no +use fretting over that boy." + +"Have patience," answered John, who had again carried the unfortunate +young scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Tod's kitchen--the centre +room of the cottage; and was trying to divert the torrent of maternal +indignation, while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly looking +wound. "Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards +than if you had punished him." + +"Do'ee think so?" said the woman, as, struck either by the words, the +manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. "Do'ee really +think so, Mr. Halifax?" + +"I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when +one has been naughty. Isn't it so, Jack, my namesake?" + +"Jack ought to be proud o' that, sir," said the mother, respectfully; +"and there's some sense in what you say, too. You talk like my man +does, o' Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax; and they're good +folks, the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There's a deal about +forgiving in the Bible; isn't there, sir?" + +"Exactly," John answered, smiling. "And so, Jack, you're safe this +time; only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake of +donkeys or anything else." + +"No, sir--thank'ee, sir," sobbed Jack, humbly. "You be a gentleman-- +Mr. March bean't--he said it served me right for getting under his +horses." + +"Hold thy tongue!" said Jack's mother, sharply; for the latch of the +opposite door was just then lifted, and a lady stood there. + +"Mrs. Tod; my father says--" + +Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her voice--a +pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone--John and I +both involuntarily turned. We felt awkward! doubtful whether to stay +or retire abruptly. She saved us the choice. + +"Mrs. Tod, my father will take his soup at eleven. You will +remember?" + +"Yes, Miss March." + +Upon which, Miss March shut the door at once, and vanished. + +She wore a grey silken gown. I glanced at John, but he did not see +me, his eyes were fixed on the door, which had disclosed and +concealed the momentary picture. Its momentariness impressed it the +more vividly on my memory--I have it there still. + +A girl, in early but not precocious maturity, rather tall, of a +figure built more for activity and energy than the mere fragility of +sylph-like grace: dark-complexioned, dark-eyed, dark-haired--the +whole colouring being of that soft darkness of tone which gives a +sense of something at once warm and tender, strong and womanly. +Thorough woman she seemed--not a bit of the angel about her. +Scarcely beautiful; and "pretty" would have been the very last word +to have applied to her; but there was around her an atmosphere of +freshness, health, and youth, pleasant as a breeze in spring. + +For her attire, it was that notable grey silk gown--very simply made, +with no fripperies or fandangos of any sort--reaching up to her +throat and down to her wrists, where it had some kind of trimming of +white fur, which made the skin beneath show exquisitely delicate. + +"That is Miss March," said our landlady, when she had disappeared. + +"Is it?" said John, removing his eyes from the shut door. + +"She be very sensible-like, for a young body of seventeen; more +sensible and pleasanter than her father, who is always ailing, and +always grumbling. Poor gentleman!--most like he can't help it. But +it be terrible hard for the daughter--bean't it, sir?" + +"Very," said John. His laconism was extraordinary. + +Still he kept standing by the kitchen-table, waiting till the last +bandage had been sewn on Jack's cut forehead, and even some minutes +after his protege had begun playing about as usual. It was I who had +to suggest that we should not intrude in Mrs. Tod's kitchen any +longer. + +"No--certainly not. Come, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, I hope our presence +did not inconvenience--the young lady?" + +"Bless your heart, sir! nothing ever inconveniences she. There +bean't a pleasanter young body alive. She'll often come into this +kitchen--just as you did, gentlemen, and very happy to see you +always," added Mrs. Tod, curtseying. "When Mr. March is asleep +she'll come and sit for half an hour, talking to Tod and me; and +playing with the baby--" + +Here, probably at sound of its name, the individual alluded to set +up, from its cradle in the corner, such a terrific squall, that we +young men beat a precipitate retreat. + +"So, John, your grey gown is discovered at last. She's young, +certainly--but not exactly a beauty." + +"I never said she was." + +"A pleasant person, though; hearty, cheerful-looking, and strong. I +can easily imagine her trotting over the common with her basket of +eggs--chatting to the old woman, and scolding the naughty boy." + +"Don't make fun of her. She must have a hard life with her old +father." + +Of course, seeing him take it up so seriously, I jested no more. + +"By-the-by, did not the father's name strike you? MARCH--suppose it +should turn out to be the very Mr. March you pulled out of Severn +five years ago. What a romantic conjuncture of circumstances?" + +"Nonsense," said John, quickly--more quickly than he usually spoke to +me; then came back to wish me a kind goodbye. "Take care of +yourself, old fellow. It will be nightfall before I am back from +Norton Bury." + +I watched him mount, and ride slowly down the bit of common--turning +once to look back at Rose Cottage, ere he finally disappeared between +the chestnut trees: a goodly sight--for he was an admirable +horseman. + +When he was gone, I, glancing lazily up at Mr. March's window, saw a +hand, and I fancied a white-furred wrist, pulling down the blind. It +amused me to think Miss March might possibly have been watching him +likewise. + +I spent the whole long day alone in the cottage parlour, chiefly +meditating; though more than once friendly Mrs. Tod broke in upon my +solitude. She treated me in a motherly, free-and-easy way: not half +so deferentially as she treated John Halifax. + +The sun had gone down over Nunnely Hill, behind the four tall Italian +poplars, which stood on the border of our bit of wilderness--three +together and one apart. They were our landmarks--and skymarks too-- +for the first sunbeam coming across the common struck their tops of a +morning, and the broad western glimmer showed their forms distinctly +until far in the night. They were just near enough for me to hear +their faint rustling in windy weather; on calm days they stood up +straight against the sky, like memorial columns. They were friends +of mine--those four poplars; sometimes they almost seemed alive. We +made acquaintance on this first night, when I sat watching for John; +and we kept up the friendship ever afterwards. + +It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs clattering up +the road: joyfully I ran out. + +David was not quite his youthful, gay self that night; not quite, as +he expressed it, "the David of the sheep-folds." He was very tired, +and had what he called "the tan-yard feeling," the oppression of +business cares. + +"Times are hard," said he, when we had finally shut out the +starlight, and Mrs. Tod had lit candles, bade us good-night in her +free, independent way, and "hoped Mr. Halifax had everything he +wanted." She always seemed to consider him the head of our little +menage. + +"The times are very hard," repeated John, thoughtfully. "I don't see +how your father can rightly be left with so many anxieties on his +shoulders. I must manage to get to Norton Bury at least five days a +week. You will have enough of solitude, I fear." + +"And you will have little enough of the pleasant country life you +planned, and which you seem so to delight in." + +"Never mind--perhaps it's good for me. I have a life of hard work +before me, and can't afford to get used to too much pleasure. But +we'll make the most of every bit of time we have. How have you felt +to-day? Strong?" + +"Very strong. Now what would you like us to do tomorrow?" + +"I want to show you the common in early morning--the view there is so +lovely." + +"Of Nature, or human nature?" + +He half smiled, though only at my mischievousness. I could see it +did not affect him in the least. "Nay, I know what you mean; but I +had forgotten her, or, if not absolutely forgotten, she was not in my +mind just then. We will go another way, as indeed I had intended: +it might annoy the young lady, our meeting her again." + +His grave, easy manner of treating and dismissing the subject was a +tacit reproach to me. I let the matter drop; we had much more +serious topics afloat than gossip about our neighbours. + +At seven next morning we were out on the Flat. + +"I'm not going to let you stand here in the dews, Phineas. Come a +little farther on, to my terrace, as I call it. There's a panorama!" + +It was indeed. All around the high flat a valley lay, like a moat, +or as if some broad river had been dried up in its course, and, +century after century, gradually converted into meadow, woodland, and +town. For a little white town sat demurely at the bottom of the +hollow, and a score or two of white cottages scattered themselves +from this small nucleus of civilisation over the opposite bank of +this imaginary river, which was now a lovely hill-side. Gorges, +purple with shadow, yellow corn-fields, and dark clumps of woodland +dressed this broad hill-side in many colours; its highest point, +Nunnely Hill, forming the horizon where last night I had seen the sun +go down, and which now was tinted with the tenderest western morning +grey. + +"Do you like this, Phineas? I do, very much. A dear, smiling, +English valley, holding many a little nest of an English home. Fancy +being patriarch over such a region, having the whole valley in one's +hand, to do good to, or ill. You can't think what primitive people +they are hereabouts--descendants from an old colony of Flemish +cloth-weavers: they keep to the trade. Down in the valley--if one +could see through the beech wood--is the grand support of the +neighbourhood, a large cloth mill!" + +"That's quite in your line, John;" and I saw his face brighten up as +it had done when, as a boy, he had talked to me about his machinery. +"What has become of that wonderful little loom you made?" + +"Oh! I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth-mill!--I have +been all over it. If the owner would put aside his old Flemish +stolidity! I do believe he and his ancestors have gone on in the +same way, and with almost the same machinery, ever since Queen +Elizabeth's time. Now, just one or two of our modern improvements, +such as--but I forget, you never could understand mechanics." + +"You can, though. Explain clearly, and I'll try my best." + +He did so, and so did I. I think he even managed to knock something +of the matter into my stupid head, where it remained--for ten +minutes! Much longer remained the impression of his energetic talk-- +his clear-headed way of putting before another what he understood so +well himself. I marvelled how he had gained all his information. + +"Oh! it's easy enough, when one has a natural propensity for catching +hold of facts; and then, you know, I always had a weakness for +machinery; I could stand for an hour watching a mill at work, +especially if it's worked by a great water-wheel." + +"Would you like to be a mill-owner?" + +"Shouldn't I!"--with a sunshiny flash, which soon clouded over. +"However, 'tis idle talking; one cannot choose one's calling--at +least, very few can. After all, it isn't the trade that signifies-- +it's the man. I'm a tanner, and a capital tanner I intend to be. +By-the-by, I wonder if Mrs. Tod, who talks so much about +'gentlefolk,' knows that latter fact about you and me?" + +"I think not; I hope not. Oh, David! this one month at least let us +get rid of the tan-yard." + +For I hated it more than ever now, in our quiet, free, Arcadian life; +the very thought of it was insupportable, not only for myself, but +for John. + +He gently blamed me, yet, I think, he involuntarily felt much as I +did, if he would have allowed himself so to feel. + +"Who would guess now that I who stand here, delighting myself in this +fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, all thick with +flowers--what a pretty blue cluster that is at your foot, Phineas!-- +who would guess that all yesterday I had been stirring up tan-pits, +handling raw hides? Faugh! I wonder the little harebells don't +sicken in these, my hands--such ugly hands, too!" + +"Nonsense, John! they're not so bad, indeed; and if they were, what +does it matter?" + +"You are right; lad; it does not matter. They have done me good +service, and will yet, though they were not made for carrying +nosegays." + +"There is somebody besides yourself plucking posies on the Flat. +See, how large the figure looks against the sky. It might be your +Titaness, John-- + + 'Like Proserpina gathering flowers, + Herself the fairest--' + +-- no, not fairest; for I declare she looks very like your friend +Grey-gown--I beg her pardon--Miss March." + +"It is she," said John, so indifferently that I suspect that fact had +presented itself to him for at least two minutes before I found it +out. + +"There's certainly a fatality about your meeting her." + +"Not the least. She has this morning taken her walk in a different +direction, as I did; and we both chanced again to hit upon the same," +answered John, gravely and explanatorily. "Come away down the slope. +We must not intrude upon a lady's enjoyments." + +He carried me off, much against my will, for I had a great wish to +see again that fresh young face, so earnest, cheerful, and good. +Also, as I laboured in vain to convince my companion, the said face +indicated an independent dignity which would doubtless make its owner +perfectly indifferent whether her solitary walk were crossed by two +gentlemen or two hundred. + +John agreed to this; nevertheless, he was inexorable. And, since he +was "a man of the world"--having, in his journeys up and down the +country for my father, occasionally fallen into "polite" society--I +yielded the point to him and submitted to his larger experience of +good breeding. + +However, Fate, kinder than he, took the knot of etiquette into her +own hands, and broke it. + +Close to the cottage door, our two paths converging, and probably our +breakfast-hours likewise, brought us suddenly face to face with Miss +March. + +She saw us, and we had a distinct sight of her. + +I was right: we and our contiguity were not of the smallest +importance to Miss March. Her fresh morning roses did not deepen, +nor her eyes droop, as she looked for a moment at us both--a quiet, +maidenly look of mere observation. Of course no recognition passed; +but there was a merry dimple beside her mouth, as if she quite well +knew who we were, and owned to a little harmless feminine curiosity +in observing us. + +She had to pass our door, where stood Mrs. Tod and the baby. It +stretched out its little arms to come to her, with that pretty, +babyish gesture which I suppose no woman can resist. Miss March +could not. She stopped, and began tossing up the child. + +Truly, they made a pleasant picture, the two--she with her hooded +cloak dropping off, showing her graceful shape, and her dark-brown +hair, all gathered up in a mass of curls at the top of her head, as +the fashion then was. As she stood, with her eyes sparkling, and the +young blood flushing through her clear brunette cheeks, I was not +sure whether I had not judged too hastily in calling her "no beauty." + +Probably, by his look, John thought the same. + +She stood right before our wicket-gate; but she had evidently quite +forgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. Tod's bonny boy, until the +landlady made some remark about "letting the gentlemen by." Then, +with a slight start, drawing her hood back over her head, the young +lady stepped aside. + +In passing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural enough. For me, +I could hardly take mine from her, such a pleasant creature was she +to behold. She half smiled--he bowed, which she returned, +courteously, and we both went in-doors. I told him this was a good +beginning of acquaintance with our neighbour. + +"Not at all, no acqaintance; a mere civility between two people +living under the same roof. It will never be more." + +"Probably not." + +I am afraid John was disappointed at my "probably." I am afraid that +when he stood at our window, contemplating the little group which +filled up our wicket-gate, he missed some one out of the three-- +which, I suspect, was neither Mrs. Tod nor yet the baby. + +"I like her face very much better now, David. Do you?" + +It was a very curious fact, which I never noticed till afterwards, +that though there had been some lapse of time before I hazarded this +remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun to that indefinite +personal pronoun. + +"A good--nay, a noble face; though still, with those irregular +features, I can't--really I can't--call her beautiful." + +"Nor I." + +"She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, for the first +time in our lives, we may say we have seen a LADY." + +"Most certainly a lady." + +"Nay, I only meant that, girl as she is, she is evidently accustomed +to what is called 'society.' Which makes it the more likely that her +father is the Mr. March who was cousin to the Brithwoods. An odd +coincidence." + +"A very odd coincidence." + +After which brief reply John relapsed into taciturnity. + +More than once that morning we recurred to the subject of our +neighbours--that is, I did--but John was rather saturnine and +uncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Tod was removing the breakfast, +I ventured to ask her a harmless question or two--who Mr. March was, +and where he came from?--I was abruptly reproved, the very minute our +good landlady had shut the door, for my tendency to "gossip." + +At which I only laughed, and reminded him that he had ingeniously +scolded me after, not before, I had gained the desired information-- +namely, that Mr. March was a gentleman of independent property--that +he had no friends hereabouts, and that he usually lived in Wales. + +"He cannot be our Mr. March, then." + +"No," said John, with an air of great relief. + +I was amused to see how seriously he took such a trifle; ay, many a +time that day I laughed at him for evincing such great sympathy over +our neighbours, and especially--which was plain enough to see, though +he doubtless believed he entirely disguised it--for that interest +which a young man of twenty would naturally take in a very charming +and personable young woman. Ay, naturally, as I said to myself, for +I admired her too, extremely. + +It seems strange now to call to mind that morning, and our +light-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that Destiny should +often come thus, creeping like a child to our very doors; we hardly +notice it, or send it away with a laugh; it comes so naturally, so +simply, so accidentally, as it were, that we recognise it not. We +cannot believe that the baby intruder is in reality the king of our +fortunes; the ruler of our lives. But so it is continually; and +since IT IS, it must be right. + +We finished the morning by reading Shakspeare--Romeo and Juliet--at +which the old folio seemed naturally to open. There is a time--a +sweet time, too, though it does not last--when to every young mind +the play of plays, the poem of poems, is Romeo and Juliet. We were +at that phase now. + +John read it all through to me--not for the first time either; and +then, thinking I had fallen asleep, he sat with the book on his knee, +gazing out of the open window. + +It was a warm summer day--breathless, soundless--a day for quietness +and dreams. Sometimes a bee came buzzing among the roses, in and +away again, like a happy thought. Nothing else was stirring; not a +single bird was to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a +coo of the wood-pigeons among the beech-trees--a low, tender voice-- +reminding one of a mother's crooning over a cradled child; or of two +true lovers standing clasped heart to heart, in the first embrace, +which finds not, and needs not, a single word. + +John sat listening. What was he thinking about? Why that strange +quiver about his mouth?--why that wonderful new glow, that infinite +depth of softness in his eyes? + +I closed mine. He never knew I saw him. He thought I slept placidly +through that half-hour; which seemed to him as brief as a minute. To +me it was long--ah, so long! as I lay pondering with an intensity +that was actual pain, on what must come some time, and, for all I +knew, might even now be coming. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A week slipped by. We had grown familiar with Enderley Hill--at +least I had. As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the +pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, being absent five days out +of the seven; riding away when the morning sun had slid down to the +boles of my four poplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out +over their heads at night. It was hard for him; but he bore the +disappointment well. + +With me one day went by just like another. In the mornings I crept +out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, and there lay a +little under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny shelter, watching the +ants running in and out of the numerous ant-hills there; or else I +turned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew +everywhere hereabouts; for the common, so far from being barren, was +a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare +flowers. Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of +beauty and variety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate +for a full hour. + +My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the Enderley +villagers, or the Tod children, who were a grade above these, and +decidedly "respectable," would appear and have a game of play at the +foot of the slope, their laughter rising up to where I lay. Or some +old woman would come with her pails to the spring below, a curious +and very old stone well, to which the cattle from the common often +rushed down past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their mouths +making glancing circles in the water as they drank. + +Being out of doors almost all day, I saw very little of the +inhabitants of our cottage. Once or twice a lady and gentleman +passed, creeping at the foot of the slope so slowly, that I felt sure +it must be Mr. March and his daughter. He was tall, with grey hair; +I was not near enough to distinguish his features. She walked on the +further side, supporting him with her arm. Her comfortable morning +hood was put off, and she had on her head that ugly, stiff thing +which ladies had lately taken to wearing, and which, Jael said, was +called a "bonnet." + +Except on these two occasions, I had no opportunity of making any +observations on the manners and customs of our neighbours. +Occasionally Mrs. Tod mentioned them in her social chatter, while +laying the cloth; but it was always in the most cursory and trivial +way, such as "Miss March having begged that the children might be +kept quiet--Mrs. Tod hoped their noise didn't disturb ME? but Mr. +March was such a very fidgety gentleman--so particular in his dress, +too--Why, Miss March had to iron his cravats with her own hands. +Besides, if there was a pin awry in her dress he did make such a +fuss--and, really, such an active, busy young lady couldn't look +always as if she came trim out of a band-box. Mr. March wanted so +much waiting on, he seemed to fancy he still had his big house in +Wales, and his seven servants." + +Mrs. Tod conversed as if she took it for granted I was fully +acquainted with all the prior history of her inmates, or any others +that she mentioned--a habit peculiar to Enderley folk with strangers. +It was generally rather convenient, and it saved much listening; but +in this case, I would rather have had it broken through. Sometimes I +felt strongly inclined to question her; but on consulting John, he +gave his veto so decidedly against seeking out people's private +affairs in such an illicit manner that I felt quite guilty, and began +to doubt whether my sickly, useless, dreaming life, was not inclining +me to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are +accustomed--I know not why--to insult the other sex by describing as +"womanish." + +As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so that we +could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbours, save upon the +neutral ground of Mrs. Tod's kitchen; where, however I might have +felt inclined to venture, John's prohibition stopped me entirely. + +Thus--save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on his +mare's back, and led me far away, over common, and valley, and hill, +for miles, only coming back at twilight--save those two blithe days, +I spent the week in dignified solitude, and was very thankful for +Sunday. + +We determined to make it a long, lovely, country Sunday; so we began +it at six a.m. John took me a new walk across the common, where--he +said, in answer to my question--we were quite certain NOT to meet +Miss March. + +"Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calculate her paths +with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know you +have been out most mornings?" + +"Morning is the only time I have for walking, you know, Phineas." + +"Ah, true! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I almost wish we +could go home." + +"Don't think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of good. +Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home." + +I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest; that whatever +other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was +the one uppermost in his mind. + +"Well, we'll stay--that is, if you are happy, John." + +"Thoroughly happy; I like the dashing rides to Norton Bury. Above +all, I like coming back. The minute I begin to climb Enderley Hill, +the tan-yard, and all belonging to it, drops off like an incubus, and +I wake into free, beautiful life. Now, Phineas, confess; is not this +common a lovely place, especially of a morning?" + +"Ay," said I, smiling at his energy. "But you did not tell me +whether you had met Miss March again." + +"She has never once seen me." + +"But you have seen her? Answer honestly." + +"Why should I not?--Yes, I have seen her--once or twice or so--but +never in any way that could annoy her." + +"That explains why you have become so well acquainted with the +direction of her walks?" + +He coloured deeply. "I hope, Phineas, you do not think that--that in +any way I should intrude on or offend a lady?" + +"Nay, don't take it so seriously--indeed, I meant nothing of the +kind. It would be quite natural if a young man like you did use some +pains to look at such a 'cunning piece of Nature's handiwork' as that +apple-cheeked girl of seventeen." + +"Russet apple. She is brown, you know--a real 'nut-brown mayde,'" +said John, recovering his gay humour. "Certainly, I like to look at +her. I have seen many a face that was more good-looking--never one +that looked half so good." + +"Sententious that;" yet I could not smile--he spoke with such +earnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would have walked +half-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why +not he? + +"But, John, you never told me that you had seen her again!" + +"Because you never asked me." + +We were silent. Silent until we had walked along the whole length of +a Roman encampment, the most perfect of the various fosses that +seamed the flat--tokens of many a battle fought on such capital +battleground, and which John had this morning especially brought me +to look at. + +"Yes," I said at last, putting the ending affirmative to a long train +of thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments; "yes, it +is quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quite +natural, and not unlikely either, if she--" + +"Pshaw!" interrupted he. "What nonsense you are talking! +Impossible!" and setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, he +kicked it down into the ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had +fallen before it in ages gone by. + +The impetuous gesture--the energetic "impossible," struck me less +than the quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressed +thought--carrying it to a greater length than I myself had ever +contemplated. + +"Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of THAT sort ever entered +my head. I only thought you might admire her, and be unsettled +thereby as young men are when they take fancies. That would grieve +me very much, John." + +"Don't let it then? Why, I have only seen her five times; I never +spoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall do. Could any +one be in a safer position? Besides," and his tone changed to +extreme gravity, "I have too many worldly cares to think of; I can't +afford the harmless little amusement of falling in love--so be easy, +Phineas." + +I smiled; and we began a discussion on camps and fosses, vallum and +praetorium; the Danes, Saxons, and Normans; which, doubtless, we +carried on to a most learned length: but at this distance of time, +and indeed the very day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all +about it. + +That long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never came out all +day, but the whole earth and sky melted together in a soft, grey +haze; when we lay on the common and heard church-bells ringing, some +distant, some near; and, after all was quiet, talked our own old +sabbath talks, of this world and the world to come; when, towards +twilight, we went down into the beech-wood below the house, and sat +idly there among the pleasant-smelling ferns; when, from the morning +to the evening, he devoted himself altogether to my comfort and +amusement--to perfect which required of him no harder duty than to be +near me always;--that Sunday was the last I ever had David altogether +for my own--my very own. + +It was natural, it was just, it was right. God forbid that in any +way I should have murmured. + +About ten o'clock--just as he was luring me out to see how grand the +common looked under the black night, and we were wondering whether or +no the household were in bed--Mrs. Tod came mysteriously into the +parlour and shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face looked +somewhat troubled. + +"Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to 'ee, sir?" + +"With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Tod. There's nothing wrong with your +children?" + +"No, I thank'ee. You are very kind, sir. No, it be about that poor +Miss March." + +I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was leaning on. +"I hope--" he began, and stopped. + +"Her father is dreadful bad to-night, and it's a good seven-mile walk +to the doctor's at S----; and Miss March says--that is, she don't, +for I bean't going to tell her a word about it--but I think, Mr. +Halifax, if I might make so bold, it would be a great kindness in a +young gentleman like you to lend Tod your mare to ride over and fetch +the doctor." + +"I will, gladly. At once?" + +"Tod bean't come in yet." + +"He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March so--I mean, +do not tell her, of course. It was very right of you to come to us +in this way, Mrs. Tod. Really, it would be almost a treat to be ill +in your house--you are so kind." + +"Thank'ee, Mr. Halifax," said the honest landlady, greatly delighted. +"But a body couldn't help doing anything for Miss March. You would +think so yourself, if you only knew her." + +"No doubt," returned John, more politely than warmly, I fancied, as +he closed the door after the retreating figure of Mrs. Tod. But when +he came and sat down again I saw he was rather thoughtful. He turned +the books restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle to +anything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour, and our +pearl of kind-hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; +at last he started up and said,-- + +"Phineas, I think I'll go myself." + +"Where?" + +"To fetch Doctor Brown. If Tod is not come in it would be but a +common charity. And I know the way." + +"But the dark night?" + +"Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a stranger. And +though I have taken good care that the three horses in the tan-yard +shall have the journey, turn and turn about; still it's a good pull +from here to Norton Bury, and the mare's my favourite. I would +rather take her myself." + +I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simple +thing; and agreed that it was right and best he should do it. + +"Then shall I call Mrs. Tod and inquire? Or perhaps it might make +less fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, +Phineas, or shall I?" + +Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what I +called the Debateable Land. + +No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening +to the groaning overhead. + +"That must be Mr. March, John." + +"I hear. Good heavens! how hard for her. And she such a young +thing, and alone," muttered he, as he stood gazing into the dull wood +embers of the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved; but the expression +on his face was one of pure and holy compassion. That at this moment +no less unselfish feeling mingled with it I am sure. + +Mrs. Tod appeared at the door leading to the other half of the +cottage; she was apparently speaking to Miss March on the staircase. +We heard again those clear, quick, decided tones, but subdued to a +half-whisper. + +"No, Mrs. Tod, I am not sorry you did it--on my father's account, +'tis best. Tell Mr.--the young gentleman--I forget his name--that I +am very much obliged to him." + +"I will, Miss March--stay, he is just here.--Bless us! she has shut +the door already.--Won't you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I'll stir up +the fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are always welcome in my +kitchen, young gentlemen." And Mrs. Tod bustled about, well aware +what a cosy and cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of +evenings. + +But when John explained the reason of our intrusion there was no end +to her pleasure and gratitude. He was the kindest young gentleman +that ever lived.--She would tell Miss March so; as, indeed, she had +done many a time. + +"'Miss,' said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I +had told her how you came hunting for lodgings--(she often has a chat +with me quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too +proud to forget that she's a born lady)--'Miss,' said I, 'who Mr. +Halifax may be I don't know, but depend upon it he's a real +gentleman.'" + +I was the sole amused auditor of this speech, for John had vanished. +In a few minutes more he had brought the mare round, and after a word +or two with me was clattering down the road. + +I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blind +to watch him. + +John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back with +him. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his +cheeks all glowing with the ride. He only remarked, "that the autumn +nights were getting chill," and sat down. The kitchen clock struck +one. + +"You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? +I shall sit up just a little while, to hear how Mr. March is." + +"I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that one +learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut up +together in a lonely place like this, especially when they are in +trouble." + +"Ay, that's it," said he, quickly. "It's the solitude, and their +being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away?" + +"Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had gone to bed +except his daughter and Mrs. Tod." + +"Hark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if one might +ask--No! they would think it intrusive. He must be better. But Dr. +Brown told me that in one of these paroxysms he might--Oh, that poor +young thing!" + +"Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Doctor Brown surely +knows." + +"I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not my +business: my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, as +quickly as possible." + +"Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can do anything +more." + +"Ay--if we can do anything more," repeated he, as we again recrossed +the boundary-line, and entered the Tod country. + +All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burnt brightly, and a cricket +sang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans overhead were +stilled, but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps +crept down-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and Miss March. + +We ought to have left the kitchen: I think John muttered something +to that effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door; +but--I don't know how it was--we stayed. + +She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh +cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched +for many hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added +to this paleness. + +"I think he is better, Mrs. Tod--decidedly better," said she, +speaking quickly. "You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be +quiet. I hope you told Mr.--Oh--" + +She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her +roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend. + +John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; but +no--he was thinking too little of himself for that. His demeanour-- +earnest, gentle, kind--was the sublimation of all manly courtesy. + +"I hope, madam"--young men used the deferential word in those days +always--"I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to +retire until we had heard." + +"Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind," said Miss +March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes. + +"Indeed he is kind," broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. "He rode +all the way to S----, his own self, to fetch the doctor." + +"Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse." + +"Oh! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father +is better? Is there nothing else I can do for you?" + +His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his years, +softened too with that quiet deference which marked at once the man +who reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood--seemed entirely +to reassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of +character, made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she +was a young lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged +neutral ground, perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another +than the mere surname. + +Nature, sincerity, and simplicity conquered all trammels of formal +custom. She held out her hand to him. + +"I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I wanted help I would ask +you; indeed I would." + +"Thank YOU. Good-night." + +He pressed the hand with reverence--and was gone. I saw Miss March +look after him: then she turned to speak and smiled with me. A +light word, an easy smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often +pitied out of the fulness of her womanly heart. + +Soon I followed John into the parlour. He asked me no questions, +made no remarks, only took his candle and went up-stairs. + +But, years afterwards, he confessed to me that the touch of that +hand--it was a rather peculiar hand in the "feel" of it, as the +children say, with a very soft palm, and fingers that had a habit of +perpetually fluttering, like a little bird's wing--the touch of that +hand was to the young man like the revelation of a new world. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +The next day John rode away earlier even than was his wont, I +thought. He stayed but a little while talking with me. While Mrs. +Tod was bustling over our breakfast he asked her, in a grave and +unconcerned manner, "How Mr. March was this morning?" which was the +only allusion he made to the previous night's occurrences. + +I had a long, quiet day alone in the beech-wood, close below our +cottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to a thread with the +summer weather, but singing still. It talked to me like a living +thing. + +When I came home in the evening Miss March stood in front of the +cottage, with--strange to say--her father. But I had heard that his +paroxysms were often of brief continuance, and that, like most +confirmed valetudinarians, when real danger stared him in the face he +put it from him, and was glad to be well. + +Seeing me coming, Miss March whispered to him; he turned upon me a +listless gaze from over his fur collar, and bowed languidly, without +rising from his easy chair. Yes, it was Mr. March--the very Mr. +March we had met! I knew him, changed though he was; but he did not +know me in the least, as, indeed, was not likely. + +His daughter came a step or two to meet me. "You are better, I see, +Mr. Fletcher. Enderley is a most healthy place, as I try to persuade +my father. This is Mr. Fletcher, sir, the gentleman who--" + +"Was so obliging as to ride to S----, last night, for me? Allow me +to thank him myself." + +I began to disclaim, and Miss March to explain; but we must both have +been slightly incoherent, for I think the poor gentleman was never +quite clear as to who it was that went for Dr. Brown. However, that +mattered little, as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more +by a natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of service +rendered. + +"I am a very great invalid, sir; my dear, will you explain to the +gentleman?" And he leaned his head back wearily. + +"My father has never recovered his ten years' residence in the West +Indies." + +"'Residence?' Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was governor of--" + +"Oh, yes!--The climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher. But since +he has been in England--five years only--he has been very much +better. I hope he will be quite well in time." + +Mr. March shook his head drearily. Poor man! the world of existence +to him seemed to have melted lazily down into a mere nebula, of which +the forlorn nucleus was--himself. What a life for any young +creature--even his own daughter, to be bound to continually! + +I could not help remarking the strong contrast between them. He, +with his sallow, delicately-shaped features--the thin mouth and long +straight nose, of that form I have heard called the "melancholy +nose," which usually indicates a feeble, pensive, and hypochondriac +temperament; while his daughter--But I have described her already. + +"Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, father," she said; so gently, that I +could feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity; and took gratefully +a seat she gave me, beside that of Mr. March. She seemed inclined to +talk to me; and her manner was perfectly easy, friendly, and kind. + +We spoke of commonplace subjects, near at hand, and of the West +Indian island, which its late "governor" was apparently by no means +inclined to forget. I asked Miss March whether she had liked it? + +"I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind, in Wales-- +poor mamma's country. Were you ever in Wales? I like it so! +Indeed, I feel as if I belonged altogether to the mountains." + +And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the free mountain +spirit--a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply outlined; but that +would soften with time, and was better and wholesomer than any tame +green level of soft perfection. At least, one inclined to think so, +looking at her. + +I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it. + +In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he hung +trustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and asked if +she could lend me any books to read? I must find the days long and +dull without my friend. + +I assented with thanks; and shortly afterwards she brought me an +armful of literature--enough to have caused any young damsel to have +been dubbed a "blue," in those matter-of-fact days. + +"I have no time to study much myself," said she, in answer to my +questions; "but I like those who do. Now, good evening, for I must +run. You and your friend can have any books of ours. You must not +think"--and she turned back to tell me this--"that because my father +said little he and I are not deeply grateful for the kindness Mr. +Halifax showed us last night." + +"It was a pleasure to John--it always is--to do a kind office for any +one." + +"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher." And she left me. + +When John came home I informed him of what had passed. He listened, +though he made no comment whatever. But all the evening he sat +turning over Miss March's books, and reading either aloud or to +himself fragments out of one--which I had expected he would have +scouted, inasmuch as it was modern not classical poetry: in fact, a +collection of Lyrical Ballads, brought out that year by a young man +named Mr. William Wordsworth, and some anonymous friend, conjointly. +I had opened it, and found therein great nonsense; but John had +better luck--he hit upon a short poem called "Love," by the Anonymous +Friend, which he read, and I listened to, almost as if it had been +Shakspeare. It was about a girl named Genevieve--a little simple +story--everybody knows it now; but it was like a strange, low, mystic +music, luring the very heart out of one's bosom, to us young +visionaries then. + +I wonder if Miss March knew the harm she did, and the mischief that +has been done among young people in all ages (since Caxton's days), +by the lending books, especially books of poetry. + +The next day John was in a curious mood. Dreamy, lazy, mild; he sat +poring in-doors, instead of roaming abroad--in truth, was a changed +lad. I told him so, and laid it all to the blame of the Anonymous +Friend: who held him in such fascinated thrall that he only looked +up once all the morning,--which was when Mr. and Miss March went by. +In the afternoon he submitted, lamb-like, to be led down to the +beech-wood--that the wonderful talking stream might hold forth to him +as it did to me. But it could not--ah, no! it could not. Our lives, +though so close, were yet as distinct as the musical living water and +the motionless grey rock beside which it ran. The one swept joyfully +on to its appointed course: the other--was what Heaven made it, +abode where Heaven placed it, and likewise fulfilled its end. + +Coming back out of the little wood, I took John a new way I had +discovered, through the prettiest undulating meadow, half-field, +half-orchard, where trees loaded with ripening cider apples and green +crabs made a variety among the natural foresters. Under one of +these, as we climbed the slope--for field, beech-wood, and common +formed a gradual ascent--we saw a vacant table laid. + +"A pretty piece of rusticity--domestic Arcadia on a small scale," +said John; "I should like to invite myself to tea with them. Who can +they be?" + +"Probably visitors. Resident country-folks like their meals best +under a decent roof-tree. I should not wonder if this were not one +of Mr. March's vagaries." + +"Don't say vagaries--he is an old man." + +"Don't be reproachful--I shall say nought against him. Indeed, I +have no opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the +house." + +Sure enough they were--Miss March helping her father across the +uneven bit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely +at that gate we all four met. + +"'Tis useless to escape them," whispered I to John. + +"I do not wish--why should I?" he answered, and held the gate open +for the father and daughter to go through. She looked up and +acknowledged him, smiling. I thought that smile and his courteous, +but far less frank, response to it, would have been all the greeting; +but no! Mr. March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened up. +He stopped. + +"Mr. Halifax, I believe?" + +John bowed. + +They stood a moment looking at one another; the tall, stalwart young +man, so graceful and free in bearing, and the old man, languid, +sickly, prematurely broken down. + +"Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I detected +something more than curiosity--something of the lingering pensiveness +with which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John--as if the +lad reminded him of some one he knew. "Sir, I have to thank you--" + +"Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are better +to-day?" + +Mr. March assented: but John's countenance apparently interested him +so much that he forgot his usual complainings. "My daughter tells me +you are our neighbours--I am happy to have such friendly ones. My +dear," in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, "I think your poor +brother Walter would have grown up extremely like Mr.--Mr.--" + +"Mr. Halifax, papa." + +"Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there--my +daughter's suggestion--she is so fond of rurality. Will you give us +the pleasure of your company? You and"--here, I must confess, the +second invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's--"your +friend." + +Of course we assented: I considerably amused, and not ill-pleased, +to see how naturally it fell out that when John appeared in the +scene, I, Phineas, subsided into the secondary character of John's +"friend." + +Very soon--so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure +out of the Arabian Nights--we found ourselves established under the +apple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into +red chestnut colour the hair of the "nut-browne mayde," as she sat, +bareheaded, pouring into small white china cups that dainty luxury, +tea. She had on--not the grey gown, but a white one, worked in +delicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew +in such clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they +were still growing, in her fair maiden bosom. + +She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our +domains for her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather +incoherent answer from John about being "quite welcome." + +He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there. It +struck me as strange, that though her manner to us both was +thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind, to +me than to him. Also, I noted, that while she chatted gaily with me, +John almost entirely confined his talk to her father. + +But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to every +word that was said. I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was +once unloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not +that he was one of your showy conversationalists; language was with +him neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere +vehicle for thought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, +in which his ideas were clothed. His conversation was never +wearisome, since he only spoke when he had something to say; and +having said it, in the most concise and appropriate manner that +suggested itself at the time, he was silent; and silence is a great +and rare virtue at twenty years of age. + +We talked a good deal about Wales; John had been there more than once +in his journeyings; and this fact seemed to warm Miss March's manner, +rather shy and reserved though it was, at least to him. She told us +many an innocent tale of her life there--of her childish days, and of +her dear old governess, whose name, I remember, was Cardigan. She +seemed to have grown up solely under that lady's charge. It was not +difficult to guess--though I forget whether she distinctly told us +so--that "poor mamma" had died so early as to become a mere name to +her orphan daughter. She evidently owed everything she was to this +good governess. + +"My dear," at last said Mr. March, rather testily, "you make rather +too much of our excellent Jane Cardigan. She is going to be married, +and she will not care for you now." + +"Hush! papa, that is a secret at present. Pray, Mr. Halifax, do you +know Norton Bury?" + +The abruptness of the question startled John, so that he only +answered in a hurried affirmative. Indeed, Mr. March left him no +time for further explanation. + +"I hate the place. My late wife's cousins, the Brithwoods of the +Mythe, with whom I have had--ahem!--strong political differences-- +live there. And I was once nearly drowned in the Severn, close by." + +"Papa, don't speak of that, please," said Miss March, hurriedly; so +hurriedly that I am sure she did not notice what would otherwise have +been plain enough--John's sudden and violent colour. But the flush +died down again--he never spoke a word. And, of course, acting on +his evident desire, neither did I. + +"For my part," continued the young lady, "I have no dislike to Norton +Bury. Indeed, I rather admired the place, if I remember right." + +"You have been there?" Though it was the simplest question, John's +sudden look at her, and the soft inflection of his voice, struck me +as peculiar. + +"Once, when I was about twelve years old. But we will talk of +something papa likes better. I am sure papa enjoys this lovely +evening. Hark! how the doves are cooing in the beech-wood." + +I asked her if she had ever been in the beech-wood. + +No; she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries--the fern-glades, +the woodbine tangles, and the stream, that, if you listened +attentively, you could hear faintly gurgling even where we sat. + +"I did not know there was a stream so near. I have generally taken +my walks across the Flat," said Miss March, smiling, and then +blushing at having done so, though it was the faintest blush +imaginable. + +Neither of us made any reply. + +Mr. March settled himself to laziness and his arm-chair; the +conversation fell to the three younger persons--I may say the two-- +for I also seceded, and left John master of the field. It was enough +for me to sit listening to him and Miss March, as they gradually +became more friendly; a circumstance natural enough, under the +influence of that simple, solitary place, where all the pretences of +etiquette seemed naturally to drop away, leaving nothing but the +forms dictated and preserved by true manliness and true womanliness. + +How young both looked, how happy in their frank, free youth, with the +sun-rays slanting down upon them, making a glory round either head, +and--as glory often does--dazzling painfully. + +"Will you change seats with me, Miss March?--The sun will not reach +your eyes here." + +She declined, refusing to punish any one for her convenience. + +"It would not be punishment," said John, so gravely that one did not +recognize it for a "pretty speech" till it had passed--and went on +with their conversation. In the course of it he managed so +carefully, and at the same time so carelessly, to interpose his broad +hat between the sun and her, that the fiery old king went down in +splendour before she noticed that she had been thus guarded and +sheltered. Though she did not speak--why should she? of such a +little thing,--yet it was one of those "little things" which often +touch a woman more than any words. + +Miss March rose. "I should greatly like to hear your stream and its +wonderful singing." (John Halifax had been telling how it held forth +to me during my long, lonely days)--"I wonder what it would say to +me? Can we hear it from the bottom of this field?" + +"Not clearly; we had better go into the wood." For I knew John would +like that, though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal +by a single word. + +Miss March was more single-minded, or else had no reason for being +the contrary. She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness. "Papa, +you wouldn't miss me--I shall not be away five minutes. Then, Mr. +Fletcher, will you go with me?" + +"And I will stay beside Mr. March, so that he will not be left +alone," said John, reseating himself. + +What did the lad do that for?--why did he sit watching us so +intently, as I led Miss March down the meadow, and into the wood? It +passed my comprehension. + +The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in perfect +simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesitation. Even as +the women I have known have treated me all my life--showing me that +sisterly trust and sisterly kindness which have compensated in a +measure for the solitary fate which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me; +which, in any case, conscience would have forced me to lay upon +myself--that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister. + +Yet I watched her with pleasure--this young girl, as she tripped on +before me, noticing everything, enjoying everything. She talked to +me a good deal too about myself, in her kindly way, asking what I did +all day?--and if I were not rather dull sometimes, in this solitary +country lodging? + +"I am dull occasionally myself, or should be, if I had time to think +about it. It is hard to be an only child." + +I told her I had never found it so. + +"But then you have your friend. Has Mr. Halifax any brothers or +sisters?" + +"None. No relatives living." + +"Ah!" a compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a woodbine spray, +and began twisting it with those never-quiet fingers of hers. "You +and he seem to be great friends." + +"John is a brother, friend, everything in the world to me." + +"Is he? He must be very good. Indeed, he looks so," observed Miss +March, thoughtfully. "And I believe--at least I have often heard-- +that good men are rare." + +I had no time to enter into that momentous question, when the origin +of it himself appeared, breaking through the bushes to join us. + +He apologized for so doing, saying Mr. March had sent him. + +"You surely do not mean that you come upon compulsion? What an ill +compliment to this lovely wood." + +And the eyes of the "nut-browne mayde" were a little mischievous. +John looked preternaturally grave, as he said, "I trust you do not +object to my coming?" + +She smiled--so merrily, that his slight haughtiness evaporated like +mist before the sunbeams. + +"I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bushes; for I +heard my own name. What terrible revelations has this friend of mine +been making to you, Miss March?" + +He spoke gaily; but I fancied he looked uneasy. The young lady only +laughed. + +"I have a great mind not to tell you, Mr. Halifax." + +"Not when I ask you?" + +He spoke so seriously that she could choose but reply. + +"Mr. Fletcher was telling me three simple facts:--First, that you +were an orphan, without relatives. Secondly, that you were his +dearest friend. Thirdly--well, I never compromise truth--that you +were good." + +"And you?" + +"The first I was ignorant of; the second I had already guessed; the +third--" + +He gazed at her intently. + +"The third I had likewise--not doubted." + +John made some hurried acknowledgment. He looked greatly pleased-- +nay, more than pleased--happy. He walked forward by Miss March's +side, taking his natural place in the conversation, while I as +naturally as willingly fell behind. But I heard all they said, and +joined in it now and then. + +Thus, sometimes spoken to, and sometimes left silent, watching their +two figures, and idly noting their comparative heights--her head came +just above John's shoulder--I followed these young people through the +quiet wood. + +Let me say a word about that wood---dear and familiar as it was. Its +like I have never since seen. It was small--so small that in its +darkest depths you might catch the sunshine lighting up the branches +of its outside trees. A young wood, too--composed wholly of smooth- +barked beeches and sturdy Scotch firs, growing up side by side--the +Adam and Eve in this forest Eden. No old folk were there--no gnarled +and withered foresters--every tree rose up, upright in its youth, and +perfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking under-growth of +vegetation; nothing but mosses, woodbine, and ferns; and between the +boles of the trees you could trace vista after vista, as between the +slender pillars of a cathedral aisle. + +John pointed out all this to Miss March, especially noticing the +peculiar character of the two species of trees--the masculine and +feminine--fir and beech. She smiled at the fancy; and much graceful +badinage went on between them. I had never before seen John in the +company of women, and I marvelled to perceive the refinement of his +language, and the poetic ideas it clothed. I forgot the truth--of +whose saying was it?--"that once in his life every man becomes a +poet." + +They stood by the little rivulet, and he showed her how the water +came from the spring above; the old well-head where the cattle drank; +how it took its course merrily through the woods, till at the bottom +of the valley below it grew into a wide stream. + +"Small beginnings make great endings," observed Miss March, +sententiously. + +John answered her with the happiest smile! He dipped his hollowed +palm into the water and drank: she did the same. Then, in her +free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a cup out of a broad leaf, +which, by the greatest ingenuity, she managed to make contain about +two teaspoonfuls of water for the space of half a minute, and held it +to my mouth. + +"I am like Rebecca at the well. Drink, Eleazer," she cried, gaily. + +John looked on. "I am very thirsty, too," said he, in a low voice. + +The young girl hesitated a moment; then filled and offered to him the +Arcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper and more subtle +draught than that innocent water. + +Both became somewhat grave, and stood, one on either side the stream, +looking down upon it, letting its bubbling murmur have all the talk. +What it said I know not: I only know that it did not, could not, say +to those two what it said to me. + +When we took leave of our acquaintances Mr. March was extremely +courteous, and declared our society would always be a pleasure to +himself and his daughter. + +"He always says so formally, 'my daughter,'" I observed, breaking the +silence in which they had left us. "I wonder what her Christian name +is." + +"I believe it is Ursula." + +"How did you find that out?" + +"It is written in one of her books." + +"Ursula!" I repeated, wondering where I had heard it before. "A +pretty name." + +"A very pretty name." + +When John fell into this echo mood I always found it best to fall +into taciturnity. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Next day, the rain poured down incessantly, sweeping blindingly +across the hills as I have rarely seen it sweep except at Enderley. +The weather had apparently broken up, even thus early in the autumn; +and for that day, and several days following, we had nothing but +wind, rain, and storm. The sky was as dusky as Miss March's grey +gown; broken sometimes in the evening by a rift of misty gold, +gleaming over Nunnely Hill, as if to show us what September sunsets +might have been. + +John went every day to Norton Bury that week. His mind seemed +restless--he was doubly kind and attentive to me; but every night I +heard him go out in all the storm to walk upon the common. I longed +to follow him, but it was best not. + +On the Saturday morning, coming to breakfast, I heard him ask Mrs. +Tod how Mr. March was? We knew the invalid had been ailing all the +week, nor had we seen him or his daughter once. + +Mrs. Tod shook her head ominously. "He is very bad, sir; badder than +ever, I do think. She sits up wi' him best part of every night." + +"I imagined so. I have seen her light burning." + +"Law, Mr. Halifax! you don't be walking abroad of nights on the Flat? +It's terrible bad for your health," cried the honest soul, who never +disguised the fact that Mr. Halifax was her favourite of all her +lodgers, save and except Miss March. + +"Thank you for considering my health," he replied, smiling. "Only +tell me, Mrs. Tod, can anything be done--can we do anything for that +poor gentleman?" + +"Nothing, sir--thank'ee all the same." + +"If he should grow worse let me go for Doctor Brown. I shall be at +home all day." + +"I'll tell Miss March of your kindness, sir," said Mrs. Tod, as with +a troubled countenance she disappeared. + +"Were you not going to Norton Bury to-day, John?" + +"I was--but--as it is a matter of no moment, I have changed my mind. +You have been left so much alone lately. Nay--I'll not disguise the +truth; I had another reason." + +"May I know it?" + +"Of course you may. It is about our fellow-lodgers. Doctor Brown--I +met him on the road this morning--told me that her father cannot live +more than a few days--perhaps a few hours. And she does not know +it." + +He leaned on the mantelpiece. I could see he was very much affected. + +So was I. + +"Her relatives--surely they ought to be sent for?" + +"She has none. Doctor Brown said she once told him so: none nearer +than the Brithwoods of the Mythe--and we know what the Brithwoods +are." + +A young gentleman and his young wife--proverbially the gayest, +proudest, most light-hearted of all our country families. + +"Nay, Phineas, I will not have you trouble yourself. And after all, +they are mere strangers--mere strangers. Come, sit down to +breakfast." + +But he could not eat. He could not talk of ordinary things. Every +minute he fell into abstractions. At length he said, suddenly: + +"Phineas, I do think it is wicked, downright wicked, for a doctor to +be afraid of telling a patient he is going to die--more wicked, +perhaps, to keep the friends in ignorance until the last stunning +blow falls. She ought to be told: she must be told: she may have +many things to say to her poor father. And God help her! for such a +stroke she ought to be a little prepared. It might kill her else!" + +He rose up and walked about the room. The seal once taken from his +reserve, he expressed himself to me freely, as he had used to do-- +perhaps because at this time his feelings required no disguise. The +dreams which might have peopled that beautiful sunset wood +necessarily faded in an atmosphere like this--filled with the solemn +gloom of impending death. + +At last he paused in his hurried walk, quieted, perhaps, by what he +might have read in my ever-following eyes. + +"I know you are as grieved as I am, Phineas. What can we do? Let us +forget that they are strangers, and act as one Christian ought to +another. Do YOU not think she ought to be told?" + +"Most decidedly. They might get further advice." + +"That would be vain. Dr. Brown says it is a hopeless case, has been +so for long; but he would not believe it, nor have his daughter told. +He clings to life desperately. How horrible for her!" + +"You think most of her." + +"I do," said he, firmly. "He is reaping what he sowed, poor man! +God knows I pity him. But she is as good as an angel of heaven." + +It was evident that, somehow or other, John had learnt a great deal +about the father and daughter. However, now was not the time to +question him. For at this moment, through the opened doors, we heard +faint moans that pierced the whole house, and too surely came from +the sick--possibly, the dying--man. Mrs. Tod, who had been seeing +Dr. Brown to his horse, now entered our parlour--pale, with swollen +eyes. + +"Oh, Mr. Halifax!" and the kind soul burst out into crying afresh. +John made her sit down, and gave her a glass of wine. + +"I've been with them since four this morning, and it makes me weakly +like," said she. "That poor Mr. March!--I didn't like him very much +alive, but I do feel so sorry now he's a-dying." + +Then he WAS dying. + +"Does his daughter know?" I asked. + +"No--no--I dare not tell her. Nobody dare." + +"Does she not guess it?" + +"Not a bit. Poor young body! she's never seen anybody so. She +fancies him no worse than he has been, and has got over it. She +WOULDN'T think else. She be a good daughter to him--that she be!" + +We all sat silent; and then John said, in a low voice--"Mrs. Tod, she +ought to be told--and you would be the best person to tell her." + +But the soft-hearted landlady recoiled from the task. "If Tod were +at home now--he that is so full o' wisdom learnt in 'the kirk'--" + +"I think," said John, hastily interrupting, "that a woman would be +the best. But if you object, and as Doctor Brown will not be here +till to-morrow--and as there is no one else to perform such a trying +duty--it seems--that is, I believe"--here his rather formal speech +failed. He ended it abruptly--"If you like I will tell her myself." + +Mrs. Tod overwhelmed him with thankfulness. + +"How shall I meet her, then? If it were done by chance it would be +best." + +"I'll manage it somehow. The house is very quiet: I've sent all the +children away, except the baby. The baby'll comfort her, poor dear! +afterwards." And, again drying her honest eyes, Mrs. Tod ran out of +the room. + +We could do nothing at all that morning. The impending sorrow might +have been our own, instead of that of people who three weeks ago were +perfect strangers. We sat and talked--less, perhaps, of them +individually, than of the dark Angel, whom face to face I at least +had never yet known--who even now stood at the door of our little +habitation, making its various inmates feel as one family, in the +presence of the great leveller of all things--Death. + +Hour by hour of that long day the rain fell down--pouring, pouring-- +shutting us up, as it were, from the world without, and obliterating +every thought, save of what was happening under our one roof--that +awful change which was taking place in the upper room, in the other +half of the house, whence the moans descended, and whence Mrs. Tod +came out from time to time, hurrying mournfully to inform "Mr. +Halifax" how things went on. + +It was nearly dusk before she told us Mr. March was asleep, that his +daughter had at last been persuaded to come down-stairs, and was +standing drinking "a cup o' tea" by the kitchen fire. + +"You must go now, sir; she'll not stop five minutes. Please go." + +"I will," he answered; but he turned frightfully pale. "Phineas-- +don't let her see us both. Stay without the door. If there were +anybody to tell her this but me!" + +"Do you hesitate?" + +"No--No." + +And he went out. I did not follow him; but I heard afterwards, both +from himself and Mrs. Tod, what transpired. + +She was standing so absorbed that she did not notice his entrance. +She looked years older and sadder than the young girl who had stood +by the stream-side less than a week ago. When she turned and spoke +to John it was with a manner also changed. No hesitation, no +shyness; trouble had put aside both. + +"Thank you, my father is indeed seriously ill. I am in great +trouble, you see, though Mrs. Tod is very, very kind. Don't cry so, +good Mrs. Tod; I can't cry, I dare not. If I once began I should +never stop, and then how could I help my poor father? There now, +there!" + +She laid her hand, with its soft, fluttering motions, on the good +woman's shoulder, and looked up at John. He said afterwards that +those dry, tearless eyes smote him to the heart. + +"Why does she sob so, Mr Halifax? Papa will be better tomorrow, I am +sure." + +"I HOPE so," he answered, dwelling on the word; "we should always +hope to the very last." + +"The last?" with a quick, startled glance. + +"And then we can only trust." + +Something more than the MERE words struck her. She examined him +closely for a minute. + +"You mean--yes--I understand what you mean. But you are mistaken. +The doctor would have told me--if--if--" she shivered, and left the +sentence unfinished. + +"Dr. Brown was afraid--we were all afraid," broke in Mrs. Tod, +sobbing. "Only Mr. Halifax, he said--" + +Miss March turned abruptly to John. That woeful gaze of hers could +be answered by no words. I believe he took her hand, but I cannot +tell. One thing I can tell, for she said it to me herself +afterwards, that he seemed to look down upon her like a strong, +pitiful, comforting angel; a messenger sent by God. + +Then she broke away, and flew up-stairs. John came in again to me, +and sat down. He did not speak for many minutes. + +After an interval--I know not how long--we heard Mrs. Tod calling +loudly for "Mr. Halifax." We both ran through the empty kitchen to +the foot of the stairs that led to Mr. March's room. + +Mr. March's room! Alas, he owned nothing now on this fleeting, +perishable earth of ours. He had gone from it: the spirit stealing +quietly away in sleep. He belonged now to the world everlasting. + +Peace be to him! whatever his life had been, he was HER father. + +Mrs. Tod sat half-way down the stair-case, holding Ursula March +across her knees. The poor creature was insensible, or nearly so. +She--we learnt--had been composed under the terrible discovery made +when she returned to his room; and when all restorative means failed, +the fact of death became certain, she had herself closed her father's +eyes, and kissed him, then tried to walk from the room--but at the +third step she dropped quietly down. + +There she lay; physical weakness conquering the strong heart: she +lay, overcome at last. There was no more to bear. Had there been, I +think she would have been able to have borne it still. + +John took her in his arms; I know not if he took her, or Mrs. Tod +gave her to him--but there she was. He carried her across the +kitchen into our own little parlour, and laid her down on my sofa. + +"Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, keep everybody out. She is +waking now." + +She did, indeed, open her eyes, with a long sigh, but closed them +again. Then with an effort she sat upright, and looked at us all +around. + +"Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, and sobbing +over her like a child. "Cry, do cry!" + +"I CAN'T," she said, and lay down again. + +We stood awed, watching that poor, pale face, on every line of which +was written stunned, motionless, impassive grief. For John--two +minutes of such a gaze as his might in a man's heart do the work of +years. + +"She must be roused," he said at last. "She MUST cry. Mrs. Tod, +take her up-stairs. Let her look at her father." + +The word effected what he desired; what almost her life demanded. +She clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of weeping. + +"Now, Phineas, let us go away." + +And he went, walking almost like one blindfold, straight out of the +house, I following him. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"I am quite certain, Mrs. Tod, that it would be much better for her; +and, if she consents, it shall be so," said John, decisively. + +We three were consulting, the morning after the death, on a plan +which he and I had already settled between ourselves, namely, that we +should leave our portion of the cottage entirely at Miss March's +disposal, while we inhabited hers--save that locked and silent +chamber wherein there was no complaining, no suffering now. + +Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was successful; we +received a message to the effect that Miss March would not refuse our +"kindness." So we vacated; and all that long Sunday we sat in the +parlour lately our neighbour's, heard the rain come down, and the +church bells ring; the wind blowing autumn gales, and shaking all the +windows, even that of the room overhead. It sounded awful THERE. We +were very glad the poor young orphan was away. + +On the Monday morning we heard going up-stairs the heavy footsteps +that every one at some time or other has shuddered at; then the +hammering. Mrs. Tod came in, and told us that no one--not even his +daughter--could be allowed to look at what had been "poor Mr. March," +any more. All with him was ended. + +"The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do then, poor +thing!" + +John made me no answer. + +"Is she left well provided for, do you think?" + +"It is impossible to say." + +His answers were terse and brief enough, but I could not help talking +about the poor young creature, and wondering if she had any relative +or friend to come to her in this sad time. + +"She said--do you remember, when she was crying--that she had not a +friend in the wide world?" + +And this fact, which he expressed with a sort of triumph, seemed to +afford the greatest possible comfort to John. + +But all our speculations were set at rest by a request brought this +moment by Mrs. Tod--that Mr. Halifax would go with her to speak to +Miss March. + +"I! only I?" said John, starting. + +"Only you, sir. She wants somebody to speak to about the funeral-- +and I said, 'There be Mr. Halifax, Miss March, the kindest +gentleman'; and she said, 'if it wouldn't trouble him to come--'" + +"Tell her I am coming." + +When, after some time, he returned, he was very serious. + +"Wait a minute, Phineas, and you shall hear; I feel confused, rather. +It is so strange, her trusting me thus. I wish I could help her +more." + +Then he told me all that had passed--how he and Mrs. Tod had +conjointly arranged the hasty funeral--how brave and composed she had +been--that poor child, all alone! + +"Has she indeed no one to help her?" + +"No one. She might send for Mr. Brithwood, but he was not friendly +with her father; she said she had rather ask this 'kindness' of me, +because her father had liked me, and thought I resembled their +Walter, who died." + +"Poor Mr. March!--perhaps he is with Walter, now. But, John, can you +do all that is necessary for her? You are very young." + +"She does not seem to feel that. She treats me as if I were a man of +forty. Do I look so old and grave, Phineas?" + +"Sometimes. And about the funeral?" + +"It will be very simple. She is determined to go herself. She +wishes to have no one besides Mrs. Tod, you, and me." + +"Where is he to be buried?" + +"In the little churchyard close by, which you and I have looked at +many a time. Ah, Phineas, we did not think how soon we should be +laying our dead there." + +"Not OUR dead, thank God!" + +But the next minute I understood. "OUR dead"--the involuntary +admission of that sole feeling, which makes one, erewhile a stranger, +say to, or think of another--"All thine are mine, and mine are thine, +henceforward and for ever." + +I watched John as he stood by the fire; his thoughtful brow and +firm-set lips contradicting the youthfulness of his looks. Few as +were his years, he had learnt much in them. He was at heart a man, +ready and able to design and carry out a man's work in the world. +And in his whole aspect was such grave purity, such honest truth, +that no wonder, young as they both were, and little as she knew of +him, this poor orphan should not have feared to trust him entirely. +And there is nothing that binds heart to heart, of lovers or friends, +so quickly and so safely, as to trust and be trusted in time of +trouble. + +"Did she tell you any more, John? Anything of her circumstances?" + +"No. But from something Mrs. Tod let fall, I fear"--and he vainly +tried to disguise his extreme satisfaction--"that she will be left +with little or nothing." + +"Poor Miss March!" + +"Why call her poor? She is not a woman to be pitied, but to be +honoured. You would have thought so, had you seen her this morning. +So gentle--so wise--so brave. Phineas,"--and I could see his lips +tremble--"that was the kind of woman Solomon meant, when he said, +'Her price was above rubies.'" + +"I think so too. I doubt not that when she marries Ursula March will +be 'a crown to her husband.'" + +My words, or the half sigh that accompanied them--I could not help +it--seemed to startle John, but he made no remark. Nor did we recur +to the subject again that day. + +Two days after, our little company followed the coffin out of the +woodbine porch--where we had last said good-bye to poor Mr. March-- +across the few yards of common, to the churchyard, scarcely larger +than a cottage garden, where, at long intervals, the few Enderley +dead were laid. + +A small procession--the daughter first, supported by good Mrs. Tod, +then John Halifax and I. So we buried him--the stranger who, at this +time, and henceforth, seemed even, as John had expressed it, "our +dead," our own. + +We followed the orphan home. She had walked firmly, and stood by the +grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her face. But when we +came back to Rose Cottage door, and she gave a quick, startled +glance up at the familiar window, we saw Mrs. Tod take her, +unresisting, into her motherly arms--then we knew how it would be. + +"Come away," said John, in a smothered voice--and we came away. + +All that day we sat in our parlour--Mr. March's parlour that had +been--where, through the no longer darkened casement, the unwonted +sun poured in. We tried to settle to our ordinary ways, and feel as +if this were like all other days--our old sunshiny days at Enderley. +But it would not do. Some imperceptible but great change had taken +place. It seemed a year since that Saturday afternoon, when we were +drinking tea so merrily under the apple-tree in the field. + +We heard no more from Miss March that day. The next, we received a +message of thanks for our "kindness." She had given way at last, +Mrs. Tod said, and kept her chamber, not seriously ill, but in spirit +thoroughly broken down. For three days more, when I went to meet +John returning from Norton Bury, I could see that his first glance, +as he rode up between the chestnut trees, was to the window of the +room that had been mine. I always told him, without his asking, +whatever Mrs. Tod had told me about her state; he used to listen, +generally in silence, and then speak of something else. He hardly +ever mentioned Miss March's name. + +On the fourth morning, I happened to ask him if he had told my father +what had occurred here? + +"No." + +I looked surprised. + +"Did you wish me to tell him? I will, if you like, Phineas." + +"Oh, no. He takes little interest in strangers." + +Soon after, as he lingered about the parlour, John said: + +"Probably I may be late to-night. After business hours I want to +have a little talk with your father." + +He stood irresolutely by the fire. I knew by his countenance that +there was something on his mind. + +"David." + +"Ay, lad." + +"Will you not tell me first what you want to say to my father?" + +"I can't stay now. To-night, perhaps. But, pshaw! what is there to +be told? 'Nothing.'" + +"Anything that concerns you can never be to me quite 'nothing.'" + +"I know that," he said, affectionately, and went out of the room. + +When he came in he looked much more cheerful--stood switching his +riding-whip after the old habit, and called upon me to admire his +favourite brown mare. + +"I do; and her master likewise. John, when you're on horseback you +look like a young knight of the Middle Ages. Maybe, some of the old +Norman blood was in 'Guy Halifax, gentleman.'" + +It was a dangerous allusion. He changed colour so rapidly and +violently that I thought I had angered him. + +"No--that would not matter--cannot--cannot--never shall. I am what +God made me, and what, with His blessing, I will make myself." + +He said no more, and very soon afterwards he rode away. But not +before, as every day, I had noticed that wistful wandering glance up +at the darkened window of the room, where sad and alone, save for +kindly Mrs. Tod, the young orphan lay. + +In the evening, just before bed-time, he said to me with a rather sad +smile, "Phineas, you wanted to know what it was that I wished to +speak about to your father?" + +"Ay, do tell me." + +"It is hardly worth telling. Only to ask him how he set up in +business for himself. He was, I believe, little older than I am +now." + +"Just twenty-one." + +"And I shall be twenty-one next June." + +"Are you thinking of setting up for yourself?" + +"A likely matter!" and he laughed, rather bitterly, I thought--"when +every trade requires capital, and the only trade I thoroughly +understand, a very large one. No, no, Phineas; you'll not see me +setting up a rival tan-yard next year. My capital is NIL." + +"Except youth, health, courage, honour, honesty, and a few other such +trifles." + +"None of which I can coin into money, however. And your father has +expressly told me that without money a tanner can do nothing." + +"Unless, as was his own case, he was taken into some partnership +where his services were so valuable as to be received instead of +capital. True, my father earned little at first, scarcely more than +you earn now; but he managed to live respectably, and, in course of +time, to marry." + +I avoided looking at John as I said the last word. He made no +answer, but in a little time he came and leaned over my chair. + +"Phineas, you are a wise counsellor--'a brother born for adversity.' +I have been vexing myself a good deal about my future, but now I will +take heart. Perhaps, some day, neither you nor any one else will be +ashamed of me." + +"No one could, even now, seeing you as you really are." + +"As John Halifax, not as the tanner's 'prentice boy? Oh! lad--there +the goad sticks. Here I forget everything unpleasant; I am my own +free natural self; but the minute I get back to Norton Bury--however, +it is a wrong, a wicked feeling, and must be kept down. Let us talk +of something else." + +"Of Miss March? She has been greatly better all day." + +"She? No, not her to-night!" he said, hurriedly. "Pah! I could +almost fancy the odour of these hides on my hands still. Give me a +candle." + +He went up-stairs, and only came down a few minutes before bed-time. + +Next morning was Sunday. After the bells had done ringing we saw a +black-veiled figure pass our window. Poor girl!--going to church +alone. We followed--taking care that she should not see us, either +during service or afterwards. We did not see anything more of her +that day. + +On Monday a message came, saying that Miss March would be glad to +speak with us both. Of course we went. + +She was sitting quite alone, in our old parlour, very grave and pale, +but perfectly composed. A little more womanly-looking in the dignity +of her great grief, which, girl as she was, and young men as we were, +seemed to be to her a shield transcending all worldly "proprieties." + +As she rose, and we shook hands, in a silence only broken by the +rustle of her black dress, not one of us thought--surely the most +evil-minded gossip could not have dared to think--that there was +anything strange in her receiving us here. We began to talk of +common things--not THE thing. She seemed to have fought through the +worst of her trouble, and to have put it back into those deep quiet +chambers where all griefs go; never forgotten, never removed, but +sealed up in silence, as it should be. Perhaps, too--for let us not +exact more from Nature than Nature grants--the wide, wide difference +in character, temperament, and sympathies between Miss March and her +father unconsciously made his loss less a heart-loss, total and +irremediable, than one of mere habit and instinctive feeling, which, +the first shock over, would insensibly heal. Besides, she was young- +-young in life, in hope, in body, and soul; and youth, though it +grieves passionately, cannot for ever grieve. + +I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some degree +herself again; at least, so much of her old self as was right, +natural, and good for her to be. + +She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him was easy and +natural, as to a friend who deserved and possessed her warm +gratitude: his was more constrained. Gradually, however, this wore +away; there was something in her which, piercing all disguises, went +at once to the heart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the +touchstone of truth. + +He asked--no, I believe _I_ asked her, how long she intended staying +at Enderley? + +"I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin Richard +Brithwood was left my guardian. This my fa--this was to have been +altered, I believe. I wish it had been. You know Norton Bury, Mr. +Halifax?" + +"I live there." + +"Indeed!"--with some surprise. "Then you are probably acquainted +with my cousin and his wife?" + +"No; but I have seen them." + +John gave these answers without lifting his eyes. + +"Will you tell me candidly--for I know nothing of her, and it is +rather important that I should learn--what sort of person is Lady +Caroline?" + +This frank question, put directly, and guarded by the battery of +those innocent, girlish eyes, was a very hard question to be +answered; for Norton Bury had said many ill-natured things of our +young 'squire's wife, whom he married at Naples, from the house of +the well-known Lady Hamilton. + +"She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Ravenel, the Earl of Luxmore's +daughter." + +"Yes, yes; but that does not signify. I know nothing of Lord +Luxmore--I want to know what she is herself." + +John hesitated, then answered, as he could with truth, "She is said +to be very charitable to the poor, pleasant and kind-hearted. But, +if I may venture to hint as much, not exactly the friend whom I think +Miss March would choose, or to whom she would like to be indebted for +anything but courtesy." + +"That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to any one. Only, +if she were a good woman, Lady Caroline would have been a great +comfort and a useful adviser to one who is scarcely eighteen, and, I +believe, an heiress." + +"An heiress!" The colour flashed in a torrent over John's whole +face, then left him pale. "I--pardon me--I thought it was otherwise. +Allow me to--to express my pleasure--" + +"It does not add to mine," said she, half-sighing. "Jane Cardigan +always told me riches brought many cares. Poor Jane! I wish I could +go back to her--but that is impossible!" + +A silence here intervened, which it was necessary some one should +break. + +"So much good can be done with a large fortune," I said. + +"Yes. I know not if mine is very large; indeed, I never understood +money matters, but have merely believed what--what I was told. +However, be my fortune much or little, I will try to use it well." + +"I am sure you will." + +John said nothing; but his eyes, sad indeed, yet lit with a proud +tenderness, rested upon her as she spoke. Soon after, he rose up to +take leave. + +"Do not go yet; I want to ask about Norton Bury. I had no idea you +lived there. And Mr. Fletcher too?" + +I replied in the affirmative. + +"In what part of the town?" + +"On the Coltham Road, near the Abbey." + +"Ah, those Abbey chimes!--how I used to listen to them, night after +night, when the pain kept me awake!" + +"What pain?" asked John, suddenly, alive to any suffering of hers. + +Miss March smiled almost like her old smile. "Oh! I had nearly +forgotten it, though it was very bad at the time; only that I cut my +wrist rather dangerously with a bread knife, in a struggle with my +nurse." + +"When was that?" eagerly inquired John. + +For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas! the tide of +fate was running strong against my poor David. What could I do but +stand aside and watch? + +"When was it? Let me see--five, six years ago. But, indeed, 'tis +nothing." + +"Not exactly 'nothing.' Do tell me!" + +And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as one +would count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yet +Time's remorseless hand still keeps on, pouring, pouring. + +"Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses--I was +very naughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread +that I wanted to give away to a poor lad." + +"Who stood opposite--under an alley--in the rain?--was it not so?" + +"How could you know? But he looked so hungry; I was so sorry for +him." + +"Were you?"--in a tone almost inaudible. + +"I have often thought of him since, when I chanced to look at this +mark." + +"Let me look at it--may I?" + +Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering, just +above the wrist, a deep, discoloured seam. He gazed at it, his +features all quivering, then, without a word either of adieu or +apology, he quitted the room. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door where +John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a +certain embarrassment. + +"What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any +way?" + +"Indeed, no." + +"Why did he go away?" + +But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put, +involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it; while, at +the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises +or prevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and very +frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman +to whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly: + +"I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer +telling you himself." + +"As he pleases," returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her +frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in +her usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods +and about Norton Bury. I answered them freely--my only reservation +being, that I took care not to give any information concerning +ourselves. + +Soon afterwards, as John did not return, I took leave of her, and +went to our own parlour. + +He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who met him on +the common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return till +dinner-time. Dinner-time came, but I had to dine alone. It was the +first time I ever knew him break even such a trivial promise. My +heart misgave me--I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in +search of him, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlour. +Better, when he did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth +and--me. + +Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years better +than anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? +Fate had taken the sceptre out of my hands--I was utterly powerless; +I could neither give him comfort nor save him pain any more. + +What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has felt +likewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over a brother, +many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Let +those who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot; let those who +win hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt +the new bond cruelly in the face of the old. + +Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as right to +say, I will no more allude to the subject. + +In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach-and-four, +resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door; I knew it well, and so +did all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady Caroline's own maid--so +I heard afterwards--sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline's own black- +eyed Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I +concluded was for Miss March. + +I was glad that John was not at home; glad that the coach, with all +its fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before +John came in. + +He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, +looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long +fingers stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the +common. At first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second +thoughts I remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could +be seen shining ever so far. + +"What a bright blaze!--Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope?--Tea- +-yes, that's far better; I have had such a long walk, and am so tired +" + +The words were cheerful, so was the tone. TOO cheerful--oh, by far! +The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend's heart, like the +piping of soldiers as they go away back from a newly-filled grave. + +"Where have you been, John?" + +"All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there--such expansive views. +As Mrs. Tod informed me, quoting some local ballad, which she said +was written by an uncle of hers: + + "'There you may spy + Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.' + +Remarkable fact, isn't it?" + +Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly talking. +It was enough to make one weep. + +After tea I insisted on his taking my arm-chair; saying, that after +such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold. + +"Not the least--quite the contrary--feel my hand." It was burning. +"But I am tired--thoroughly tired." + +He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weariness of body +and soul that was written on his face! + +"Why did you go out alone? John, you know that you have always me." + +He looked up, smiling. But the momentary brightness passed. Alas! I +was not enough to make him happy now. + +We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time; but the gates of +his heart were close locked. It seemed as if he dared not open them, +lest the flood should burst forth and overwhelm us. + +At nine o'clock Mrs. Tod came in with supper. She had always +something or other to say, especially since the late events had drawn +the whole household of Rose Cottage so closely together; now, she was +brim-full of news. + +She had been all that evening packing up for poor dear Miss March; +though why she should call her "poor," truly, she didn't know. Who +would have thought Mr. March had such grand relations? Had we seen +Lady Caroline Brithwood's coach that came that day? Such a beautiful +coach it was!--sent on purpose for Miss March--only she wouldn't go. +"But now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She is leaving +to-morrow." + +When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, to fasten the +heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the bolt, motionless, +till the good woman was gone. Then he staggered to the mantelpiece, +and leaned on it with both his elbows, his hands covering his face. + +But there was no disguise now--no attempt to make it. A young man's +first love--not first fancy, but first love--in all its passion, +desperation, and pain--had come to him, as it comes to all. I saw +him writhing under it--saw, and could not help him. The next few +silent minutes were very bitter to us both. + +Then I said gently, "David!" + +"Well?" + +"I thought things were so." + +"Yes." + +"Suppose you were to talk to me a little--it might do you good." + +"Another time. Let me go out--out into the air; I'm choking." + +Snatching up his hat, he rushed from me. I did not dare to follow. + +After waiting some time, and listening till all was quiet in the +house, I could bear the suspense no longer and went out. + +I thought I should find him on the Flat--probably in his favourite +walk, his "terrace," as he called it, where he had first seen, and +must have seen many a day after, that girlish figure tripping lightly +along through the morning sunshine and morning dew. I had a sort of +instinct that he would be there now; so I climbed up the shortest +way, often losing my footing; for it was a pitch-dark night, and the +common looked as wide, and black, and still, as a midnight sea. + +John was not there; indeed, if he had been I could scarcely have seen +him; I could see nothing but the void expanse of the Flat, or, +looking down, the broad river of mist that rolled through the valley, +on the other side of which twinkled a few cottage lights, like +unearthly beacons from the farthest shore of an impassable flood. + +Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Tod say that, on account of its +pits and quarries, the common was extremely dangerous after dark, +except to those who knew it well. In a horrible dread I called out +John's name--but nothing answered. I went on blindly, desperately +shouting as I went. At length, in one of the Roman fosses, I +stumbled and fell. Some one came, darting with great leaps through +the mist, and lifted me up. + +"Oh! David--David!" + +"Phineas--is that you? You have come out this bitter night--why did +you?" + +His tenderness over me, even then, made me break down. I forgot my +manhood, or else it slipped from me unawares. In the old Bible +language, "I fell on his neck and wept." + +Afterwards I was not sorry for this, because I think my weakness gave +him strength. I think, amidst the whirl of passion that racked him +it was good for him to feel that the one crowning cup of life is not +inevitably life's sole sustenance; that it was something to have a +friend and brother who loved him with a love--like Jonathan's-- +"passing the love of women." + +"I have been very wrong," he kept repeating, in a broken voice; "but +I was not myself. I am better now. Come--let us go home." + +He put his arm round me to keep me warm, and brought me safely into +the house. He even sat down by the fire to talk with me. Whatever +struggle there had been, I saw it was over, he looked his own self-- +only so very, very pale--and spoke in his natural voice; ay, even +when mentioning HER, which he was the first to do. + +"She goes to-morrow, you are sure, Phineas?" + +"I believe so. Shall you see her again?" + +"If she desires it." + +"Shall you say anything to her?" + +"Nothing. If for a little while--not knowing or not thinking of all +the truth--I felt I had strength to remove all impediments, I now see +that even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse- +-a knave. I will be neither--I will be a man." + +I replied not: how could one answer such words?--calmly uttered, +though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his +heart. + +"Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly +this morning?" + +"She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself." + +"I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my +position. I shall tell her the whole truth--save one thing. She +need never know that." + +I guessed by his broken voice what the "one thing" was;--which he +counted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would have +counted worth everything--the priceless gift of a good man's love. +Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a +lifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry--ay, even sorry +for Ursula March. + +"Do you not think I am right, Phineas?" + +"Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge." + +"It is right," said he, firmly. "There can be no possible hope for +me; nothing remains but silence." + +I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young +man, only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love +could be absolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John +Halifax. But as things now stood I deemed it best to leave him +altogether to himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What +Providence willed, through HIS will, would happen: for me to +interfere either way would be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some +sense, exceedingly wrong. + +So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence. + +John broke it--talking to himself as if he had forgotten I was by. + +"To think it was she who did it--that first kindness to a poor +friendless boy. I never forgot it--never. It did me more good than +I can tell. And that scar on her poor arm--her dear little tender +arm;--how this morning I would have given all the world to--" + +He broke off--instinctively, as it were--with the sort of feeling +every good man has, that the sacred passion, the inmost tenderness of +his love, should be kept wholly between himself and the woman he has +chosen. + +I knew that too; knew that in his heart had grown up a secret, a +necessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship--closer than the +closest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps--I hardly know why--I +sighed. + +John turned round--"Phineas, you must not think--because of this-- +which you will understand for yourself, I hope, one day; you must not +think I could ever think less, or feel less, about my brother." + +He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands warmly and +silently. Thus was healed my last lingering pain--I was +thenceforward entirely satisfied. + +I think we parted that night as we had never parted before; feeling +that the trial of our friendship--the great trial, perhaps, of any +friendship--had come and passed, safely: that whatever new ties +might gather round each, our two hearts would cleave together until +death. + +The next morning rose, as I have seen many a morning rise at +Enderley--misty and grey; but oh, so heavenly fair! with a pearly +network of dewy gossamer under foot, and overhead countless thistle +downs flying about, like fairy chariots hurrying out of sight of the +sun, which had only mounted high enough above the Flat to touch the +horizon of hills opposite, and the tops of my four poplars, leaving +Rose Cottage and the valley below it all in morning shadow. John +called me to go with him on the common; his voice sounded so cheerful +outside my door that it was with a glad heart I rose and went. + +He chose his old walk--his "terrace." No chance now of meeting the +light figure coming tripping along the level hill. All that dream +was now over. He did not speak of it--nor I. He seemed contented-- +or, at least, thoroughly calmed down; except that the sweet composure +of his mien had settled into the harder gravity of manhood. The +crisis and climax of youth had been gone through--he never could be a +boy again. + +We came to that part of John's terrace which overhung the churchyard. +Both of us glanced instinctively down to the heap of loose red earth- +-the as yet nameless grave. Some one stood beside it--the only one +who was likely to be there. + +Even had I not recognized her, John's manner would have told me who +it was. A deadly paleness overspread his face--its quietness was +gone--every feature trembled. It almost broke my heart to see how +deeply this love had struck its roots down to the very core of his; +twisting them with every fibre of his being. A love which, though it +had sprung up so early, and come to maturity so fast, might yet be +the curse of his whole existence. Save that no love conceived +virtuously, for a good woman, be it ever so hopeless, can be rightly +considered as a curse. + +"Shall we go away?" I whispered--"a long walk--to the other side of +the Flat? She will have left Rose Cottage soon." + +"When?" + +"Before noon, I heard. Come, David." + +He suffered me to put my arm in his, and draw him away for a step or +two, then turned. + +"I can't, Phineas, I can't! I MUST look at her again--only for one +minute--one little minute." + +But he stayed--we were standing where she could not see us--till she +had slowly left the grave. We heard the click of the churchyard +gate: where she went afterward we could not discern. + +John moved away. I asked him if we should take our walk now? But he +did not seem to hear me; so I let him follow his own way--perhaps it +might be for good--who could tell? + +He descended from the Flat, and came quickly round the corner of the +cottage. Miss March stood there, trying to find one fresh rose among +the fast-withering clusters about what had been our parlour window +and now was hers. + +She saw us, acknowledged us, but hurriedly, and not without some +momentary signs of agitation. + +"The roses are all gone," she said rather sadly. + +"Perhaps, higher up, I can reach one--shall I try?" + +I marvelled to see that John's manner as he addressed her was just +like his manner always with her. + +"Thank you--that will do. I wanted to take some away with me--I am +leaving Rose Cottage to-day, Mr. Halifax." + +"So I have heard." + +He did not say "sorry to hear." I wondered did the omission strike +her? But no--she evidently regarded us both as mere acquaintances, +inevitably, perhaps even tenderly, bound up with this time; and as +such, claiming a more than ordinary place in her regard and +remembrance. No man with common sense or common feeling could for a +moment dare to misinterpret the emotion she showed. + +Re-entering the house, she asked us if we would come in with her; she +had a few things to say to us. And then she again referred +gratefully to our "kindness." + +We all went once more--for the last time--into the little parlour. +"Yes--I am going away," said she, mournfully. + +"We hope all good will go with you--always and everywhere." + +"Thank you, Mr. Fletcher." + +It was strange, the grave tone our intercourse now invariably +assumed. We might have been three old people, who had long fought +with and endured the crosses of the world, instead of two young men +and a young woman, in the very dawn of life. + +"Circumstances have fixed my plans since I saw you yesterday. I am +going to reside for a time with my cousins, the Brithwoods. It seems +best for me. Lady Caroline is very kind, and I am so lonely." + +She said this not in any complaint, but as if accepting the fact, and +making up her mind to endure it. A little more fragmentary +conversation passed, chiefly between herself and me--John uttered +scarcely a word. He sat by the window, half shading his face with +his hand. Under that covert, the gaze which incessantly followed and +dwelt on her face--oh, had she seen it! + +The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had intended, concerning +his position in the world? Had she guessed or learned anything, or +were we to her simply Mr. Halifax and Mr. Fletcher--two "gentlemen" +of Norton Bury? It appeared so. + +"This is not a very long good-bye, I trust?" said she to me, with +something more than courtesy. "I shall remain at the Mythe House +some weeks, I believe. How long do you purpose staying at Enderley?" + +I was uncertain. + +"But your home is in Norton Bury? I hope--I trust, you will allow my +cousin to express in his own house his thanks and mine for your great +kindness during my trouble?" + +Neither of us answered. Miss March looked surprised--hurt--nay, +displeased; then her eye, resting on John, lost its haughtiness, and +became humble and sweet. + +"Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do know you. Will +you tell me--candidly, as I know you will--whether there is anything +in Mr. Brithwood which you think unworthy of your acquaintance?" + +"He would think me unworthy of his," was the low, firm answer. + +Miss March smiled incredulously. "Because you are not very rich? +What can that signify? It is enough for me that my friends are +gentlemen." + +"Mr. Brithwood, and many others, would not allow my claim to that +title." + +Astonished--nay, somewhat more than astonished--the young gentlewoman +drew back a little. "I do not quite understand you." + +"Let me explain, then;" and her involuntary gesture seeming to have +brought back all honest dignity and manly pride, he faced her, once +more himself. "It is right, Miss March, that you should know who and +what I am, to whom you are giving the honour of your kindness. +Perhaps you ought to have known before; but here at Enderley we +seemed to be equals--friends." + +"I have indeed felt it so." + +"Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you--what you never +asked, and I was only too ready to forget--that we are not equals-- +that is, society would not regard us as such--and I doubt if even you +yourself would wish us to be friends." + +"Why not?" + +"Because you are a gentlewoman and I am a tradesman." + +The news was evidently a shock to her--it could not but be, reared as +she had been. She sat--the eye-lashes dropping over her flushed +cheeks--perfectly silent. + +John's voice grew firmer--prouder--no hesitation now. + +"My calling is, as you will soon hear at Norton Bury, that of a +tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher--Phineas's father." + +"Mr. Fletcher!" She looked up at me--a mingled look of kindliness +and pain. + +"Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He is +rich--he has been well educated; I have had to educate myself. I +came to Norton Bury six years ago--a beggar-boy. No, not quite that- +-for I never begged! I either worked or starved." + +The earnestness, the passion of his tone, made Miss March lift her +eyes, but they fell again. + +"Yes, Phineas found me in an alley--starving. We stood in the rain, +opposite the mayor's house. A little girl--you know her, Miss March- +-came to the door, and threw out to me a bit of bread." + +Now indeed she started. "You--was that you?" + +"It was I." + +John paused, and his whole manner changed into softness, as he +resumed. "I never forgot that little girl. Many a time, when I was +inclined to do wrong, she kept me right--the remembrance of her sweet +face and her kindness." + +That face was pressed down against the sofa where she sat. I think +Miss March was all but weeping. + +John continued. + +"I am glad to have met her again--glad to have been able to do her +some small good in return for the infinite good she once did me. I +shall bid her farewell now--at once and altogether." + +A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face asked him "Why?" + +"Because," John answered, "the world says we are not equals, and it +would neither be for Miss March's honour nor mine did I try to force +upon it the truth--which I may prove openly one day--that we ARE +equals." + +Miss March looked up at him--it were hard to say with what +expression, of pleasure, or pride, or simple astonishment; perhaps a +mingling of all--then her eyelids fell. She silently offered her +hand, first to me and then to John. Whether she meant it as +friendliness, or as a mere ceremony of adieu, I cannot tell. John +took it as the latter, and rose. + +His hand was on the door--but he could not go. + +"Miss March," he said, "perhaps I may never see you again--at least, +never as now. Let me look once more at that wrist which was hurt." + +Her left arm was hanging over the sofa--the scar being visible +enough. John took the hand, and held it firmly. + +"Poor little hand--blessed little hand! May God bless it evermore." + +Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been--a +kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be. Surely +she must have felt it--known it. + +A moment afterward, he was gone. + +That day Miss March departed, and we remained at Enderley alone. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +It was winter-time. All the summer-days at Enderley were gone, "like +a dream when one awaketh." Of her who had been the beautiful centre +of the dream we had never heard nor spoken since. + +John and I were walking together along the road towards the Mythe; we +could just see the frosty sunset reflected on the windows of the +Mythe House, now closed for months, the family being away. The +meadows alongside, where the Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a +popular skating-ground: and the road was alive with lookers-on of +every class. All Norton Bury seemed abroad; and half Norton Bury +exchanged salutations with my companion, till I was amused to notice +how large John's acquaintance had grown. + +Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, as prim and +neat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a happy matron. I saw +at once who it was--Mrs. Jessop, our good doctor's new wife, and old +love: whom he had lately brought home, to the great amazement and +curiosity of Norton Bury. + +"She seems to like you very much," I said; as, after a cordial +greeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on. + +"They were both very kind to me in London, last month, as I think I +told you." + +"Ay!" It was one of the few things he had mentioned about that same +London journey, for he had grown into a painful habit of silence now. +Yet I dreaded to break it, lest any wounds rankling beneath might +thereby be caused to smart once more. And our love to one another +was too faithful for a little reserve to have power to influence it +in any way. + +We came once more upon the old lady, watching the skaters. She again +spoke to John, and looked at me with her keen, kind, blue eyes. + +"I think I know who your friend is, though you do not introduce him." +(John hastily performed that ceremony.) "Tom, and I" (how funny to +hear her call our old bachelor doctor, "Tom!") "were wondering what +had become of you, Mr. Halifax. Are you stronger than you were in +London?" + +"Was he ill in London, madam?" + +"No, indeed, Phineas! Or only enough to win for me Dr. and Mrs. +Jessop's great kindness." + +"Which you have never come to thank us for. Never crossed our +door-sill since we returned home! Does not your conscience sting you +for your ingratitude?" + +He coloured deeply. + +"Indeed, Mrs. Jessop, it was not ingratitude." + +"I know it; I believe it," she answered, with much kindness. "Tell +me what it was?" + +He hesitated. + +"You ought to believe the warm interest we both take in you. Tell me +the plain truth." + +"I will. It is that your kindness to me in London was no reason for +my intruding on you at Norton Bury. It might not be agreeable for +you and Dr. Jessop to have my acquaintance here. I am a tradesman." + +The little old lady's eyes brightened into something beyond mere +kindness as she looked at him. + +"Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that 'plain truth.' Truth is always +best. Now for mine. I had heard you were a tradesman; I found out +for myself that you were a gentleman. I do not think the two facts +incompatible, nor does my husband. We shall be happy to see you at +our house at all times and under all circumstances." + +She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in silence, but it was +long since I had seen him look more pleased. + +"Well, then, suppose you come this evening, both of you?" + +We assented; and on her further invitation John and I and the little +old lady walked on together. + +I could not help watching Mrs. Jessop with some amusement. Norton +Bury said she had been a poor governess all her days; but that hard +life had left no shadow on the cheerful sunset of her existence now. +It was a frank, bright, happy face, in spite of its wrinkles, and its +somewhat hard Welsh features. And it was pleasant to hear her talk, +even though she talked a good deal, and in a decidedly Welsh accent. +Sometimes a tone or two reminded me slightly of--Ay, it was easy to +guess why John evidently liked the old lady. + +"I know this road well, Mr. Halifax. Once I spent a summer here, +with an old pupil, now grown up. I am going to-day to inquire about +her at the Mythe House. The Brithwoods came home yesterday." + +I was afraid to look at John. Even to me the news was startling. +How I blessed Mrs. Jessop's innocent garrulousness. + +"I hope they will remain here some time. I have a special interest +in their stay. Not on Lady Caroline's account, though. She +patronizes me very kindly; but I doubt if she ever forgets--what Tom +says I am rather too proud of remembering--that I was the poor +governess, Jane Cardigan." + +"Jane Cardigan!" I exclaimed. + +"What, Mr. Fletcher, you know my name! And really, now I think of +it, I believe I have heard yours. Not from Tom, either. It couldn't +possibly be--Yes! it certainly was--How strange! Did you ever hear +tell of a Miss Ursula March?" + +The live crimson rushed madly over John's face. Mrs. Jessop saw it; +she could not but see. At first she looked astounded, then +exceedingly grave. + +I replied, "that we had had the honour of meeting Miss March last +summer at Enderley." + +"Yes," the old lady continued, somewhat formally. "Now I recollect, +Miss March told me of the circumstance; of two gentlemen there, who +were very kind to her when her father died; a Mr. Fletcher and his +friend--was that Mr. Halifax?" + +"It was," I answered: for John was speechless. Alas! I saw at once +that all my hopes for him, all the design of my long silence on this +subject, had been in vain. No, he had not forgotten her. It was not +in his nature to forget. + +Mrs. Jessop went on, still addressing herself to me. + +"I am sure I ought, on behalf of my dear pupil, to offer you both my +warmest thanks. Hers was a most trying position. She never told me +of it till afterwards, poor child! I am thankful her trouble was +softened to her by finding that STRANGERS" (was it only my fancy that +detected a slight stress on the word?) "mere strangers could be at +once so thoughtful and so kind." + +"No one could be otherwise to Miss March. Is she well? Has she +recovered from her trial?" + +"I hope so. Happily, few sorrows, few feelings of any kind, take +lasting hold at eighteen. She is a noble girl. She did her duty, +and it was no light one, to him who is gone; now her life begins +anew. It is sure to be prosperous--I trust it may be very happy.-- +Now I must bid you both good-bye." + +She stopped at the gates of the Mythe House; great iron gates, a +barrier as proud and impassable as that which in these times the rich +shut against the poor, the aristocrat against the plebeian. John, +glancing once up at them, hurriedly moved on. + +"Stay; you will come and see us, Mr. Halifax? Promise!" + +"If you wish it." + +"And promise, too, that under all circumstances you will tell me, as +you did this morning, the 'plain truth'? Yes, I see you will. +Good-bye." + +The iron gates closed upon her, and against us. We took our silent +way up to the Mythe to our favourite stile. There we leaned--still +in silence, for many minutes. + +"The wind is keen, Phineas; you must be cold." + +Now I could speak to him--could ask him to tell me of his pain. + +"It is so long since you have told me anything. It might do you +good." + +"Nothing can do me good. Nothing but bearing it. My God! what have +I not borne! Five whole months to be dying of thirst, and not a drop +of water to cool my tongue." + +He bared his head and throat to the cutting wind--his chest heaved, +his eyes seemed in a flame. + +"God forgive me!--but I sometimes think I would give myself body and +soul to the devil for one glimpse of her face, one touch of her +little hand." + +I made no answer. What answer could be made to such words as these? +I waited--all I could do--till the paroxysm had gone by. Then I +hinted--as indeed seemed not unlikely--that he might see her soon. + +"Yes, a great way off, like that cloud up there. But I want her +near--close--in my home--at my heart;--Phineas," he gasped, "talk to +me--about something else--anything. Don't let me think, or I shall +go clean mad." + +And indeed he looked so. I was terrified. So quiet as I had always +seen him when we met, so steadily as he had pursued his daily duties; +and with all this underneath--this torment, conflict, despair, of a +young man's love. It must come out--better it should. + +"And you have gone on working all this while?" + +"I was obliged. Nothing but work kept me in my senses. Besides"-- +and he laughed hoarsely--"I was safest in the tan-yard. The thought +of her could not come there. I was glad of it. I tried to be solely +and altogether what I am--a 'prentice lad--a mere clown." + +"Nay, that was wrong." + +"Was it? Well, at last it struck me so. I thought I would be a +gentleman again--just for a pretence, you know--a dream--a bit of the +old dream back again. So I went to London." + +"And met the Jessops there?" + +"Yes; though I did not know she was Jane Cardigan. But I liked her-- +I liked my life with them. It was like breathing a higher air, the +same air that--Oh, Phineas, it was horrible to come back to my life +here--to that accursed tan-yard!" + +I said nothing. + +"You see, now"--and that hard laugh smote me to the heart again--"you +see, Phineas, how wicked I am growing. You will have to cut my +acquaintance presently." + +"Tell me the rest--I mean, the rest of your life in London," I said, +after a pause. "Did you ever hear of her?" + +"Of course not; though I knew she was there. I saw it in the Court +Circular. Fancy a lady, whose name was in the Court Circular, being +inquired after by a tanner's lad! But I wanted to look at her--any +beggar might do that, you know--so I watched in streets and parks, by +theatre-doors at night, and by church-doors on Sunday mornings; yet I +never saw her once. Only think, not once for five whole months." + +"John, how could you tell me you were happy?" + +"I don't know. Perhaps because of my pride; perhaps because--Ah, +don't look so wretched! Why did you let me say all this? You are +too good for such as I." + +Of course I took no heed of idle words like these. I let him stand +there, leaning against the stile, now and then grasping it with his +nervous, muscular hands, as if he would tear it down; then I said +quietly: + +"What do you intend to do?" + +"Do? Nothing! What can I do? Though sometimes a score of wild +plans rush into my mind, such as to run away to the Indies, like that +young Warren Hastings we were talking of, come back twenty years +hence a nabob, and--marry her." + +"Marry her," I repeated, mournfully. + +"Ay, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she and I were to +meet and stand together, equal man and woman, I could make her love +me; I feel I could. Instead of crawling after her thus I would go +boldly in at those very gates--do you think she is there?" + +He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of her being so +near. + +"Oh, it's hard, hard! I could despise myself. Why cannot I trust my +manhood, my honest manhood that I was born with, go straight to her +and tell her that I love her; that God meant her for me and me for +her--true husband and true wife? Phineas, mark my words"--and, wild +as his manner was, it had a certain force which sounded almost like +prophecy--"if ever Ursula March marries she will be my wife--MY +wife!" + +I could only murmur--"Heaven grant it!" + +"But we shall never marry, neither one nor the other of us; we shall +go on apart and alone till the next world. Perhaps she will come to +me then: I may have her in my heart there." + +John looked upward: there was in the west a broad, red frosty cloud, +and just beyond it, nay, all but resting on it, the new moon--a +little, wintry, soft new moon. A sight that might well have hushed +the maddest storm of passion: it hushed his. He stood, still +looking up, for many minutes, then his eyes closed, the lashes all +wet. + +"We'll never speak of this again, Phineas; I'll not grieve thee any +more; I'll try and be a better brother to thee for the future. Come +along!" + +He drew my arm in his, and we went home. + +Passing the tan-yard John proposed that we should call for my father. +My poor father; now daily growing more sour and old, and daily +leaning more and more upon John, who never ceased to respect, and +make every one else respect, his master. Though still ostensibly a +'prentice, he had now the business almost entirely in his hands. It +was pleasant to see how my father brightened up at his coming--how +readily, when he turned homeward, he leaned upon John's strong arm, +now the support of both him and me. Thus we walked through Norton +Bury streets, where everybody knew us, and indeed, as it seemed to me +this morning, nearly everybody greeted us--at least, one of us; but +my father walked along soberly and sternly, frowning at almost every +salutation John Halifax received. + +"Thee art making far too many friends, John. I warn thee!" + +"Not FRIENDS--only friendly acquaintance," was the gentle answer: he +was well used to turn away, daily and hourly, Abel Fletcher's wrath. +But it was roused beyond control when Dr. Jessop's neat little +carriage, and neatest of little wives, stopped at the curb-stone and +summoned John. + +"I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us to-morrow instead of this +evening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to see you." + +"Me?" + +"Yes, you," smiled the old lady; "you, John Halifax, the hero of the +people, who quelled the bread riots, and gave evidence thereupon to +Mr. Pitt, in London. Nay! why didn't you tell me the wonderful +story? Her Ladyship is full of it. She will torment me till she +sees you--I know her ways. For my sake, you MUST come." + +Waiting no refusal, Mrs. Jessop drove on. + +"What's that?" said my father, sharply. "John, where art thee +going?" + +I knew this was the first warning-gun of a battle which broke out +afresh every time John appeared in any livelier garb than his +favourite grey, or was suspected of any more worldly associates than +our quiet selves. He always took my father's attacks patiently--this +time peculiarly so. He made no answer, but passed his hand once or +twice over his brow, as if he could not see clearly. + +Abel Fletcher repeated the question. + +"Yes; that was Mrs. Jessop, sir." + +"I know," grumbled my father. "The doctor is a fool in his old age. +Who did she want thee to meet?" + +"She!--Oh, Lady Caroline, you mean?" + +"Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John." + +Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, released his +arm from John's, and eyed him from top to toe. + +"Thee?--a woman of quality wanting to see THEE? Young man, thee art +a hypocrite." + +"Sir!" + +"I knew it! I foresaw how thy fine ways would end! Going to London- +--crawling at the heels of grand folk--despising thy honest trade-- +trying to make thyself appear a gentleman!" + +"I hope I am a gentleman." + +Words could not describe my father's horrified astonishment. "Oh, +lad!" he cried; "poor, misguided lad!--the Lord have mercy upon +thee!" + +John smiled--his mind evidently full of other things. Abel +Fletcher's anger grew. + +"And thee wants to hang on to the tail of other 'gentlemen,' such as +Richard Brithwood, forsooth!--a fox-hunting, drinking, dicing fool!" + +I was shocked; I had not believed him so bad as that--the young +'squire--Miss March's cousin. + +"Or," pursued my father, waxing hotter and hotter, "or a 'lady' such +as his wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an Ahab father!--brought up +in the impious atrocities of France, and the debaucheries of Naples, +where, though she keeps it close here, she abode with that vile woman +whom they call Lady Hamilton." + +John started. Well he might, for even to our quiet town had come, +all this winter, foul newspaper tales about Nelson and Lady Hamilton. + +"Take care," he said, in much agitation. "Any taint upon a woman's +fame harms not her alone but all connected with her. For God's sake, +sir, whether it be true or not, do not whisper in Norton Bury that +Lady Caroline Brithwood is a friend of Lady Hamilton." + +"Pshaw! What is either woman to us?" + +And my father climbed the steps to his own door, John following. + +"Nay, young gentleman, my poor house is hardly good enough for such +as thee." + +John turned, cruelly galled, but recovered himself. + +"You are unjust to me, Abel Fletcher; and you yourself will think so +soon. May I come in?" + +My father made no answer, and I brought John in as usual. In truth, +we had both more to think of than Abel Fletcher's temporary +displeasure. This strange chance--what might it imply?--to what +might it not lead? But no: if I judged Mrs. Jessop aright, it +neither implied, nor would lead to, what I saw John's fancy had at +once sprang toward, and revelled in, madly. A lover's fancy--a +lover's hope. Even I could see what will-o'-the-wisps they were. + +But the doctor's good wife, Ursula March's wise governess, would +never lure a young man with such phantoms as these. I felt sure-- +certain--that if we met the Brithwoods we should meet no one else. +Certain, even when, as we sat at our dish of tea, there came in two +little dainty notes--the first invitations to worldly festivity that +had ever tempted our Quaker household, and which Jael flung out of +her fingers as if they had been coals from Gehenna. Notes, bidding +us to a "little supper" at Dr. Jessop's, with Mr. and Lady Caroline +Brithwood, of the Mythe House. + +"Give them to your father, Phineas." And John vainly tried to hide +the flash of his eye--the smiles that came and went like summer +lightning--"To-morrow--you see, it is to-morrow." + +Poor lad! he had forgotten every worldly thing in the hope of that +to-morrow. + +My father's sharp voice roused him. "Phineas, thee'lt stay at home. +Tell the woman I say so." + +"And John, father?" + +"John may go to ruin if he chooses. He is his own master." + +"I have been always." And the answer came less in pride than +sadness. "I might have gone to ruin years ago, but for the mercy of +Heaven and your kindness. Do not let us be at warfare now." + +"All thy own fault, lad. Why cannot thee keep in thy own rank? +Respect thyself. Be an honest tradesman, as I have been." + +"And as I trust always to be. But that is only my calling, not me. +I--John Halifax--am just the same, whether in the tan-yard or Dr. +Jessop's drawing-room. The one position cannot degrade, nor the +other elevate, me. I should not 'respect myself' if I believed +otherwise." + +"Eh?"--my father absolutely dropped his pipe in amazement. "Then, +thee thinkest thyself already quite a gentleman?" + +"As I told you before, sir--I hope I am." + +"Fit to associate with the finest folk in the land?" + +"If they desire it, and I choose it, certainly." + +Now, Abel Fletcher, like all honest men, liked honesty; and something +in John's bold spirit, and free bright eye, seemed to-day to strike +him more than ordinarily. + +"Lad, lad, thee art young. But it won't last--no, it won't last." + +He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe--it had been curling in +brave wreaths to the very ceiling two minutes before--and sat musing. + +"But about to-morrow?" persisted John, after watching him some little +time. "I could go--I could have gone, without either your knowledge +or permission; but I had rather deal openly with you. You know I +always do. You have been the kindest master--the truest friend to +me; I hope, as long as I live, rarely to oppose, and never to deceive +you." + +His manner---earnest, yet most respectful--his candid looks, under +which lurked an evident anxiety and pain, might have mollified a +harder man than Abel Fletcher. + +"John, why dost thee want to go among those grand folk?" + +"Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons--strong +reasons." + +"Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons." + +Here was a strait. + +"Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee art ashamed of?" + +"Ashamed! No!" + +"Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, or to +any else, dishonour?" + +"Dishonour!" And the bright eye shot an indignant gleam. + +"Then, tell the truth." + +"I will. I wish first to find out, for myself, whether Lady Caroline +Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who is young-- +innocent--good." + +"Has she such an one? One thee knows?" + +"Yes." + +"Man or woman?" + +"Woman." + +My father turned, and looked John full in the eyes. Stern as that +look was, I traced in it a strange compassion. + +"Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's life--woman." + +To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He seemed even as if +he had forgotten himself and his own secret--thus, for what end I +knew not, voluntarily betrayed--so absorbed was he in contemplating +the old man. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a +convulsion pass over my father's face. It was like as if some one +had touched and revived the torment of a long-hidden, but +never-to-be-healed wound. Not till years after did I understand the +full meaning of John's gaze, or why he was so patient with my father. + +The torment passed--ended in violent anger. + +"Out with it. Who is deluding thee? Is it a matter of wedlock, or +only--" + +"Stop!" John cried; his face all on fire. "The lady--" + +"It is a 'lady'! Now I see why thee would fain be a gentleman." + +"Oh, father--how can you?" + +"So thee knowest it too--I see it in thy face--Wouldst thee be led +away by him a second time! But thee shall not. I'll put thee under +lock and key before thee shalt ruin thyself and disgrace thy father." + +This was hard to bear; but I believe--it was John's teaching--that +one ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy +parent. And it was John himself who now grasped my hand, and +whispered patience. John--who knew, what I myself, as I have said, +did not learn for years, concerning my father's former history. + +"Sir, you mistake; Phineas has nothing whatever to do with this +matter. He is altogether blameless. So am I too, if you heard all." + +"Tell me all; honour is bold--shame only is silent." + +"I feel no shame--an honest love is no disgrace to any man. And my +confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it nor returns it." + +As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and sat +down. His face was in shadow; but the fire shone on his hands, +tightly locked together, motionless as stone. + +My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of former days +came and knocked at the old man's heart. We all three sat silent for +a long time, then my father said: + +"Who is she?" + +"I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly station." + +"Ah!" a fierce exclamation. "But thee wouldst not humble thyself-- +ruin thy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry her?" + +"I would--if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honourable means +I can rise to her level, so as to be able to win her love, marry her +I will." + +That brave "I will"--it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Its +indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder--nay, with a sort +of awe. + +"Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee," he said, kindly. "Mayst +thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad--I will keep thy +counsel." + +"I knew you would." + +The subject ceased: my father's manner indicated that he wished it +to cease. He re-lit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly. + +Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green +mound beside that other mound, in the Friends' burying-ground in St. +Mary's Lane, I learnt--what all Norton Bury, except myself, had long +known--that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whose +married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a +"gentlewoman." + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Mrs. Jessop's drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glittering with +delicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-coloured gauzy +dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow +waistcoats, and smiles--this was all I noticed of the scene, which +was quite a novel scene to me. + +The doctor's wife had introduced us formally to all her guests, as +the custom then was, especially in these small cosy supper-parties. +How they greeted us I do not now remember; no doubt, with a kind of +well-bred formal surprise; but society was generally formal then. My +chief recollection is of Mrs. Jessop's saying pointedly and aloud, +though with a smile playing under the corners of her good little +mouth: + +"Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come; Lady Caroline Brithwood will +be delighted. She longs to make your acquaintance." + +After that everybody began to talk with extraordinary civility to Mr. +Halifax. + +For John, he soon took his place among them, with that modest self- +possession which best becomes youth. Society's dangerous waters +accordingly became smooth to him, as to a good swimmer who knows his +own strength, trusts it, and struggles not. + +"Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late," I overheard the +hostess say. "I think I told you that Miss March--" + +But here the door was flung open, and the missing guests announced. +John and I were in the alcove of the window; I heard his breathing +behind me, but I dared not look at or speak to him. In truth, I was +scarcely calmer than he. For though it must be clearly understood I +never was "in love" with any woman, still the reflected glamour of +those Enderley days had fallen on me. It often seems now as if I too +had passed the golden gate, and looked far enough into youth's Eden +to be able ever after to weep with those that wept without the doors. + +No--she was not there. + +We both sat down. I know not if I was thankful or sorry. + +I had seldom seen the 'squire or Lady Caroline. He was a portly +young man, pinched in by tight light-coloured garments. She was a +lady rather past her first youth, but very handsome still, who +floated about, leaving a general impression of pseudo-Greek +draperies, gleaming arms and shoulders, sparkling jewellery, and +equally sparkling smiles. These smiles seemed to fall just as +redundantly upon the family physician, whom by a rare favour--for so, +I suppose, it must have been--she was honouring with a visit, as if +worthy Dr. Jessop were the noblest in the land. He, poor man, was +all bows and scrapes and pretty speeches, in the which came more than +the usual amount of references to the time which had made his +fortune, the day when Her Majesty Queen Charlotte had done him the +honour to be graciously taken ill in passing through Norton Bury. +Mrs. Jessop seemed to wear her honours as hostess to an earl's +daughter very calmly indeed. She performed the ordinary courtesies, +and then went over to talk with Mr. Brithwood. In their conversation +I sought in vain the name of Ursula. + +So it ended--the sickening expectation which I had read in the lad's +face all day. He would not see her--perhaps it was best. Yet my +heart bled when I looked at him. But such thoughts could not be +indulged in now, especially as Mrs. Jessop's quick eyes seemed often +upon him or me, with an expression that I could not make out at all, +save that in such a good woman, whom Miss March so well loved, could +lurk nothing evil or unkindly. + +So I tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One could not +choose but look at her, this handsome Lady Caroline, whom half Norton +Bury adored, the other half pursed up their lips at the mention of-- +but these were of the number she declined to "know." All that she +did know--all that came within her influence, were irresistibly +attracted, for to please seemed a part of her nature. To-night +nearly every one present stole gradually into the circle round her; +men and women alike charmed by the fascination of her ripe beauty, +her lively manner, her exquisite smile and laugh. + +I wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brithwood. She could +not easily see him, even though her acute glance seemed to take in +everything and everybody in the room. But on her entrance John had +drawn back a little, and our half-dozen of fellow-guests, who had +been conversing with him, crept shyly out of his way; as if, now the +visible reality appeared, they were aghast at the great gulf that lay +between John Halifax the tanner and the Brithwoods of the Mythe. A +few even looked askance at our hostess, as though some terrible +judgment must fall upon poor ignorant Mrs. Jessop, who had dared to +amalgamate such opposite ranks. + +So it came to pass, that while everybody gathered round the +Brithwoods John and I stood alone, and half concealed by the window. + +Very soon I heard Lady Caroline's loud whisper; + +"Mrs. Jessop, my good friend, one moment. Where is your 'jeune +heros,' 'l'homme du peuple?' I do not see him. Does he wear clouted +shoes and woollen stockings? Has he a broad face and turned-up nose, +like your 'paysans Anglais'?" + +"Judge for yourself, my lady--he stands at your elbow. Mr. Halifax, +let me present you to Lady Caroline Brithwood." + +If Lord Luxmore's fair daughter ever looked confounded in her life +she certainly did at this minute. + +"Lui? Mon dieu! Lui!" And her shrug of amazement was stopped, her +half-extended hand drawn back. No, it was quite impossible to +patronise John Halifax. + +He bowed gravely, she made a gracious curtsey; they met on equal +terms, a lady and gentleman. + +Soon her lively manner returned. She buckled on her spurs for a new +conquest, and left the already vanquished gentilities of Norton Bury +to amuse themselves as they best might. + +"I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Halifax; I adore 'le peuple.' +Especially"--with a sly glance at her husband, who, with Tory Dr. +Jessop, was vehemently exalting Mr. Pitt and abusing the First +Consul, Bonaparte--"especially le peuple Francais. Me comprenez +vous?" + +"Madame, je vous comprends." + +Her ladyship looked surprised. French was not very common among the +honest trading class, or indeed any but the higher classes in +England. + +"But," John continued, "I must dissent from Lady Caroline Brithwood, +if she mingles the English people with 'le peuple Francais.' They +are a very different class of beings." + +"Ah, ca ira, ca ira"--she laughed, humming beneath her breath a few +notes out of that terrible song. "But you know French--let us talk +in that language; we shall horrify no one then." + +"I cannot speak it readily; I am chiefly self-taught." + +"The best teaching. Mon dieu! Truly you are made to be 'un hero'-- +just the last touch of grace that a woman's hand gives--had you ever +a woman for your friend?--and you would be complete. But I cannot +flatter--plain, blunt honesty for me. You must--you shall be-- +'l'homme du peuple.' Were you born such?--Who were your parents?" + +I saw John hesitate; I knew how rarely he ever uttered those names +written in the old Bible--how infinitely sacred they were to him. +Could he blazon them out now, to gratify this woman's idle curiosity? + +"Madam," he said, gravely, "I was introduced to you simply as John +Halifax. It seems to me that, so long as I do no discredit to it, +the name suffices to the world." + +"Ah--I see! I see!" But he, with his downcast eyes, did not detect +the meaning smile that just flashed in hers was changed into a tone +of soft sympathy. "You are right; rank is nothing--a cold, +glittering marble, with no soul under. Give me the rich +flesh-and-blood life of the people. Liberte--fraternite--egalite. I +would rather be a gamin in Paris streets than my brother William at +Luxmore Hall." + +Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, the young +man answering little. She only threw her shining arts abroad the +more; she seemed determined to please. And Nature fitted her for it. +Even if not born an earl's daughter, Lady Caroline would have been +everywhere the magic centre of any society wherein she chose to move. +Not that her conversation was brilliant or deep, but she said the +most frivolous things in a way that made them appear witty; and the +grand art, to charm by appearing charmed, was hers in perfection. +She seemed to float altogether upon and among the pleasantnesses of +life; pain, either endured or inflicted, was to her an impossibility. + +Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and thus, after +many years, it strikes me still. I look back upon what she appeared +that evening--lovely, gay, attractive--in the zenith of her rich +maturity. What her old age was the world knows, or thinks it knows. +But Heaven may be more merciful--I cannot tell. Whatever is now said +of her, I can only say, "Poor Lady Caroline!" + +It must have indicated a grain of pure gold at the bottom of the +gold-seeming dross, that, from the first moment she saw him, she +liked John Halifax. + +They talked a long time. She drew him out, as a well-bred woman +always can draw out a young man of sense. He looked pleased; he +conversed well. Had he forgotten? No; the restless wandering of his +eyes at the slightest sound in the room told how impossible it was he +should forget. Yet he comported himself bravely, and I was proud +that Ursula's kindred should see him as he was. + +"Lady Caroline" (her ladyship turned, with a slightly bored +expression, to her intrusive hostess), "I fear we must give up all +expectation of our young friend to-night." + +"I told you so. Post-travelling is very uncertain, and the Bath +roads are not good. Have you ever visited Bath, Mr. Halifax?" + +"But she is surely long on the road," pursued Mrs. Jessop, rather +anxiously. "What attendants had she?" + +"Her own maid, and our man Laplace. Nay, don't be alarmed, excellent +and faithful gouvernante! I assure you your fair ex-pupil is quite +safe. The furore about her has considerably abated since the +heiress-hunters at Bath discovered the melancholy fact that Miss +March--" + +"Pardon me," interrupted the other; "we are among strangers. I +assure you I am quite satisfied about my dear child." + +"What a charming thing is affectionate fidelity," observed her +ladyship, turning once more to John, with a sweet, lazy dropping of +the eyelids. + +The young man only bowed. They resumed their conversation--at least, +she did, talking volubly; satisfied with monosyllabic answers. + +It was now almost supper-time--held a glorious hour at Norton Bury +parties. People began to look anxiously to the door. + +"Before we adjourn," said Lady Caroline, "I must do what it will be +difficult to accomplish after supper;" and for the first time a +sharp, sarcastic tone jarred in her smooth voice. "I must introduce +you especially to my husband. Mr. Brithwood?" + +"Madam." He lounged up to her. They were a diverse pair. She, in +her well-preserved beauty, and Gallic artificial grace--he, in his +coarse, bloated youth, coarser and worse than the sensualism of +middle age. + +"Mr. Brithwood, let me introduce you to a new friend of mine." + +The 'squire bowed, rather awkwardly; proving the truth of what Norton +Bury often whispered, that Richard Brithwood was more at home with +grooms than gentlemen. + +"He belongs to this your town--you must have heard of him, perhaps +met him." + +"I have more than had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brithwood, but he +has doubtless forgotten it." + +"By Jove! I have. What might your name be, sir?" + +"John Halifax." + +"What, Halifax the tanner?" + +"The same." + +"Phew!"--He began a low whistle, and turned on his heel. + +John changed colour a little. Lady Caroline laughed--a thoughtless, +amused laugh, with a pleasant murmur of "Bete!"--"Anglais!"-- +Nevertheless, she whispered to her husband-- + +"Mon ami--you forget; I have introduced you to this gentleman." + +"Gentleman indeed! Pooh! rubbish! Lady Caroline--I'm busy talking." + +"And so are we, most pleasantly. I only called you as a matter of +form, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax will, I hope, dine with +us next Sunday?" + +"The devil he will!" + +"Richard--you hurt me!"--with a little scream, as she pushed his +rough fingers from her arm, so soft, and round, and fair. + +"Madam, you must be crazy. The young man is a tradesman--a tanner. +Not fit for MY society." + +"Precisely; I invite him for my own." + +But the whispers and responses were alike unheeded by their object. +For, at the doorway, entering with Mrs. Jessop, was a tall girl in +deep mourning. We knew her--we both knew her--our dream at Enderley- +-our Nut-browne Mayde. + +John was near to the door--their eyes met. She bowed--he returned +it. He was very pale. For Miss March, her face and neck were all in +a glow. Neither spoke, nor offered more than this passing +acknowledgment, and she moved on. + +She came and sat down beside me, accidentally, I believe; but when +she saw me she held out her hand. We exchanged a word or two--her +manner was unaltered; but she spoke hurriedly, and her fingers had +their old nervous twitch. She said this meeting was to her +"unexpected," but "she was very glad to see me." + +So she sat, and I looked sideways at her dropped eyes--her forehead +with its coronet of chestnut curls. How would he bear the sight--he +of whose heart mine was the mere faint echo? Yet truly an echo, +repeating with cruel faithfulness every throb. + +He kept his position, a little aloof from the Brithwoods, who were +holding a slight altercation--though more of looks than words. John +heeded them not. I was sure, though he had never looked directly +towards us, that he had heard every syllable Miss March said to me. + +The 'squire called across the room, in a patronising tone: "My good +fellow--that is, ahem! I say, young Halifax?" + +"Were you addressing me, Mr. Brithwood?" + +"I was. I want a quiet word or two--between ourselves." + +"Certainly." + +They stood face to face. The one seemed uncomfortable, the other was +his natural self--a little graver, perhaps, as if he felt what was +coming, and prepared to meet it, knowing in whose presence he had to +prove himself--what Richard Brithwood, with all his broad acres, +could never be--a gentleman. + +Few could doubt that fact, who looked at the two young men, as all +were looking now. + +"On my soul, it's awkward--I'll call at the tan-yard and explain." + +"I had rather you would explain here." + +"Well then, though it's a confounded unpleasant thing to say--and I +really wish I had not been brought into such a position--you'll not +heed my wife's nonsense?" + +"I do not understand you." + +"Come, it's no use running to cover in that way. Let's be open and +plain. I mean no offence. You may be a very respectable young man +for aught I know, still rank is rank. Of course Doctor Jessop asks +whom he likes to his house--and, by George! I'm always civil to +everybody--but really, in spite of my lady's likings, I can't well +invite you to my table!" + +"Nor could I humiliate myself by accepting any such invitation." + +He said the words distinctly, so that the whole circle might have +heard, and was turning away, when Mr. Brithwood fired up--as an angry +man does in a losing game. + +"Humiliate yourself! What do you mean, sir? Wouldn't you be only +too thankful to crawl into the houses of your betters, any how, by +hook or by crook? Ha! ha! I know you would. It's always the way +with you common folk, you rioters, you revolutionists. By the Lord! +I wish you were all hanged." + +The young blood rose fiercely in John's cheek, but he restrained +himself. "Sir, I am neither a rioter nor a revolutionist." + +"But you are a tradesman? You used to drive Fletcher's cart of +skins." + +"I did." + +"And are you not--I remember you now--the very lad, the tanner's lad, +that once pulled us ashore from the eger--Cousin March and me?" + +I heard a quick exclamation beside me, and saw Ursula listening +intently--I had not noticed how intently till now. Her eyes were +fixed on John, waiting for his answer. It came. + +"Your memory is correct; I was that lad." + +"Thank'ee for it too. Lord! what a jolly life I should have missed! +You got no reward, though. You threw away the guinea I offered you; +come, I'll make it twenty guineas to-morrow." + +The insult was too much. "Sir, you forget that whatever we may have +been, to-night we meet as equals." + +"Equals!" + +"As guests in the same house--most certainly for the time being, +equals." + +Richard Brithwood stared, literally dumb with fury. The standers-by +were dumb too, though such fracas were then not uncommon even in +drawing-rooms, and in women's presence, especially with men of Mr. +Brithwood's stamp. His wife seemed quite used to it. She merely +shrugged her shoulders and hummed a note or two of "Ca ira." It +irritated the husband beyond all bounds. + +"Hold your tongue, my lady. What, because a 'prentice-lad once saved +my life, and you choose to patronise him as you do many another +vagabond, with your cursed liberty and equality, am I to have him at +my table, and treat him as a gentleman? By ---, madam, never!" + +He spoke savagely, and loud. John was silent; he had locked his +hands together convulsively; but it was easy to see that his blood +was at boiling heat, and that, did he once slip the leash of his +passions, it would go hard with Richard Brithwood. + +The latter came up to him with clenched fist. "Now mark me, you--you +vagabond!" + +Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her eyes gleaming +fire. + +"Cousin, in my presence this gentleman shall be treated as a +gentleman. He was kind to my father." + +"Curse your father!" + +John's right hand burst free; he clutched the savage by the shoulder. + +"Be silent. You had better." + +Brithwood shook off the grasp, turned and struck him; that last fatal +insult, which offered from man to man, in those days, could only be +wiped out with blood. + +John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would have sprung on +his adversary and felled him to the ground--but--he did it not. + +Some one whispered,--"He won't fight. He is a Quaker." + +"No!" he said, and stood erect; though he was ghastly pale, and his +voice sounded hoarse and strange--"But I am a Christian. I shall not +return blow for blow." + +It was a new doctrine; foreign to the practice, if familiar to the +ear, of Christian Norton Bury. No one answered him; all stared at +him; one or two sheered off from him with contemptuous smiles. Then +Ursula March stretched out her friendly hand. John took it, and grew +calm in a moment. + +There arose a murmur of "Mr. Brithwood is going." + +"Let him go!" Miss March cried, anger still glowing in her eyes. + +"Not so--it is not right. I will speak to him. May I?" John softly +unclosed her detaining hand, and went up to Mr. Brithwood. "Sir, +there is no need for you to leave this house--I am leaving it. You +and I shall not meet again if I can help it." + +His proud courtesy, his absolute dignity and calmness, completely +overwhelmed his blustering adversary; who gazed open-mouthed, while +John made his adieu to his host and to those he knew. The women +gathered round him--woman's instinct is usually true. Even Lady +Caroline, amid a flutter of regrets, declared she did not believe +there was a man in the universe who would have borne so charmingly +such a "degradation." + +At the word Miss March fired up. "Madam," she said, in her impetuous +young voice, "no insult offered to a man can ever degrade him; the +only real degradation is when he degrades himself." + +John, passing out at the doorway, caught her words. As he quitted +the room no crowned victor ever wore a look more joyful, more proud. + +After a minute we followed him; the Doctor's wife and I. But now the +pride and joy had both faded. + +"Mrs. Jessop, you see I am right," he murmured. "I ought not to have +come here. It is a hard world for such as I. I shall never conquer +it--never." + +"Yes--you will." And Ursula stood by him, with crimsoned cheek, and +eyes no longer flashing, but fearless still. + +Mrs. Jessop put her arm round the young girl. "I also think you need +not dread the world, Mr. Halifax, if you always act as you did +tonight; though I grieve that things should have happened thus, if +only for the sake of this, my child." + +"Have I done any harm? oh! tell me, have I done any harm?" + +"No!" cried Ursula, with the old impetuosity kindling anew in every +feature of her noble face. "You have but showed me what I shall +remember all my life--that a Christian only can be a true gentleman." + +She understood him--he felt she did; understood him as, if a man be +understood by one woman in the world, he--and she too--is strong, +safe, and happy. They grasped hands once more, and gazed +unhesitatingly into each other's eyes. All human passion for the +time being set aside, these two recognized each in the other one aim, +one purpose, one faith; something higher than love, something better +than happiness. It must have been a blessed moment for both. + +Mrs. Jessop did not interfere. She had herself known what true love +was, if, as gossips said, she had kept constant to our worthy doctor +for thirty years. But still she was a prudent woman, not unused to +the world. + +"You must go now," she said, laying her hand gently on John's arm. + +"I am going. But she--what will she do?" + +"Never mind me. Jane will take care of me," said Ursula, winding her +arms round her old governess, and leaning her cheek down on Mrs. +Jessop's shoulder. + +We had never seen Miss March show fondness, that is, caressing +fondness, to any one before. It revealed her in a new light; +betraying the depths there were in her nature; infinite depths of +softness and of love. + +John watched her for a minute; a long, wild, greedy minute, then +whispered hoarsely to me, "I must go." + +We made a hasty adieu, and went out together into the night--the +cold, bleak night, all blast and storm. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +For weeks after then, we went on in our usual way; Ursula March +living within a stone's throw of us. She had left her cousin's, and +come to reside with Dr. Jessop and his wife. + +It was a very hard trial for John. + +Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessop. We could not blame +her; she held a precious charge, and Norton Bury was a horrible place +for gossip. Already tale after tale had gone abroad about Miss +March's "ingratitude" to her relations. Already tongue after tongue +had repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of "young +Halifax and the 'squire." Had it been "young Halifax and Miss +March," I truly believe John could not have borne it. + +As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by chance--a +momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in the +street. I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether he +mentioned it or not--knew by the wild, troubled look, which did not +wear off for hours. + +I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain. + +For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over "the +lad," as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a +young man, was going from him--he was becoming thin, weak, +restless-eyed. That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had +been so beautiful in him all his life through, were utterly lost. + +"What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one evening, when +he had come in, looking worse than usual--I knew why; for Ursula and +her friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in +the spring twilight. "Thou art very ill, I fear?" + +"Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with me. Do +let me alone." + +Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken +words. "It was not THEE that spoke, John," I said. + +"No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodges +here:" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives in is at times a +burning hell." + +He spoke in a low tone of great anguish. What could I answer? +Nothing. + +We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut trees in the +Abbey-yard were budding green: there came that faint, sweet sound of +children at play, which one hears as the days begin to lengthen. + +"It's a lovely evening," he said. + +"John!" I looked him in the face. He could not palm off that kind +deceit upon me. "You have heard something about her?" + +"I have," he groaned. "She is leaving Norton Bury." + +"Thank God!" I muttered. + +John turned fiercely upon me--but only for a moment. "Perhaps I too +ought to say, 'Thank God.' This could not have lasted long, or it +would have made me--what I pray His mercy to save me from, or to let +me die. Oh, lad, if I could only die." + +He bent down over the window-sill, crushing his forehead on his +hands. + +"John," I said, in this depth of despair snatching at an equally +desperate hope, "what if, instead of keeping this silence, you were +to go to her and tell her all?" + +"I have thought of that: a noble thought, worthy of a poor 'prentice +lad! Why, two several evenings I have been insane enough to walk to +Dr. Jessop's door, which I have never entered, and--mark you well! +they have never asked me to enter since that night. But each time +ere I knocked my senses came back, and I went home--luckily having +made myself neither a fool nor a knave." + +There was no answer to this either. Alas! I knew as well as he did, +that in the eye of the world's common sense, for a young man not +twenty-one, a tradesman's apprentice, to ask the hand of a young +gentlewoman, uncertain if she loved him, was most utter folly. Also, +for a penniless youth to sue a lady with a fortune, even though it +was (the Brithwoods took care to publish the fact) smaller than was +at first supposed--would, in the eye of the world's honour, be not +very much unlike knavery. There was no help--none! + +"David," I groaned, "I would you had never seen her." + +"Hush!--not a word like that. If you heard all I hear of her--daily- +-hourly--her unselfishness, her energy, her generous, warm heart! It +is blessedness even to have known her. She is an angel--no, better +than that, a woman! I did not want her for a saint in a shrine--I +wanted her as a help-meet, to walk with me in my daily life, to +comfort me, strengthen me, make me pure and good. I could be a good +man if I had her for my wife. Now--" + +He rose, and walked rapidly up and down. His looks were becoming +altogether wild. + +"Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road--as I meet her +almost every day. Sometimes she merely bends and smiles, sometimes +she holds out her little hand, and 'hopes I am quite well!' And then +they pass on, and I stand gaping and staring after them like an +idiot. There--look--there they are now." + +Ay! walking leisurely along the other side of the road--talking and +smiling to one another, in their own merry, familiar way, were Mrs. +Jessop and Miss March. + +They were not thinking of us, not the least. Only just ere they +passed our house Ursula turned slightly round, and looked behind; a +quiet, maidenly look, with the smile still lingering on her mouth. +She saw nothing, and no one; for John had pulled me from the window, +and placed himself out of sight. So, turning back again, she went on +her way. They both disappeared. + +"Now, Phineas, it is all ended." + +"What do you mean?" + +"I have looked on her for the last time." + +"Nay--she is not going yet." + +"But I am--fleeing from the devil and his angels. Hurrah, Phineas, +lad! We'll have a merry night. To-morrow I am away to Bristol, to +set sail for America." + +He wrung my hands with a long, loud, half-mad laugh; and then dropped +heavily on a chair. + +A few hours after, he was lying on my bed, struck down by the first +real sickness he had ever known. It was apparently a low agueish +fever, which had been much about Norton Bury since the famine of last +year. At least, so Jael said; and she was a wise doctoress, and had +cured many. He would have no one else to attend him--seemed +terrified at the mere mention of Dr. Jessop. I opposed him not at +first, for well I knew, whatever the proximate cause of his sickness +might be, its root was in that mental pang which no doctors could +cure. So I trusted to the blessed quiet of a sick-room--often so +healing to misery--to Jael's nursing, and his brother's love. + +After a few days we called in a physician--a stranger from Coltham-- +who pronounced it to be this Norton Bury fever, caught through +living, as he still persisted in doing, in his old attic, in that +unhealthy alley where was Sally Watkins's house. It must have been +coming on, the doctor said, for a long time; but it had no doubt now +reached its crisis. He would be better soon. + +But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and still he lay +there, never complaining, scarcely appearing to suffer, except from +the wasting of the fever; yet when I spoke of recovery he "turned his +face unto the wall"--weary of living. + +Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly speaking a word, +I began to feel growing palpable the truth which day by day I had +thrust behind me as some intangible, impossible dread--that ere now +people had died of mere soul-sickness, without any bodily disease. I +took up his poor hand that lay on the counterpane;--once, at +Enderley, he had regretted its somewhat coarse strength: now +Ursula's own was not thinner or whiter. He drew it back. + +"Oh, Phineas, lad, don't touch me--only let me rest." + +The weak, querulous voice--that awful longing for rest! What if, +despite all the physician's assurances, he might be sinking, sinking- +-my friend, my hope, my pride, all my comfort in this life--passing +from it and from me into another, where, let me call never so wildly, +he could not answer me any more, nor come back to me any more. + +Oh, God of mercy! if I were to be left in this world without my +brother! + +I had many a time thought over the leaving him, going quietly away +when it should please the Giver of all breath to recall mine, falling +asleep, encompassed and sustained by his love until the last; then, a +burden no longer, leaving him to work out a glorious life, whose rich +web should include and bring to beautiful perfection all the poor +broken threads in mine. But now, if this should be all vain, if he +should go from me, not I from him--I slid down to the ground, to my +knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went up on high. + +How could I save him? + +There seemed but one way; I sprung at it; stayed not to think if it +were right or wrong, honourable or dishonourable. His life hung in +the balance, and there was but one way; besides, had I not cried unto +God for help? + +I put aside the blind, and looked out of doors. For weeks I had not +crossed the threshold; I almost started to find that it was spring. +Everything looked lovely in the coloured twilight; a blackbird was +singing loudly in the Abbey trees across the way; all things were +fresh and glowing, laden with the hope of the advancing year. And +there he lay on his sick-bed, dying! + +All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan--"No light! +I can't bear the light! Do let me rest!" + +In half-an-hour, without saying a word to human being, I was on my +way to Ursula March. + +She sat knitting in the summer-parlour alone. The doctor was out; +Mrs. Jessop I saw down the long garden, bonnetted and shawled, busy +among her gooseberry-bushes--so we were safe. + +As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a soft +dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, and driven some +sweet, shy thought away. + +But she met me cordially--said she was glad to see me--that she had +not seen either of us lately; and the knitting pins began to move +quickly again. + +Those dainty fingers--that soft, tremulous smile--I could have hated +her! + +"No wonder you did not see us, Miss March; John has been very ill, is +ill now--almost dying." + +I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to see them +strike. + +They struck--they wounded; I could see her shiver. + +"Ill!--and no one ever told me!" + +"You? How could it affect you? To me, now"--and my savage words, +for they were savage, broke down in a burst of misery--"nothing in +this world to me is worth a straw in comparison with John. If he +dies--" + +I let loose the flood of my misery. I dashed it over her, that she +might see it--feel it; that it might enter all the fair and sightly +chambers of her happy life, and make them desolate as mine. For was +she not the cause? + +Forgive me! I was cruel to thee, Ursula; and thou wert so good--so +kind! + +She rose, came to me, and took my hand. Hers was very cold, and her +voice trembled much. + +"Be comforted. He is young, and God is very merciful." + +She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting and +untwisting her fingers. There was in her looks a wild sorrow--a +longing to escape from notice; but mine held her fast, mercilessly, +as a snake holds a little bird. She sat cowering, almost like a +bird, a poor, broken-winged, helpless little bird--whom the storm has +overtaken. + +Rising, she made an attempt to quit the room. + +"I will call Mrs. Jessop: she may be of use--" + +"She cannot. Stay!" + +"Further advice, perhaps? Doctor Jessop--you must want help--" + +"None save that which will never come. His bodily sickness is +conquered--it is his mind. Oh, Miss March!" and I looked up at her +like a wretch begging for life--"Do YOU not know of what my brother +is dying?" + +"Dying!" A long shudder passed over her, from head to foot--but I +relented not. + +"Think--a life like his, that might be made a blessing to all he +loves--to all the world--is it to be sacrificed thus? It may be--I +do not say it will--but it may be. While in health he could fight +against this--this which I must not speak of; but now his health is +gone. He cannot rally. Without some change, I see clearly, even I, +who love him better than any one can love him--" + +She stirred a little here. + +"Far better," I repeated; "for while John does NOT love me best, he +to me is more than any one else in the world. Yet even I have given +up hope, unless--But I have no right to say more." + +There was no need. She began to understand. A deep, soft red, +sun-rise colour, dawned all over her face and neck, nay, tinged her +very arms--her delicate, bare arms. She looked at me once--just +once--with a mute but keen inquiry. + +"It is the truth, Miss March--ay, ever since last year. You will +respect it? You will, you shall respect it?" + +She bent her head in acquiescence--that was all. She had not uttered +a single syllable. Her silence almost drove me wild. + +"What! not one word? not one ordinary message from a friend to a +friend?--one who is lying ill, too!" + +Still silence. + +"Better so!" I cried, made desperate at last. "Better, if it must +be, that he should die and go to the God who made him--ay, made him, +as you shall yet see, too noble a man to die for any woman's love." + +I left her--left her where she sat, and went my way. + +Of the hours that followed the less I say the better. My mind was in +a tumult of pain, in which right and wrong were strangely confused. +I could not decide--I can scarcely decide now--whether what I had +done ought to have been done; I only know that I did it--did it under +an impulse so sudden and impetuous that it seemed to me like the +guidance of Providence. All I could do afterwards was to trust the +result where we say we trust all things, and yet are for ever +disquieting ourselves in vain--we of little faith! + +I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true marriage--of +which there is probably one in every five thousand of conjugal +unions--is brought about by heaven, and heaven only; and that all +human influence is powerless either to make or to mar that happy end. +Therefore, to heaven I left this marriage, if such it was destined to +be. And so, after a season, I calmed myself enough to dare entering +that quiet sick-chamber, where no one ever entered but Jael and me. + +The old woman met me at the door. + +"Come in gently, Phineas; I do think there is a change." + +A change!--that awful word! I staggered rather than walked to John's +bed-side. + +Ay, there was a change, but not THAT one--which made my blood run +cold in my veins even to think of. Thank God for evermore for His +great mercies--not THAT change! + +John was sitting up in bed. New life shone in his eyes, in his whole +aspect. Life and--no, not hope, but something far better, diviner. + +"Phineas, how tired you look; it is time you were in bed." + +The old way of speaking--the old, natural voice, as I had not heard +it for weeks. I flung myself by the bed-side--perhaps I wept +outright--God knows! It is thought a shame for a man to weep; yet +One Man wept, and that too was over His friend--His brother. + +"You must not grieve over me any more, dear lad; to-morrow, please +God! I mean to be quite well again." + +Amidst all my joy I marvelled over what could be the cause of so +miraculous a change. + +"You would smile if I told you--only a dream." + +No, I did not smile; for I believed in the Ruler of all our spirits, +sleeping or waking. + +"A dream so curious, that I have scarcely lost the impression of it +yet. Do you know, Phineas, she has been sitting by me, just where +you sit now." + +"She?" + +"Ursula." + +If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, which had +never fallen from his lips before--it was always either "Miss March," +or the impersonal form used by all lovers to disguise the beloved +name--"URSULA," spoken as no man speaks any woman's name save the one +which is the music of his heart, which he foresees shall be the one +fireside tune of his life, ever familiar, yet ever sweet. + +"Yes, she sat there, talking. She told me she knew I loved her-- +loved her so much that I was dying for her; that it was very wrong; +that I must rise up and do my work in the world--do it for heaven's +sake, not for hers; that a true man should live, and live nobly for +the woman he loves--it is only a coward who dies for her." + +I listened, wonder-struck--for these were the very words that Ursula +March might have uttered; the very spirit that seemed to shine in her +eyes that night--the last night she and John spoke to one another. I +asked him if there was any more of the dream? + +"Nothing clear. I thought we were on the Flat at Enderley, and I was +following her; whether I reached her or not I cannot tell. And +whether I ever shall reach her I cannot tell. But this I know, +Phineas, I will do as she bade me; I will arise and walk." + +And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Next +morning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a spectre, indeed; +but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father +noticed it, when at dinner-time, with Jael's help--poor old Jael! how +proud she was--John crawled downstairs. + +"Why, thee art picking up, lad! Thee'lt be a man again in no time." + +"I hope so. And a better man than ever I was before." + +"Thee might be better, and thee might be worse. Anyhow, we couldn't +do without thee, John. Hey, Phineas! who's been meddling with my +spectacles?" + +The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaper +upside down. + +We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner. + +In the afternoon my father stayed at home--a rare thing for him to +do; nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. +John lay on an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed +chairs and the window-sill. I read to him--trying to keep his +attention, and mine too, solely to the Great Plague of London and +Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing at his face, +fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that his smile was fading, +and his thoughts were wandering--Jael burst in. + +"John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee." + +No, John--no need for that start--that rush of impetuous blood to thy +poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. +No, it was only Mrs. Jessop. + +At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the good +lady's eyes brimmed over. + +"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me--but I am an old +woman, you know. Lie down again." + +With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side. + +"I had no idea--why did you not let us know--the doctor and me? How +long have you been ill?" + +"I am quite well now--I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow, +shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation. + +I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it--glad +she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie +tossing in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad +that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom +John Halifax was not worthy. + +"But you must be very careful--very careful of yourself, indeed." + +"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him. +Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear." + +I spoke--perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that +good old lady--but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and +forgive me. + +"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardly +knows how much we--we all--esteem him." And with a kind motherly +gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now. +My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula--" here she +carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket--"my dear child +sends you this." + +It was a little note--unsealed. The superscription was simply his +name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing--"John Halifax." + +His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I--she is--very kind." +The words died away--the hand which grasped, ay, for more than a +minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an aspen leaf. + +"Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, sedulously +looking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it otherwise--I +would not wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her +season of trouble." + +I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. She took +off her glove, wiped a finger across each eyelash, and sat still. + +"Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax?" + +No answer. + +"I will take your message back. She told me what she had said to +you." + +Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines: + +"MY DEAR FRIEND, + "I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill. I have +not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like to +come and see you if you would allow me. + "Yours sincerely, + "URSULA MARCH." + +This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years afterwards, +yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocket-book. + +"Well, what shall I say to my child?" + +"Say"--he half rose, struggling to speak--"ask her to come." + +He turned his head towards the window, and the sunshine glittered on +two great drops, large as a child's tear. + +Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we waited--scarcely +moving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes fixed +dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron +railings between the Abbey trees. More than once they wandered to +the little letter, which lay buried in his hands. He felt it there-- +that was enough. + +My father came in from the garden, and settled to his afternoon doze; +but I think John hardly noticed him--nor I. My poor old father! Yet +we were all young once--let youth enjoy its day! + +At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlour door, rosy with +walking--a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, +nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by +the law of God, and by her own heart. + +John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only clasped hands. + +He was not strong enough for disguises now--in his first look she +might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers- +-but it dropped down, down, as Ursula March's clear glance had never +dropped before. Then I knew how all would end. + +Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's wife is +wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she says her green +gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n." + +My father awoke--rubbed his eyes--became aware of a lady's presence-- +rubbed them again, and sat staring. + +John led Ursula to the old man's chair. + +"Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, hearing I +was ill, out of her great kindness--" + +His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcast +eyelids: + +"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father." + +Abel Fletcher nodded--adjusted his spectacles--eyed her all over--and +nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied inspection. His hard +gaze lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, +whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth. + +"If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Wilt thee sit +down?" + +Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace +that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in +his own arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her +black silk pelisse, trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of +wearing, and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on +her shoulder, trembling as she trembled. For she did tremble very +much. + +Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts before him. +He ceased his sharp scrutiny, and half smiled. + +"Wilt thee stay, and have a dish of tea with us?" + +So it came to pass, I hardly remember how, that in an hour's space +our parlour beheld the strangest sight it had beheld since--Ah, no +wonder that when she took her place at the table's foot, and gave him +his dish of tea with her own hand--her pretty ringed lady's hand--my +old father started, as if it had been another than Miss March who was +sitting there. No wonder that, more than once, catching the sound of +her low, quiet, gentlewomanlike speech, different from any female +voices here, he turned round suddenly with a glance, half-scared, +half-eager, as if she had been a ghost from the grave. + +But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as he was, he +could not resist the pleasantness of the doctor's little wife. The +doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled +themselves for a cosy chat, taking very little notice of us three. + +Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring some +hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise present: for all +Norton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher had a soft place in his heart +it was for his garden and his flowers. These were very lovely; in +colour and scent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay +looking at them and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his +whole life were absorbed into that one exquisite hour. + +For me--where I sat I do not clearly know, nor probably did any one +else. + +"There," said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childish +satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking. + +"They are very beautiful," I heard John's voice answer, with a +strange trembling in it. "It is growing too dark to judge of +colours; but the scent is delicious, even here." + +"I could move the table closer to you." + +"Thank you--let me do it--will you sit down?" + +She did so, after a very slight hesitation, by John's side. Neither +spoke--but sat quietly there, with the sunset light on their two +heads, softly touching them both, and then as softly melting away. + +"There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, appositely and +gravely. + +"Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I remember +noticing it through the trees the night when--" + +He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a very +unimportant conversation as they were apparently holding my +involuntary listening could do no harm. + +"You will be able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss March again. +"Norton Bury is a pretty town." + +John asked, suddenly--"Are you going to leave it?" + +"Not yet--I do not know for certain--perhaps not at all. I mean," +she added, hurriedly, "that being independent, and having entirely +separated from, and been given up by, my cousins, I prefer residing +with Mrs. Jessop altogether." + +"Of course--most natural." The words were formally spoken, and John +did not speak again for some time. + +"I hope,"--said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stopping, as if +her own voice frightened her. + +"What do you hope?" + +"That long before this moon has grown old you will be quite strong +again." + +"Thank you! I hope so too. I have need for strength, God knows!" +He sighed heavily. + +"And you will have what you need, so as to do your work in the world. +You must not be afraid." + +"I am not afraid. I shall bear my burthen like other men. Every one +has some inevitable burthen to bear." + +"So I believe." + +And now the room darkened so fast that I could not see them; but +their voices seemed a great way off, as the children's voices playing +at the old well-head used to sound to me when I lay under the brow of +the Flat--in the dim twilights at Enderley. + +"I intend," John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Bury, +and go abroad for some time." + +"Where?" + +"To America. It is the best country for a young man who has neither +money, nor kindred, nor position--nothing, in fact, but his own right +hand with which to carve out his own fortunes--as I will, if I can." + +She murmured something about this being "quite right." + +"I am glad you think so." But his voice had resumed that formal tone +which ever and anon mingled strangely with its low, deep tenderness. +"In any case, I must quit England. I have reasons for so doing." + +"What reasons?" + +The question seemed to startle John--he did not reply at once. + +"If you wish I will tell you; in order that, should I ever come back- +-or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough to be +my friend will know I did not go away from mere youthful +recklessness, or love of change." + +He waited, apparently for some answer--but it came not, and he +continued: + +"I am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, +while I stay here, I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish +to sink under it--I had rather, as you said, 'Do my work in the +world' as a man ought. No man has a right to say unto his Maker, 'My +burthen is heavier than I can bear.' Do you not think so?" + +"I do." + +"Do you not think I am right in thus meeting, and trying to conquer, +an inevitable ill?" + +"IS it inevitable?" + +"Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don't reason with me--you cannot +judge--you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay I +shall become unworthy of myself, unworthy of--Forgive me, I have no +right to talk thus; but you called me 'friend,' and I would like you +to think kindly of me always. Because--because--" and his voice +shook--broke down utterly. "God love thee and take care of thee, +wherever I may go!" + +"John, stay!" + +It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But he +heard it--felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, +like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of +his love for evermore. At once all was made clear between them; for +whatever the world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, +and she received as much as she gave. + + * * * * * + +When Jael brought in lights the room seemed to me, at first, all in a +wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss March with him. Holding +her hand, he led her across the room. His head was erect, his eyes +shining--his whole aspect that of a man who declares before all the +world, "This is MY OWN." + +"Eh?" said my father, gazing at them from over his spectacles. + +John spoke brokenly, "We have no parents, neither she nor I. Bless +her--for she has promised to be my wife." + +And the old man blessed her with tears. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +"I hardly like taking thee out this wet day, Phineas--but it is a +comfort to have thee." + +Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. He was going +to communicate to Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe, Ursula's legal guardian +and trustee, the fact that she had promised him her hand--him, John +Halifax, the tanner. He did it--nay, insisted upon doing it--the day +after he came of age, and just one week after they had been +betrothed--this nineteenth of June, one thousand eight hundred and +one. + +We reached the iron gate of the Mythe House;--John hesitated a +minute, and then pulled the bell with a resolute hand. + +"Do you remember the last time we stood here, John? I do, well!" + +But soon the happy smile faded from his lips, and left them pressed +together in a firm, almost painful gravity. He was not only a lover +but a man. And no man could go to meet what he knew he must meet in +this house, and on this errand, altogether unmoved. One might +foresee a good deal--even in the knowing side-glance of the servant, +whom he startled with his name, "Mr. Halifax." + +"Mr. Brithwood's busy, sir--better come to-morrow," suggested the +man--evidently knowing enough upon his master's affairs. + +"I am sorry to trouble him--but I must see Mr. Brithwood to-day." + +And John determinedly followed the man into the grand empty +dining-room, where, on crimson velvet chairs, we sat and contemplated +the great stag's head with its branching horns, the silver flagons +and tankards, and the throstles hopping outside across the rainy +lawn: at our full leisure, too, for the space of fifteen minutes. + +"This will not do," said John--quietly enough, though this time it +was with a less steady hand that he pulled the bell. + +"Did you tell your master I was here?" + +"Yes, sir." And the grin with which the footman came in somehow slid +away from his mouth's corners. + +"How soon may I have the honour of seeing him?" + +"He says, sir, you must send up your business by me." + +John paused, evidently subduing something within him--something +unworthy of Ursula's lover--of Ursula's husband that was to be. + +"Tell your master my business is solely with himself, and I must +request to see him. It is important, say, or I would not thus +intrude upon his time." + +"Very well, sir." + +Ere long, the man brought word that Mr. Brithwood would be at +liberty, for five minutes only, in the justice-room. We were led +out, crossing the court-yard once more--where, just riding out, I saw +two ladies, one of whom kissed her hand gaily to John Halifax--to the +magistrate's office. There, safely separated from his own noble +mansion, Mr. Brithwood administered justice. In the outer room a +stout young fellow--a poacher, probably--sat heavily ironed, sullen +and fierce; and by the door a girl with a child in her arms, and--God +pity her!--no ring on her finger, stood crying; another ill-looking +fellow, maudlin drunk, with a constable by him, called out to us as +we passed for "a drop o' beer." + +These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, magistrate for +the county of ----, had to judge and punish, according to his own +sense of equity and his knowledge of his country's law. + +He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dictating so +energetically to his clerk behind him, that we had both entered, and +John had crossed the room, before he saw us, or seemed to see. + +"Mr. Brithwood." + +"Oh--Mr. Halifax. Good-morning." + +John returned the salutation, which was evidently meant to show that +the giver bore no grudge; that, indeed, it was impossible so +dignified a personage as Richard Brithwood, Esquire, in his public +capacity, too, could bear a grudge against so inferior an individual +as John Halifax. + +"I should be glad, sir, of a few minutes' speech with you." + +"Certainly--certainly; speak on;" and he lent a magisterial ear. + +"Excuse me, my business is private," said John, looking at the clerk. + +"No business is private here," returned the 'squire, haughtily. + +"Then shall I speak with you elsewhere? But I must have the honour +of an interview with you, and immediately." + +Whether Mr. Brithwood was seized with some indefinite alarm, he +himself best knew why, or whether John's manner irresistibly +compelled him to civility, as the stronger always compels the weaker, +I cannot tell--but he signed to the clerk to leave the room. + +"And, Jones, send back all the others to the lock-up house till +tomorrow. Bless my life! it's near three o'clock. They can't expect +to keep a gentleman's dinner waiting--these low fellows." + +I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside; at all events, +we chose to take it so. + +"Now--you, sir--perhaps you'll despatch your business; the sooner the +better." + +"It will not take long. It is a mere matter of form, which +nevertheless I felt it my duty to be the first to inform you. Mr. +Brithwood, I have the honour of bearing a message to you from your +cousin--Miss Ursula March." + +"She's nothing to me--I never wish to see her face again, the--the +vixen!" + +"You will be kind enough, if you please, to avoid all such epithets; +at least, in my hearing." + +"Your hearing! And pray who are you, sir?" + +"You know quite well who I am." + +"Oh, yes! And how goes the tanning? Any offers in the horseflesh +line? Always happy to meet you in the way of business. But what can +you possibly have to do with me, or with any member of my family?" + +John bit his lip; the 'squire's manner was extremely galling; more +so, perhaps, in its outside civility than any gross rudeness. + +"Mr. Brithwood, I was not speaking of myself, but of the lady whose +message I have the honour to bring you." + +"That lady, sir, has chosen to put herself away from her family, and +her family can hold no further intercourse with her," said the +'squire, loftily. + +"I am aware of that," was the reply, with at least equal hauteur. + +"Are you? And pray what right may you have to be acquainted with +Miss March's private concerns?" + +"The right--which, indeed, was the purport of her message to you-- +that in a few months I shall become her husband." + +John said this very quietly--so quietly that, at first, the 'squire +seemed hardly to credit his senses. At last, he burst into a hoarse +laugh. + +"Well, that is the best joke I ever did hear." + +"Pardon me; I am perfectly serious." + +"Bah! how much money do you want, fellow? A pretty tale! you'll not +get me to believe it--ha! ha! She wouldn't be so mad. To be sure, +women have their fancies, as we know, and you're a likely young +fellow enough; but to marry you--" + +John sprang up--his whole frame quivering with fury. "Take care, +sir; take care how you insult my WIFE!" + +He stood over the wretch--the cowardly shrinking wretch--he did not +touch him, but he stood over him till, terrified out of his life, +Richard Brithwood gasped out some apology. + +"Sit down--pray sit down again. Let us proceed in our business." + +John Halifax sat down. + +"So--my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying?" + +"She will be, some months hence. We were engaged a week ago, with +the full knowledge and consent of Doctor and Mrs. Jessop, her nearest +friends." + +"And of yours?" asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sarcasm as his +blunt wits could furnish him. + +"I have no relatives." + +"So I always understood. And that being the case, may I ask the +meaning of the visit? Where are your lawyers, your marriage +settlements, hey? I say, young man--ha! ha! I should like to know +what you can possibly want with me, Miss March's trustee?" + +"Nothing whatever. Miss March, as you are aware, is by her father's +will left perfectly free in her choice of marriage; and she has +chosen. But since, under certain circumstances, I wish to act with +perfect openness, I came to tell you, as her cousin and the executor +of this will, that she is about to become my wife." + +And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance strengthened +and calmed him. + +"May I inquire into those 'certain circumstances'?" asked the other, +still derisively. + +"You know them already. Miss March has a fortune and I have none; +and though I wish that difference were on the other side--though it +might and did hinder me from seeking her--yet now she is sought and +won, it shall not hinder my marrying her." + +"Likely not," sneered Mr. Brithwood. + +John's passion was rising again. + +"I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say what it +chooses; we follow a higher law than the world--she and I. She knows +me, she is not afraid to trust her whole life with me; am I to be +afraid to trust her? Am I to be such a coward as not to dare to +marry the woman I love, because the world might say I married her for +her money?" + +He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking full into +Richard Brithwood's face. The 'squire sat dumfoundered at the young +man's vehemence. + +"Your pardon," John added, more calmly. "Perhaps I owe her some +pardon too, for bringing her name thus into discussion; but I wished +to have everything clear between myself and you, her nearest +relative. You now know exactly how the matter stands. I will detain +you no longer--I have nothing more to say." + +"But I have," roared out the 'squire, at length recovering himself, +seeing his opponent had quitted the field. "Stop a minute." + +John paused at the door. + +"Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or any other vagabond she +pleases--it's no business of mine. But her fortune is my business, +and it's in my hands too. Might's right, and possession's +nine-tenths of the law. Not one penny shall she get out of my +fingers as long as I can keep hold of it." + +John bowed, his hand still on the door. "As you please, Mr. +Brithwood. That was not the subject of our interview. +Good-morning." + +And we were away. + +Re-crossing the iron gates, and out into the open road, John breathed +freely. + +"That's over--all is well." + +"Do you think what he threatened is true? Can he do it?" + +"Very likely; don't let us talk about that." And he walked on +lightly, as if a load were taken off his mind, and body and soul +leaped up to meet the glory of the summer sunshine, the freshness of +the summer air. + +"Oh! what a day is this!--after the rain, too! How she will enjoy +it!" + +And coming home through Norton Bury, we met her, walking with Mrs. +Jessop. No need to dread that meeting now. + +Yet she looked up, questioning, through her blushes. Of course he +had told her where we were going to-day; her who had a right to know +every one of his concerns now. + +"Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid." + +Afraid, indeed! Not the least fear was in those clear eyes. Nothing +but perfect content--perfect trust. + +John drew her arm through his. "Come, we need not mind Norton Bury +now," he said, smiling. + +So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, earnestly and +rather seriously to one another; while Mrs. Jessop and I followed +behind. + +"Bless their dear hearts!" said the old lady, as she sat resting on +the stile of a bean-field. "Well, we have all been young once." + +Not all, good Mrs. Jessop, thought I; not all. + +Yet, surely it was most pleasant to see them, as it is to see all +true lovers--young lovers, too, in the morning of their days. +Pleasant to see written on every line of their happy faces the +blessedness of Nature's law of love--love began in youth-time, +sincere and pure, free from all sentimental shams, or follies, or +shames--love mutually plighted, the next strongest bond to that in +which it will end, and is meant to end, God's holy ordinance of +marriage. + +We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. It was +John's custom to go there almost every evening; though certainly he +could not be said to "go a-courting." Nothing could be more unlike +it than his demeanour, or indeed the demeanour of both. They were +very quiet lovers, never making much of one another "before folk." +No whispering in corners, or stealing away down garden walks. No +public show of caresses--caresses whose very sweetness must consist +in their entire sacredness; at least, _I_ should think so. No +coquettish exactions, no testing of either's power over the other, in +those perilous small quarrels which may be the renewal of passion, +but are the death of true love. + +No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat at her work, +and he made himself generally pleasant, falling in kindly to the +Jessop's household ways. But whatever he was about, at Ursula's +lightest movement, at the least sound of her voice, I could see him +lift a quiet glance, as if always conscious of her presence; her who +was the delight of his eyes. + +To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link seemed to +be drawn closer between them, though they spoke little together, and +even sat at opposite sides of the table; but whenever their looks +met, one could trace a soft, smiling interchange, full of trust, and +peace, and joy. He had evidently told her all that had happened +to-day, and she was satisfied. + +More, perhaps, than I was; for I knew how little John would have to +live upon besides what means his wife brought him; but that was their +own affair, and I had no business to make public my doubts or fears. + +We all sat round the tea-table, talking gaily together, and then John +left us, reluctantly enough; but he always made a point of going to +the tan-yard for an hour or two, in my father's stead, every evening. +Ursula let him out at the front door; this was her right, silently +claimed, which nobody either jested at or interfered with. + +When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a minute or two +longer than was absolutely necessary, there was a wonderful +brightness on her young face; though she listened with a degree of +attention, most creditable in its gravity, to a long dissertation of +Mrs. Jessop's on the best and cheapest way of making jam and pickles. + +"You know, my dear, you ought to begin and learn all about such +things now." + +"Yes," said Miss March, with a little droop of the head. + +"I assure you"--turning to me--"she comes every day into the kitchen- +-never mind, my dear, one can say anything to Mr. Fletcher. And what +lady need be ashamed of knowing how a dinner is cooked and a +household kept in order?" + +"Nay, she should rather be proud; I know John thinks so." + +At this answer of mine Ursula half smiled: but there was a colour in +her cheek, and a thoughtfulness in her eyes, deeper than any that our +conversation warranted or occasioned. I was planning how to divert +Mrs. Jessop from the subject, when it was broken at once by a sudden +entrance, which startled us all like a flash of lightning. + +"Stole away! stole away! as my husband would say. Here have I come +in the dusk, all through the streets to Dr. Jessop's very door. How +is she? where is she, ma petite!" + +"Caroline!" + +"Ah! come forward. I haven't seen you for an age." + +And Lady Caroline kissed her on both cheeks in her lively French +fashion, which Ursula received patiently, and returned--no, I will +not be certain whether she returned it or not. + +"Pardon--how do you do, Mrs. Jessop, my dear woman? What trouble I +have had in coming! Are you not glad to see me, Ursula?" + +"Yes, very." In that sincere voice which never either falsified or +exaggerated a syllable. + +"Did you ever expect to see me again?" + +"No, certainly I did not. And I would almost rather not see you now, +if--" + +"If Richard Brithwood did not approve of it? Bah! what notions you +always had of marital supremacy. So, ma chere, you are going to be +married yourself, I hear?" + +"Yes." + +"Why, how quietly you seem to take it! The news perfectly +electrified me this morning. I always said that young man was 'un +heros de romans!' Ma foi! this is the prettiest little episode I +ever heard of. Just King Cophetua and the beggar-maid--only +reversed. How do you feel, my Queen Cophetua?" + +"I do not quite understand you, Caroline." + +"Neither should I you, for the tale seems incredible. Only you gave +me such an honest 'yes,' and I know you never tell even white lies. +But it can't be true; at least, not certain. A little affaire de +coeur, maybe--ah! I had several before I was twenty--very pleasant, +chivalrous, romantic, and all that; and such a brave young fellow, +too! Helas! love is sweet at your age!"--with a little sigh--"but +marriage! My dear child, you are not surely promised to this youth?" + +"I am." + +"How sharply you say it! Nay, don't be angry. I liked him greatly. +A very pretty fellow. But then he belongs to the people." + +"So do I." + +"Naughty child, you will not comprehend me. I mean the lower orders, +the bourgeoisie. My husband says he is a tanner's 'prenticeboy." + +"He was apprentice; he is now partner in Mr. Fletcher's tan-yard." + +"That is nearly as bad. And so you are actually going to marry a +tanner?" + +"I am going to marry Mr. Halifax. We will, if you please, cease to +discuss him, Lady Caroline." + +"La belle sauvage!" laughed the lady; and, in the dusk, I fancied I +saw her reach over to pat Ursula's hand in her careless, pretty way. +"Nay, I meant no harm." + +"I am sure you did not; but we will change the subject." + +"Not at all. I came to talk about it. I couldn't sleep till I had. +Je t'aime bien, tu le sais, ma petite Ursule." + +"Thank you," said Ursula, gently. + +"And I would like well to see you married. Truly we women must +marry, or be nothing at all. But as to marrying for love, as we used +to think of, and as charming poets make believe--my dear, now-a-days, +nous avons change tout cela." + +Ursula replied nothing. + +"I suppose my friend the young bourgeois is very much in love with +you? With 'les beaux yeux de votre cassette,' Richard swears; but I +know better. What of that? All men say they love one--but it will +not last. It burns itself out. It will be over in a year, as we +wives all know. Do we not, Mrs. Jessop? Ah! she is gone away." + +Probably they thought I was away too--or else they took no notice of +me--and went talking on. + +"Jane would not have agreed with you, Cousin Caroline; she loved her +husband very dearly when she was a girl. They were poor, and he was +afraid to marry; so he let her go. That was wrong, I think." + +"How wise we are growing in these things now!" laughed Lady Caroline. +"But come, I am not interested in old turtle-doves. Say about +yourself." + +"I have nothing more to say." + +"Nothing more? Mon Dieu! are you aware that Richard is furious; that +he vows he will keep every sou he has of yours--law or no law--for as +long as ever he can? He declared so this morning. Did young Halifax +tell you?" + +"Mr. Halifax has told me." + +"'MR. Halifax!' how proudly she says it. And are you still going to +be married to him?" + +"Yes." + +"What! a bourgeois--a tradesman? with no more money than those sort +of people usually have, I believe. You, who have had all sorts of +comforts, have always lived as a gentlewoman. Truly, though I adore +a love-marriage in theory, practically I think you are mad--quite +mad, my dear." + +"Do you?" + +"And he, too! Verily, what men are! Especially men in love. All +selfish together." + +"Caroline!" + +"Isn't it selfish to drag a pretty creature down, and make her a +drudge, a slave--a mere poor man's wife?" + +"She is proud of being such!" burst in the indignant young voice. +"Lady Caroline, you may say what you like to me; you were kind +always, and I was fond of you; but you shall not say a word against +Mr. Halifax. You do not know him--how could you?" + +"And you do? Ah! ma petite, we all think that, till we find out to +the contrary. And so he urges you to be married at once--rich or +poor--at all risks, at all costs? How lover-like--how like a man! I +guess it all. Half beseeches--half persuades--" + +"He does not!" And the girl's voice was sharp with pain. "I would +not have told you, but I must--for his sake. He asked me this +afternoon if I was afraid of being poor? if I would like to wait, and +let him work hard alone, till he could give me a home like that I was +born to? He did, Caroline." + +"And you answered--" + +"No--a thousand times, no! He will have a hard battle to fight-- +would I let him fight it alone? when I can help him--when he says I +can." + +"Ah, child! you that know nothing of poverty, how can you bear it?" + +"I will try." + +"You that never ruled a house in your life--" + +"I can learn." + +"Ciel! 'tis wonderful! And this young man has no friends, no +connections, no fortune! only himself." + +"Only himself," said Ursula, with a proud contempt. + +"Will you tell me, my dear, why you marry him?" + +"Because"--and Ursula spoke in low tones, that seemed wrung out of +her almost against her will--"because I honour him, because I trust +him; and, young as I am, I have seen enough of the world to be +thankful that there is in it one man whom I can trust, can honour, +entirely. Also--though I am often ashamed lest this be selfish-- +because when I was in trouble he helped me; when I was misjudged he +believed in me; when I was sad and desolate he loved me. And I am +proud of his love--I glory in it. No one shall take it from me--no +one will--no one can, unless I cease to deserve it." + +Lady Caroline was silent. Despite her will, you might hear a sigh +breaking from some deep corner of that light, frivolous heart. + +"Bien! chacun a son gout! But you have never stated one trifle--not +unnecessary, perhaps, though most married folk get on quite well +without it--'Honour,' 'trust,'--pshaw! My child--do you LOVE Mr. +Halifax?" + +No answer. + +"Nay, why be shy? In England, they say, and among the people--no +offence, ma petite--one does sometimes happen to care for the man one +marries. Tell me, for I must be gone, do you love him? one word, +whether or no?" + +Just then the light coming in showed Ursula's face, beautiful with +more than happiness, uplifted even with a religious thankfulness, as +she said simply: + +"John knows." + + + +CHAPTER XX + +In the late autumn, John married Ursula March. He was twenty-one, +and she eighteen. It was very young--too young, perhaps, prudent +folk might say: and yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on +unions like this. A right and holy marriage, a true love-marriage, +be it early or late, is--must be--sanctified and happy; yet those +have the best chance of happiness, who, meeting on the very threshold +of life, enter upon its duties together; with free, fresh hearts, +easily moulded the one to the other, rich in all the riches of youth, +acute to enjoy, brave and hopeful to endure. + +Such were these two--God bless them! + +They were married quite privately, neither having any near kindred. +Besides, John held strongly the opinion that so solemn a festival as +marriage is only desecrated by outward show. And so, one golden +autumn morning, Ursula walked quietly up the Abbey aisle in her plain +white muslin gown; and John and she plighted their faithful vows, no +one being present except the Jessops and I. They then went away for +a brief holiday--went away without either pomp or tears, entirely +happy--husband and wife together. + +When I came home and said what had happened my good father seemed +little surprised. He had expressly desired not to be told anything +of the wedding till all was over--he hated marriages. + +"But since it is done, maybe 'tis as well," said he, grimly. "She +seems a kindly young thing; wise, even--for a woman." + +"And pleasant too, father?" + +"Ay, but favour is deceitful, and beauty vain. So the lad's gone;" +and he looked round, as if missing John, who had lived in our house +ever since his illness. "I thought as much, when he bade me +goodnight, and asked my leave to take a journey. So he's married and +gone! Come, Phineas, sit thee down by thy old father; I am glad thee +wilt always remain a bachelor." + +We settled ourselves, my father and I; and while the old man smoked +his meditative pipe I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two +lads had read by the fire-side; the summer days when we had lounged +on the garden wall. He was a married man now, the head of a +household; others had a right--the first, best, holiest right--to the +love that used to be all mine; and though it was a marriage entirely +happy and hopeful, though all that day and every day I rejoiced both +with and for my brother, still it was rather sad to miss him from our +house, to feel that his boyish days were quite over--that his boyish +place would know him no more. + +But of course I had fully overcome, or at least suppressed, this +feeling when, John having brought his wife home, I went to see them +in their own house. + +I had seen it once before; it was an old dwelling-house, which my +father bought with the flour-mill, situated in the middle of the +town, the front windows looking on the street, the desolate garden +behind shut in by four brick walls. A most un-bridal-like abode. I +feared they would find it so, even though John had been busy there +the last two months, in early mornings and late evenings, keeping a +comical secrecy over the matter as if he were jealous that any one +but himself should lend an eye, or put a finger, to the dear task of +making ready for his young wife. + +They could not be great preparations, I knew, for the third of my +father's business promised but a small income. Yet the gloomy +outside being once passed, the house looked wonderfully bright and +clean; the walls and doors newly-painted and delicately stencilled:-- +("Master did all that himself," observed the proud little handmaid, +Jenny--Jem Watkins's sweetheart. I had begged the place for her +myself of Mistress Ursula.) Though only a few rooms were furnished, +and that very simply, almost poorly, all was done with taste and +care; the colours well mingled, the wood-work graceful and good. + +They were out gardening, John Halifax and his wife. + +Ay, his wife; he was a husband now. They looked so young, both of +them, he kneeling, planting box-edging, she standing by him with her +hand on his shoulder--the hand with the ring on it. He was laughing +at something she had said, thy very laugh of old, David! Neither +heard me come till I stood close by. + +"Phineas, welcome, welcome!" He wrung my hand fervently, many times; +so did Ursula, blushing rosy red. They both called me "brother," and +both were as fond and warm as any brother and sister could be. + +A few minutes after, Ursula--"Mrs. Halifax," as I said I ought to +call her now--slipped away into the house, and John and I were left +together. He glanced after his wife till she was out of sight, +played with the spade, threw it down, placed his two hands on my +shoulders, and looked hard in my face. He was trembling with deep +emotion. + +"Art thou happy, David?" + +"Ay, lad, almost afraid of my happiness. God make me worthy of it, +and of her!" + +He lifted his eyes upwards; there was in them a new look, sweet and +solemn, a look which expressed the satisfied content of a life now +rounded and completed by that other dear life which it had received +into and united with its own--making a full and perfect whole, which, +however kindly and fondly it may look on friends and kindred outside, +has no absolute need of any, but is complete in and sufficient to +itself, as true marriage should be. A look, unconsciously fulfilling +the law--God's own law--that a man shall leave father and mother, +brethren and companions, and shall cleave unto his wife, and "they +two shall become one flesh." + +And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half-sadly for a +moment, the vague, fine line of division which was thus for evermore +drawn between him and me of no fault on either side, and of which he +himself was unaware. It was but the right and natural law of things, +the difference between the married and unmarried, which only the +latter feel. Which, perhaps, the Divine One meant them to feel--that +out of their great solitude of this world may grow a little inner +Eden, where they may hear His voice, "walking in the garden in the +cool of the day." + +We went round John's garden; there was nothing Eden-like about it, +being somewhat of a waste still, divided between ancient cabbage- +beds, empty flower-beds, and great old orchard-trees, very thinly +laden with fruit. + +"We'll make them bear better next year," said John, hopefully. "We +may have a very decent garden here in time." He looked round his +little domain with the eye of a master, and put his arm, half +proudly, half shyly, round his wife's shoulders--she had sidled up to +him, ostensibly bringing him a letter, though possibly only for an +excuse, because in those sweet early days they naturally liked to be +in each other's sight continually. It was very beautiful to see what +a demure, soft, meek matronliness had come over the high spirit of +the "Nut-browne Mayde." + +"May I read?" she said, peeping over him. + +"Of course you may, little one." A comical pet name for him to give +her, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering +the time when John Halifax bowed to the stately and dignified young +gentlewoman who stood at Mrs. Tod's door. To think he should ever +have come to call Miss Ursula March "little one!" + +But this was not exactly a time for jesting, since, on reading the +letter, I saw the young wife flush an angry red, and then look grave. +Until John, crumpling up the paper, and dropping it almost with a +boyish frolic into the middle of a large rosemary-bush, took his wife +by both her hands, and gazed down into her troubled face, smiling. + +"You surely don't mind this, love? We knew it all before. It can +make no possible difference." + +"No! But it is so wrong--so unjust. I never believed he dared do +it--to you." + +"Hear her, Phineas! She thinks nobody dare do anything ill to her +husband--not even Richard Brithwood." + +"He is a--" + +"Hush, dear!--we will not talk about him; since, for all his threats, +he can do us no harm, and, poor man! he never will be half as happy +as we." + +That was true. So Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was left to +moulder harmlessly away in the rosemary-bush, and we all walked up +and down the garden, talking over a thousand plans for making ends +meet in that little household. To their young hopefulness even +poverty itself became a jest; and was met cheerfully, like an honest, +hard-featured, hard-handed friend, whose rough face was often kindly, +and whose harsh grasp made one feel the strength of one's own. + +"We mean," John said gaily, "to be two living Essays on the +Advantages of Poverty. We are not going to be afraid of it or +ashamed of it. We don't care who knows it. We consider that our +respectability lies solely in our two selves." + +"But your neighbours?" + +"Our neighbours may think of us exactly what they like. Half the +sting of poverty is gone when one keeps house for one's own comfort, +and not for the comments of one's neighbours." + +"I should think not," Ursula cried, tossing back her head in merry +defiance. "Besides, we are young, we have few wants, and we can +easily reduce our wants to our havings." + +"And no more grey silk gowns?" said her husband, half-fondly, +half-sadly. + +"You will not be so rude as to say I shall not look equally well in a +cotton one? And as for being as happy in it--why, I know best." + +He smiled at her once more,--that tender, manly smile which made all +soft and lustrous the inmost depths of his brown eyes; truly no woman +need be afraid, with a smile like that, to be the strength, the +guidance, the sunshine of her home. + +We went in, and the young mistress showed us her new house; we +investigated and admired all, down to the very scullery; then we +adjourned to the sitting-room--the only one--and, after tea, Ursula +arranged her books, some on stained shelves, which she proudly +informed me were of John's own making, and some on an old spinet, +which he had picked up, and which, he said, was of no other use than +to hold books, since she was not an accomplished young lady, and +could neither sing nor play. + +"But you don't dislike the spinet, Ursula? It caught my fancy. Do +you know I have a faint remembrance that once, on such a thing as +this, my mother used to play?" + +He spoke in a low voice; Ursula stole up to him with a fond, awed +look. + +"You never told me anything about your mother?" + +"Dear, I had little to tell. Long ago you knew whom you were going +to marry--John Halifax, who had no friends, no kindred, whose parents +left him nothing but his name." + +"And you cannot remember them?" + +"My father not at all; my mother very little." + +"And have you nothing belonging to them?" + +"Only one thing. Should you like to see it?" + +"Very much." She still spoke slowly, and with slight hesitation. +"It was hard for him not to have known his parents," she added, when +John had left the room. "I should like to have known them too. But +still--when I know HIM--" + +She smiled, tossed back the coronet of curls from her forehead--her +proud, pure forehead, that would have worn a coronet of jewels more +meekly than it now wore the unadorned honour of being John Halifax's +wife. I wished he could have seen her. + +That minute he re-appeared. + +"Here, Ursula, is all I have of my parents. No one has seen it, +except Phineas there, until now." + +He held in his hand the little Greek Testament which he had showed me +years before. Carefully, and with the same fond, reverent look as +when he was a boy, he undid the case, made of silk, with ribbon +strings--doubtless a woman's work--it must have been his mother's. +His wife touched it, softly and tenderly. He showed her the +fly-leaf; she looked over the inscription, and then repeated it +aloud. + +"'Guy Halifax, gentleman.' I thought--I thought--" + +Her manner betrayed a pleased surprise: she would not have been a +woman, especially a woman reared in pride of birth, not to have felt +and testified the like pleasure for a moment. + +"You thought that I was only a labourer's son: or--nobody's. Well, +does it signify?" + +"No," she cried, as, clinging round his neck and throwing her head +back, she looked at him with all her heart in her eyes. "No, it does +NOT signify. Were your father the king on his throne, or the beggar +in the streets, it would be all the same to me; you would still be +yourself--MY husband--MY John Halifax." + +"God bless thee--my own wife that He has given me!" John murmured, +through his close embrace. + +They had altogether forgotten any one's presence, dear souls! so I +kept them in that happy oblivion by slipping out to Jenny in the +kitchen, and planning with her how we could at least spare Jem +Watkins two days a week to help in the garden, under Mr. Halifax's +orders. + +"Only, Jenny," smiled I, with a warning finger, "no idling and +chattering. Young folk must work hard if they want to come to the +happy ending of your master and mistress." + +The little maid grew the colour of her swain's pet peonies, and +promised obedience. Conscientious Jem there was no fear of--all the +rosy-cheeked damsels in Christendom would not have turned him aside +from one iota of his duty to Mr. Halifax. Thus there was love in the +parlour and love in the kitchen. But, I verily believe, the young +married couple were served all the better for their kindness and +sympathy to the humble pair of sweethearts in the rank below them. + +John walked home with me--a pleasure I had hardly expected, but which +was insisted upon both by him and Ursula. For from the very first of +her betrothal there had been a thorough brother-and-sisterly bond +established between her and me. Her womanly, generous nature would +have scorned to do what, as I have heard, many young wives do--seek +to make coldness between her husband and his old friends. No; secure +in her riches, in her rightful possession of his whole heart, she +took into hers everything that belonged to John, every one he cared +for; to be for ever held sacred and beloved, being his, and therefore +her own. Thus we were the very best of friends, my sister Ursula and +me. + +John and I talked a little about her--of her rosy looks, which he +hoped would not fade in their town dwelling--and of good Mrs. Tod's +wonderful delight at seeing her, when last week they had stayed two +days in the dear old cottage at Enderley. But he seemed slow to +speak about his wife, or to dilate on a joy so new that it was hardly +to be breathed on, lest it might melt into air. + +Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage passed, he +looked after it with a smile. + +"Grey ponies! she is so fond of long-tailed grey ponies. Poor child! +when shall I be able to give her a carriage? Perhaps some day--who +knows!" + +He turned the conversation, and began telling me about the cloth +mill--his old place of resort; which he had been over once again when +they were at Rose Cottage. + +"And do you know, while I was looking at the machinery, a notion came +into my head that, instead of that great water-wheel--you remember +it?--it might be worked by steam." + +"What sort of steam?" + +"Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you forgotten my +telling you how, last year, some Scotch engineer tried to move boats +by steam, on the Forth and Clyde canal? Why should not the same +power be turned to account in a cloth-mill? I know it could--I have +got the plan of the machinery in my head already. I made a drawing +of it last night, and showed it to Ursula; SHE understood it +directly." + +I smiled. + +"And I do believe, by common patience and skill, a man might make his +fortune with it at those Enderley cloth-mills." + +"Suppose you try!" I said in half jest, and was surprised to see how +seriously John took it. + +"I wish I could try--if it were only practicable. Once or twice I +have thought it might be. The mill belongs to Lord Luxmore. His +steward works it. Now, if one could get to be a foreman or overseer- +-" + +"Try--you can do anything you try." + +"No, I must not think of it--she and I have agreed that I must not," +said he, steadily. "It's my weakness--my hobby, you know. But--no +hobbies now. Above all, I must not, for a mere fancy, give up the +work that lies under my hand. What of the tan-yard, Phineas?" + +"My father missed you, and grumbled after you a good deal. He looks +anxious, I think. He vexes himself more than he needs about +business." + +"Don't let him. Keep him as much at home as you can. I'll manage +the tan-yard: you know--and he knows too--that everything which can +be done for us all I shall do." + +I looked up, surprised at the extreme earnestness of his manner. + +"Surely, John--" + +"Nay, there is nothing to be uneasy about--nothing more than there +has been for this year past. All trade is bad just now. Never fear, +we'll weather the storm--I'm not afraid." + +Cheerfully as he spoke, I began to guess--what he already must have +known--that our fortunes were as a slowly leaking ship, of which the +helm had slipped from my old father's feeble hand. But John had +taken it--John stood firm at the wheel. Perhaps, with God's +blessing, he might guide us safe to land. + +I had not time to say more, when, with its pretty grey ponies, the +curricle once more passed our way. Two ladies were in it: one +leaned out and bowed. Presently a lacquey came to beg Mr. Halifax +would come and speak with Lady Caroline Brithwood. + +"Shall you go, John?" + +"Certainly--why not?" And he stepped forward to the carriage-side. + +"Ah! delighted to see mon beau cousin. This is he, Emma," turning to +the lady who sat by her--oh, what a lovely face that lady had! no +wonder it drove men mad; ay, even that brave man in whose honest life +can be chronicled only this one sin, of being bewitched by her. + +John caught the name--perhaps, too, he recognized the face--it was +only too public, alas! His own took a sternness, such as I had never +before seen, and yet there was a trace of pity in it too. + +"You are quite well. Indeed, he looks so--n'est-ce pas, ma chere?" + +John bore gravely the eyes of the two ladies fixed on him, in rather +too plain admiration--very gravely, too, he bowed. + +"And what of our young bride, our treasure that we stole--nay, it was +quite fair--quite fair. How is Ursula?" + +"I thank you, Mrs. Halifax is well." + +Lady Caroline smiled at the manner, courteous through all its +coldness, which not ill became the young man. But she would not be +repelled. + +"I am delighted to have met you. Indeed, we must be friends. One's +friends need not always be the same as one's husband's, eh, Emma? +You will be enchanted with our fair bride. We must both seize the +first opportunity, and come as disguised princesses to visit Mrs. +Halifax." + +"Again let me thank you, Lady Caroline. But--" + +"No 'buts.' I am resolved. Mr. Brithwood will never find it out. +And if he does--why, he may. I like you both; I intend us to be +excellent friends, whenever I chance to be at Norton Bury. Don't be +proud, and reject me, there's good people--the only good people I +ever knew who were not disagreeable." + +And leaning on her large ermine muff, she looked right into John's +face, with the winning sweetness which Nature, not courts, lent to +those fair features--already beginning to fade, already trying to +hide by art their painful, premature decay. + +John returned the look, half sorrowfully; it was so hard to give back +harshness to kindliness. But a light laugh from the other lady +caught his ear, and his hesitation--if hesitation he had felt-was +over. + +"No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see yourself that it +cannot. Living, as we do, in the same neighbourhood, we may meet +occasionally by chance, and always, I hope, with kindly feeling; but, +under present circumstances--indeed, under any circumstances-- +intimacy between your house and ours would he impossible." + +Lady Caroline shrugged her shoulders with a pretty air of pique. "As +you will! I never trouble myself to court the friendship of any one. +Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle." + +"Do not mistake me," John said, earnestly. "Do not suppose I am +ungrateful for your former kindness to my wife; but the difference +between her and you--between your life and hers--is so extreme." + +"Vraiment!" with another shrug and smile, rather a bitter one. + +"Our two paths lie wide apart--wide as the poles; our house and our +society would not suit you; and that my wife should ever enter +yours"--glancing from one to the other of those two faces, painted +with false roses, lit by false smiles,--"No, Lady Caroline," he +added, firmly, "it is impossible." + +She looked mortified for a moment, and then resumed her gaiety, which +nothing could ever banish long. + +"Hear him, Emma! So young and so unkindly! Mais nous verrons. You +will change your mind. Au revoir, mon beau cousin." + +They drove off quickly, and were gone. + +"John, what will Mrs. Halifax say?" + +"My innocent girl! thank God she is safe away from them all--safe in +a poor man's honest breast." He spoke with much emotion. + +"Yet Lady Caroline--" + +"Did you see who sat beside her?" + +"That beautiful woman?" + +"Poor soul! alas for her beauty! Phineas, that was Lady Hamilton." + +He said no more, nor I. At my own door he left me, with his old +merry laugh, his old familiar grasp of my shoulder. + +"Lad, take care of thyself, though I'm not by to see. Remember, I am +just as much thy tyrant as if I were living here still." + +I smiled, and he went his way to his own quiet, blessed, married +home. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +The winter and spring passed calmly by. I had much ill-health, and +could go out very little; but they came constantly to me, John and +Ursula, especially the latter. During this illness, when I learned +to watch longingly for her kind face, and listen for her cheerful +voice talking pleasantly and sisterly beside my chair, she taught me +to give up "Mrs. Halifax," and call her Ursula. It was only by slow +degrees I did so, truly; for she was not one of those gentle +creatures whom, married or single, one calls instinctively by their +Christian names. Her manner in girlhood was not exactly either +"meek" or "gentle"; except towards him, the only one who ever ruled +her, and to whom she was, through life, the meekest and tenderest of +women. To every one else she comported herself, at least in youth, +with a dignity and decision--a certain stand-offishness--so that, as +I said, it was not quite easy to speak to or think of her as +"Ursula." Afterwards, when seen in the light of a new character, for +which Heaven destined and especially fitted her, and in which she +appeared altogether beautiful--I began to give her another name--but +it will come by and by. + +In the long midsummer days, when our house was very quiet and rather +dreary, I got into the habit of creeping over to John's home, and +sitting for hours under the apple-trees in his garden. It was now +different from the wilderness he found it; the old trees were pruned +and tended, and young ones planted. Mrs. Halifax called it proudly +"our orchard," though the top of the tallest sapling could be reached +with her hand. Then, in addition to the indigenous cabbages, came +long rows of white-blossomed peas, big-headed cauliflowers, and all +vegetables easy of cultivation. My father sent contributions from +his celebrated gooseberry-bushes, and his wall-fruit, the pride of +Norton Bury; Mrs. Jessop stocked the borders from her great parterres +of sweet-scented common flowers; so that, walled in as it was, and in +the midst of a town likewise, it was growing into a very tolerable +garden. Just the kind of garden that I love--half trim, half wild-- +fruits, flowers, and vegetables living in comfortable equality and +fraternity, none being too choice to be harmed by their neighbours, +none esteemed too mean to be restricted in their natural profusion. +Oh, dear old-fashioned garden! full of sweet-Williams and +white-Nancies, and larkspur and London-pride, and yard-wide beds of +snowy saxifrage, and tall, pale evening primroses, and hollyhocks six +or seven feet high, many-tinted, from yellow to darkest ruby-colour; +while for scents, large blushing cabbage-roses, pinks, gilly-flowers, +with here and there a great bush of southern-wood or rosemary, or a +border of thyme, or a sweet-briar hedge--a pleasant garden, where all +colours and perfumes were blended together; ay, even a stray +dandelion, that stood boldly up in his yellow waistcoat, like a young +country bumpkin, who feels himself a decent lad in his way--or a +plant of wild marjoram, that had somehow got in, and kept meekly in a +corner of the bed, trying to turn into a respectable cultivated herb. +Dear old garden!--such as one rarely sees now-a-days!--I would give +the finest modern pleasure-ground for the like of thee! + +This was what John's garden became; its every inch and every flower +still live in more memories than mine, and will for a generation yet; +but I am speaking of it when it was young, like its gardeners. These +were Mrs. Halifax and her husband, Jem and Jenny. The master could +not do much; he had long, long hours in his business; but I used to +watch Ursula, morning after morning, superintending her domain, with +her faithful attendant Jem--Jem adored his "missis." Or else, when +it was hot noon, I used to lie in their cool parlour, and listen to +her voice and step about the house, teaching Jenny, or learning from +her--for the young gentlewoman had much to learn, and was not ashamed +of it either. She laughed at her own mistakes, and tried again; she +never was idle or dull for a minute. She did a great deal in the +house herself. Often she would sit chatting with me, having on her +lap a coarse brown pan, shelling peas, slicing beans, picking +gooseberries; her fingers--Miss March's fair fingers--looking fairer +for the contrast with their unaccustomed work. Or else, in the +summer evenings, she would be at the window sewing--always sewing-- +but so placed that with one glance she could see down the street +where John was coming. Far, far off she always saw him; and at the +sight her whole face would change and brighten, like a meadow when +the sun comes out. Then she ran to open the door, and I could hear +his low "my darling!" and a long, long pause, in the hall. + +They were very, very happy in those early days--those quiet days of +poverty; when they visited nobody, and nobody visited them; when +their whole world was bounded by the dark old house and the garden, +with its four high walls. + +One July night, I remember, John and I were walking up and down the +paths by star-light. It was very hot weather, inclining one to stay +without doors half the night. Ursula had been with us a good while, +strolling about on her husband's arm; then he had sent her in to +rest, and we two remained out together. + +How soft they were, those faint, misty, summer stars! what a +mysterious, perfumy haze they let fall over us!--A haze through which +all around seemed melting away in delicious intangible sweetness, in +which the very sky above our heads--the shining, world-besprinkled +sky--was a thing felt rather than seen. + +"How strange all seems! how unreal!" said John, in a low voice, when +he had walked the length of the garden in silence. "Phineas, how +very strange it seems!" + +"What seems?" + +"What?--oh, everything." He hesitated a minute. "No, not +everything--but something which to me seems now to fill and be mixed +up with all I do, or think, or feel. Something you do not know--but +to-night Ursula said I might tell you." + +Nevertheless he was several minutes before he told me. + +"This pear-tree is full of fruit--is it not? How thick they hang and +yet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and I were standing here, +trying to count the blossoms." + +He stopped--touching a branch with his hand. His voice sank so I +could hardly hear it. + +"Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare--we shall, if with +God's blessing all goes well--we shall have--a little child." + +I wrung his hand in silence. + +"You cannot imagine how strange it feels. A child--hers and mine-- +little feet to go pattering about our house--a little voice to say-- +Think, that by Christmas-time I shall be a FATHER." + +He sat down on the garden-bench, and did not speak for a long time. + +"I wonder," he said at last, "if, when I was born, MY father was as +young as I am: whether he felt as I do now. You cannot think what +an awful joy it is to be looking forward to a child; a little soul of +God's giving, to be made fit for His eternity. How shall we do it! +we that are both so ignorant, so young--she will be only just +nineteen when, please God, her baby is born. Sometimes, of an +evening, we sit for hours on this bench, she and I, talking of what +we ought to do, and how we ought to rear the little thing, until we +fall into silence, awed at the blessing that is coming to us." + +"God will help you both, and make you wise." + +"We trust He will; and then we are not afraid." + +A little while longer I sat by John's side, catching the dim outline +of his face, half uplifted, looking towards those myriad worlds, +which we are taught to believe, and do believe, are not more precious +in the Almighty sight than one living human soul. + +But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the thoughts +which, in the holy hush of that summer night, had risen out of the +deep of his heart. And though after this time they never again +formed themselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope, or +joy, or fear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by +me. + +In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little one +came. + +It was a girl--I think they had wished for a son; but they forgot all +about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby--at +least, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, who +left our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs. +Halifax's, exhibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies +with the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehemently +declared was the very image of its father. + +For that young father-- + +But I--what can _I_ say? How should _I_ tell of the joy of a man +over his first-born? + +I did not see John till a day afterwards--when he came into our +house, calm, happy, smiling. But Jael told me, that when she first +placed his baby in his arms he had wept like a child. + +The little maiden grew with the snowdrops. Winter might have dropped +her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, and pure-looking +was she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young baby +before; but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to +have a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet +infancy, from the time her week-old fingers, with their tiny pink +nails--a ludicrous picture of her father's hand in little--made me +smile as they closed over mine. + +She was named Muriel--after the rather peculiar name of John's +mother. Her own mother would have it so; only wishing out of her +full heart, happy one! that there should be a slight alteration made +in the second name. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy--Muriel +Joy Halifax. + +That name--beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten among us--I +write it now with tears. + + * * * * + +In December, 1802, she was born--our Muriel. And on February 9th-- +alas! I have need to remember the date!--she formally received her +name. We all dined at John's house--Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father +and I. + +It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but +his own for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked +and entreated, he only shook his head; but just when we were all +sitting down to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, +and her lips dimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was +so nice and neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And +there, in the doorway, stood my father! + +His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth-shaven face, +withered, but of a pale brown still, with the hard lines softening +down, and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be; dressed +carefully in his First-day clothes, the stainless white kerchief +supporting his large chin, his Quaker's hat in one hand, his stick in +the other, looking in at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the +gravity of his mouth--thus he stood--thus I see thee, O my dear old +father! + +The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough. +He only said, "I thank thee, John," "I thank thee, Ursula;" and took +his place beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his +mind and come. Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those +who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though +there were no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and +white Christmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat +down to a nobler feast. + +Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside the +window the thickly falling snow. + +"It has not snowed these two months," said John; "never since the day +our little girl was born." + +And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was +indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid +up-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry, which seems to +change the whole atmosphere of a household. + +My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to see +John's daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the little +helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked after +her with a curious expression, then began to say something about +going back to the tan-yard. + +"Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ursula wants to show +you our little lady." + +My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to +thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still, came +faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coo of +pleasure, like a wood-dove in its nest--every mother knows the sound. +And then Mrs. Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter +flower, her baby daughter. + +Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her--closed his eyes against +both, and looked no more. + +Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the general +admiration of her treasure. + +"She might well come in a snow-storm," said Mrs. Jessop, taking the +child. "She is just like snow, so soft and white." + +"And as soundless--she hardly ever cries. She just lies in this way +half the day over, cooing quietly, with her eyes shut. There, she +has caught your dress fast. Now, was there ever a two months' old +baby so quick at noticing things? and she does it all with her +fingers--she touches everything;--ah! take care, doctor," the mother +added, reproachfully, at a loud slam of the door, which made the baby +tremble all over. + +"I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds," said John, as he +began talking to it and soothing it;--how strange it was to see him! +and yet it seemed quite natural already. "I think even now she knows +the difference between her mother's voice and mine; and any sudden +noise always startles her in this way." + +"She must have astonishingly quick hearing," said the doctor, +slightly annoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of something else-- +showed Muriel's eyelashes, very long for such a baby--and descanted +on the colour of her eyes, that fruitful and never-ending theme of +mothers and friends. + +"I think they are like her father's; yes, certainly like her +father's. But we have not many opportunities of judging, for she is +such a lazy young damsel, she hardly ever opens them--we should often +fancy her asleep, but for that little soft coo; and then she will +wake up all of a sudden. There now! do you see her? Come to the +window, my beauty! and show Dr. Jessop your bonny brown eyes." + +They were bonny eyes! lovely in shape and colour, delicately fringed; +but there was something strange in their expression--or rather, in +their want of it. Many babies have a round, vacant stare--but this +was no stare, only a wide, full look--a look of quiet blankness--an +UNSEEING look. + +It caught Dr. Jessop's notice. I saw his air of vexed dignity change +into a certain anxiety. + +"Well, whose are they like--her father's or mine? His, I hope--it +will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we'll excuse all +compliments." + +"I--I can't exactly tell. I could judge better by candlelight." + +"We'll have candles." + +"No--no! Had we not better put it off altogether, till another day?- +-I'll call in to-morrow and look at her eyes." + +His manner was hesitating and troubled. John noticed it. + +"Love, give her to me. Go and get us lights, will you?" + +When she was gone, John took his baby to the window, gazed long and +intently into her little face, then at Dr. Jessop. "Do you think-- +no--it's not possible--that there can be anything the matter with the +child's eyes?" + +Ursula coming in, heard the last words. + +"What was that you said about baby's eyes?" + +No one answered her. All were gathered in a group at the window, the +child being held on her father's lap, while Dr. Jessop was trying to +open the small white lids, kept so continually closed. At last the +baby uttered a little cry of pain--the mother darted forward, and +clasped it almost savagely to her breast. + +"I will not have my baby hurt! There is nothing wrong with her sweet +eyes. Go away; you shall not touch her, John." + +"Love!" + +She melted at that low, fond word; leaning against his shoulder-- +trying to control her tears. + +"It shocked me so--the bare thought of such a thing. Oh! husband, +don't let her be looked at again." + +"Only once again, my darling. It is best. Then we shall be quite +satisfied. Phineas, give me the candle." + +The words--caressing, and by strong constraint made calm and +soothing--were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, but let him take +Muriel--little, unconscious, cooing dove! Lulled by her father's +voice she once more opened her eyes wide. Dr. Jessop passed the +candle before them many times, once so close that it almost touched +her face; but the full, quiet eyes, never blenched nor closed. He +set the light down. + +"Doctor!" whispered the father, in a wild appeal against--ay, it was +against certainty. He snatched the candle, and tried the experiment +himself. + +"She does not see at all. Can she be blind?" + +"Born blind." + +Yes, those pretty baby-eyes were dark--quite dark. There was nothing +painful nor unnatural in their look, save, perhaps, the blankness of +gaze which I have before noticed. Outwardly, their organization was +perfect; but in the fine inner mechanism was something wrong-- +something wanting. She never had seen--never would see--in this +world. + +"BLIND!" The word was uttered softly, hardly above a breath, yet the +mother heard it. She pushed every one aside, and took the child +herself. Herself, with a desperate incredulity, she looked into +those eyes, which never could look back either her agony or her love. +Poor mother! + +"John! John! oh, John!"--the name rising into a cry, as if he could +surely help her. He came and took her in his arms--took both, wife +and babe. She laid her head on his shoulder in bitter weeping. "Oh, +John! it is so hard. Our pretty one--our own little child!" + +John did not speak, but only held her to him--close and fast. When +she was a little calmer he whispered to her the comfort--the sole +comfort even her husband could give her--through whose will it was +that this affliction came. + +"And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to her, poor +pet!" said Mrs. Jessop, as she wiped her friendly eyes. "She will +not miss what she never knew. She may be a happy little child. +Look, how she lies and smiles." + +But the mother could not take that consolation yet. She walked to +and fro, and stood rocking her baby, mute indeed, but with tears +falling in showers. Gradually her anguish wept itself away, or was +smothered down, lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on +her breast. + +Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm-chair, gently. +It was my father. He sat down by her, taking her hand. + +"Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was blind. He was +the happiest creature I ever knew." + +My father sighed. We all marvelled to see the wonderful softness, +even tenderness, which had come into him. + +"Give me thy child for a minute." Ursula laid it across his knees; +he put his hand solemnly on the baby-breast. "God bless this little +one! Ay, and she shall be blessed." + +These words, spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic +benediction of the departing patriarchs of old, struck us all. We +looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon her; as +if the mysterious touch which had scaled up her eyes for ever had +left on her a sanctity like as of one who has been touched by the +finger of God. + +"Now, children, I must go home," said my father. + +They did not detain us: it was indeed best that the poor young +parents should be left alone. + +"You will come again soon?" begged Ursula, tenderly clasping the hand +which he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured +"God bless thee!" + +"Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy husband, my girl. +And John, never be thou harsh to her, nor too hard upon her little +failings. She is but young--but young." + +He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of another than +Ursula. + +As we walked down the street he spoke to me only once or twice, and +then of things which startled me by their strangeness--things which +had happened a long time ago; sayings and doings of mine in my +childhood, which I had not the least idea he had either known of or +remembered. + +When we got in-doors I asked if I should come and sit with him till +his bed-time. + +"No--no; thee looks tired, and I have a business letter to write. +Better go to thy bed as usual." + +I bade him good-night, and was going, when he called me back. + +"How old art thee, Phineas--twenty-four or five?" + +"Twenty-five, father." + +"Eh! so much?" He put his hand on my shoulder, and looked down on me +kindly, even tenderly. "Thee art but weakly still, but thee must +pick up, and live to be as old a man as thy father. Goodnight. God +be with thee, my son!" + +I left him. I was happy. Once I had never expected my old father +and I would have got on together so well, or loved one another so +dearly. + +In the middle of the night Jael came into my room, and sat down on my +bed's foot, looking at me. I had been dreaming strangely, about my +own childish days, and about my father and mother when we were young. + +What Jael told me--by slow degrees, and as tenderly as when she was +my nurse years ago--seemed at first so unreal as to be like a part of +the dream. + +At ten o'clock, when she had locked up the house, she had come as +usual to the parlour door, to tell my father it was bed-time. He did +not answer, being sitting with his back to the door, apparently busy +writing. So she went away. + +Half an hour afterwards she came again. He sat there still--he had +not moved. One hand supported his head; the other, the fingers +stiffly holding the pen, lay on the table. He seemed intently gazing +on what he had written. It ran thus: + +"GOOD FRIEND, + "To-morrow I shall be--" + +But there the hand had stopped--for ever. + +O dear father! on that to-morrow thou wert with God. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +It was the year 1812. I had lived for ten years as a brother in my +adopted brother's house, whither he had brought me on the day of my +father's funeral; entreating that I should never leave it again. +For, as was shortly afterwards made clear, fate--say Providence--was +now inevitably releasing him from a bond, from which, so long as my +poor father lived, John would never have released himself. It was +discovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merely +nominal--that of necessity, for the support of our two families, the +tan-yard must be sold, and the business confined entirely to the +flour-mill. + +At this crisis, as if the change of all things broke her stout old +heart, which never could bend to any new ways--Jael died. We laid +her at my father's and mother's feet--poor old Jael! and that +grave-yard in St. Mary's Lane now covered over all who loved me, all +who were of my youth day--my very own. + +So thought I--or might have thought--but that John and Ursula then +demanded with one voice, "Brother, come home." + +I resisted long: for it is one of my decided opinions that married +people ought to have no one, be the tie ever so close and dear, +living permanently with them, to break the sacred duality--no, let me +say the unity of their home. + +I wished to try and work for my living, if that were possible--if +not, that out of the wreck of my father's trade might be found enough +to keep me, in some poor way. But John Halifax would not hear of +that. And Ursula--she was sitting sewing, while the little one lay +on her lap, cooing softly with shut eyes--Ursula took my hand to play +with Muriel's. The baby fingers closed over mine--"See there, +Phineas; SHE wants you too." So I stayed. + +Perhaps it was on this account that better than all his other +children, better than anything on earth except himself, I loved +John's eldest daughter, little blind Muriel. + +He had several children now. The dark old house, and the square town +garden, were alive with their voices from morning till night. First, +and loudest always, was Guy--born the year after Muriel. He was very +like his mother, and her darling. After him came two more, Edwin and +Walter. But Muriel still remained as "sister"--the only sister +either given or desired. + +If I could find a name to describe that child it would be not the one +her happy mother gave her at her birth, but one more sacred, more +tender. She was better than Joy--she was an embodied Peace. + +Her motions were slow and tranquil--her voice soft--every expression +of her little face extraordinarily serene. Whether creeping about +the house, with a foot-fall silent as snow, or sitting among us, +either knitting busily at her father's knee, or listening to his talk +and the children's play, everywhere and always Muriel was the same. +No one ever saw her angry, restless, or sad. The soft dark calm in +which she lived seemed never broken by the troubles of this our +troublous world. + +She was, as I have said, from her very babyhood a living peace. And +such she was to us all, during those ten struggling years, when our +household had much to contend with, much to endure. If at night her +father came home jaded and worn, sickened to the soul by the hard +battle he had to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Muriel +would come softly and creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. +If, busying herself about, doing faithfully her portion too, that the +husband when he came in of evenings might find all cheerful and never +know how heavy had been the household cares during the day--if, at +times, Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone, at sight of Muriel it +softened at once. No one could speak any but soft and sweet words +when the blind child was by. + +Yet, I think either parent would have looked amazed had any one +pitied them for having a blind child. The loss--a loss only to them, +and not to her, the darling!--became familiar, and ceased to wound; +the blessedness was ever new. "Ay, and she shall be blessed," had +said my dear father. So she was. From her, or for her, her parents +never had to endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of infancy +and childhood, of which the three others had their natural share, +always passed her by, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel. + +The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our family. Scarlet +fever went through the house--safely, but leaving much care behind. +When at last they all came round, and we were able to gather our pale +little flock to a garden feast, under the big old pear-tree, it was +with the trembling thankfulness of those who have gone through great +perils, hardly dared to be recognized as such till they were over. + +"Ay, thank God it is over!" said John, as he put his arm round his +wife, and looked in her worn face, where still her own smile +lingered--her bright, brave smile, that nothing could ever drive +away. "And now we must try and make a little holiday for you." + +"Nonsense! I am as well as possible. Did not Dr. Jessop tell me, +this morning, I was looking younger than ever? I--a mother of a +family, thirty years old? Pray, Uncle Phineas, do I look my age?" + +I could not say she did not--especially now. But she wore it so +gracefully, so carelessly, that I saw--ay, and truly her husband saw- +-a sacred beauty about her jaded cheek, more lovely and lovable than +all the bloom of her youth. Happy woman! who was not afraid of +growing old. + +"Love"--John usually called her "Love"--putting it at the beginning +of a sentence, as if it had been her natural Christian name--which, +as in all infant households, had been gradually dropped or merged +into the universal title of "Mother." My name for her was always +emphatically "The Mother"--the truest type of motherhood I ever knew. + +"Love," her husband began again, after a long look in her face--ah, +John, thine was altered too, but himself was the last thing he +thought of--"say what you like--I know what we'll do: for the +children's sake. Ah, that's her weak point;--see, Phineas, she is +yielding now. We'll go for three months to Longfield." + +Now Longfield was the Utopia of our family, old and young. A very +simple family we must have been--for this Longfield was only a small +farm-house, about six miles off, where once we had been to tea, and +where ever since we had longed to live. For, pretty as our domain +had grown, it was still in the middle of a town, and the children, +like all naturally-reared children, craved after the freedom of the +country--after corn-fields, hay-fields, nuttings, blackberryings-- +delights hitherto known only at rare intervals, when their father +could spare a whole long day, and be at once the sun and the shield +of the happy little band. + +"Hearken, children! father says we shall go for three whole months to +live at Longfield." + +The three boys set up a shout of ecstacy. + +"I'll swim boats down the stream, and catch and ride every one of the +horses. Hurrah!" shouted Guy. + +"And I'll see after the ducks and chickens, and watch all the +threshing and winnowing," said Edwin, the practical and grave. + +"And I'll get a 'ittle 'amb to p'ay wid me," lisped Walter--still +"the baby"---or considered such, and petted accordingly. + +"But what does my little daughter say?" said the father, turning--as +he always turned, at the lightest touch of those soft, blind fingers, +creeping along his coat sleeve. "What will Muriel do at Longfield?" + +"Muriel will sit all day and hear the birds sing." + +"So she shall, my blessing!" He often called her his "blessing," +which in truth she was. To see her now leaning her cheek against +his--the small soft face, almost a miniature of his own, the hair, a +paler shade of the same bright colour, curling in the same elastic +rings--they looked less like ordinary father and daughter, than like +a man and his good angel; the visible embodiment of the best half of +his soul. So she was ever to him, this child of his youth--his +first-born and his dearest. + +The Longfield plan being once started, father and mother and I began +to consult together as to ways and means; what should be given up, +and what increased, of our absolute luxuries, in order that the +children might this summer--possibly every summer--have the glory of +"living in the country." Of these domestic consultations there was +never any dread, for they were always held in public. There were no +secrets in our house. Father and mother, though sometimes holding +different opinions, had but one thought, one aim--the family good. +Thus, even in our lowest estate there had been no bitterness in our +poverty; we met it, looked it in the face, often even laughed at it. +For it bound us all together, hand in hand; it taught us endurance, +self-dependence, and, best of all lessons, self-renunciation. I +think, one's whole after-life is made easier and more blessed by +having known what it was to be very poor when one was young. + +Our fortunes were rising now, and any little pleasure did not take +near so much contrivance. We found we could manage the Longfield +visit--ay, and a horse for John to ride to and fro--without any worse +sacrifice than that of leaving Jenny--now Mrs. Jem Watkins, but our +cook still--in the house at Norton Bury, and doing with one servant +instead of two. Also, though this was not publicly known till +afterwards, by the mother's renouncing a long-promised silk dress-- +the only one since her marriage, in which she had determined to +astonish John by choosing the same colour as that identical grey gown +he had seen hanging up in the kitchen at Enderley. + +"But one would give up anything," she said, "that the children might +have such a treat, and that father might have rides backwards and +forwards through green lanes all summer. Oh, how I wish we could +always live in the country!" + +"Do you?" And John looked--much as he had looked at long-tailed grey +ponies in his bridegroom days--longing to give her every thing she +desired. "Well, perhaps, we may manage it some time." + +"When our ship comes in--namely, that money which Richard Brithwood +will not pay, and John Halifax will not go to law to make him. Nay, +father dear, I am not going to quarrel with any one of your +crotchets." She spoke with a fond pride, as she did always, even +when arguing against the too Quixotic carrying out of the said +crotchets. "Perhaps, as the reward of forbearance, the money will +come some day when we least expect it; then John shall have his +heart's desire, and start the cloth-mills at Enderley." + +John smiled, half-sadly. Every man has a hobby--this was his, and +had been for fifteen years. Not merely the making a fortune, as he +still firmly believed it could be made, but the position of useful +power, the wide range of influence, the infinite opportunities of +doing good. + +"No, love; I shall never be 'patriarch of the valley,' as Phineas +used to call it. The yew-hedge is too thick for me, eh, Phineas?" + +"No!" cried Ursula--we had told her this little incident of our +boyhood--"you have got half through it already. Everybody in Norton +Bury knows and respects you. I am sure, Phineas, you might have +heard a pin fall at the meeting last night when he spoke against +hanging the Luddites. And such a shout as rose when he ended--oh, +how proud I was!" + +"Of the shout, love?" + +"Nonsense!--but of the cause of it. Proud to see my husband +defending the poor and the oppressed--proud to see him honoured and +looked up to, more and more every year, till--" + +"Till it may come at last to the prophecy in your birthday verse-- +'Her husband is known in the gates; he sitteth among the elders of +the land.'" + +Mrs. Halifax laughed at me for reminding her of this, but allowed +that she would not dislike its being fulfilled. + +"And it will be too. He is already 'known in the gates'; known far +and near. Think how many of our neighbours come to John to settle +their differences, instead of going to law! And how many poachers +has he not persuaded out of their dishonest--" + +"Illegal," corrected John. + +"Well, their illegal ways, and made decent, respectable men of them! +Then, see how he is consulted, and his opinion followed, by rich folk +as well as poor folk, all about the neighbourhood. I am sure John is +as popular, and has as much influence, as many a member of +parliament." + +John smiled with an amused twitch about his mouth, but he said +nothing. He rarely did say anything about himself--not even in his +own household. The glory of his life was its unconsciousness--like +our own silent Severn, however broad and grand its current might be, +that course seemed the natural channel into which it flowed. + +"There's Muriel," said the father, listening. + +Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard all over the +house the sweet sounds of "Muriel's voice," as some one had called +the old harpsichord. When almost a baby she would feel her way to +it, and find out first harmonies, then tunes, with that quickness and +delicacy of ear peculiar to the blind. + +"How well she plays! I wish I could buy her one of those new +instruments they call 'pianofortes;' I was looking into the mechanism +of one the other day." + +"She would like an organ better. You should have seen her face in +the Abbey church this morning." + +"Hark! she has stopped playing. Guy, run and bring your sister +here," said the father, ever yearning after his darling. + +Guy came back with a wonderful story of two gentlemen in the parlour, +one of whom had patted his head--"Such a grand gentleman, a great +deal grander than father!" + +That was true, as regarded the bright nankeens, the blue coat with +gold buttons, and the showiest of cambric kerchiefs swathing him up +to the very chin. To this "grand" personage John bowed formally, but +his wife flushed up in surprised recognition. + +"It is so long since I had the happiness of meeting Miss March, that +I conclude Mrs. Halifax has forgotten me?" + +"No, Lord Luxmore, allow me to introduce my husband." + +And, I fancied, some of Miss March's old hauteur returned to the +mother's softened and matronly mien;--pride, but not for herself or +in herself, now. For, truly, as the two men stood together--though +Lord Luxmore had been handsome in his youth, and was universally said +to have as fine manners as the Prince Regent himself--any woman might +well have held her head loftily, introducing John Halifax as "my +husband." + +Of the two, the nobleman was least at his ease, for the welcome of +both Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, though courteous, was decidedly cold. +They did not seem to feel--and, if rumour spoke true, I doubt if any +honest, virtuous, middle-class fathers and mothers would have felt-- +that their house was greatly honoured or sanctified by the presence +of the Earl of Luxmore. + +But the nobleman was, as I have said, wonderfully fine-mannered. He +broke the ice at once. + +"Mr. Halifax, I have long wished to know you. Mrs. Halifax, my +daughter encouraged me to pay this impromptu visit." + +Here ensued polite inquiries after Lady Caroline Brithwood; we +learned that she was just returned from abroad, and was entertaining, +at the Mythe House, her father and brother. + +"Pardon--I was forgetting my son--Lord Ravenel." + +The youth thus presented merely bowed. He was about eighteen or so, +tall and spare, with thin features and large soft eyes. He soon +retreated to the garden-door, where he stood, watching the boys play, +and shyly attempting to make friends with Muriel. + +"I believe Ravenel has seen you years ago, Mrs. Halifax. His sister +made a great pet of him as a child. He has just completed his +education--at the College of St. Omer, was it not, William?" + +"The Catholic college of St. Omer," repeated the boy. + +"Tut--what matters!" said the father, sharply. "Mr. Halifax, do not +imagine we are a Catholic family still. I hope the next Earl of +Luxmore will be able to take the oaths and his seat, whether or no we +get Emancipation. By the by, you uphold the Bill?" + +John assented; expressing his conviction, then unhappily a rare one, +that every one's conscience is free; and that all men of blameless +life ought to be protected by, and allowed to serve, the state, +whatever be their religious opinions. + +"Mr. Halifax, I entirely agree with you. A wise man esteems all +faiths alike worthless." + +"Excuse me, my lord, that was the very last thing I meant to say. I +hold every man's faith so sacred, that no other man has a right to +interfere with it, or to question it. The matter lies solely between +himself and his Maker." + +"Exactly! What facility of expression your husband has, Mrs. +Halifax! He must be--indeed, I have heard he is--a first-rate public +speaker." + +The wife smiled, wife-like; but John said, hurriedly: + +"I have no pretention or ambition of the kind. I merely now and then +try to put plain truths, or what I believe to be such, before the +people, in a form they are able to understand." + +"Ay, that is it. My dear sir, the people have no more brains than +the head of my cane (his Royal Highness's gift, Mrs. Halifax); they +must be led or driven, like a flock of sheep. We"--a lordly "we!"-- +"are their proper shepherds. But, then, we want a middle class--at +least, an occasional voice from it, a--" + +"A shepherd's dog, to give tongue," said John, dryly. "In short, a +public orator. In the House, or out of it?" + +"Both." And the earl tapped his boot with that royal cane, smiling. +"Yes; I see you apprehend me. But, before we commence that somewhat +delicate subject, there was another on which I desired my agent, Mr. +Brown, to obtain your valuable opinion." + +"You mean, when, yesterday, he offered me, by your lordship's express +desire, the lease, lately fallen in, of your cloth-mills at +Enderley?" + +Now, John had not told us that!--why, his manner too plainly showed. + +"And all will be arranged, I trust? Brown says you have long wished +to take the mills; I shall be most happy to have you for a tenant." + +"My lord, as I told your agent, it is impossible. We will say no +more about it." + +John crossed over to his wife with a cheerful air. She sat looking +grave and sad. + +Lord Luxmore had the reputation of being a keen-witted, diplomatic +personage; undoubtedly he had, or could assume, that winning charm of +manner which had descended in perfection to his daughter. Both +qualities it pleased him to exercise now. He rose, addressing with +kindly frankness the husband and wife. + +"If I may ask--being a most sincere well-wisher of yours, and a sort +of connection of Mrs. Halifax's, too--why is it impossible?" + +"I have no wish to disguise the reason: it is because I have no +capital." + +Lord Luxmore looked surprised. "Surely--excuse me, but I had the +honour of being well acquainted with the late Mr. March--surely, your +wife's fortune--" + +Ursula rose, in her old impetuous way--"His wife's fortune! (John, +let me say it!--I will, I must!)--of his wife's fortune, Lord +Luxmore, he has never received one farthing. Richard Brithwood keeps +it back; and my husband would work day and night for me and our +children rather than go to law." + +"Oh! on principle, I suppose? I have heard of such opinions," said +the earl, with the slightest perceptible sneer. "And you agree with +him?" + +"I do, heartily. I would rather we lived poor all our days than that +he should wear his life out, trouble his spirit, perhaps even soil +his conscience, by squabbling with a bad man over money matters." + +It was good to see Ursula as she spoke; good to see the look that +husband and his wife interchanged--husband and wife, different in +many points, yet so blessedly, so safely ONE! Then John said, in his +quiet way, + +"Love, perhaps another subject than our own affairs would be more +interesting to Lord Luxmore." + +"Not at all--not at all!" And the earl was evidently puzzled and +annoyed. "Such extraordinary conduct," he muttered: "so very-- +ahem!--unwise. If the matter were known--caught up by those +newspapers--I must really have a little conversation with Brithwood." + +The conversation paused, and John changed it entirely by making some +remarks on the present minister, Mr. Perceval. + +"I liked his last speech much. He seems a clear-headed, honest man, +for all his dogged opposition to the Bill." + +"He will never oppose it more." + +"Nay, I think he will, my lord--to the death." + +"That may be--and yet--" his lordship smiled. "Mr. Halifax, I have +just had news by a carrier pigeon--my birds fly well--most important +news for us and our party. Yesterday, in the lobby of the House of +Commons, Mr. Perceval was shot." + +We all started. An hour ago we had been reading his speech. Mr. +Perceval shot! + +"Oh, John," cried the mother, her eyes full of tears; "his poor wife- +-his fatherless children!" + +And for many minutes they stood, hearing the lamentable history, and +looking at their little ones at play in the garden; thinking, as many +an English father and mother did that day, of the stately house in +London, where the widow and orphans bewailed their dead. He might or +might not be a great statesman, but he was undoubtedly a good man; +many still remember the shock of his untimely death, and how, whether +or not they liked him living, all the honest hearts of England +mourned for Mr. Perceval. + +Possibly that number did not include the Earl of Luxmore. + +"Requiescat in pace! I shall propose the canonization of poor +Bellingham. For now Perceval is dead there will be an immediate +election; and on that election depends Catholic Emancipation. Mr. +Halifax," turning quickly round to him, "you would be of great use to +us in parliament." + +"Should I?" + +"Will you--I like plain speaking--will you enter it?" + +Enter parliament! John Halifax in parliament! His wife and I were +both astounded by the suddenness of the possibility; which, however, +John himself seemed to receive as no novel idea. + +Lord Luxmore continued. "I assure you nothing is more easy; I can +bring you in at once, for a borough near here--my family borough." + +"Which you wish to be held by some convenient person till Lord +Ravenel comes of age? So Mr. Brown informed me yesterday." + +Lord Luxmore slightly frowned. Such transactions, as common then in +the service of the country as they still are in the service of the +Church, were yet generally glossed over, as if a certain discredit +attached to them. The young lord seemed to feel it; at sound of his +name he turned round to listen, and turned back again, blushing +scarlet. Not so the earl, his father. + +"Brown is--(may I offer you a pinch, Mr. Halifax?--what, not the +Prince Regent's own mixture?)--is indeed a worthy fellow, but too +hasty in his conclusions. As it happens, my son is yet undecided +between the Church--that is, the priesthood, and politics. But to +our conversation--Mrs. Halifax, may I not enlist you on my side? We +could easily remove all difficulties, such as qualification, etc. +Would you not like to see your husband member for the old and +honourable borough of Kingswell?" + +"Kingswell!" It was a tumble-down village, where John held and +managed for me the sole remnant of landed property which my poor +father had left me. "Kingswell! why there are not a dozen houses in +the place." + +"The fewer the better, my dear madam. The election would cost me +scarcely any--trouble; and the country be vastly the gainer by your +husband's talents and probity. Of course he will give up the--I +forget what is his business now--and live independent. He is made to +shine as a politician: it will be both happiness and honour to +myself to have in some way contributed to that end. Mr. Halifax, you +will accept my borough?" + +"Not on any consideration your lordship could offer me." + +Lord Luxmore scarcely credited his ears. "My dear sir--you are the +most extraordinary--may I again inquire your reasons?" + +"I have several; one will suffice. Though I wish to gain influence-- +power perhaps; still the last thing I should desire would be +political influence." + +"You might possibly escape that unwelcome possession," returned the +earl. "Half the House of Commons is made up of harmless dummies, who +vote as we bid them." + +"A character, my lord, for which I am decidedly unfitted. Until +political conscience ceases to be a thing of traffic, until the +people are allowed honestly to choose their own honest +representatives, I must decline being of that number. Shall we +dismiss the subject?" + +"With pleasure, sir." + +And courtesy being met by courtesy, the question so momentous was +passed over, and merged into trivialities. Perhaps the earl, who, as +his pleasures palled, was understood to be fixing his keen wits upon +the pet profligacy of old age, politics--saw, clearly enough, that in +these chaotic days of contending parties, when the maddened outcry of +the "people" was just being heard and listened to, it might be as +well not to make an enemy of this young man, who, with a few more, +stood as it were midway in the gulf, now slowly beginning to narrow, +between the commonalty and the aristocracy. He stayed some time +longer, and then bowed himself away with a gracious condescension +worthy of the Prince of Wales himself, carrying with him the shy, +gentle Lord Ravenel, who had spoken scarcely six words the whole +time. + +When he was gone the father and mother seemed both relieved. + +"Truly, John, he has gained little by his visit, and I hope it may be +long before we see an earl in our quiet house again. Come in to +dinner, my children." + +But his lordship had left an uncomfortable impression behind him. It +lasted even until that quiet hour--often the quietest and happiest of +our day--when, the children being all in bed, we elders closed in +round the fire. + +Ursula and I sat there, longer alone than usual. + +"John is late to-night," she said more than once; and I could see her +start, listening to every foot under the window, every touch at the +door-bell; not stirring, though: she knew his foot and his ring +quite well always. + +"There he is!" we both said at once--much relieved; and John came in. + +Brightness always came in with him. Whatever cares he had without-- +and they were heavy enough, God knows--they always seemed to slip off +the moment he entered his own door; and whatever slight cares we had +at home, we put them aside; as they could not but be put aside, nay, +forgotten--at the sight of him. + +"Well, Uncle Phineas! Children all right, my darling? A fire! I'm +glad of it. Truly to-night is as cold as November." + +"John, if you have a weakness, it is for fire. You're a regular +salamander." + +He laughed--warming his hands at the blaze. "Yes, I would rather be +hungry than cold, any day. Love, our one extravagance is certainly +coals. A grand fire this! I do like it so!" + +She called him "foolish;" but smoothed down with a quiet kiss the +forehead he lifted up to her as she stood beside him, looking as if +she would any day have converted the whole house into fuel for his +own private and particular benefit. + +"Little ones all in bed, of course?" + +"Indeed, they would have lain awake half the night--those naughty +boys--talking of Longfield. You never saw children so delighted." + +"Are they?" I thought the tone was rather sad, and that the father +sat listening with less interest than usual to the pleasant little +household chronicle, always wonderful and always new, which it was +his custom to ask for and have, night after night, when he came +home,--saying it was to him, after his day's toil, like a "babbling +o' green fields." Soon it stopped. + +"John dear, you are very tired?" + +"Rather." + +"Have you been very busy all day?" + +"Very busy." + +I understood, almost as well as his wife did, what those brief +answers indicated; so, stealing away to the table where Guy's blurred +copy-book and Edwin's astonishing addition sums were greatly in need +of Uncle Phineas, I left the fire-side corner to those two. Soon +John settled himself in my easy chair, and then one saw how very +weary he was--weary in body and soul alike--weary as we seldom beheld +him. It went to my heart to watch the listless stretch of his large, +strong frame--the sharp lines about his mouth--lines which ought not +to have come there in his two-and-thirty years. And his eyes--they +hardly looked like John's eyes, as they gazed in a sort of dull +quietude, too anxious to be dreamy, into the red coals--and nowhere +else. + +At last he roused himself, and took up his wife's work. + +"More little coats! Love, you are always sewing." + +"Mothers must--you know. And I think never did boys outgrow their +things like our boys. It is pleasant, too. If only clothes did not +wear out so fast." + +"Ah!" A sigh--from the very depths of the father's heart. + +"Not a bit too fast for my clever fingers, though," said Ursula, +quickly. "Look, John, at this lovely braiding. But I'm not going to +do any more of it. I shall certainly have no time to waste over +fineries at Longfield." + +Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and laid it down +again. After a pause he said: + +"Should you be very much disappointed if--if we do not go to +Longfield after all?" + +"Not go to Longfield!" The involuntary exclamation showed how deep +her longing had been. + +"Because I am afraid--it is hard, I know--but I am afraid we cannot +manage it. Are you very sorry?" + +"Yes," she said frankly and truthfully. "Not so much for myself, +but--the children." + +"Ay, the poor children." + +Ursula stitched away rapidly for some moments, till the grieved look +faded out of her face; then she turned it, all cheerful once more, to +her husband. "Now, John, tell me. Never mind about the children. +Tell me." + +He told her, as was his habit at all times, of some losses which had +to-day befallen him--bad debts in his business--which would make it, +if not impracticable, at least imprudent, to enter on any new +expenses that year. Nay, he must, if possible, retrench a little. +Ursula listened, without question, comment, or complaint. + +"Is that all?" she said at last, very gently. + +"All." + +"Then never mind. I do not. We will find some other pleasures for +the children. We have so many pleasures, ay, all of us. Husband, it +is not so hard to give up this one." + +He said, in a whisper, low almost as a lover's, "I could give up +anything in the world but them and thee." + +So, with a brief information to me at supper-time--"Uncle Phineas, +did you hear? we cannot go to Longfield,"--the renunciation was made, +and the subject ended. For this year, at least, our Arcadian dream +was over. + +But John's troubled looks did not pass away. It seemed as if this +night his long toil had come to that crisis when the strongest man +breaks down--or trembles within a hair's breadth of breaking down; +conscious too, horribly conscious, that if so, himself will be the +least part of the universal ruin. His face was haggard, his +movements irritable and restless; he started nervously at every +sound. Sometimes even a hasty word, an uneasiness about trifles, +showed how strong was the effort he made at self-control. Ursula, +usually by far the most quick-tempered of the two, became to-night +mild and patient. She neither watched nor questioned him--wise woman +as she was; she only sat still, busying herself over her work, +speaking now and then of little things, lest he should notice her +anxiety about him. He did at last. + +"Nay, I am not ill, do not be afraid. Only my head aches so--let me +lay it here as the children do." + +His wife made a place for it on her shoulder; there it rested--the +poor tired head, until gradually the hard and painful expression of +the features relaxed, and it became John's own natural face--as quiet +as any of the little faces on their pillows up-stairs, whence, +doubtless, slumber had long banished all anticipation of Longfield. +At last he too fell asleep. + +Ursula held up her finger, that I might not stir. The clock in the +corner, and the soft sobbing of the flame on the hearth, were the +only sounds in the parlour. She sewed on quietly, to the end of her +work; then let it drop on her lap, and sat still. Her cheek leaned +itself softly against John's hair, and in her eyes, which seemed so +intently contemplating the little frock, I saw large bright tears +gather--fall. But her look was serene, nay, happy; as if she thought +of these beloved ones, husband and children--her very own--preserved +to her in health and peace,--ay, and in that which is better than +either, the unity of love. For that priceless blessing, for the +comfort of being HIS comfort, for the sweetness of bringing up these +his children in the fear of God and in the honour of their father-- +she, true wife and mother as she was, would not have exchanged the +wealth of the whole world. + +"What's that?" We all started, as a sudden ring at the bell pealed +through the house, waking John, and frightening the very children in +their beds. All for a mere letter too, brought by a lacquey of Lord +Luxmore's. Having--somewhat indignantly--ascertained this fact, the +mother ran upstairs to quiet her little ones. When she came down, +John still stood with the letter in his hand. He had not told me +what it was; when I chanced to ask he answered in a low tone-- +"Presently!" On his wife's entrance he gave her the letter without a +word. + +Well might it startle her into a cry of joy. Truly the dealings of +heaven to us were wonderful! + + "Mr. John Halifax. + "SIR, + "Your wife, Ursula Halifax, having some time since attained +the age fixed by her late father as her majority, I will, within a +month after date, pay over to your order all moneys, principal and +interest, accruing to her, and hitherto left in my hands, as trustee, +according to the will of the late Henry March, Esquire. + "I am, sir, + "Yours, etc., + "RICHARD BRITHWOOD." + +"Wonderful--wonderful!" + +It was all I could say. That one bad man, for his own purposes, +should influence another bad man to an act of justice--and that their +double evil should be made to work out our good! Also, that this +should come just in our time of need--when John's strength seemed +ready to fail. + +"Oh John--John! now you need not work so hard!" + +That was his wife's first cry, as she clung to him almost in tears. + +He too was a good deal agitated. This sudden lifting of the burthen +made him feel how heavy it had been--how terrible the responsibility- +-how sickening the fear. + +"Thank God! In any case, you are quite safe now--you and the +children!" + +He sat down, very pale. His wife knelt beside him, and put her arms +around his neck--I quietly went out of the room. + +When I came in again, they were standing by the fire-side--both +cheerful, as two people to whom had happened such unexpected good +fortune might naturally be expected to appear. I offered my +congratulations in rather a comical vein than otherwise; we all of us +had caught John's habit of putting things in a comic light whenever +he felt them keenly. + +"Yes, he is a rich man now--mind you treat your brother with extra +respect, Phineas." + +"And your sister too. + + 'For she sall walk in silk attire, + And siller hae to spare.' + +She's quite young and handsome still--isn't she? How magnificent +she'll look in that grey silk gown!" + +"John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! you--the father of a +family! you--that are to be the largest mill-owner at Enderley--" + +He looked at her fondly, half deprecatingly. "Not till I have made +you and the children all safe--as I said." + +"We are safe--quite safe--when we have you. Oh, Phineas! make him +see it as I do. Make him understand that it will be the happiest day +in his wife's life when she knows him happy in his heart's desire." + +We sat a little while longer, talking over the strange change in our +fortunes--for they wished to make me feel that now, as ever, what was +theirs was mine; then Ursula took her candle to depart. + +"Love!" John cried, calling her back as she shut the door, and +watching her stand there patient--watching with something of the old +mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Mrs. Halifax, when shall I have +the honour of ordering your long-tailed grey ponies?" + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +Not many weeks afterwards we went to live at Longfield, which +henceforth became the family home for many years. + +Longfield! happy Longfield! little nest of love, and joy, and peace-- +where the children grew up, and we grew old--where season after +season brought some new change ripening in us and around us--where +summer and winter, day and night, the hand of God's providence was +over our roof, blessing our goings out and our comings in, our basket +and our store; crowning us with the richest blessing of all, that we +were made a household where "brethren dwelt together in unity." +Beloved Longfield! my heart, slow pulsing as befits one near the +grave, thrills warm and young as I remember thee! + +Yet how shall I describe it--the familiar spot; so familiar that it +seems to need no description at all. + +It was but a small place when we first came there. It led out of the +high-road by a field-gate--the White Gate; from which a narrow path +wound down to a stream, thence up a green slope to the house; a mere +farm-house, nothing more. It had one parlour, three decent bed- +rooms, kitchen and out-houses; we built extempore chambers out of the +barn and cheese-room. In one of these the boys, Guy and Edwin, +slept, against the low roof of which the father generally knocked his +head every morning when he came to call the lads. Its windows were +open all summer round, and birds and bats used oftentimes to fly in, +to the great delight of the youthful inmates. + +Another infinite pleasure to the little folk was that for the first +year, the farm-house kitchen was made our dining-room. There, +through the open door, Edwin's pigeons, Muriel's two doves, and +sometimes a stately hen, walked in and out at pleasure. Whether our +live stock, brought up in the law of kindness, were as well-trained +and well-behaved as our children, I cannot tell; but certain it is +that we never found any harm from this system, necessitated by our +early straits at Longfield--this "liberty, fraternity, and equality." + +Those words, in themselves true and lovely, but wrested to false +meaning, whose fatal sound was now dying out of Europe, merged in the +equally false and fatal shout of "Gloire! gloire!" remind me of an +event which I believe was the first that broke the delicious monotony +of our new life. + +It was one September morning. Mrs. Halifax, the children, and I were +down at the stream, planning a bridge across it, and a sort of +stable, where John's horse might be put up--the mother had steadily +resisted the long-tailed grey ponies. For with all the necessary +improvements at Longfield, with the large settlement that John +insisted upon making on his wife and children, before he would use in +his business any portion of her fortune, we found we were by no means +so rich as to make any great change in our way of life advisable. +And, after all, the mother's best luxuries were to see her children +merry and strong, her husband's face lightened of its care, and to +know he was now placed beyond doubt in the position he had always +longed for; for was he not this very day gone to sign the lease of +Enderley Mills? + +Mrs. Halifax had just looked at her watch, and she and I were +wondering, with quite a childish pleasure, whether he were not now +signing the important deed, when Guy came running to say a coach- +and-four was trying to enter the White Gate. + +"Who can it be?--But they must be stopped, or they'll spoil John's +new gravel road that he takes such pride in. Uncle Phineas, would +you mind going to see?" + +Who should I see, but almost the last person I expected--who had not +been beheld, hardly spoken of, in our household these ten years--Lady +Caroline Brithwood, in her travelling-habit of green cloth, her +velvet riding-hat, with its Prince of Wales' feathers, gayer than +ever--though her pretty face was withering under the paint, and her +lively manner growing coarse and bold. + +"Is this Longfield?--Does Mr. Halifax--mon Dieu, Mr. Fletcher, is +that you?" + +She held out her hand with the frankest condescension, and in the +brightest humour in the world. She insisted on sending on the +carriage, and accompanying me down to the stream, for a "surprise"--a +"scene." + +Mrs. Halifax, seeing the coach drive on, had evidently forgotten all +about it. She stood in the little dell which the stream had made, +Walter in her arms--her figure thrown back, so as to poise the +child's weight. Her right hand kept firm hold of Guy, who was +paddling barefoot in the stream: Edwin, the only one of the boys who +never gave any trouble, was soberly digging away, beside little +Muriel. + +The lady clapped her hands. "Brava! bravissima! a charming family +picture, Mrs. Halifax." + +"Lady Caroline!" + +Ursula left her children, and came to greet her old acquaintance, +whom she had never once seen since she was Ursula Halifax. Perhaps +that fact touched her, and it was with a kind of involuntary +tenderness that she looked into the sickly face, where all the smiles +could not hide the wrinkles. + +"It is many years since we met; and we are both somewhat altered, +Cousin Caroline." + +"You are, with those three great boys. The little girl yours also?-- +Oh yes, I remember William told me--poor little thing!" And with +uneasy awe she turned from our blind Muriel, our child of peace. + +"Will you come up to the house? my husband has only ridden over to +Enderley; he will be home soon." + +"And glad to see me, I wonder? For I am rather afraid of that +husband of yours--eh, Ursula? Yet I should greatly like to stay." + +Ursula laughed, and repeated the welcome. She was so happy herself-- +she longed to distribute her happiness. They walked, the children +following, towards the house. + +Under the great walnut-tree, by the sunk fence which guarded the +flower-garden from the sheep and cows, Mrs. Halifax stopped and +pointed down the green slope of the field, across the valley, to the +wooded hills opposite. + +"Isn't it a pretty view?" said Guy, creeping up and touching the +stranger's gown; our children had lived too much in an atmosphere of +love to know either shyness or fear. + +"Very pretty, my little friend." + +"That's One-tree Hill. Father is going to take us all a walk there +this afternoon." + +"Do you like going walks with your father?" + +"Oh, don't we!" An electric smile ran through the whole circle. It +told enough of the blessed home-tale. + +Lady Caroline laughed a sharp laugh. "Eh, my dear, I see how things +are. You don't regret having married John Halifax, the tanner?" + +"Regret!" + +"Nay, be not impetuous. I always said he was a noble fellow--so does +the earl now. And William--you can't think what a hero your husband +is to William." + +"Lord Ravenel?" + +"Ay, my little brother that was--growing a young man now--a frightful +bigot, wanting to make our house as Catholic as when two or three of +us lost our heads for King James. But he is a good boy--poor +William! I had rather not talk about him." + +Ursula inquired courteously if her Cousin Richard were well. + +"Bah!--I suppose he is; he is always well. His late astonishing +honesty to Mr. Halifax cost him a fit of gout--mais n'importe. If +they meet, I suppose all things will be smooth between them?" + +"My husband never had any ill-feeling to Mr. Brithwood." + +"I should not bear him an undying enmity if he had. But you see, +'tis election time, and the earl wishes to put in a gentleman, a +friend of ours, for Kingswell. Mr. Halifax owns some cottages there, +eh?" + +"Mr. Fletcher does. My husband transacts business--" + +"Stop! stop!" cried Lady Caroline. "I don't understand business; I +only know that they want your husband to be friendly with mine. Is +this plain enough?" + +"Certainly: be under no apprehension. Mr. Halifax never bears +malice against any one. Was this the reason of your visit, Lady +Caroline?" + +"Eh--mon Dieu! what would become of us if we were all as +straightforward as you, Mistress Ursula? But it sounds charming--in +the country. No, my dear; I came--nay, I hardly know why. Probably, +because I liked to come--my usual reason for most actions. Is that +your salle-a-manger? Won't you ask me to dinner, ma cousine?" + +"Of course," the mother said, though I fancied, afterwards, the +invitation rather weighed upon her mind, probably from the doubt +whether or no John would like it. But in little things, as in great, +she had always this safe trust in him--that conscientiously to do +what she felt to be right was the surest way to be right in her +husband's eyes. + +So Lady Caroline was our guest for the day--a novel guest--but she +made herself at once familiar and pleasant. Guy, a little gentleman +from his cradle, installed himself her admiring knight attendant +everywhere: Edwin brought her to see his pigeons; Walter, with +sweet, shy blushes, offered her "a 'ittle f'ower!" and the three, as +the greatest of all favours, insisted on escorting her to pay a visit +to the beautiful calf not a week old. + +Laughing, she followed the boys; telling them how lately in Sicily +she had been presented to a week-old prince, son of Louis Philippe +the young Duke of Orleans and the Princess Marie-Amelie. "And truly, +children, he was not half so pretty as your little calf. Ursula, I +am sick of courts sometimes. I would turn shepherdess myself, if we +could find a tolerable Arcadia." + +"Is there any Arcadia like home?" + +"Home!"--Her face expressed the utmost loathing, fear, and scorn. I +remembered hearing that the 'Squire since his return from abroad had +grown just like his father; was drunk every day and all day long. +"Is your husband altered, Ursula? He must be quite a young man +still. Oh, what it is to be young!" + +"John looks much older, people say; but I don't see it." + +"Arcadia again! Can such things be? especially in England, that +paradise of husbands, where the first husband in the realm sets such +an illustrious example. How do you stay-at-home British matrons feel +towards my friend the Princess of Wales?" + +"God help her, and make her as good a woman as she is a wronged and +miserable wife," said Ursula, sadly. + +"Query, Can a 'good woman' be made out of a 'wronged and miserable +wife'? If so, Mrs. Halifax, you should certainly take out a patent +for the manufacture." + +The subject touched too near home. Ursula wisely avoided it, by +inquiring if Lady Caroline meant to remain in England. + +"Cela depend." She turned suddenly grave. "Your fresh air makes me +feel weary. Shall we go in-doors?" + +Dinner was ready laid out--a plain meal; since neither the father nor +any of us cared for table dainties; but I think if we had lived in a +hut, and fed off wooden platters on potatoes and salt, our repast +would have been fair and orderly, and our hut the neatest that a hut +could be. For the mother of the family had in perfection almost the +best genius a woman can have--the genius of tidiness. + +We were not in the least ashamed of our simple dinner-table, where no +difference was ever made for anybody. We had little plate, but +plenty of snow-white napery and pretty china; and what with the +scents of the flower-garden on one side, and the green waving of the +elm-tree on the other, it was as good as dining out-of-doors. + +The boys were still gathered round Lady Caroline, in the little +closet off the dining-room where lessons were learnt; Muriel sat as +usual on the door-sill, petting one of her doves that used to come +and perch on her head and her shoulder, of their own accord, when I +heard the child say to herself: + +"Father's coming." + +"Where, darling?" + +"Up the farm-yard way. There--he is on the gravel-walk. He has +stopped; I dare say it is to pull some of the jessamine that grows +over the well. Now, fly away, dove! Father's here." + +And the next minute a general shout echoed, "Father's here!" + +He stood in the doorway, lifting one after the other up in his arms; +having a kiss and a merry word for all--this good father! + +O solemn name, which Deity Himself claims and owns! Happy these +children, who in its fullest sense could understand the word +"father!" to whom, from the dawn of their little lives, their father +was what all fathers should be--the truest representative here on +earth of that Father in heaven, who is at once justice, wisdom, and +perfect love. + +Happy, too--most blessed among women--the woman who gave her children +such a father! + +Ursula came--for his eye was wandering in search of her--and received +the embrace, without which he never left her, or returned. + +"All rightly settled, John?" + +"Quite settled." + +"I am so glad." With a second kiss, not often bestowed in public, as +congratulation. He was going to tell more, when Ursula said, rather +hesitatingly, "We have a visitor to-day." + +Lady Caroline came out of her corner, laughing. "You did not expect +me, I see. Am I welcome?" + +"Any welcome that Mrs. Halifax has given is also mine." + +But John's manner, though polite, was somewhat constrained; and he +felt, as it seemed to my observant eye, more surprise than +gratification in this incursion on his quiet home. Also I noticed +that when Lady Caroline, in the height of her condescension, would +have Muriel close to her at dinner, he involuntarily drew his little +daughter to her accustomed place beside himself, + +"She always sits here, thank you." + +The table-talk was chiefly between the lady and her host; she rarely +talked to women when a man was to be had. Conversation veered +between the Emperor Napoleon and Lord Wellington, Lord William +Bentinck and Sardinian policy, the conjugal squabbles of Carlton +House, and the one-absorbing political question of this year-- +Catholic emancipation. + +"You are a staunch supporter of the Bill, my father says. Of course, +you aid him in the Kingswell election to-morrow?" + +"I can scarcely call it an election," returned John. He had been +commenting on it to us that morning rather severely. An election! it +was merely a talk in the King's Head parlour, a nomination, and show +of hands by some dozen poor labourers, tenants of Mr. Brithwood and +Lord Luxmore, who got a few pounds a-piece for their services--and +the thing was done. + +"Who is the nominee, Lady Caroline?" + +"A young gentleman of small fortune, but excellent parts, who +returned with us from Naples." + +The lady's manner being rather more formal than she generally used, +John looked up quickly. + +"The election being to-morrow, of course his name is no secret?" + +"Oh, no! Vermilye. Mr. Gerard Vermilye. Do you know him?" + +"I have heard of him." + +As he spoke--either intentionally or no--John looked full at Lady +Caroline. She dropped her eyes and began playing with her bracelets. +Both immediately quitted the subject of Kingswell election. + +Soon after we rose from table; and Guy, who had all dinner-time fixed +his admiring gaze upon the "pretty lady," insisted on taking her down +the garden and gathering for her a magnificent arum lily, the +mother's favourite lily. I suggested gaining permission first; and +was sent to ask the question. + +I found John and his wife in serious, even painful conversation. + +"Love," he was saying, "I have known it for very long; but if she had +not come here, I would never have grieved you by telling it." + +"Perhaps it is not true," said Ursula, warmly. "The world is ready +enough to invent cruel falsehoods about us women." + +"'Us women!' Don't say that, Ursula. I will not have my wife named +in the same breath with HER." + +"John!" + +"I will not, I say. You don't know what it cost me even to see her +touch your hand." + +"John!" + +The soft tone recalled him to his better self. + +"Forgive me! but I would not have the least taint come near this wife +of mine. I could not bear to think of her holding intercourse with a +light woman--a woman false to her husband." + +"I do not believe it. Caroline was foolish, she was never wicked. +Listen!--If this were true, how could she be laughing with our +children now? Oh! John--think--she has no children." + +The deep pity passed from Ursula's heart to her husband's. John +clasped fondly the two hands that were laid on his shoulders, as, +looking up in his face, the happy wife pleaded silently for one whom +all the world knew was so wronged and so unhappy. + +"We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a better +Christian than I." + +All afternoon they both showed more than courtesy--kindness, to this +woman, at whom, as any one out of our retired household would have +known, and as John did know well--all the world was already pointing +the finger, on account of Mr. Gerard Vermilye. She, on her part, +with her chameleon power of seizing and sunning herself in the +delight of the moment, was in a state of the highest enjoyment. She +turned "shepherdess," fed the poultry with Edwin, pulled off her +jewelled ornaments, and gave them to Walter for playthings; nay, she +even washed off her rouge at the spring, and came in with faint +natural roses upon her faded cheeks. So happy she seemed, so +innocently, childishly happy; that more than once I saw John and +Ursula exchange satisfied looks, rejoicing that they had followed +after the divine charity which "thinketh no evil." + +After tea we all turned out, as was our wont on summer evenings; the +children playing about; while the father and mother strolled up and +down the sloping field-path, arm in arm like lovers, or sometimes he +fondly leaning upon her. Thus they would walk and talk together in +the twilight, for hours. + +Lady Caroline pointed to them. "Look! Adam and Eve modernized; +Baucis and Philemon when they were young. Bon Dieu! what it is to be +young!" + +She said this in a gasp, as if wild with terror of the days that were +coming upon her--the dark days. + +"People are always young," I answered, "who love one another as these +do." + +"Love! what an old-fashioned word. I hate it! It is so--what would +you say in English?--so dechirant. I would not cultivate une grande +passion for the world." + +I smiled at the idea of the bond between Mr. and Mrs. Halifax taking +the Frenchified character of "une grande passion." + +"But home-love, married love, love among children and at the +fire-side;--you believe in that?" + +She turned upon me her beautiful eyes; they had a scared look, like a +bird's driven right into the fowler's net. + +"C'est impossible--impossible!" + +The word hissed itself out between her shut teeth--"impossible." +Then she walked quickly on, and was her lively self once more. + +When the evening closed, and the younger children were gone to bed, +she became rather restless about the non-appearance of her coach. At +last a lacquey arrived on foot. She angrily inquired why a carriage +had not been sent for her? + +"Master didn't give orders, my lady," answered the man, somewhat +rudely. + +Lady Caroline turned pale--with anger or fear--perhaps both. + +"You have not properly answered your mistress's question," said Mr. +Halifax. + +"Master says, sir--begging my lady's pardon for repeating it--but he +says, 'My lady went out against his will, and she may come home when +and how she likes.'" + +"My lady" burst out laughing, and laughed violently and long. + +"Tell him I will. Be sure you tell him I will. It is the last and +the easiest obedience." + +John sent the lacquey out of the room; and Ursula said something +about "not speaking thus before a servant." + +"Before a servant! Why, my dear, we furnish entertainment for our +whole establishment, my husband and I. We are at the Mythe what the +Prince Regent and the Princess of Wales are to the country at large. +We divide our people between us; I fascinate--he bribes. Ha! ha! +Well done, Richard Brithwood! I may come home 'when and how I like!' +Truly, I'll use that kind permission." + +Her eyes glittered with an evil fire: her cheeks were hot and red. + +"Mrs. Halifax, I shall be thrown on your hospitality for an hour or +two longer. Could you send a letter for me?" + +"To your husband? Certainly." + +"My husband?--Never!--Yes, to MY HUSBAND." The first part of the +sentence was full of fierce contempt; the latter, smothered, and +slowly desperate. "Tell me, Ursula, what constitutes a man one's +husband? Brutality, tyranny--the tyranny which the law sanctions? +Or kindness, sympathy, devotion, everything that makes life +beautiful--everything that constitutes happiness and--" + +"Sin." + +The word in her ear was so low, that she started as if conscience +only had uttered it--conscience, to whom only her intents were known. + +John came forward, speaking gravely, but not unkindly. + +"Lady Caroline, I am deeply grieved that this should have happened in +my house, and through your visiting us against your husband's will." + +"His will!" + +"Pardon me; but I think a wife is bound to the very last to obey in +all things, not absolutely wrong, her husband's will. I am glad you +thought of writing to Mr. Brithwood." + +She shook her head, in mocking denial. + +"May I ask, then--since I am to have the honour of sending it--to +whom is this letter?" + +"To--" I think she would have told a falsehood, if John's eyes had +not been so keenly fixed upon her. "To--a friend." + +"Friends are at all times dangerous to a lady who--" + +"Hates her husband--ha! ha! Especially male friends?" + +"Especially male friends." + +Here Guy, who had lingered out of his little bed most unlawfully-- +hovering about, ready to do any chivalrous duty to his idol of the +day--came up to bid her good-night, and held up his rosy mouth, +eagerly. + +"I--kiss a little child! I!"--and from her violent laughter she +burst into a passion of tears. + +The mother signed me to carry Guy away; she and John took Lady +Caroline into the parlour, and shut the door. + +Of course I did not then learn what passed--but I did afterwards. + +Lady Caroline's tears were evanescent, like all her emotions. Soon +she became composed--asked again for writing materials--then +countermanded the request. + +"No, I will wait till to-morrow. Ursula, you will take me in for the +night?" + +Mrs. Halifax looked appealingly to her husband, but he gave no +assent. + +"Lady Caroline, you should willingly stay, were it not, as you must +know, so fatal a step. In your position, you should be most careful +to leave the world and your husband no single handle against you." + +"Mr. Halifax, what right have you---" + +"None, save that of an honest man, who sees a woman cruelly wronged, +and desperate with her wrong; who would thankfully save her if he +could." + +"Save me? From what--or whom?" + +"From Mr. Gerard Vermilye, who is now waiting down the road, and +whom, if Lady Caroline Brithwood once flies to, or even sees, at this +crisis, she loses her place among honourable English matrons for +ever." + +John said this, with no air of virtuous anger or contempt, but as the +simple statement of a fact. The convicted woman dropped her face +between her hands. + +Ursula, greatly shocked, was some time before she spoke. + +"Is it true, Caroline?" + +"What is true?" + +"That which my husband has heard of you?" + +"Yes," she cried, springing up, and dashing back her beautiful hair-- +beautiful still, though she must have been five or six and thirty at +least--"Yes, it is true--it shall be true. I will break my bonds and +live the life I was made for. I would have done it long ago, but +for--no matter. Why, Ursula, he adores me; young and handsome as he +is, he adores me. He will give me my youth back again, ay, he will." + +And she sang out a French chanson, something about "la liberte et ses +plaisirs, la jeunesse, l'amour." + +The mother grew sterner--any such wife and mother would. Then and +there, compassion might have died out of even her good heart, had it +not been for the sudden noise over-head of children's feet-- +children's chattering. Once more the pitiful thought came--"She has +no children." + +"Caroline," she said, catching her gown as she passed, "when I was +with you, you had a child which only breathed and died. It died +spotless. When you die, how dare you meet that little baby?" + +The singing changed to sobbing. "I had forgotten. My little baby! +Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" + +Mrs. Halifax, taking in earnest those meaningless French +ejaculations, whispered something about Him who alone can comfort and +help us all. + +"Him! I never knew Him, if indeed He be. No, no, there is no +after-life." + +Ursula turned away in horror. "John, what shall we do with her? No +home!--no husband!--no God!" + +"He never leaves Himself without a witness. Look, love." + +The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro--weeping and wringing her +hands. "It was cruel--cruel! You should not have spoken about my +baby. Now--" + +"Tell me--just one word--I will not believe anybody's word except +your own. Caroline, are you--still innocent?" + +Lady Caroline shrank from her touch. "Don't hold me so. You may +have one standard of virtue, I another." + +"Still, tell me." + +"And if I did, you, an 'honourable English matron'--was not that your +husband's word?--would turn from me, most likely." + +"She will not," John said. "She has been happy, and you most +miserable." + +"Oh, most miserable." + +That bitter groan went to both their hearts, Ursula leaned over her-- +herself almost in tears. "Cousin Caroline, John says true--I will +not turn from you. I know you have been sinned against--cruelly-- +cruelly. Only tell me that you yourself have not sinned." + +"I HAVE 'sinned,' as you call it." + +Ursula started--drew closer to her husband. Neither spoke. + +"Mrs. Halifax, why don't you take away your hand?" + +"I?--let me think. This is terrible. Oh, John!" + +Again Lady Caroline said, in her sharp, bold tone, "Take away your +hand." + +"Husband, shall I?" + +"No." + +For some minutes they stood together, both silent, with this poor +woman. I call her "poor," as did they, knowing, that if a sufferer +needs pity, how tenfold more does a sinner! + +John spoke first. "Cousin Caroline." She lifted up her head in +amazement. "We are your cousins, and we wish to be your friends, my +wife and I. Will you listen to us?" + +She sobbed still, but less violently. + +"Only, first--you must promise to renounce for ever guilt and +disgrace." + +"I feel it none. He is an honourable gentleman--he loves me, and I +love him. That is the true marriage. No, I will make you no such +promise. Let me go." + +"Pardon me--not yet. I cannot suffer my wife's kinswoman to elope +from my own house, without trying to prevent it." + +"Prevent!--sir!--Mr. Halifax! You forget who you are, and who I am-- +the daughter of the Earl of Luxmore." + +"Were you the King's daughter it would make no difference. I will +save you in spite of yourself, if I can. I have already spoken to +Mr. Vermilye, and he has gone away." + +"Gone away! the only living soul that loves me. Gone away! I must +follow him--quick--quick." + +"You cannot. He is miles distant by this time. He is afraid lest +this story should come out to-morrow at Kingswell; and to be an M.P. +and safe from arrest is better to Mr. Vermilye than even yourself, +Lady Caroline." + +John's wife, unaccustomed to hear him take that cool, worldly, half- +sarcastic tone, turned to him somewhat reproachfully; but he judged +best. For the moment, this tone had more weight with the woman of +the world than any homilies. She began to be afraid of Mr. Halifax. +Impulse, rather than resolution, guided her, and even these impulses +were feeble and easily governed. She sat down again, muttering: + +"My will is free. You cannot control me." + +"Only so far as my conscience justifies me in preventing a crime." + +"A crime?" + +"It would be such. No sophistries of French philosophy on your part, +no cruelty on your husband's, can abrogate the one law, which if you +disown it as God's, is still man's--being necessary for the peace, +honour, and safety of society." + +"What law?" + +"THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY." + +People do not often utter this plain Bible word. It made Ursula +start, even when spoken solemnly by her own husband. It tore from +the self-convicted woman all the sentimental disguises with which the +world then hid, and still hides, its corruptions. Her sin arose and +stared her blackly in the face--AS SIN. She cowered before it. + +"Am I--THAT? And William will know it. Poor William!" She looked +up at Ursula--for the first time with the guilty look; hitherto, it +had been only one of pain or despair. "Nobody knows it, except you. +Don't tell William. I would have gone long ago, but for him. He is +a good boy;--don't let him guess his sister was--" + +She left the word unspoken. Shame seemed to crush her down to the +earth; shame, the precursor of saving penitence--at least, John +thought so. He quitted the room, leaving her to the ministry of his +other self, his wife. As he sat down with me, and told me in a few +words what indeed I had already more than half guessed, I could not +but notice the expression of his own face. And I recognized how a +man can be at once righteous to judge, tender to pity, and strong to +save; a man the principle of whose life is, as John's was--that it +should be made "conformable to the image" of Him, who was Himself on +earth the image of God. + +Ursula came out and called her husband. They talked some time +together. I guessed, from what I heard, that she wished Lady +Caroline to stay the night here, but that he with better judgment was +urging the necessity of her returning to the protection of her +husband's home without an hour's delay. + +"It is her only chance of saving her reputation. She must do it. +Tell her so, Ursula." + +After a few minutes, Mrs. Halifax came out again. + +"I have persuaded her at last. She says she will do whatever you +think best. Only before she goes, she wants to look at the children. +May she?" + +"Poor soul!--yes," John murmured, turning away. + +Stepping out of sight, we saw the poor lady pass through the quiet, +empty house into the children's bed-room. We heard her smothered +sob, at times, the whole way. + +Then I went down to the stream, and helped John to saddle his horse, +with Mrs. Halifax's old saddle--in her girlish days, Ursula used to +be very fond of riding. + +"She can ride back again from the Mythe," said John. "She wishes to +go, and it is best she should; so that nothing need be said, except +that Lady Caroline spent a day at Longfield, and that my wife and I +accompanied her safe home." + +While he spoke, the two ladies came down the field-path. I fancied I +heard, even now, a faint echo of that peculiarly sweet and careless +laugh, indicating how light were all impressions on a temperament so +plastic and weak--so easily remoulded by the very next influence that +fate might throw across her perilous way. + +John Halifax assisted her on horseback, took the bridle under one arm +and gave the other to his wife. Thus they passed up the path, and +out at the White Gate. + +I delayed a little while, listening to the wind, and to the prattle +of the stream, that went singing along in daylight or in darkness, by +our happy home at Longfield. And I sighed to myself, "Poor Lady +Caroline!" + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Midnight though it was, I sat up until John and his wife came home. +They said scarcely anything, but straightway retired. In the +morning, all went on in the house as usual, and no one ever knew of +this night's episode, except us three. + +In the morning, Guy looked wistfully around him, asking for the +"pretty lady;" and being told that she was gone, and that he would +not be likely to see her again, seemed disappointed for a minute; but +soon he went down to play at the stream, and forgot all. + +Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about the house was +rarer than its wont; that her quick, active, cheerful presence-- +penetrating every nook, and visiting every creature, as with the +freshness of an April wind--was this day softer and sadder; but she +did not say anything to me, nor I to her. + +John had ridden off early--to the flour-mill, which he still kept on, +together with the house at Norton Bury--he always disliked giving up +any old associations. At dinner-time he came home, saying he was +going out again immediately. + +Ursula looked uneasy. A few minutes after, she followed me under the +walnut-tree, where I was sitting with Muriel, and asked me if I would +go with John to Kingswell. + +"The election takes place to-day, and he thinks it right to be there. +He will meet Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore; and though there is not +the slightest need--my husband can do all that he has to do alone-- +still, for my own satisfaction, I would like his brother to be near +him." + +They invariably called me their brother now; and it seemed as if the +name had been mine by right of blood always. + +Of course, I went to Kingswell, riding John's brown mare, he himself +walking by my side. It was not often that we were thus alone +together, and I enjoyed it much. All the old days seemed to come +back again as we passed along the quiet roads and green lanes, just +as when we were boys together, when I had none I cared for but David, +and David cared only for me. The natural growth of things had made a +difference in this, but our affection had changed its outward form +only, not its essence. I often think that all loves and friendships +need a certain three days' burial before we can be quite sure of +their truth and immortality. Mine--it happened just after John's +marriage, and I may confess it now--had likewise its entombment, +bitter as brief. Many cruel hours sat I in darkness, weeping at the +door of its sepulchre, thinking that I should never see it again; +but, in the dawn of the morning, it rose, and I met it in the +desolate garden, different, yet the very same. And after that, it +walked with me continually, secure and imperishable evermore. + +I rode, and John sauntered beside me along the footpath, now and then +plucking a leaf or branch off the hedge, and playing with it, as was +his habit when a lad. Often I caught the old smile--not one of his +three boys, not even handsome Guy, had their father's smile. + +He was telling me about Enderley Mill, and all his plans there, in +the which he seemed very happy. At last, his long life of duty was +merging into the life he loved. He looked as proud and pleased as a +boy, in talking of the new inventions he meant to apply in cloth- +weaving; and how he and his wife had agreed together to live for some +years to come at little Longfield, strictly within their settled +income, that all the remainder of his capital might go to the +improvement of Enderley Mills and mill-people. + +"I shall be master of nearly a hundred, men and women. Think what +good we may do! She has half-a-dozen plans on foot already--bless +her dear heart!" + +It was easy to guess whom he referred to--the one who went hand- +in-hand with him in everything. + +"Was the dinner in the barn, next Monday, her plan, too?" + +"Partly. I thought we would begin a sort of yearly festival for the +old tan-yard people, and those about the flour-mill, and the +Kingswell tenants--ah, Phineas, wasn't I right about those Kingswell +folk?" + +These were about a dozen poor families, whom, when our mortgage fell +in, he had lured out of Sally Watkins' miserable alley to these old +houses, where they had at least fresh country air, and space enough +to live wholesomely and decently, instead of herding together like +pigs in a sty. + +"You ought to be proud of your tenants, Phineas. I assure you, they +form quite a contrast to their neighbours, who are Lord Luxmore's." + +"And his voters likewise, I suppose?--the 'free and independent +burgesses' who are to send Mr. Vermilye to Parliament?" + +"If they can," said John, biting his lip with that resolute half- +combative air which I now saw in him at times, roused by things which +continually met him in his dealings with the world--things repugnant +alike to his feelings and his principles, but which he had still to +endure, not having risen high enough to oppose, single-handed, the +great mass of social corruption which at this crisis of English +history kept gathering and gathering, until out of the very horror +and loathsomeness of it an outcry for purification arose. + +"Do you know, Phineas, I might last week have sold your houses for +double price? They are valuable, this election year, since your five +tenants are the only voters in Kingswell who are not likewise tenants +of Lord Luxmore. Don't you see how the matter stands?" + +It was not difficult, for that sort of game was played all over +England, connived at, or at least winked at, by those who had +political influence to sell or obtain, until the Reform Bill opened +up the election system in all its rottenness and enormity. + +"Of course I knew you would not sell your houses; and I shall use +every possible influence I have to prevent your tenants selling their +votes. Whatever may be the consequence, the sort of thing that this +Kingswell election bids fair to be, is what any honest Englishman +ought to set his face against, and prevent if he can." + +"Can you?" + +"I do not feel sure, but I mean to try. First, for simple right and +conscience; secondly, because if Mr. Vermilye is not saved from +arrest by being placed in Parliament, he will be outlawed and driven +safe out of the country. You see?" + +Ay, I did, only too well. Though I foresaw that whatever John was +about to do, it must necessarily be something that would run directly +counter to Lord Luxmore--and he had only just signed the lease of +Enderley Mills. Still, if right to be done, he ought to do it at all +risks, at all costs; and I knew his wife would say so. + +We came to the foot of Kingswell Hill, and saw the little hamlet-- +with its grey old houses, its small, ancient church, guarded by +enormous yew-trees, and clothed with ivy that indicated centuries of +growth. + +A carriage overtook us here; in it were two gentlemen, one of whom +bowed in a friendly manner to John. He returned it. + +"This is well; I shall have one honest gentleman to deal with +to-day." + +"Who is he?" + +"Sir Ralph Oldtower, from whom I bought Longfield. An excellent man- +-I like him--even his fine old Norman face, like one of his knightly +ancestors on the tomb in Kingswell church. There's something +pleasant about his stiff courtesy and his staunch Toryism; for he +fully believes in it, and acts up to his belief. A true English +gentleman, and I respect him." + +"Yet, John, Norton Bury calls you a democrat." + +"So I am, for I belong to the people. But I nevertheless uphold a +true aristocracy--the BEST MEN of the country,--do you remember our +Greeks of old? These ought to govern, and will govern, one day, +whether their patent of nobility be births and titles, or only +honesty and brains." + +Thus he talked on, and I liked to hear him, for talking was rare in +his busy life of constant action. I liked to observe how during +these ten years his mind had brooded over many things; how it had +grown, strengthened, and settled itself, enlarging both its vision +and its aspirations; as a man does, who, his heart at rest in a happy +home, has time and will to look out from thence into the troublous +world outside, ready to do his work there likewise. That John was +able to do it--ay, beyond most men--few would doubt who looked into +his face; strong with the strength of an intellect which owed all its +development to himself alone; calm with the wisdom which, if a man is +ever to be wise, comes to him after he has crossed the line of thirty +years. In that face, where day by day Time was writing its fit +lessons--beautiful, because they were so fit--I ceased to miss the +boyish grace, and rejoiced in the manhood present, in the old age +that was to be. + +It seemed almost too short a journey, when, putting his hand on the +mare's bridle--the creature loved him, and turned to lick his arm the +minute he came near--John stopped me to see the view from across +Kingswell churchyard. + +"Look, what a broad valley, rich in woods, and meadow-land, and corn. +How quiet and blue lie the Welsh hills far away. It does one good to +look at them. Nay, it brings back a little bit of me which rarely +comes uppermost now, as it used to come long ago, when we read your +namesake, and Shakspeare, and that Anonymous Friend who has since +made such a noise in the world. I delight in him still. Think of a +man of business liking Coleridge." + +"I don't see why he should not." + +"Nor I. Well, my poetic tastes may come out more at Enderley. Or +perhaps when I am an old man, and have fought the good fight, and-- +holloa, there! Matthew Hales, have they made you drunk already?" + +The man--he was an old workman of ours--touched his hat, and tried to +walk steadily past "the master," who looked at once both stern and +sad. + +"I thought it would be so!--I doubt if there is a voter in all +Kingswell who has not got a bribe." + +"It is the same everywhere," I said. "What can one man do against +it, single-handed?" + +"Single-handed or not, every man ought to do what he can. And no man +knows how much he can do till he tries." + +So saying, he went into the large parlour of the Luxmore Arms, where +the election was going on. + +A very simple thing, that election! Sir Ralph Oldtower, who was +sheriff, sat at a table, with his son, the grave-looking young man +who had been with him in the carriage; near them were Mr. Brithwood +of the Mythe, and the Earl of Luxmore. + +The room was pretty well filled with farmers' labourers and the like. +We entered, making little noise; but John's head was taller than most +heads present; the sheriff saw him at once, and bowed courteously. +So did young Mr. Herbert Oldtower, so did the Earl of Luxmore. +Richard Brithwood alone took no notice, but turned his back and +looked another way. + +It was now many years since I had seen the 'squire, Lady Caroline's +husband. He had fulfilled the promise of his youth, and grown into a +bloated, coarse-featured, middle-aged man; such a man as one rarely +meets with now-a-days; for even I, Phineas Fletcher, have lived to +see so great a change in manners and morals, that intemperance, +instead of being the usual characteristic of "a gentleman," has +become a rare failing--a universally-contemned disgrace. + +"Less noise there!" growled Mr. Brithwood. "Silence, you fellows at +the door! Now, Sir Ralph, let's get the business over, and be back +for dinner." + +Sir Ralph turned his stately grey head to the light, put on his gold +spectacles, and began to read the writ of election. As he finished, +the small audience set up a feeble cheer. + +The sheriff acknowledged it, then leaned over the table talking with +rather frosty civility to Lord Luxmore. Their acquaintance seemed +solely that of business. People whispered that Sir Ralph never +forgot that the Oldtowers were Crusaders when the Ravenels were-- +nobody. Also the baronet, whose ancestors were all honourable men +and stainless women, found it hard to overlook a certain royal +bar-sinister, which had originated the Luxmore earldom, together with +a few other blots which had tarnished that scutcheon since. So folk +said; but probably Sir Ralph's high principle was at least as strong +as his pride, and that the real cause of his dislike was founded on +the too well-known character of the Earl of Luxmore. + +They ceased talking; the sheriff rose, and briefly stated that +Richard Brithwood, Esquire, of the Mythe, would nominate a candidate. + +The candidate was Gerard Vermilye, Esquire; at the mention of whose +name one Norton Bury man broke into a horse-laugh, which was quenched +by his immediate ejection from the meeting. + +Then, Mr. Thomas Brown, steward of the Earl of Luxmore, seconded the +nomination. + +After a few words between the sheriff, his son, and Lord Luxmore, the +result of which seemed rather unsatisfactory than otherwise, Sir +Ralph Oldtower again rose. + +"Gentlemen and electors, there being no other candidate proposed, +nothing is left me but to declare Gerard Vermilye, Esquire--" + +John Halifax made his way to the table. "Sir Ralph, pardon my +interruption, but may I speak a few words?" + +Mr. Brithwood started up with an angry oath. + +"My good sir," said the baronet, with a look of reprehension which +proved him of the minority who thought swearing ungentlemanly. + +"By ---, Sir Ralph, you shall not hear that low fellow!" + +"Excuse me, I must, if he has a right to be heard. Mr. Halifax, you +are a freeman of Kingswell?" + +"I am." + +This fact surprised none more than myself. + +Brithwood furiously exclaimed that it was a falsehood. "The fellow +does not belong to this neighbourhood at all. He was picked up in +Norton Bury streets--a beggar, a thief, for all I know." + +"You do know very well, Mr. Brithwood. Sir Ralph, I was never either +a beggar or a thief. I began life as a working lad--a farm-labourer- +-until Mr. Fletcher, the tanner, took me into his employ." + +"So I have always understood," said Sir Ralph, courteously. "And +next to the man who is fortunate enough to boast a noble origin, I +respect the man who is not ashamed of an ignoble one." + +"That is not exactly my position either," said John, with a half +smile. "But we are passing from the question in hand, which is +simply my claim to be a freeman of this borough." + +"On what grounds?" + +"You will find in the charter a clause, seldom put in force, that the +daughter of a freeman can confer the freedom on her husband. My +wife's late father, Mr. Henry March, was a burgess of Kingswell. I +claimed my rights, and registered, this year. Ask your clerk, Sir +Ralph, if I have not spoken correctly." + +The old white-headed clerk allowed the fact. + +Lord Luxmore looked considerably surprised, and politely incredulous +still. His son-in-law broke out into loud abuse of this "knavery." + +"I will pass over this ugly word, Mr. Brithwood, merely stating that- +-" + +"We are quite satisfied," interrupted Lord Luxmore, blandly. "My +dear sir, may I request so useful a vote and so powerful an interest +as yours, for our friend, Mr. Vermilye?" + +"My lord, I should be very sorry for you to misapprehend me for a +moment. It is not my intention, except at the last extremity, to +vote at all. If I do, it will certainly not be for Mr. Brithwood's +nominee. Sir Ralph, I doubt if, under some circumstances, which by +your permission I am about to state, Mr. Gerard Vermilye can keep his +seat, even if elected." + +A murmur arose from the crowd of mechanics and labourers, who, awed +by such propinquity to gentry and even nobility, had hitherto hung +sheepishly back; but now, like all English crowds, were quite ready +to "follow the leader," especially one they knew. + +"Hear him! hear the master!" was distinguishable on all sides. Mr. +Brithwood looked too enraged for words; but Lord Luxmore, taking +snuff with a sarcastic smile, said: + +"Honores mutant mores!--I thought, Mr. Halifax, you eschewed +politics?" + +"Mere politics I do, but not honesty, justice, morality; and a few +facts have reached my knowledge, though possibly not Lord Luxmore's, +which make me feel that Mr. Vermilye's election would be an insult to +all three; therefore, I oppose it." + +A louder murmur rose. + +"Silence, you scoundrels!" shouted Mr. Brithwood; adding his usual +formula of speech, which a second time extorted the old baronet's +grave rebuke. + +"It seems, Sir Ralph, that democracy is rife in your neighbourhood. +True, my acquaintance has not lain much among the commonalty, but +still I was not aware that the people choose the Member of +Parliament." + +"They do not, Lord Luxmore," returned the sheriff, somewhat +haughtily. "But we always hear the people. Mr. Halifax, be brief. +What have you to allege against Mr. Brithwood's nominee?" + +"First, his qualification. He has not three hundred, nor one hundred +a-year. He is deeply in debt, at Norton Bury and elsewhere. +Warrants are out against him; and only as an M.P. can he be safe from +outlawry. Add to this, an offence common as daylight, yet which the +law dare not wink at when made patent--that he has bribed, with great +or small sums, every one of the fifteen electors of Kingswell; and I +think I have said enough to convince any honest Englishman that Mr. +Gerard Vermilye is not fit to represent them in Parliament." + +Here a loud cheer broke from the crowd at the door and under the open +windows, where, thick as bees, the villagers had now collected. +They, the un-voting, and consequently unbribable portion of the +community, began to hiss indignantly at the fifteen unlucky voters. +For though bribery was, as John had truly said, "as common as +daylight," still, if brought openly before the public, the said +virtuous public generally condemned it, if they themselves had not +been concerned therein. + +The sheriff listened uneasily to a sound, very uncommon at elections, +of the populace expressing an opinion contrary to that of the lord of +the soil. + +"Really, Mr. Brithwood, you must have been as ignorant as I was of +the character of your nominee, or you would have chosen some one +else. Herbert"--he turned to his son, who, until the late +dissolution, had sat for some years as member for Norton Bury-- +"Herbert, are you acquainted with any of these facts?" + +Mr. Herbert Oldtower looked uncomfortable. + +"Answer," said his father. "No hesitation in a matter of right and +wrong. Gentlemen, and my worthy friends, will you hear Mr. Oldtower, +whom you all know? Herbert, are these accusations true?" + +"I am afraid so," said the grave young man, more gravely. + +"Mr. Brithwood, I regret extremely that this discovery was not made +before. What do you purpose doing?" + +"By the Lord that made me, nothing! The borough is Lord Luxmore's; I +could nominate Satan himself if I chose. My man shall stand." + +"I think," Lord Luxmore said, with meaning, "it would be better for +all parties that Mr. Vermilye should stand." + +"My lord," said the baronet; and one could see that not only rigid +justice, but a certain obstinacy, marked his character, especially +when anything jarred against his personal dignity or prejudices; "you +forget that, however desirous I am to satisfy the family to whom this +borough belongs, it is impossible for me to see with satisfaction-- +even though I cannot prevent--the election of any person so unfit to +serve His Majesty. If, indeed, there were another candidate, so that +the popular feeling might decide this very difficult matter--" + +"Sir Ralph," said John Halifax, determinedly, "this brings me to the +purpose for which I spoke. Being a landholder, and likewise a +freeman of this borough, I claim the right of nominating a second +candidate." + +Intense, overwhelming astonishment struck all present. Such a right +had been so long unclaimed, that everybody had forgotten it was a +right at all. Sir Ralph and his clerk laid their venerable heads +together for some minutes, before they could come to any conclusion +on the subject. At last the sheriff rose. + +"I am bound to say, that, though very uncommon, this proceeding is +not illegal." + +"Not illegal?" almost screamed Richard Brithwood. + +"Not illegal. I therefore wait to hear Mr. Halifax's nomination. +Sir, your candidate is, I hope, no democrat?" + +"His political opinions differ from mine, but he is the only +gentleman whom I in this emergency can name; and is one whom myself, +and I believe all my neighbours, will be heartily glad to see once +more in Parliament. I beg to nominate Mr. Herbert Oldtower." + +A decided sensation at the upper half of the room. At the lower half +an unanimous, involuntary cheer; for among our county families there +were few so warmly respected as the Oldtowers. + +Sir Ralph rose, much perplexed. "I trust that no one present will +suppose I was aware of Mr. Halifax's intention. Nor, I understand, +was Mr. Oldtower. My son must speak for himself." + +Mr. Oldtower, with his accustomed gravity, accompanied by a not +unbecoming modesty, said, that in this conjuncture, and being +personally unacquainted with both Mr. Brithwood and the Earl of +Luxmore, he felt no hesitation in accepting the honour offered to +him. + +"That being the case," said his father, though evidently annoyed, "I +have only to fulfil my duty as public officer to the Crown." + +Amidst some confusion, a show of hands was called for; and then a cry +rose of "Go to the poll!" + +"Go to the poll!" shouted Mr. Brithwood. "This is a family borough. +There has not been a poll here these fifty years. Sir Ralph, your +son's mad." + +"Sir, insanity is not in the family of the Oldtowers. My position +here is simply as sheriff of the county. If a poll be called for--" + +"Excuse me, Sir Ralph, it would be hardly worth while. May I offer +you--" + +It was--only his snuff-box. But the Earl's polite and meaning smile +filled up the remainder of the sentence. + +Sir Ralph Oldtower drew himself up haughtily, and the fire of youth +flashed indignantly from his grand old eyes. + +"Lord Luxmore seems not to understand the duties and principles of us +country gentlemen," he said coldly, and turned away, addressing the +general meeting. "Gentlemen, the poll will be held this afternoon, +according to the suggestion of my neighbour here." + +"Sir Ralph Oldtower has convenient neighbours," remarked Lord +Luxmore. + +"Of my neighbour, Mr Halifax," repeated the old baronet, louder, and +more emphatically. "A gentleman,"--he paused, as if doubtful whether +in that title he were awarding a right or bestowing a courtesy, +looked at John, and decided--"a gentleman for whom, ever since I have +known him, I have entertained the highest respect." + +It was the first public recognition of the position which for some +time had been tacitly given to John Halifax in his own neighbourhood. +Coming thus, from this upright and honourable old man, whose least +merit it was to hold, and worthily, a baronetage centuries old, it +made John's cheek glow with an honest gratification and a pardonable +pride. + +"Tell her," he said to me, when, the meeting having dispersed, he +asked me to ride home and explain the reason of his detention at +Kingswell--"Tell my wife all. She will be pleased, you know." + +Ay, she was. Her face glowed and brightened as only a wife's can--a +wife whose dearest pride is in her husband's honour. + +Nevertheless, she hurried me back again as quickly as I came. + +As I once more rode up Kingswell Hill, it seemed as if the whole +parish were agog to see the novel sight. A contested election! +truly, such a thing had not been known within the memory of the +oldest inhabitant. The fifteen voters--I believe that was the +number--were altogether bewildered by a sense of their own +importance. Also, by a new and startling fact--which I found Mr. +Halifax trying to impress upon a few of them, gathered under the +great yew-tree in the churchyard--that a man's vote ought to be the +expression of his own conscientious opinion; and that for him to sell +it was scarcely less vile than to traffic in the liberty of his son +or the honour of his daughter. Among those who listened most +earnestly, was a man whom I had seen before to-day--Jacob Baines, +once the ringleader of the bread-riots, who had long worked steadily +in the tan-yard, and then at the flour-mill. He was the honestest +and faithfulest of all John's people--illustrating unconsciously that +Divine doctrine, that often they love most to whom most has been +forgiven. + +The poll was to be held in the church--a not uncommon usage in +country boroughs, but which from its rarity struck great awe into the +Kingswell folk. The churchwarden was placed in the clerk's desk to +receive votes. Not far off, the sheriff sat in his family-pew, bare- +headed; by his grave and reverent manner imposing due decorum, which +was carefully observed by all except Lord Luxmore and Mr. Brithwood. + +These two, apparently sure of their cause, had recovered their +spirits, and talked and laughed loudly on the other side of the +church. It was a very small building, narrow and cruciform; every +word said in it was distinctly audible throughout. + +"My lord, gentlemen, and my friends all," said Sir Ralph, rising +gravely, "let me hope that every one will respect the sanctity of +this place." + +Lord Luxmore, who had been going about with his dazzling diamond +snuff-box and equally dazzling smile, stopped in the middle of the +aisle, bowed, replied, "With pleasure--certainly!" and walked inside +the communion rail, as if believing that his presence there conveyed +the highest compliment he could pay the spot. + +The poll began in perfect silence. One after the other, three +farmers went up and voted for Mr. Vermilye. There was snuff under +their noses--probably something heavier than snuff in their pockets. + +Then came up the big, grey-headed fellow I have before mentioned-- +Jacob Baines. He pulled his fore-lock to Sir Ralph, rather shyly; +possibly in his youth he had made the sheriff's acquaintance under +less favourable circumstances. But he plucked up courage. + +"Your honour, might a man say a word to 'ee?" + +"Certainly! but be quick, my good fellow," replied the baronet, who +was noted for his kindly manner to humble folk. + +"Sir, I be a poor man. I lives in one o' my lord's houses. I hanna +paid no rent for a year. Mr. Brown zays to me, he zays--'Jacob, vote +for Vermilye, and I'll forgive 'ee the rent, and here be two pound +ten to start again wi'. So, as I zays to Matthew Hales (he be Mr. +Halifax's tenant, your honour, and my lord's steward ha' paid 'un +nigh four pound for his vote), I sure us be poor men, and his +lordship a lord and all that--it's no harm, I reckon." + +"Holloa! cut it short, you rascal; you're stopping the poll. Vote, I +say." + +"Ay, ay, 'squire;" and the old fellow, who had some humour in him, +pulled his hair again civilly to Mr. Brithwood. "Wait till I ha' got +shut o' these." + +And he counted out of his ragged pockets a handful of guineas. Poor +fellow! how bright they looked; those guineas, that were food, +clothing, life. + +"Three was paid to I, two to Will Horrocks, and the rest to Matthew +Hales. But, sir, we has changed our minds; and please, would 'ee +give back the money to them as owns it?" + +"Still, my honest friend--" + +"Thank 'ee, Sir Ralph, that's it: we be honest; we couldn't look the +master in the face else. Twelve year ago, come Michaelmas, he kept +some on us from starving--may be worse. We bean't going to turn +rascals on's hands now. Now I'll vote, sir,--and it won't be for +Vermilye." + +A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob, as he marched back +down the aisle, where on the stone benches of the porch was seated a +rural jury, who discussed not over-favourably the merits of Lord +Luxmore's candidate. + +"He owes a power o' money in Norton Bury--he do." + +"Why doesn't he show his face at the 'lection, like a decent +gen'leman?" + +"Fear'd o' bailiffs!" suggested the one constable, old and rheumatic, +who guarded the peace of Kingswell. "He's the biggest swindler in +all England." + +"Curse him!" muttered an old woman. "She was a bonny lass--my Sally! +Curse him!" + +All this while, Lord Luxmore sat in lazy dignity in the communion- +chair, apparently satisfied that as things always had been so they +would continue to be; that despite the unheard-of absurdity of a +contested election, his pocket-borough was quite secure. It must +have been, to say the least, a great surprise to his lordship, when, +the poll being closed, its result was found thus: Out of the fifteen +votes, six were for Mr. Vermilye, nine for his opponent. Mr. Herbert +Oldtower was therefore duly elected as member for the borough of +Kingswell. + +The earl received the announcement with dignified, incredulous +silence; but Mr. Brithwood never spared language. + +"It's a cheat--an infamous conspiracy! I will unseat him--by my soul +I will!" + +"You may find it difficult," said John Halifax, counting out the +guineas deposited by Jacob Baines, and laying them in a heap before +Mr. Brown, the steward. "Small as the number is, I believe any +Committee of the House of Commons will decide that nine honester +votes were never polled. But I regret, my lord--I regret deeply, Mr. +Brithwood,"--and there was a kind of pity in his eye--"that in this +matter I have been forced, as it were, to become your opponent. Some +day, perhaps, you may both do me the justice that I now can only look +for from my own conscience." + +"Very possibly," replied the earl, with a satirical bow. "I believe, +gentlemen, our business is ended for to-day, and it is a long drive +to Norton Bury. Sir Ralph, might we hope for the honour of your +company? No? Good day, my friends. Mr. Halifax, your servant." + +"One word, my lord. Those workmen of mine, who are your tenants--I +am aware what usually results when tenants in arrear vote against +their landlords--if, without taking any harsher measures, your agent +will be so kind as to apply to me for the rent--" + +"Sir, my agent will use his own discretion." + +"Then I rely on your lordship's kindliness--your sense of honour." + +"Honour is only spoken of between equals," said the earl, haughtily. +"But on one thing Mr. Halifax may always rely--my excellent memory." + +With a smile and bow as perfect as if he were victoriously quitting +the field, Lord Luxmore departed. Soon not one remained of all those +who had filled the church and churchyard, making there a tumult that +is chronicled to this very day by some ancient villagers, who still +think themselves greatly ill-used because the Reform Act has blotted +out of the list of English boroughs the "loyal and independent" +borough of Kingswell. + +Sir Ralph Oldtower stood a good while talking with John; and finally, +having sent his carriage on, walked with him down Kingswell Hill +towards the manor-house. I, riding alongside, caught fragments of +their conversation. + +"What you say is all true, Mr. Halifax; and you say it well. But +what can we do? Our English constitution is perfect--that is, as +perfect as anything human can be. Yet corruptions will arise; we +regret, we even blame--but we cannot remove them. It is impossible." + +"Do you think, Sir Ralph, that the Maker of this world--which, so far +as we can see, He means like all other of His creations gradually to +advance toward perfection--do you think He would justify us in +pronouncing any good work therein 'impossible'?" + +"You talk like a young man," said the baronet, half sadly. "Coming +years will show you the world and the ways of it in a clearer light." + +"I earnestly hope so." + +Sir Ralph glanced sideways at him--perhaps with a sort of envy of the +very youth which he thus charitably excused as a thing to be allowed +for till riper wisdom came. Something might have smote the old man +with a conviction, that in this youth was strength and life, the +spirit of the new generation then arising, before which the old worn- +out generation would crumble into its natural dust. Dust of the dead +ages, honourable dust, to be reverently inurned, and never +parricidally profaned by us the living age, who in our turn must +follow the same downward path. Dust, venerable and beloved--but +still only dust. + +The conversation ending, we took our diverse ways; Sir Ralph giving +Mr. Halifax a hearty invitation to the manor-house, and seeing him +hesitate, added, that "Lady Oldtower would shortly have the honour of +calling upon Mrs. Halifax." + +John bowed. "But I ought to tell you, Sir Ralph, that my wife and I +are very simple people--that we make no mere acquaintances, and only +desire friends." + +"It is fortunate that Lady Oldtower and myself share the same +peculiarity." And, shaking hands with a stately cordiality, the old +man took his leave. + +"John, you have made a step in the world to-day." + +"Have I?" he said, absently, walking in deep thought, and pulling the +hedge-leaves as he went along. + +"What will your wife say?" + +"My wife? bless her!" and he seemed to be only speaking the +conclusion of his thinking. "It will make no difference to her-- +though it might to me. She married me in my low estate--but some +day, God willing, no lady in the land shall be higher than my +Ursula." + +Thus as in all things each thought most of the other, and both of +Him--whose will was to them beyond all human love, ay, even such love +as theirs. + +Slowly, slowly, I watched the grey turrets of the manor-house fade +away in the dusk; the hills grew indistinct, and suddenly we saw the +little twinkling light that we knew was the lamp in Longfield +parlour, shine out like a glow-worm across the misty fields. + +"I wonder if the children are gone to bed, Phineas?" + +And the fatherly eyes turned fondly to that pretty winking light; the +fatherly heart began to hover over the dear little nest of home. + +"Surely there's some one at the white gate. Ursula!" + +"John! Ah--it is you." + +The mother did not express her feelings after the fashion of most +women; but I knew by her waiting there, and by the nervous tremble of +her hand, how great her anxiety had been. + +"Is all safe, husband?" + +"I think so. Mr. Oldtower is elected--HE must fly the country." + +"Then she is saved." + +"Let us hope she is. Come, my darling!" and he wrapped his arm round +her, for she was shivering. "We have done all we could and must wait +the rest. Come home. Oh!" with a lifted look and a closer strain, +"thank God for home!" + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +We always rose early at Longfield. It was lovely to see the morning +sun climbing over One-Tree Hill, catching the larch-wood, and +creeping down the broad slope of our field; thence up toward Redwood +and Leckington--until, while the dews yet lay thick on our shadowed +valley, Leckington Hill was all in a glow of light. Delicious, too, +to hear the little ones running in and out, bright and merry as +children ought to be in the first wholesome hours of the day--to see +them feeding their chickens and petting their doves--calling every +minute on father or mother to investigate and enjoy some wonder in +farm-yard or garden. And either was ever ready to listen to the +smallest of these little mysteries, knowing that nothing in childhood +is too trivial for the notice, too foolish for the sympathy, of those +on whom the Father of all men has bestowed the holy dignity of +parenthood. + +I could see them now, standing among the flower-beds, out in the +sunny morning, the father's tall head in the centre of the group--for +he was always the important person during the brief hour or two that +he was able to be at home. The mother close beside him, and both +knotted round with an interlaced mass of little arms and little eager +faces, each wanting to hear everything and to look at everything-- +everybody to be first and nobody last. None rested quiet or mute for +a second, except the one who kept close as his shadow to her father's +side, and unwittingly was treated by him less like the other +children, than like some stray spirit of another world, caught and +held jealously, but without much outward notice, lest haply it might +take alarm, and vanish back again unawares. Whenever he came home +and did not see her waiting at the door, his first question was +always--"Where's Muriel?" + +Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning--the Monday +morning after the election--because her father was going to be at +home the whole day. It was the annual holiday he had planned for his +work-people. This only "dinner-party" we had ever given, was in its +character not unlike that memorable feast, to which were gathered the +poor, the lame, the halt, and the blind--all who needed, and all who +could not return, the kindness. There were great cooking +preparations--everything that could make merry the heart of man--tea, +to comfort the heart of woman, hard-working woman--and lots of bright +pennies and silver groats to rejoice the very souls of youth. + +Mrs. Halifax, Jem Watkins, and his Jenny, were as busy as bees all +morning. John did his best to help, but finally the mother pleaded +how hard it was that the children should miss their holiday-walk with +him, so we were all dismissed from the scene of action, to spend a +long, quiet two hours, lying under the great oak on One-Tree Hill. +The little ones played about till they were tired; then John took out +the newspaper, and read about Ciudad Rodrigo and Lord Wellington's +entry into Madrid--the battered eagles and the torn and bloody flags +of Badajoz, which were on their way home to the Prince Regent. + +"I wish the fighting were over, and peace were come," said Muriel. + +But the boys wished quite otherwise; they already gloried in the +accounts of battles, played domestic games of French and English, +acted garden sieges and blockades. + +"How strange and awful it seems, to sit on this green grass, looking +down on our quiet valley, and then think of the fighting far away in +Spain--perhaps this very minute, under this very sky. Boys, I'll +never let either of you be a soldier." + +"Poor little fellows!" said I, "they can remember nothing but war +time." + +"What would peace be like?" asked Muriel. + +"A glorious time, my child--rejoicings everywhere, fathers and +brothers coming home, work thriving, poor men's food made cheap, and +all things prospering." + +"I should like to live to see it. Shall I be a woman, then, father?" + +He started. Somehow, she seemed so unlike an ordinary child, that +while all the boys' future was merrily planned out--the mother often +said, laughing, she knew exactly what sort of a young man Guy would +be--none of us ever seemed to think of Muriel as a woman. + +"Is Muriel anxious to be grown up? Is she not satisfied with being +my little daughter always?" + +"Always." + +Her father drew her to him, and kissed her soft, shut, blind eyes. +Then, sighing, he rose, and proposed that we should all go home. + +This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day. The men and +their families came about noon. Soon after, they all sat down to +dinner; Jem Watkins' plan of the barn being universally scouted in +favour of an open-air feast, in the shelter of a hay-rick, under the +mild blue September sky. Jem presided with a ponderous dignity which +throughout the day furnished great private amusement to Ursula, John, +and me. + +In the afternoon, all rambled about as they liked--many under the +ciceroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, who were very popular +and grand indeed. Then the mother, with Walter clinging shy-eyed to +her gown, went among the other poorer mothers there; talked to one, +comforted another, counselled a third, and invariably listened to +all. There was little of patronizing benevolence about her; she +spoke freely, sometimes even with some sharpness, when reproving +comment was needed; but her earnest kindness, her active goodness, +darting at once to the truth and right of things, touched the women's +hearts. While a few were a little wholesomely afraid of her--all +recognized the influence of "the mistress," penetrating deep and +sure, extending far and wide. + +She laughed at me when I told her so--said it was all nonsense--that +she only followed John's simple recipe for making his work-people +feel that he was a friend as well as a master. + +"What is that?" + +"To pay attention and consideration to all they say; and always to +take care and remember to call them by their right Christian names." + +I could not help smiling--it was an answer so like Mrs. Halifax, who +never indulged in any verbal sentimentalism. Her part in the world +was deeds. + +It was already evening, when, having each contributed our quota, +great or small, to the entertainment, we all came and sat on the long +bench under the walnut-tree. The sun went down red behind us, +throwing a last glint on the upland field, where, from top to bottom, +the young men and women were running in a long "Thread-the-needle." +Their voices and laughter came fairly down to us. + +"I think they have had a happy day, John. They will work all the +better to-morrow." + +"I am quite sure of it." + +"So am I," said Guy, who had been acting the young master all day, +condescendingly stating his will and giving his opinion on every +subject, greatly petted and looked up to by all, to the no small +amusement of us elders. + +"Why, my son?" asked the father, smiling. + +But here Master Guy was posed, and everybody laughed at him. He +coloured up with childish anger, and crept nearer his mother. She +made a place for him at her side, looking appealingly at John. + +"Guy has got out of his depth--we must help him into safe waters +again," said the father. "Look here, my son, this is the reason--and +it is well not to be 'quite sure' of a thing unless one knows the +reason. Our people will work the better, because they will work from +love. Not merely doing their duty, and obeying their master in a +blind way, but feeling an interest in him and all that belongs to +him; knowing that he feels the same in them. Knowing, too, that +although, being their superior in many things, he is their master and +they his servants, he never forgets that saying, which I read out of +the Bible, children, this morning: 'ONE IS YOUR MASTER--EVEN CHRIST, +AND ALL YE ARE BRETHREN.' Do you understand?" + +I think they did, for he was accustomed to talk with them thus--even +beyond their years. Not in the way of preachifying--for these little +ones had in their childish days scarcely any so-called "religious +instruction," save the daily chapter out of the New Testament, and +the father and mother's daily life, which was a simple and literal +carrying out of the same. To that one test was brought all that was +thought, or said, or done, in our household, where it often seemed as +if the Master were as visibly obeyed and followed as in the household +which He loved at Bethany. + +As to what doctrinal creed we held, or what sect we belonged to, I +can give but the plain answer which John gave to all such inquiries-- +that we were CHRISTIANS. + +After these words from the Holy Book (which the children always +listened to with great reverence, as to the Book which their parents +most loved and honoured, the reading and learning of which was +granted as a high reward and favour, and never carelessly allowed, +or--horrible to think!--inflicted as a punishment), we ceased smiling +at Guy, who in his turn ceased to frown. The little storm blew over, +as our domestic storms usually did, leaving a clear, free heaven. +Loving one another, of course we quarrelled sometimes; but we always +made it up again, because we loved one another. + +"Father, I hear the click of the gate. There's somebody coming," +said Muriel. + +The father paused in a great romp with his sons--paused, as he ever +did when his little daughter's soft voice was heard. "'Tis only a +poor boy--who can he be?" + +"One of the folk that come for milk most likely--but we have none to +give away to-day. What do you want, my lad?" + +The lad, who looked miserable and scared, opened his mouth with a +stupid "Eh?" + +Ursula repeated the question. + +"I wants Jacob Baines." + +"You'll find him with the rest, in front of that hay-rick, over his +pipe and ale." + +The lad was off like a shot. + +"He is from Kingswell, I think. Can anything be the matter, John?" + +"I will go and see. No, boys, no more games--I will be back +presently." + +He went, apparently rather anxious--as was easy to find out by only a +glance at the face of Ursula. Soon she rose and went after him. I +followed her. + +We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men, angrily talking. The +gossiping mothers were just joining them. Far off, in the field, the +younger folk were still dancing merrily down their long line of +"Thread-the-needle." + +As we approached, we heard sobbing from one or two women, and loud +curses from the men. + +"What's amiss?" said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the midst--and both +curses and sobbings were silenced. All began a confused tale of +wrongs. "Stop, Jacob--I can't make it out." + +"This lad ha' seen it all. And he bean't a liar in big things--speak +up, Billy." + +Somehow or other, we extracted the news brought by ragged Billy, who +on this day had been left in charge of the five dwellings rented of +Lord Luxmore. During the owners' absence there had been a distraint +for rent; every bit of the furniture was carried off; two or three +aged and sick folk were left lying on the bare floor--and the poor +families here would have to go home to nothing but their four walls. + +Again, at repetition of the story, the women wept and the men swore. + +"Be quiet," said Mr. Halifax again. But I saw that his honest +English blood was boiling within him. "Jem"--and Jem Watkins +started, so unusually sharp and commanding was his master's tone-- +"Saddle the mare--quick. I shall ride to Kingswell, and thence to +the sheriff's." + +"God bless 'ee, sir!" sobbed Jacob Baines' widowed daughter-in-law, +who had left, as I overheard her telling Mrs. Halifax, a sick child +to-day at home. + +Jacob Baines took up a heavy knobbed stick which happened to be +leaning against the hay-rick, and eyed it with savage meaning. + +"Who be they as has done this, master?" + +"Put that bludgeon down, Jacob." + +The man hesitated--met his master's determined eye--and obeyed him, +meek as a lamb. + +"But what is us to do, sir?" + +"Nothing. Stay here till I return--you shall come to no harm. You +will trust me, my men?" + +They gathered round him--those big, fierce-looking fellows, in whom +was brute force enough to attack or resist anything--yet he made them +listen to reason. He explained as much as he could of the injustice +which had apparently been done them--injustice which had overstepped +the law, and could only be met by keeping absolutely within the law. + +"It is partly my fault, that I did not pay the rent to-day--I will do +so at once. I will get your goods back to-night, if I can. If not, +you hale fellows can rough it, and we'll take the women and children +in till morning--can we not, love?" + +"Oh, readily!" said the mother. "Don't cry, my good women. Mary +Baines, give me your baby. Cheer up, the master will set all right!" + +John smiled at her in fond thanks--the wife who hindered him by no +selfishness or weakness, but was his right hand and support in +everything. As he mounted, she gave him his whip, whispering-- + +"Take care of yourself, mind. Come back as soon as you can." + +And lingeringly she watched him gallop down the field. + +It was a strange three hours we passed in his absence. The misty +night came down, and round about the house crept wailing the loud +September wind. We brought the women into the kitchen--the men lit a +fire in the farm-yard, and sat sullenly round it. It was as much as +I could do to persuade Guy and Edwin to go to bed, instead of +watching that "beautiful blaze." There, more than once, I saw the +mother standing, with a shawl over her head, and her white gown +blowing, trying to reason into patience those poor fellows, savage +with their wrongs. + +"How far have they been wronged, Phineas? What is the strict law of +the case? Will any harm come to John for interfering?" + +I told her, no, so far as I knew. That the cruelty and illegality +lay in the haste of the distraint, and in the goods having been +carried off at once, giving no opportunity of redeeming them. It was +easy to grind the faces of the poor, who had no helper. + +"Never mind; my husband will see them righted--at all risks." + +"But Lord Luxmore is his landlord." + +She looked troubled. "I see what you mean. It is easy to make an +enemy. No matter--I fear not. I fear nothing while John does what +he feels to be right--as I know he will; the issue is in higher hands +than ours or Lord Luxmore's. But where's Muriel?" + +For as we sat talking, the little girl--whom nothing could persuade +to go to bed till her father came home--had slipped from my hand, and +gone out into the blustering night. We found her standing all by +herself under the walnut-tree. + +"I wanted to listen for father. When will he come?" + +"Soon, I hope," answered the mother, with a sigh. "You must not stay +out in the cold and the dark, my child." + +"I am not cold, and I know no dark," said Muriel, softly. + +And thus so it was with her always. In her spirit, as in her outward +life, so innocent and harmless, she knew no dark. No cold looks--no +sorrowful sights--no winter--no age. The hand laid upon her clear +eyes pressed eternal peace down on her soul. I believe she was, if +ever human being was, purely and entirely happy. It was always sweet +for us to know this--it is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved! + +We brought her within the house, but she persisted in sitting in her +usual place, on the door-sill, "waiting" for her father. It was she +who first heard the white gate swing, and told us he was coming. + +Ursula ran down to the stream to meet him. + +When they came up the path, it was not alone--John was helping a lame +old woman, and his wife carried in her arms a sick child, on whom, +when they entered the kitchen, Mary Baines threw herself in a passion +of crying. + +"What have they been doing to 'ee, Tommy?--'ee warn't like this when +I left 'ee. Oh, they've been killing my lad, they have!" + +"Hush!" said Mrs. Halifax; "we'll get him well again, please God. +Listen to what the master's saying." + +He was telling to the men who gathered round the kitchen-door the +results of his journey. + +It was--as I had expected from his countenance the first minute he +appeared--fruitless. He had found all things at Kingswell as stated. +Then he rode to the sheriff's; but Sir Ralph was absent, sent for to +Luxmore Hall on very painful business. + +"My friends," said the master, stopping abruptly in his narrative, +"for a few hours you must make up your minds to sit still and bear +it. Every man has to learn that lesson at times. Your landlord has- +-I would rather be the poorest among you than Lord Luxmore this +night. Be patient; we'll lodge you all somehow. To-morrow I will +pay your rent--get your goods back--and you shall begin the world +again, as my tenants, not Lord Luxmore's." + +"Hurrah!" shouted the men, easily satisfied; as working people are, +who have been used all their days to live from hand to mouth, and to +whom the present is all in all. They followed the master, who +settled them in the barn; and then came back to consult with his wife +as to where the women could be stowed away. So, in a short time, the +five homeless families were cheerily disposed of--all but Mary Baines +and her sick boy. + +"What can we do with them?" said John, questioningly to Ursula. + +"I see but one course. We must take him in; his mother says hunger +is the chief thing that ails the lad. She fancies that he has had +the measles; but our children have had it too, so there's no fear. +Come up-stairs, Mary Baines." + +Passing, with a thankful look, the room where her own boys slept, the +good mother established this forlorn young mother and her two +children in a little closet outside the nursery door; cheered her +with comfortable words; helped her ignorance with wise counsels--for +Ursula was the general doctress of all the poor folk round. It was +almost midnight before she came down to the parlour where John and I +sat, he with little Muriel asleep in his arms. The child would +gladly have slumbered away all night there, with the delicate, pale +profile pressed close into his breast. + +"Is all right, love? How tired you must be!" John put his left arm +round his wife as she came and knelt by him, in front of the cheerful +fire. + +"Tired? Oh, of course; but you can't think how comfortable they are +up-stairs. Only poor Mary Baines does nothing but cry, and keep +telling me that nothing ails her lad but hunger. Are they so very +poor?" + +John did not immediately answer; I fancied he looked suddenly uneasy, +and imperceptibly pressed his little girl closer to him. + +"The lad seems very ill. Much worse than our children were with +measles." + +"Yet how they suffered, poor pets! especially Walter. It was the +thought of them made me pity her so. Surely I have not done wrong?" + +"No--love; quite right and kind. Acting so, I think one need not +fear. See, mother, how soundly Muriel sleeps. It's almost a pity to +waken her--but we must go to bed now." + +"Stay one minute," I said. "Tell us, John--I quite forgot to ask +till now--what is that 'painful business' you mentioned, which called +the sheriff to Lord Luxmore's?" + +John glanced at his wife, leaning fondly against him, her face full +of sweet peace, then at his little daughter asleep, then round the +cheerful fire-lit room, outside which the autumn night-wind went +howling furiously. + +"Love, we that are so happy, we must not, dare not condemn." + +She looked at him with a shocked inquiry. "You don't mean--No; it is +impossible!" + +"It is true. She has gone away." + +Ursula sank down, hiding her face. "Horrible! And only two days +since she was here, kissing our children." + +We all three kept a long silence; then I ventured to ask when she +went away? + +"This morning, early. They took--at least, Mr. Vermilye did--all the +property of Lord Luxmore's that he could lay his hands upon--family +jewels and money to a considerable amount. The earl is pursuing him +now, not only as his daughter's seducer, but as a swindler and a +thief." + +"And Richard Brithwood?" + +"Drinks--and drinks--and drinks. That is the beginning and the end +of all." + +There was no more to be said. She had dropped for ever out of her +old life, as completely as a star out of the sky. Henceforth, for +years and years, neither in our home, nor, I believe, in any other, +was there the slightest mention made of Lady Caroline Brithwood. + + * * * * + +All the next day John was from home, settling the Kingswell affair. +The ejected tenants--our tenants now--left us at last, giving a +parting cheer for Mr. Halifax, the best master in all England. + +Sitting down to tea, with no small relief that all was over, John +asked his wife after the sick lad. + +"He is very ill still, I think." + +"Are you sure it is measles?" + +"I imagine so; and I have seen nearly all childish diseases, except-- +no, THAT is quite impossible!" added the mother, hastily. She cast +an anxious glance on her little ones; her hand slightly shook as she +poured out their cups of milk. "Do you think, John--it was hard to +do it when the child is so ill--I ought to have sent them away with +the others?" + +"Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course Mary Baines +would have told us. What are the lad's symptoms?" + +As Ursula informed him, I thought he looked more and more serious; +but he did not let her see. + +"Make your mind easy, love; a word from Dr. Jessop will decide all. +I will fetch him after tea. Cheer up! Please God, no harm will come +to our little ones!" + +The mother brightened again; with her all the rest; and the tea-table +clatter went on merry as ever. Then, it being a wet night, Mrs. +Halifax gathered her boys round her knee for an evening chat over the +kitchen-fire; while through the open door, out of the dim parlour +came "Muriel's voice," as we called the harpsichord. It seemed +sweeter than ever this night, like--as her father once said, but +checked himself, and never said it afterwards--like Muriel talking +with angels. + +He sat listening awhile, then, without any remark, put on his coat +and went out to fetch the good doctor. I followed him down to the +stream. + +"Phineas," he said, "will you mind--don't notice it to the mother-- +but mind and keep her and the children down-stairs till I come back?" + +I promised. "Are you uneasy about Mary Baines's lad?" + +"No; I have full trust in human means, and above all, in--what I need +not speak of. Still, precautions are wise. Do you remember that day +when, rather against Ursula's wish, I vaccinated the children?" + +I remembered. Also that the virus had taken effect with all but +Muriel; and we had lately talked of repeating the much-blamed and +miraculous experiment upon her. I hinted this. + +"Phineas, you mistake," he answered, rather sharply. "She is quite +safe--as safe as the others. I wrote to Dr. Jenner himself. But +don't mention that I spoke about this." + +"Why not?" + +"Because to-day I heard that they have had the small-pox at +Kingswell." + +I felt a cold shudder. Though inoculation and vaccination had made +it less fatal among the upper classes, this frightful scourge still +decimated the poor, especially children. Great was the obstinacy in +refusing relief; and loud the outcry in Norton Bury, when Mr. +Halifax, who had met and known Dr. Jenner in London--finding no +practitioner that would do it, persisted in administering the vaccine +virus himself to his children. But still, with a natural fear, he +had kept them out of all risk of taking the small-pox until now. + +"John, do you think--" + +"No; I will not allow myself to think. Not a word of this at home, +mind. Good-bye!" + +He walked away, and I returned up the path heavily, as if a cloud of +terror and dole were visibly hanging over our happy Longfield. + +The doctor appeared; he went up to the sick lad; then he and Mr. +Halifax were closeted together for a long time. After he was gone, +John came into the kitchen, where Ursula sat with Walter on her knee. +The child was in his little white night-gown, playing with his elder +brothers, and warming his rosy toes. + +The mother had recovered herself entirely: was content and gay. I +saw John's glance at her, and then--and then I feared. + +"What does the doctor say? The child will soon be well?" + +"We must hope so." + +"John, what do you mean? I thought the little fellow looked better +when I went up to see him last. And there--I hear the poor mother +up-stairs crying." + +"She may cry; she has need," said John, bitterly. "She knew it all +the while. She never thought of our children; but they are safe. Be +content, love--please God, they are quite safe. Very few take it +after vaccination." + +"It--do you mean the small-pox? Has the lad got small-pox? Oh, God +help us! My children--my children!" + +She grew white as death; long shivers came over her from head to +foot. The little boys, frightened, crept up to her; she clasped them +all together in her arms, turning her head with a wild savage look, +as if some one were stealing behind to take them from her. + +Muriel, perceiving the silence, felt her way across the room, and +touching her mother's face, said, anxiously, "Has anybody been +naughty?" + +"No, my darling; no!" + +"Then never mind. Father says, nothing will harm us, except being +naughty. Did you not, father?" + +John snatched his little daughter up to his bosom, and called her for +the hundredth time the name my poor old father had named her--the +"blessed" child. + +We all grew calmer; the mother wept a little, and it did her good: +we comforted the boys and Muriel, telling them that in truth nothing +was the matter, only we were afraid of their catching the little +lad's sickness, and they must not go near him. + +"Yes; she shall quit the house this minute--this very minute," said +the mother, sternly, but with a sort of wildness too. + +Her husband made no immediate answer; but as she rose to leave the +room, he detained her. "Ursula, do you know the child is all but +dying?" + +"Let him die! The wicked woman! She knew it, and she let me bring +him among my children--my own poor children!" + +"I would she had never come. But what is done, is done. Love, +think--if YOU were turned out of doors this bleak, rainy night--with +a dying child." + +"Hush! hush!"--She sank down with a sob. + +"My darling!" whispered John, as he made her lean against him--her +support and comfort in all things: "do you think my heart is not +ready to break, like yours? But I trust in God. This trouble came +upon us while we were doing right; let us do right still, and we need +not fear. Humanly speaking, our children are safe; it is only our +own terror which exaggerates the danger. They may not take the +disease at all. Then, how could we answer it to our conscience if we +turned out this poor soul, and HER child died?" + +"No! no!" + +"We will use all precautions. The boys shall be moved to the other +end of the house." + +I proposed that they should occupy my room, as I had had smallpox, +and was safe. + +"Thank you, Phineas; and even should they take it, Dr. Jenner has +assured me that in every case after vaccination it has been the very +slightest form of the complaint. Be patient, love; trust in God, and +have no fear." + +Her husband's voice gradually calmed her. At last, she turned and +clung round his neck, silently and long. Then she rose up and went +about her usual duties, just as if this horrible dread were not upon +us. + +Mary Baines and her children stayed in the house. Next day, about +noon, the little lad died. + +It was the first death that had ever happened under our roof. It +shocked us all very much, especially the children. We kept them far +away on the other side of the house--out of the house, when possible- +-but still they would be coming back and looking up at the window, at +which, as Muriel declared, the little sick boy "had turned into an +angel and flown away." The mother allowed the fancy to remain; she +thought it wrong and horrible that a child's first idea should be +"putting into the pit-hole." Truer and more beautiful was Muriel's +instinctive notion of "turning into an angel and flying away." So we +arranged that the poor little body should be coffined and removed +before the children rose next morning. + +It was a very quiet tea-time. A sense of awe was upon the little +ones, they knew not why. Many questions they asked about poor Tommy +Baines, and where he had gone to, which the mother only answered +after the simple manner of Scripture--he "was not, for God took him." +But when they saw Mary Baines go crying down the field-path, Muriel +asked "why she cried? how could she cry, when it was God who had +taken little Tommy?" + +Afterwards she tried to learn of me privately, what sort of place it +was he had gone to, and how he went; whether he had carried with him +all his clothes, and especially the great bunch of woodbine she sent +to him yesterday; and above all, whether he had gone by himself, or +if some of the "angels," which held so large a place in Muriel's +thoughts, and of which she was ever talking, had come to fetch him +and take care of him. She hoped--indeed, she felt sure--they had. +She wished she had met them, or heard them about in the house. + +And seeing how the child's mind was running on the subject, I thought +it best to explain to her as simply as I could, the solemn putting +off of life and putting on of immortality. I wished that my darling, +who could never visibly behold death, should understand it as no +image of terror, but only as a calm sleep and a joyful waking in +another country, the glories of which eye had not seen nor ear heard. + +"Eye has not seen!" repeated Muriel, thoughtfully; "can people SEE +there, Uncle Phineas?" + +"Yes, my child. There is no darkness at all." + +She paused a minute, and said earnestly, "I want to go--I very much +want to go. How long do you think it will be before the angels come +for me?" + +"Many, many years, my precious one," said I, shuddering; for truly +she looked so like them, that I began to fear they were close at +hand. + +But a few minutes afterwards she was playing with her brothers and +talking to her pet doves, so sweet and humanlike, that the fear +passed away. + +We sent the children early to bed that night, and sat long by the +fire, consulting how best to remove infection, and almost satisfied +that in these two days it could not have taken any great hold on the +house. John was firm in his belief in Dr. Jenner and vaccination. +We went to bed greatly comforted, and the household sank into quiet +slumbers, even though under its roof slept, in deeper sleep, the +little dead child. + +That small closet, which was next to the nursery I occupied, safely +shut out by it from the rest of the house, seemed very still now. I +went to sleep thinking of it, and dreamed of it afterwards. + +In the middle of the night a slight noise woke me, and I almost +fancied I was dreaming still; for there I saw a little white figure +gliding past my bed's foot; so softly and soundlessly--it might have +been the ghost of a child--and it went into the dead child's room. + +For a moment, that superstitious instinct which I believe we all +have, paralyzed me. Then I tried to listen. There was most +certainly a sound in the next room--a faint cry, quickly smothered--a +very human cry. All the stories I had ever heard of supposed death +and premature burial rushed horribly into my mind. Conquering alike +my superstitious dread or fear of entering the infected room, I +leaped out of bed, threw on some clothes, got a light, and went in. + +There laid the little corpse, all safe and still--for ever. And like +its own spirit watching in the night at the head of the forsaken +clay, sat Muriel. + +I snatched her up and ran with her out of the room, in an agony of +fear. + +She hid her face on my shoulder, trembling, "I have not done wrong, +have I? I wanted to know what it was like--that which you said was +left of little Tommy. I touched it--it was so cold. Oh! Uncle +Phineas! THAT isn't poor little Tommy?" + +"No, my blessed one--no, my dearest child! Don't think of it any +more." + +And, hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called John, and told +him where I had found his little daughter. He never spoke, but +snatched her out of my arms into his own, took her in his room, and +shut the door. + +From that time our fears never slumbered. For one whole week we +waited, watching the children hour by hour, noting each change in +each little face; then Muriel sickened. + +It was I who had to tell her father, when as he came home in the +evening I met him by the stream. It seemed to him almost like the +stroke of death. + +"Oh, my God! not her! Any but her!" And by that I knew, what I had +long guessed, that she was the dearest of all his children. + +Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though lightly. No one +was in absolute danger except Muriel. But for weeks we had what +people call "sickness in the house;" that terrible overhanging shadow +which mothers and fathers well know; under which one must live and +move, never resting night nor day. This mother and father bore their +portion, and bore it well. When she broke down, which was not often, +he sustained her. If I were to tell of all he did--how, after being +out all day, night after night he would sit up watching by and +nursing each little fretful sufferer, patient as a woman, and +pleasant as a child play-mate--perhaps those who talk loftily of "the +dignity of man" would smile. I pardon them. + +The hardest minute of the twenty-four hours was, I think, that when, +coming home, he caught sight of me afar off waiting for him, as I +always did, at the white gate; and many a time, as we walked down to +the stream, I saw--what no one else saw but God. After such times I +used often to ponder over what great love His must be, who, as the +clearest revelation of it, and of its nature, calls Himself "the +Father." + +And He brought us safe through our time of anguish: He left us every +one of our little ones. + +One November Sunday, when all the fields were in a mist, and the rain +came pouring softly and incessantly upon the patient earth which had +been so torn and dried up by east winds, that she seemed glad enough +to put aside the mockery of sunshine and melt in quiet tears, we once +more gathered our flock together in thankfulness and joy. + +Muriel came down-stairs triumphantly in her father's arms, and lay on +the sofa smiling; the firelight dancing on her small white face-- +white and unscarred. The disease had been kind to the blind child; +she was, I think, more sweet-looking than ever. Older, perhaps; the +round prettiness of childhood gone--but her whole appearance wore +that inexpressible expression, in which, for want of a suitable word, +we all embody our vague notions of the unknown world, and call +"angelic." + +"Does Muriel feel quite well--quite strong and well?" the father and +mother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her. +She always answered, "Quite well." + +In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and John +and I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of +the rain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel's +"voice." + +"Father, listen!" whispered the mother, linking her arm through his +as he stood at the door. Soft and slow came the notes of the old +harpsichord--she was playing one of the abbey anthems. Then it +melted away into melodies we knew not--sweet and strange. Her +parents looked at one another--their hearts were full of thankfulness +and joy. + +"And Mary Baines's little lad is in the churchyard." + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +"What a comfort! the day-light is lengthening. I think this has been +the very dreariest winter I ever knew. Has it not, my little +daughter? Who brought her these violets?" + +And John placed himself on a corner of my own particular armchair, +where, somehow or other, Muriel always lay curled up at tea-time now- +-(ay, and many hours in the day-time, though we hardly noticed it at +first). Taking between his hands the little face, which broke into +smiles at the merest touch of the father's fingers, be asked her +"when she intended to go a walk with him?" + +"To-morrow." + +"So we have said for a great many to-morrows, but it is always put +off. What do you think, mother--is the little maid strong enough?" + +Mrs. Halifax hesitated; said something about "east winds." + +"Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east winds, and +played out of doors as the boys do. Would you not like it, Muriel?" + +The child shrank back with an involuntary "Oh, no." + +"That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less strong than +the lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas?" continued her father, +hastily, for I was watching them. + +"Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather comes. We have +had such a severe winter. Every one of the children has suffered," +said the mother, in a cheerful tone, as she poured out a cup of cream +for her daughter, to whom was now given, by common consent, all the +richest and rarest of the house. + +"I think every one has," said John, looking round on his +apple-cheeked boys; it must have been a sharp eye that detected any +decrease of health, or increase of suffering, there. "But my plan +will set all to rights. I spoke to Mrs. Tod yesterday. She will be +ready to take us all in. Boys, shall you like going to Enderley? +You shall go as soon as ever the larch-wood is green." + +For, at Longfield, already we began to make a natural almanack and +chronological table. "When the may was out"--"When Guy found the +first robin's nest"--"When the field was all cowslips"--and so on. + +"Is it absolutely necessary we should go?" said the mother, who had a +strong home-clinging, and already began to hold tiny Longfield as the +apple of her eye. + +"I think so, unless you will consent to let me go alone to Enderley." + +She shook her head. + +"What, with those troubles at the mills? How can you speak so +lightly?" + +"Not lightly, love--only cheerfully. The troubles must be borne; why +not bear them with as good heart as possible? They cannot last--let +Lord Luxmore do what he will. If, as I told you, we re-let Longfield +for this one summer to Sir Ralph, we shall save enough to put the +mill in thorough repair. If my landlord will not do it, I will; and +add a steam-engine, too." + +Now the last was a daring scheme, discussed many a winter night by us +three in Longfield parlour. At first, Mrs. Halifax had looked grave- +-most women would, especially wives and mothers, in those days when +every innovation was regarded with horror, and improvement and ruin +were held synonymous. She might have thought so too, had she not +believed in her husband. But now, at mention of the steam-engine, +she looked up and smiled. + +"Lady Oldtower asked me about it to-day. She said, 'she hoped you +would not ruin yourself, like Mr. Miller of Glasgow!' I said I was +not afraid." + +Her husband returned a bright look. "It is easier to make the world +trust one, when one is trusted by one's own household." + +"Ah! never fear; you will make your fortune yet, in spite of Lord +Luxmore." + +For, all winter, John had found out how many cares come with an +attained wish. Chiefly, because, as the earl had said, his lordship +possessed an "excellent memory." The Kingswell election had worked +its results in a hundred small ways, wherein the heavy hand of the +landlord could be laid upon the tenant. He bore up bravely against +it; but hard was the struggle between might and right, oppression and +staunch resistance. It would have gone harder, but for one whom John +now began to call his "friend;" at least, one who invariably called +Mr. Halifax so--our neighbour, Sir Ralph Oldtower. + +"How often has Lady Oldtower been here, Ursula?" + +"She called first, you remember, after our trouble with the children; +she has been twice since, I think. To-day she wanted me to bring +Muriel and take luncheon at the Manor House. I shall not go--I told +her so." + +"But gently, I hope?--you are so very outspoken, love. You made her +clearly understand that it is not from incivility we decline her +invitations?--Well--never mind! Some day we will take our place, and +so shall our children, with any gentry in the land." + +I think--though John rarely betrayed it--he had strongly this +presentiment of future power, which may often be noticed in men who +have carved out their own fortunes. They have in them the instinct +to rise; and as surely as water regains its own level, so do they, +from however low a source, ascend to theirs. + +Not many weeks after, we removed in a body to Enderley. Though the +chief reason was, that John might be constantly on the spot, +superintending his mills, yet I fancied I could detect a secondary +reason, which he would not own even to himself; but which peered out +unconsciously in his anxious looks. I saw it when he tried to rouse +Muriel into energy, by telling her how much she would enjoy Enderley +Hill; how sweet the primroses grew in the beechwood, and how wild and +fresh the wind swept over the common, morning and night. His daily +longing seemed to be to make her love the world, and the things +therein. He used to turn away, almost in pain, from her smile, as +she would listen to all he said, then steal off to the harpsichord, +and begin that soft, dreamy music, which the children called "talking +to angels." + +We came to Enderley through the valley, where was John's cloth-mill. +Many a time in our walks he and I had passed it, and stopped to +listen to the drowsy fall of the miniature Niagara, or watch the +incessant turning--turning of the great water-wheel. Little we +thought he should ever own it, or that John would be pointing it out +to his own boys, lecturing them on "undershot," and "overshot," as he +used to lecture me. + +It was sweet, though half-melancholy, to see Enderley again; to climb +the steep meadows and narrow mule-paths, up which he used to help me +so kindly. He could not now; he had his little daughter in his arms. +It had come, alas! to be a regular thing that Muriel should be +carried up every slight ascent, and along every hard road. We paused +half-way up on a low wall, where I had many a time rested, watching +the sunset over Nunneley Hill--watching for John to come home. Every +night--at least after Miss March went away--he usually found me +sitting there. + +He turned to me and smiled. "Dost remember, lad?" at which +appellation Guy widely stared. But, for a minute, how strangely it +brought back old times, when there were neither wife nor children-- +only he and I! This seat on the wall, with its small twilight +picture of the valley below the mill, and Nunneley heights, with that +sentinel row of sun-set trees--was all mine--mine solely--for +evermore. + +"Enderley is just the same, Phineas. Twelve years have made no +change--except in us." And he looked fondly at his wife, who stood a +little way off, holding firmly on the wall, in a hazardous group, her +three boys. "I think the chorus and comment on all life might be +included in two brief phrases given by our friend Shakspeare, one to +Hamlet, the other to Othello: ''Tis very strange,' and ''Tis better +as it is.'" + +"Ay, ay," said I thoughtfully. Better as it was; better a thousand +times. + +I went to Mrs. Halifax, and helped her to describe the prospect to +the inquisitive boys; finally coaxing the refractory Guy up the +winding road, where, just as if it had been yesterday, stood my old +friends, my four Lombardy poplars, three together and one apart. + +Mrs. Tod descried us afar off and was waiting at the gate; a little +stouter, a little rosier--that was all. In her delight, she so +absolutely forgot herself as to address the mother as Miss March; at +which long-unspoken name Ursula started, her colour went and came, +and her eyes turned restlessly towards the church hard by. + +"It is all right--Miss--Ma'am, I mean. Tod bears in mind Mr. +Halifax's orders, and has planted lots o' flower-roots and +evergreens." + +"Yes, I know." + +And when she had put all her little ones to bed--we, wondering where +the mother was, went out towards the little churchyard, and found her +quietly sitting there. + +We were very happy at Enderley. Muriel brightened up before she had +been there many days. She began to throw off her listlessness, and +go about with me everywhere. It was the season she enjoyed most--the +time of the singing of birds, and the springing of delicate-scented +flowers. I myself never loved the beech-wood better than did our +Muriel. She used continually to tell us this was the happiest spring +she had ever had in her life. + +John was much occupied now. He left his Norton Bury business under +efficient care, and devoted himself almost wholly to the cloth-mill. +Early and late he was there. Very often Muriel and I followed him, +and spent whole mornings in the mill meadows. Through them the +stream on which the machinery depended was led by various +contrivances, checked or increased in its flow, making small ponds, +or locks, or waterfalls. We used to stay for hours listening to its +murmur, to the sharp, strange cry of the swans that were kept there, +and the twitter of the water-hen to her young among the reeds. Then +the father would come to us and remain a few minutes--fondling +Muriel, and telling me how things went on at the mill. + +One morning, as we three sat there, on the brick-work of a little +bridge, underneath an elm tree, round the roots of which the water +made a pool so clear, that we could see a large pike lying like a +black shadow, half-way down; John suddenly said: + +"What is the matter with the stream? Do you notice, Phineas?" + +"I have seen it gradually lowering--these two hours. I thought you +were drawing off the water." + +"Nothing of the kind--I must look after it. Good-bye, my little +daughter. Don't cling so fast; father will be back soon--and isn't +this a sweet sunny place for a little maid to be lazy in?" + +His tone was gay, but he had an anxious look. He walked rapidly down +the meadows, and went into his mill. Then I saw him retracing his +steps, examining where the stream entered the bounds of his property. +Finally, he walked off towards the little town at the head of the +valley--beyond which, buried in woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was two +hours more before we saw him again. + +Then he came towards us, narrowly watching the stream. It had sunk +more and more--the muddy bottom was showing plainly. + +"Yes--that's it--it can be nothing else! I did not think he would +have dared to do it." + +"Do what, John? Who?" + +"Lord Luxmore." He spoke in the smothered tones of violent passion. +"Lord Luxmore has turned out of its course the stream that works my +mill." + +I tried to urge that such an act was improbable; in fact, against the +law. + +"Not against the law of the great against the little. Besides, he +gives a decent colouring--says he only wants the use of the stream +three days a week, to make fountains at Luxmore Hall. But I see what +it is--I have seen it coming a whole year. He is determined to ruin +me!" + +John said this in much excitement. He hardly felt Muriel's tiny +creeping hands. + +"What does 'ruin' mean? Is anybody making father angry?" + +"No, my sweet--not angry--only very, very miserable!" + +He snatched her up, and buried his head in her soft, childish bosom. +She kissed him and patted his hair. + +"Never mind, dear father. You say nothing signifies, if we are only +good. And father is always good." + +"I wish I were." + +He sat down with her on his knee; the murmur of the elm-leaves, and +the slow dropping of the stream, soothed him. By and by, his spirit +rose, as it always did, the heavier it was pressed down. + +"No, Lord Luxmore shall not ruin me! I have thought of a scheme. +But first I must speak to my people--I shall have to shorten wages +for a time." + +"How soon?" + +"To-night. If it must be done--better done at once, before winter +sets in. Poor fellows! it will go hard with them--they'll be hard +upon me. But it is only temporary; I must reason them into patience, +if I can;--God knows, it is not they alone who want it." + +He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on the far white +wing of Luxmore Hall. + +"Have you no way of righting yourself? If it is an unlawful act, why +not go to law?" + +"Phineas, you forget my principle--only mine, however; I do not force +it upon any one else--my firm principle, that I will never go to law. +Never! I would not like to have it said, in contradistinction to the +old saying, 'See how these Christians FIGHT!'" + +I urged no more; since, whether abstractedly the question be right or +wrong, there can be no doubt that what a man believes to be evil, to +him it is evil. + +"Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my wife what has +occurred--say, I will come to tea as soon as I can. But I may have +some little trouble with my people here. She must not alarm +herself." + +No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerile +apprehensions--it was not her nature; she had the rare feminine +virtue of never "fidgetting"--at least, externally. What was to be +borne--she bore: what was to be done--she did; but she rarely made +any "fuss" about either her doings or her sufferings. + +To-night, she heard all my explanation; understood it, I think, more +clearly than I did--probably from being better acquainted with her +husband's plans and fears. She saw at once the position in which he +was placed; a grave one, to judge by her countenance. + +"Then you think John is right?" + +"Of course I do." + +I had not meant it as a question, or even a doubt. But it was +pleasant to hear her thus answer. For, as I have said, Ursula was +not a woman to be led blindfold, even by her husband. Sometimes they +differed on minor points, and talked their differences lovingly out; +but on any great question she had always this safe trust in him--that +if one were right and the other wrong, the erring one was much more +likely to be herself than John. + +She said no more; but put the children to bed; then came downstairs +with her bonnet on. + +"Will you come with me, Phineas? Or are you too tired? I am going +down to the mill." + +She started, walking quickly--yet not so quick but that on the slope +of the common she stooped to pick up a crying child, and send it home +to its mother in Enderley village. + +It was almost dark, and we met no one else except a young man, whom I +had occasionally seen about of evenings. He was rather odd looking, +being invariably muffled up in a large cloak and a foreign sort of +hat. + +"Who is that, watching our mills?" said Mrs. Halifax, hastily. + +I told her all I had seen of the person. + +"A Papist, most likely--I mean a Catholic." (John objected to the +opprobrious word "Papist.") "Mrs. Tod says there are a good many +hidden hereabouts. They used to find shelter at Luxmore." + +And that name set both our thoughts anxiously wandering; so that not +until we reached the foot of the hill did I notice that the person +had followed us almost to the mill-gates. + +In his empty mill, standing beside one of its silenced looms, we +found the master. He was very much dejected--Ursula touched his arm +before he even saw her. + +"Well, love--you know what has happened?" + +"Yes, John. But never mind." + +"I would not--except for my poor people." + +"What do you intend doing? That which you have wished to do all the +year?" + +"Our wishes come as a cross to us sometimes," he said, rather +bitterly. "It is the only thing I can do. The water-power being so +greatly lessened, I must either stop the mills, or work them by +steam." + +"Do that, then. Set up your steam-engine." + +"And have all the country down upon me for destroying hand-labour? +Have a new set of Luddites coming to burn my mill, and break my +machinery? That is what Lord Luxmore wants. Did he not say he would +ruin me?--Worse than this--he is ruining my good name. If you had +heard those poor people whom I sent away tonight! What must they, +who will have short work these two months, and after that +machinery-work, which they fancy is taking the very bread out of +their mouths--what must they think of the master?" + +He spoke--as we rarely heard John speak: as worldly cares and +worldly injustice cause even the best of men to speak sometimes. + +"Poor people!" he added, "how can I blame them? I was actually dumb +before them to-night, when they said I must take the cost of what I +do--they must have bread for their children. But so must I for mine. +Lord Luxmore is the cause of all." + +Here I heard--or fancied I heard--out of the black shadow behind the +loom, a heavy sigh. John and Ursula were too anxious to notice it. + +"Could anything be done?" she asked. "Just to keep things going till +your steam-engine is ready? Will it cost much?" + +"More than I like to think of. But it must be;--nothing venture-- +nothing have. You and the children are secure anyhow, that's one +comfort. But oh, my poor people at Enderley!" + +Again Ursula asked if nothing could be done. + +"Yes--I did think of one plan--but--" + +"John, I know what you thought of." + +She laid her hand on his arm, and looked straight up at him--eye to +eye. Often, it seemed that from long habit they could read one +another's minds in this way, clearly as a book. At last John said: + +"Would it be too hard a sacrifice, love?" + +"How can you talk so! We could do it easily, by living in a plainer +way; by giving up one or two trifles. Only outside things, you know. +Why need we care for outside things?" + +"Why, indeed?" he said, in a low, fond tone. + +So I easily found out how they meant to settle the difficulty; +namely, by setting aside a portion of the annual income which John, +in his almost morbid anxiety lest his family should take harm by any +possible non-success in his business, had settled upon his wife. +Three months of little renunciations--three months of the old narrow +way of living, as at Norton Bury--and the poor people at Enderley +might have full wages, whether or no there was full work. Then in +our quiet valley there would be no want, no murmurings, and, above +all, no blaming of the master. + +They decided it all--in fewer words than I have taken to write it--it +was so easy to decide when both were of one mind. + +"Now," said John, rising, as if a load were taken off his breast-- +"now, do what he will Lord Luxmore cannot do me any harm." + +"Husband, don't let us speak of Lord Luxmore." + +Again that sigh--quite ghostly in the darkness. They heard it +likewise this time. + +"Who's there?" + +"Only I. Mr. Halifax---don't be angry with me." + +It was the softest, mildest voice--the voice of one long used to +oppression; and the young man whom Ursula had supposed to be a +Catholic appeared from behind the loom. + +"I do not know you, sir. How came you to enter my mill?" + +"I followed Mrs. Halifax. I have often watched her and your +children. But you don't remember me." + +Yes; when he came underneath the light of the one tallow candle, we +all recognized the face--more wan than ever--with a sadder and more +hopeless look in the large grey eyes. + +"I am surprised to see you here, Lord Ravenel." + +"Hush! I hate the very sound of the name. I would have renounced it +long ago. I would have hid myself away from him and from the world, +if he would have let me." + +"He--do you mean your father?" + +The boy--no, he was a young man now, but scarcely looked more than a +boy--assented silently, as if afraid to utter the name. + +"Would not your coming here displease him?" said John, always +tenacious of trenching a hair's breadth upon any lawful authority. + +"It matters not--he is away. He has left me these six months alone +at Luxmore." + +"Have you offended him?" asked Ursula, who had cast kindly looks on +the thin face, which perhaps reminded her of another--now for ever +banished from our sight, and his also. + +"He hates me because I am a Catholic, and wish to become a monk." + +The youth crossed himself, then started and looked round, in terror +of observers. "You will not betray me? You are a good man, Mr. +Halifax, and you spoke warmly for us. Tell me--I will keep your +secret--are you a Catholic too?" + +"No, indeed." + +"Ah! I hoped you were. But you are sure you will not betray me?" + +Mr. Halifax smiled at such a possibility. Yet, in truth, there was +some reason for the young man's fears; since, even in those days, +Catholics were hunted down both by law and by public opinion, as +virulently as Protestant nonconformists. All who kept out of the +pale of the national church were denounced as schismatics, deists, +atheists--it was all one. + +"But why do you wish to leave the world?" + +"I am sick of it. There never was but one in it I cared for, or who +cared for me--and now--Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis." + +His lips moved in a paroxysm of prayer--helpless, parrot-learnt, +Latin prayer; yet, being in earnest, it seemed to do him good. The +mother, as if she heard in fancy that pitiful cry, which rose to my +memory too--"Poor William!--don't tell William!"--turned and spoke to +him kindly, asking him if he would go home with us. + +He looked exceedingly surprised. "I--you cannot mean it? After Lord +Luxmore has done you all this evil?" + +"Is that any reason why I should not do good to his son--that is, if +I could? Can I?" + +The lad lifted up those soft grey eyes, and then I remembered what +his sister had said of Lord Ravenel's enthusiastic admiration of Mr. +Halifax. "Oh, you could--you could." + +"But I and mine are heretics, you know!" + +"I will pray for you. Only let me come and see you--you and your +children." + +"Come, and welcome." + +"Heartily welcome, Lord--" + +"No--not that name, Mrs. Halifax. Call me as they used to call me at +St. Omer--Brother Anselmo." + +The mother was half inclined to smile; but John never smiled at any +one's religious beliefs, howsoever foolish. He held in universal +sacredness that one rare thing--sincerity, + +So henceforward "Brother Anselmo" was almost domesticated at Rose +Cottage. What would the earl have said, had a little bird flown over +to London and told him that his only son, the heir-apparent to his +title and political opinions, was in constant and open association-- +for clandestine acquaintance was against all our laws and rules--with +John Halifax the mill-owner, John Halifax the radical, as he was +still called sometimes; imbibing principles, modes of life and of +thought, which, to say the least, were decidedly different from those +of the house of Luxmore! + +Above all, what would that noble parent have said, had he been aware +that this, his only son, for whom, report whispered, he was already +planning a splendid marriage--as grand in a financial point of view +as that he planned for his only daughter--that Lord Ravenel was +spending all the love of his loving nature in the half paternal, half +lover-like sentiment which a young man will sometimes lavish on a +mere child--upon John Halifax's little blind daughter, Muriel! + +He said, "She made him good"--our child of peace. He would sit, +gazing on her almost as if she were his guardian angel--his patron +saint. And the little maid in her quiet way was very fond of him; +delighting in his company when her father was not by. But no one +ever was to her like her father. + +The chief bond between her and Lord Ravenel--or "Anselmo," as he +would have us call him--was music. He taught her to play on the +organ, in the empty church close by. There during the long midsummer +evenings, they two would sit for hours in the organ-gallery, while I +listened down below; hardly believing that such heavenly sounds could +come from those small child-fingers; almost ready to fancy she had +called down some celestial harmonist to aid her in playing. Since, +as we used to say--but by some instinct never said now--Muriel was so +fond of "talking with the angels." + +Just at this time, her father saw somewhat less of her than usual. +He was oppressed with business cares; daily, hourly vexations. Only +twice a week the great water-wheel, the delight of our little Edwin +as it had once been of his father, might be seen slowly turning; and +the water-courses along the meadows, with their mechanically-forced +channels, and their pretty sham cataracts, were almost always low or +dry. It ceased to be a pleasure to walk in the green hollow, between +the two grassy hills, which heretofore Muriel and I had liked even +better than the Flat. Now she missed the noise of the water--the cry +of the water-hens--the stirring of the reeds. Above all, she missed +her father, who was too busy to come out of his mill to us, and +hardly ever had a spare minute, even for his little daughter. + +He was setting up that wonderful novelty--a steam-engine. He had +already been to Manchester and elsewhere, and seen how the new power +was applied by Arkwright, Hargreaves, and others; his own ingenuity +and mechanical knowledge furnished the rest. He worked early and +late--often with his own hands--aided by the men he brought with him +from Manchester. For it was necessary to keep the secret--especially +in our primitive valley--until the thing was complete. So the +ignorant, simple mill people, when they came for their easy +Saturday's wages, only stood and gaped at the mass of iron, and the +curiously-shaped brickwork, and wondered what on earth "the master" +was about? But he was so thoroughly "the master," with all his +kindness, that no one ventured either to question or interfere. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Summer waned. Already the beech-wood began to turn red, and the +little yellow autumn flowers to show themselves all over the common, +while in the midst of them looked up the large purple eye of the +ground-thistle. The mornings grew hazy and dewy. We ceased to take +Muriel out with us in our slow walk along John's favourite "terrace" +before any one else was stirring. Her father at first missed her +sorely, but always kept repeating that "early walks were not good for +children." At last he gave up the walk altogether, and used to sit +with her on his knee in front of the cottage till breakfast-time. + +After that, saying with a kind of jealousy "that every one of us had +more of his little daughter than he," he got into a habit of fetching +her down to the mill every day at noon, and carrying her about in his +arms, wherever he went, during the rest of his work. + +Many a time I have seen the rough, coarse, blue-handed, +blue-pinafored women of the mill stop and look wistfully after +"master and little blind miss." I often think that the quiet way in +which the Enderley mill people took the introduction of machinery, +and the peaceableness with which they watched for weeks the setting +up of the steam-engine, was partly owing to their strong impression +of Mr. Halifax's goodness as a father, and the vague, almost +superstitious interest which attached to the pale, sweet face of +Muriel. + +Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate the cosy +fireside of Longfield. + +"The children will all go home looking better than they came; do you +not think so, Uncle Phineas?--especially Muriel?" + +To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent; after which I +was fain to rise and walk away, thinking how blind love was--all love +save mine, which had a gift for seeing the saddest side of things. + +When I came back, I found the mother and daughter talking +mysteriously apart. I guessed what it was about, for I had overheard +Ursula saying they had better tell the child--it would be "something +for her to look forward to--something to amuse her next winter." + +"It is a great secret, mind," the mother whispered, after its +communication. + +"Oh, yes!" The tiny face, smaller than ever, I thought, flushed +brightly. "But I would much rather have a little sister, if you +please. Only"--and the child suddenly grew earnest--"will she be +like me?" + +"Possibly; sisters often are alike." + +"No, I don't mean that; but--you know?" And Muriel touched her own +eyes. + +"I cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else, pray God she may be +like you, Muriel, my darling--my child of peace!" said Ursula, +embracing her with tears. + +After this confidence, of which Muriel was very proud, and only +condescended, upon gaining express permission, to re-confide it to +me, she talked incessantly of the sister that was coming, until +"little Maud"--the name she chose for her--became an absolute entity +in the household. + +The dignity and glory of being sole depositary of this momentous +fact, seemed for a time to put new life--bright human life--into this +little maid of eleven years old. She grew quite womanly, as it were; +tried to help her mother in a thousand little ways, and especially by +her own solitary branch of feminine industry--poor darling! She set +on a pair of the daintiest elfin socks that ever were knitted. I +found them, years after--one finished, one with the needles (all +rusty) stuck through the fine worsted ball, just as the child had +laid it out of her hand. Ah, Muriel, Muriel! + +The father took great delight in this change, in her resuming her +simple work, and going about constantly with her mother. + +"What a comfort she will be to Ursula one day--an eldest daughter +always is. So will she: will she not, Uncle Phineas?" + +I smiled assentingly. Alas! his burthens were heavy enough! I think +I did right to smile. + +"We must take her down with us to see the steam-engine first worked. +I wish Ursula would have gone home without waiting for to-morrow. +But there is no fear--my men are so quiet and good-humoured. What in +most mills has been a day of outrage and dread, is with us quite a +festival. Boys, shall you like to come? Edwin, my practical lad, my +lad that is to carry on the mills--will you promise to hold fast by +Uncle Phineas, if I let you see the steam-engine work?" + +Edwin lifted up from his slate bright, penetrating eyes. He was +quite an old man in his ways--wise even from his babyhood, and quiet +even when Guy snubbed him; but, I noticed, he did not come to "kiss +and make friends" so soon as Guy. And though Guy was much the +naughtiest, we all loved him best. Poor Guy! he had the frankest, +warmest, tenderest boy-heart, always struggling to be good, and never +able to accomplish it. + +"Father," cried Guy, "I want to see the steam-engine move, but I'll +not be a baby like Edwin; I'll not hold Uncle Phineas' hand." + +Hereupon ensued one of those summer storms which sometimes swept +across the family horizon, in the midst of which Muriel and I stole +out into the empty church, where, almost in the dark--which was no +dark to her--for a long hour she sat and played. By and by the moon +looked in, showing the great gilt pipes of the organ, and the little +fairy figure sitting below. + +Once or twice she stooped from the organ-loft to ask me where was +Brother Anselmo, who usually met us in the church of evenings, and +whom to-night--this last night before the general household moved +back to Longfield--we had fully expected. + +At last he came, sat down by me, and listened. She was playing a +fragment of one of his Catholic masses. When it ended, he called +"Muriel!" + +Her soft, glad answer came down from the gallery. + +"Child, play the 'Miserere' I taught you." + +She obeyed, making the organ wail like a tormented soul. Truly, no +tales I ever heard of young Wesley and the infant Mozart ever +surpassed the wonderful playing of our blind child. + +"Now, the 'Dies Irae.'--It will come," he muttered, "to us all." + +The child struck a few notes, heavy and dolorous, filling the church +like a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, and opening the +flute-stop, burst into altogether different music. + +"That is Handel--'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'" + +Exquisitely she played it, the clear treble notes seemed to utter +like a human voice the very words: + + "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and He shall stand + at the latter day upon the earth. + And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh + shall I see God." + +With that she ceased. + +"More, more!" we both cried. + +"Not now--no more now." + +And we heard her shutting up the stops and closing the organ lid. + +"But my little Muriel has not finished her tune?" + +"She will, some day," said the child. + +So she came down from the organ-loft, feeling her way along the +aisles; and we all went out together, locking the church-door. + +Lord Ravenel was rather sad that night; he was going away from +Luxmore for some time. We guessed why--because the earl was coming. +Bidding us good-bye, he said, mournfully, to his little pet, "I wish +I were not leaving you. Will you remember me, Muriel?" + +"Stoop down; I want to see you." + +This was her phrase for a way she had of passing her extremely +sensitive fingers over the faces of those she liked. After which she +always said she "saw" them. + +"Yes; I shall remember you." + +"And love me?" + +"And love you, Brother Anselmo." + +He kissed, not her cheek or mouth, but her little child-hands, +reverently, as if she had been the saint he worshipped, or, perhaps, +the woman whom afterwards he would learn to adore. Then he went +away. + +"Truly," said the mother, in an amused aside to me, as with a kind of +motherly pride she watched him walk hastily down between those +chestnut-trees, known of old--"truly, time flies fast. Things begin +to look serious--eh, father? Five years hence we shall have that +young man falling in love with Muriel." + +But John and I looked at the still, soft face, half a child's and +half an angel's. + +"Hush!" he said, as if Ursula's fancy were profanity; then eagerly +snatched it up and laughed, confessing how angry he should be if +anybody dared to "fall in love" with Muriel. + +Next day was the one fixed for the trial of the new steam-engine; +which trial being successful, we were to start at once in a +post-chaise for Longfield; for the mother longed to be at home, and +so did we all. + +There was rather a dolorous good-bye, and much lamenting from good +Mrs. Tod, who, her own bairns grown up, thought there were no +children worthy to compare with our children. And truly, as the +three boys scampered down the road--their few regrets soon over, +eager for anything new--three finer lads could not be seen in the +whole country. + +Mrs. Halifax looked after them proudly--mother-like, she gloried in +her sons; while John, walking slowly, and assuring Mrs. Tod over and +over again that we should all come back next summer, went down the +steep hill, carrying, hidden under many wraps and nestled close to +his warm shoulder, his little frail winter-rose--his only daughter. + +In front of the mill we found a considerable crowd; for the time +being ripe, Mr. Halifax had made public the fact that he meant to +work his looms by steam, the only way in which he could carry on the +mill at all. The announcement had been received with great surprise +and remarkable quietness, both by his own work-people and all along +Enderley valley. Still there was the usual amount of contemptuous +scepticism, incident on any new experiment. Men were peering about +the locked door of the engine-room with a surly curiosity; and one +village oracle, to prove how impossible it was that such a thing as +steam could work anything, had taken the trouble to light a fire in +the yard and set thereon his wife's best tea-kettle, which, as she +snatched angrily away, scalded him slightly, and caused him to limp +away swearing, a painful illustration of the adage, that "a little +knowledge is a dangerous thing." + +"Make way, my good people," said Mr. Halifax; and he crossed the +mill-yard, his wife on his arm, followed by an involuntary murmur of +respect. + +"He be a fine fellow, the master; he sticks at nothing," was the +comment heard made upon him by one of his people, and probably it +expressed the feeling of the rest. There are few things which give a +man more power over his fellows than the thoroughly English quality +of daring. + +Perhaps this was the secret why John had as yet passed safely through +the crisis which had been the destruction of so many mill-owners, +namely, the introduction of a power which the mill-people were +convinced would ruin hand-labour. Or else the folk in our valley, +out of their very primitiveness, had more faith in the master; for +certainly, as John passed through the small crowd, there was only one +present who raised the old fatal cry of "Down with machinery!" + +"Who said that?" + +At the master's voice--at the flash of the master's eye--the little +knot of work-people drew back, and the malcontent, whoever he was, +shrunk into silence. + +Mr. Halifax walked past them, entered his mill, and unlocked the door +of the room which he had turned into an engine-room, and where, along +with the two men he had brought from Manchester, he had been busy +almost night and day for this week past in setting up his machinery. +They worked--as the Manchester fellows said they had often been +obliged to work--under lock and key. + +"Your folk be queer 'uns, Mr. Halifax. They say there's six devils +inside on her, theer." + +And the man pointed to the great boiler which had been built up in an +out-house adjoining. + +"Six devils, say they?--Well, I'll be Maister Michael Scot--eh, +Phineas?--and make my devils work hard." + +He laughed, but he was much excited. He went over, piece by piece, +the complicated but delicate machinery; rubbed here and there at the +brass-work, which shone as bright as a mirror; then stepped back, and +eyed it with pride, almost with affection. + +"Isn't it a pretty thing?--If only I have set it up right--if it will +but work." + +His hands shook--his cheeks were burning--little Edwin came peering +about at his knee; but he pushed the child hastily away; then he +found some slight fault with the machinery, and while the workmen +rectified it stood watching them, breathless with anxiety. His wife +came to his side. + +"Don't speak to me,--don't, Ursula. If it fails I am ruined." + +"John!"--she just whispered his name, and the soft, firm fold of her +fingers closed round his, strengthening, cheering. Her husband +faintly smiled. + +"Here!"--He unlocked the door, and called to the people outside. +"Come in, two of you fellows, and see how my devils work. Now then! +Boys, keep out of the way; my little girl"--his voice softened--"my +pet will not be frightened? Now, my men--ready?" + +He opened the valve. + +With a strange noise, that made the two Enderley men spring back as +if the six devils were really let loose upon them, the steam came +rushing into the cylinder. There was a slight motion of the +piston-rod. + +"All's right! it will work?" + +No, it stopped. + +John drew a deep breath. + +It went on again, beginning to move slowly up and down, like the +strong right arm of some automaton giant. Greater and lesser cog- +wheels caught up the motive power, revolving slowly and majestically, +and with steady, regular rotation, or whirling round so fast you +could hardly see that they stirred at all. Of a sudden a soul had +been put into that wonderful creature of man's making, that inert +mass of wood and metal, mysteriously combined. The monster was +alive! + +Speechless, John stood watching it. Their trial over, his energies +collapsed; he sat down by his wife's side, and taking Muriel on his +knee, bent his head over hers. + +"Is all right, father?" the child whispered. + +"All quite right, my own." + +"You said you could do it, and you have done it," cried his wife, her +eyes glowing with triumph, her head erect and proud. + +John dropped his lower, lower still. "Yes," he murmured; "yes, thank +God." + +Then he opened the door, and let all the people in to see the +wondrous sight. + +They crowded in by dozens, staring about in blank wonder, gaping +curiosity, ill-disguised alarm. John took pains to explain the +machinery, stage by stage, till some of the more intelligent caught +up the principle, and made merry at the notion of "devils." But they +all looked with great awe at the master, as if he were something more +than man. They listened open-mouthed to every word he uttered, +cramming the small engine-room till it was scarcely possible to +breathe, but keeping at a respectful distance from the iron-armed +monster, that went working, working on, as if ready and able to work +on to everlasting. + +John took his wife and children out into the open air. Muriel, who +had stood for the last few minutes by her father's side, listening +with a pleasing look to the monotonous regular sound, like the +breathing of the demon, was unwilling to go. + +"I am very glad I was with you to-day,--very glad, father," she kept +saying. + +He said, as often--twice as often--that next summer, when he came +back to Enderley, she should be with him at the mills every day, and +all day over, if she liked. + +There was now nothing to be done but to hasten as quickly and as +merrily as possible to our well-beloved Longfield. + +Waiting for the post-chaise, Mrs. Halifax and the boys sat down on +the bridge over the defunct and silenced water-fall, on the muddy +steps of which, where the stream used to dash musically over, weeds +and long grasses, mingled with the drooping water-fern, were already +beginning to grow. + +"It looks desolate, but we need not mind that now," said Mrs. +Halifax. + +"No," her husband answered. "Steam power once obtained, I can apply +it in any way I choose. My people will not hinder; they trust me, +they like me." + +"And, perhaps, are just a little afraid of you. No matter, it is +wholesome fear. I should not like to have married a man whom nobody +was afraid of." + +John smiled; he was looking at the horseman riding towards us along +the high road. "I do believe that is Lord Luxmore. I wonder whether +he has heard of my steam-engine. Love, will you go back into the +mill or not?" + +"Certainly not." The mother seated herself on the bridge, her boys +around her; John avouched, with an air like the mother of the +Gracchi, or like the Highland woman who trained one son after another +to fight and slay their enemy--their father's murderer. + +"Don't jest," said Ursula. She was much more excited than her +husband. Two angry spots burnt on her cheeks when Lord Luxmore came +up, and, in passing, bowed. + +Mrs. Halifax returned it, haughtily enough. But at the moment a loud +cheer broke out from the mill hard by, and "Hurrah for the master!" +"Hurrah for Mr. Halifax!" was distinctly heard. The mother smiled, +right proudly. + +Lord Luxmore turned to his tenant--they might have been on the best +terms imaginable from his bland air. + +"What is that rather harsh noise I hear, Mr. Halifax?" + +"It is my men cheering me." + +"Oh, how charming! so grateful to the feelings. And WHY do they +cheer you, may I ask?" + +John briefly told him, speaking with perfect courtesy as he was +addressed. + +"And this steam-engine--I have heard of it before--will greatly +advantage your mills?" + +"It will, my lord. It renders me quite independent of your stream, +of which the fountains at Luxmore can now have the full monopoly." + +It would not have been human nature if a spice of harmless malice-- +even triumph--had not sparkled in John's eye, as he said this. He +was walking by the horse's side, as Lord Luxmore had politely +requested him. + +They went a little way up the hill together, out of sight of Mrs. +Halifax, who was busy putting the two younger boys into the chaise. + +"I did not quite understand. Would you do me the favour to repeat +your sentence?" + +"Merely, my lord, that your cutting off of the water-course has been +to me one of the greatest advantages I ever had in my life; for +which, whether meant or not, allow me to thank you." + +The earl looked full in John's face, without answering; then spurred +his horse violently. The animal started off, full speed. + +"The children. Good God--the children!" + +Guy was in the ditch-bank, gathering flowers--but Muriel--For the +first time in our lives, we had forgotten Muriel. + +She stood in the horse's path--the helpless, blind child. The next +instant she was knocked down. + +I never heard a curse on John Halifax's lips but once--that once. +Lord Luxmore heard it too. The image of the frantic father, +snatching up his darling from under the horse's heels, must have +haunted the earl's good memory for many a day. + +He dismounted, saying, anxiously, "I hope the little girl is not +injured? It was accident--you see--pure accident." + +But John did not hear; he would scarcely have heard heaven's thunder. +He knelt with the child in his arms by a little runnel in the +ditch-bank. When the water touched her she opened her eyes with that +wide, momentary stare so painful to behold. + +"My little darling!" + +Muriel smiled, and nestled to him. "Indeed, I am not hurt, dear +father." + +Lord Luxmore, standing by, seemed much relieved, and again pressed +his apologies. + +No answer. + +"Go away," sobbed out Guy, shaking both his fists in the nobleman's +face. "Go away--or I'll kill you--wicked man! I would have done it +if you had killed my sister." + +Lord Luxmore laughed at the boy's fury--threw him a guinea, which Guy +threw back at him with all his might, and rode placidly away. + +"Guy--Guy--" called the faint, soft voice which had more power over +him than any other, except his mother's. "Guy must not be angry. +Father, don't let him be angry." + +But the father was wholly occupied in Muriel--looking in her face, +and feeling all her little fragile limbs, to make sure that in no way +she was injured. + +It appeared not; though the escape seemed almost miraculous. John +recurred, with a kind of trembling tenacity, to the old saying in our +house, that "nothing ever harmed Muriel." + +"Since it is safe over, and she can walk--you are sure you can, my +pet?--I think we will not say anything about this to the mother; at +least not till we reach Longfield." + +But it was too late. There was no deceiving the mother. Every +change in every face struck her instantaneously. The minute we +rejoined her she said: + +"John, something has happened to Muriel." + +Then he told her, making as light of the accident as he could; as, +indeed, for the first ten minutes we all believed, until alarmed by +the extreme pallor and silence of the child. + +Mrs. Halifax sat down by the roadside, bathed Muriel's forehead and +smoothed her hair; but still the little curls lay motionless against +the mother's breast,--and still to every question she only answered +"that she was not hurt." + +All this while the post-chaise was waiting. + +"What must be done?" I inquired of Ursula; for it was no use asking +John anything. + +"We must go back again to Enderley," she said decidedly. + +So, giving Muriel into her father's arms, she led the way, and, a +melancholy procession, we again ascended the hill to Rose Cottage +door. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +Without any discussion, our plans were tacitly changed--no more was +said about going home to dear Longfield. Every one felt, though no +one trusted it to words, that the journey was impossible. For Muriel +lay, day after day, on her little bed in an upper chamber, or was +carried softly down in the middle of the day by her father, never +complaining, but never attempting to move or talk. When we asked her +if she felt ill, she always answered, "Oh, no! only so very tired." +Nothing more. + +"She is dull, for want of the others to play with her. The boys +should not run out and leave their sister alone," said John, almost +sharply, when one bright morning the lads' merry voices came down +from the Flat, while he and I were sitting by Muriel's sofa in the +still parlour. + +"Father, let the boys play without me, please. Indeed, I do not +mind. I had rather lie quiet here." + +"But it is not good for my little girl always to be quiet, and it +grieves father." + +"Does it?" She roused herself, sat upright, and began to move her +limbs, but wearily. + +"That is right, my darling. Now let me see how well you can walk." + +Muriel slipped to her feet and tried to cross the room, catching at +table and chairs--now, alas! not only for guidance but actual +support. At last she began to stagger, and said, half crying: + +"I can't walk, I am so tired. Oh, do take me in your arms, dear +father." + +Her father took her, looked long in her sightless face, then buried +his against her shoulder, saying nothing. But I think in that moment +he too saw, glittering and bare, the long-veiled Hand which, for this +year past, _I_ had seen stretched out of the immutable heavens, +claiming that which was its own. Ever after there was discernible in +John's countenance a something which all the cares of his anxious yet +happy life had never written there--an ineffaceable record, burnt in +with fire. + +He held her in his arms all day. He invented all sorts of tales and +little amusements for her; and when she was tired of these he let her +lie in his bosom and sleep. After her bed-time he asked me to go out +with him on the Flat. + +It was a misty night. The very cows and asses stood up large and +spectral as shadows. There was not a single star to be seen. + +We took our walk along the terrace and came back again, without +exchanging a single word. Then John said hastily: + +"I am glad her mother was so busy to-day--too busy to notice." + +"Yes," I answered; unconnected as his words were. + +"Do you understand me, Phineas? Her mother must not on any account +be led to imagine, or to fear--anything. You must not look as you +looked this morning. You must not, Phineas." + +He spoke almost angrily. I answered in a few quieting words. We +were silent, until over the common we caught sight of the light in +Muriel's window. Then I felt rather than heard the father's groan. + +"Oh, God! my only daughter--my dearest child!" + +Yes, she was the dearest. I knew it. Strange mystery, that He +should so often take, by death or otherwise, the DEAREST--always the +dearest. Strange that He should hear us cry--us writhing in the +dust, "O Father, anything, anything but this!" But our Father +answers not; and meanwhile the desire of our eyes--be it a life, a +love, or a blessing--slowly, slowly goes--is gone. And yet we have +to believe in our Father. Perhaps of all trials to human faith this +is the sorest. Thanks be to God if He puts into our hearts such love +towards Him that even while He slays us we can trust Him still. + +This father--this broken-hearted earthly father--could. + +When we sat at the supper-table--Ursula, John, and I, the children +being all in bed--no one could have told that there was any shadow +over us, more than the sadly-familiar pain of the darling of the +house being "not so strong as she used to be." + +"But I think she will be, John. We shall have her quite about again, +before--" + +The mother stopped, slightly smiling. It was, indeed, an especial +mercy of heaven which put that unaccountable blindness before her +eyes, and gave her other duties and other cares to intercept the +thought of Muriel. While, from morning till night, it was the +incessant secret care of her husband, myself, and good Mrs. Tod, to +keep her out of her little daughter's sight, and prevent her mind +from catching the danger of one single fear. + +Thus, within a week or two, the mother lay down cheerfully upon her +couch of pain, and gave another child to the household--a little +sister to Muriel. + +Muriel was the first to whom the news was told. Her father told it. +His natural joy and thankfulness seemed for the moment to efface +every other thought. + +"She is come, darling! little Maud is come. I am very rich--for I +have two daughters now." + +"Muriel is glad, father." But she showed her gladness in a strangely +quiet, meditative way, unlike a child--unlike even her old self. + +"What are you thinking of, my pet?" + +"That--though father has another daughter, I hope he will remember +the first one sometimes." + +"She is jealous!" cried John, in the curious delight with which he +always detected in her any weakness, any fault, which brought her +down to the safe level of humanity. "See, Uncle Phineas, our Muriel +is actually jealous." + +But Muriel only smiled. + +That smile--so serene--so apart from every feeling or passion +appertaining to us who are "of the earth, earthy," smote the father +to the heart's core. + +He sat down by her, and she crept up into his arms. + +"What day is it, father?" + +"The first of December." + +"I am glad. Little Maud's birthday will be in the same month as +mine." + +"But you came in the snow, Muriel, and now it is warm and mild." + +"There will be snow on my birthday, though. There always is. The +snow is fond of me, father. It would like me to lie down and be all +covered over, so that you could not find me anywhere." + +I heard John try to echo her weak, soft laugh. + +"This month it will be eleven years since I was born, will it not, +father?" + +"Yes, my darling." + +"What a long time! Then, when my little sister is as old as I am, I +shall be--that is, I should have been--a woman grown. Fancy me +twenty years old, as tall as mother, wearing a gown like her, talking +and ordering, and busy about the house. How funny!" and she laughed +again. "Oh! no, father, I couldn't do it. I had better remain +always your little Muriel, weak and small, who liked to creep close +to you, and go to sleep in this way." + +She ceased talking--very soon she was sound asleep. But--the father! + +Muriel faded, though slowly. Sometimes she was so well for an hour +or two that the Hand seemed drawn back into the clouds, till of a +sudden again we discerned it there. + +One Sunday--it was ten days or so after Maud's birth, and the weather +had been so bitterly cold that the mother had herself forbidden our +bringing Muriel to the other side of the house where she and the baby +lay--Mrs. Tod was laying the dinner, and John stood at the window +playing with his three boys. + +He turned abruptly, and saw all the chairs placed round the table-- +all save one. + +"Where is Muriel's chair, Mrs. Tod?" + +"Sir, she says she feels so tired like, she'd rather not come down +to-day," answered Mrs. Tod, hesitatingly. + +"Not come down?" + +"Maybe better not, Mr. Halifax. Look out at the snow. It'll be +warmer for the dear child to-morrow." + +"You are right. Yes, I had forgotten the snow. She shall come down +to-morrow." + +I caught Mrs. Tod's eyes; they were running over. She was too wise +to speak of it--but she knew the truth as well as we. + +This Sunday--I remember it well--was the first day we sat down to +dinner with the one place vacant. + +For a few days longer, her father, every evening when he came in from +the mills, persisted in carrying her down, as he had said, holding +her on his knee during tea, then amusing her and letting the boys +amuse her for half-an-hour or so before bed-time. But at the week's +end even this ceased. + +When Mrs. Halifax, quite convalescent, was brought triumphantly to +her old place at our happy Sunday dinner-table, and all the boys came +pressing about her, vying which should get most kisses from little +sister Maud--she looked round, surprised amidst her smiling, and +asked: + +"Where is Muriel?" + +"She seems to feel this bitter weather a good deal," John said; "and +I thought it better she should not come down to dinner." + +"No," added Guy, wondering and dolefully, "sister has not been down +to dinner with us for a great many days." + +The mother started; looked first at her husband, and then at me. + +"Why did nobody tell me this?" + +"Love--there was nothing new to be told." + +"Has the child had any illness that I do not know of?" + +"No." + +"Has Dr. Jessop seen her?" + +"Several times." + +"Mother," said Guy, eager to comfort--for naughty as he was +sometimes, he was the most tender-hearted of all the boys, especially +to Muriel and to his mother,--"sister isn't ill a bit, I know. She +was laughing and talking with me just now--saying she knows she could +carry baby a great deal better than I could. She is as merry as ever +she can be." + +The mother kissed him in her quick, eager way--the sole indication of +that maternal love which was in her almost a passion. She looked +more satisfied. + +Nevertheless, when Mrs. Tod came into the parlour, she rose and put +little Maud into her arms. + +"Take baby, please, while I go up to see Muriel." + +"Don't--now don't, please, Mrs. Halifax," cried earnestly the good +woman. + +Ursula turned very pale. "They ought to have told me," she muttered; +"John, YOU MUST let me go and see my child." + +"Presently--presently--Guy, run up and play with Muriel. Phineas, +take the others with you. You shall go up-stairs in one minute, my +darling wife!" + +He turned us all out of the room, and shut the door. How he told her +that which was necessary she should know--that which Dr. Jessop +himself had told us this very morning--how the father and mother had +borne this first open revelation of their unutterable grief--for ever +remained unknown. + +I was sitting by Muriel's bed, when they came up-stairs. The darling +laid listening to her brother, who was squatted on her pillow, making +all sorts of funny talk. There was a smile on her face; she looked +quite rosy: I hoped Ursula might not notice, just for the time +being, the great change the last few weeks had made. + +But she did--who could ever blindfold a mother? For a moment I saw +her recoil--then turn to her husband with a dumb, piteous, desperate +look, as though to say, "Help me--my sorrow is more than I can bear!" + +But Muriel, hearing the step, cried with a joyful cry, "Mother! it's +my mother!" + +The mother folded her to her breast. + +Muriel shed a tear or two there--in a satisfied, peaceful way; the +mother did not weep at all. Her self-command, so far as speech went, +was miraculous. For her look--but then she knew the child was blind. + +"Now," she said, "my pet will be good and not cry? It would do her +harm. We must be very happy to-day." + +"Oh, yes." Then, in a fond whisper, "Please, I do so want to see +little Maud." + +"Who?" with an absent gaze. + +"My little sister Maud--Maud that is to take my place, and be +everybody's darling now." + +"Hush, Muriel," said the father, hoarsely. + +A strangely soft smile broke over her face--and she was silent. + +The new baby was carried up-stairs proudly, by Mrs. Tod, all the boys +following. Quite a levee was held round the bed, where, laid close +beside her, her weak hands being guided over the tiny face and form, +Muriel first "saw" her little sister. She was greatly pleased. With +a grave elder-sisterly air she felt all over the baby-limbs, and when +Maud set up an indignant cry, began hushing her with so quaint an +imitation of motherliness, that we were all amused. + +"You'll be a capital nurse in a month or two, my pretty!" said Mrs. +Tod. + +Muriel only smiled. "How fat she is!--and look, how fast her fingers +take hold! And her head is so round, and her hair feels so soft--as +soft as my dove's neck at Longfield. What colour is it? Like mine?" + +It was; nearly the same shade. Maud bore, the mother declared, the +strongest likeness to Muriel. + +"I am so glad. But these"--touching her eyes anxiously. + +"No--my darling. Not like you there," was the low answer. + +"I am VERY glad. Please, little Maud, don't cry--it's only sister +touching you. How wide open your eyes feel! I wonder,"--with a +thoughtful pause--"I wonder if you can see me. Little Maud, I should +like you to see sister." + +"She does see, of course; how she stares!" cried Guy. And then Edwin +began to argue to the contrary, protesting that as kittens and +puppies could not see at first, he believed little babies did not: +which produced a warm altercation among the children gathered round +the bed, while Muriel lay back quietly on her pillow, with her little +sister fondly hugged to her breast. + +The father and mother looked on. It was such a picture--these five +darlings, these children which God had given them--a group perfect +and complete in itself, like a root of daisies, or a branch of +ripening fruit, which not one could be added to, or taken from-- + +No. I was sure, from the parents' smile, that, this once, Mercy had +blinded their eyes, so that they saw nothing beyond the present +moment. + +The children were wildly happy. All the afternoon they kept up their +innocent little games by Muriel's bed-side; she sometimes sharing, +sometimes listening apart. Only once or twice came that wistful, +absent look, as if she were listening partly to us, and partly to +those we heard not; as if through the wide-open orbs the soul were +straining at sights wonderful and new--sights unto which HER eyes +were the clear-seeing, and ours the blank and blind. + +It seems strange now, to remember that Sunday afternoon, and how +merry we all were; how we drank tea in the queer bed-room at the top +of the house; and how afterwards Muriel went to sleep in the +twilight, with baby Maud in her arms. Mrs. Halifax sat beside the +little bed, a sudden blazing up of the fire showing the intentness of +her watch over these two, her eldest and youngest, fast asleep; their +breathing so soft, one hardly knew which was frailest, the life +slowly fading or the life but just begun. Their breaths seemed to +mix and mingle, and the two faces, lying close together, to grow into +a strange likeness each to each. At least, we all fancied so. + +Meanwhile, John kept his boys as still as mice, in the broad window- +seat, looking across the white snowy sheet, with black bushes peering +out here and there, to the feathery beech-wood, over the tops of +which the new moon was going down. Such a little young moon! and how +peacefully--nay, smilingly--she set among the snows! + +The children watched her till the very last minute, when Guy startled +the deep quiet of the room by exclaiming--"There--she's gone." + +"Hush!" + +"No, mother, I am awake," said Muriel. "Who is gone, Guy?" + +"The moon--such a pretty little moon." + +"Ah, Maud will see the moon some day." She dropped her cheek down +again beside the baby sister, and was silent once more. + +This is the only incident I remember of that peaceful, heavenly hour. + +Maud broke upon its quietude by her waking and wailing; and Muriel +very unwillingly let the little sister go. + +"I wish she might stay with me--just this one night; and to-morrow is +my birthday. Please, mother, may she stay?" + +"We will both stay, my darling. I shall not leave you again." + +"I am so glad;" and once more she turned round, as if to go to sleep. + +"Are you tired, my pet?" said John, looking intently at her. + +"No, father." + +"Shall I take your brothers down-stairs?" + +"Not yet, dear father." + +"What would you like, then?" + +"Only to lie here, this Sunday evening, among you all." + +He asked her if she would like him to read aloud? as he generally did +on Sunday evenings. + +"Yes, please; and Guy will come and sit quiet on the bed beside me +and listen. That will be pleasant. Guy was always very good to his +sister--always." + +"I don't know that," said Guy, in a conscience-stricken tone. "But I +mean to be when I grow a big man--that I do." + +No one answered. John opened the large Book--the Book he had taught +all his children to long for and to love--and read out of it their +favourite history of Joseph and his brethren. The mother sat by him +at the fireside, rocking Maud softly on her knees. Edwin and Walter +settled themselves on the hearth-rug, with great eyes intently fixed +on their father. From behind him the candle-light fell softly down +on the motionless figure in the bed, whose hand he held, and whose +face he every now and then turned to look at--then, satisfied, +continued to read. + +In the reading his voice had a fatherly, flowing calm--as Jacob's +might have had, when "the children were tender," and he gathered them +all round him under the palm-trees of Succoth--years before he cried +unto the Lord that bitter cry--(which John hurried over as he read)-- +"IF I AM BEREAVED OF MY CHILDREN, I AM BEREAVED." + +For an hour, nearly, we all sat thus--with the wind coming up the +valley, howling in the beech-wood, and shaking the casement as it +passed outside. Within, the only sound was the father's voice. This +ceased at last; he shut the Bible, and put it aside. The group--that +last perfect household picture--was broken up. It melted away into +things of the past, and became only a picture, for evermore. + +"Now, boys--it is full time to say good-night. There, go and kiss +your sister." + +"Which?" said Edwin, in his funny way. "We've got two now; and I +don't know which is the biggest baby." + +"I'll thrash you if you say that again," cried Guy. "Which, indeed? +Maud is but the baby. Muriel will be always 'sister.'" + +"Sister" faintly laughed, as she answered his fond kiss--Guy was +often thought to be her favourite brother. + +"Now, off with you, boys; and go down-stairs quietly--mind, I say +quietly." + +They obeyed--that is, as literally as boy-nature can obey such an +admonition. But an hour after I heard Guy and Edwin arguing +vociferously in the dark, on the respective merits and future +treatment of their two sisters, Muriel and Maud. + +John and I sat up late together that night. He could not rest--even +though he told me he had left the mother and her two daughters as +cosy as a nest of wood-pigeons. We listened to the wild night, till +it had almost howled itself away; then our fire went out, and we came +and sat over the last faggot in Mrs. Tod's kitchen--the old +Debateable Land. We began talking of the long-ago time, and not of +this time at all. The vivid present--never out of either mind for an +instant--we in our conversation did not touch upon, by at least ten +years. Nor did we give expression to a thought which strongly +oppressed me, and which I once or twice fancied I could detect in +John likewise--how very like this night seemed to the night when Mr. +March died; the same silentness in the house--the same windy whirl +without--the same blaze of the wood-fire on the same kitchen ceiling. + +More than once I could almost have deluded myself that I heard the +faint moans and footsteps over-head--that the staircase door would +open, and we should see there Miss March, in her white gown, and her +pale, steadfast look. + +"I think the mother seemed very well and calm to-night," I said, +hesitatingly, as we were retiring. + +"She is. God help her--and us all!" + +"He will." + +This was all we said. + +He went up-stairs the last thing, and brought down word that mother +and children were all sound asleep. + +"I think I may leave them until daylight to-morrow. And now, Uncle +Phineas, go you to bed, for you look as tired as tired can be." + +I went to bed; but all night long I had disturbed dreams, in which I +pictured over and over again, first the night when Mr. March died-- +then the night at Longfield, when the little white ghost had crossed +by my bed's foot, into the room where Mary Baines' dead boy lay. And +continually, towards morning, I fancied I heard through my window, +which faced the church, the faint, distant sound of the organ, as +when Muriel used to play it. + +Long before it was light I rose. As I passed the boy's room Guy +called out to me: + +"Halloa! Uncle Phineas, is it a fine morning?--for I want to go down +into the wood and get a lot of beech-nuts and fir-cones for sister. +It's her birthday to-day, you know." + +It WAS, for her. But for us--Oh, Muriel, our darling--darling child! + +Let me hasten over the story of that morning, for my old heart quails +before it still. + +John went early to the room up-stairs. It was very still. Ursula +lay calmly asleep, with baby Maud in her bosom; on her other side, +with eyes wide open to the daylight, lay--that which for more than +ten years we had been used to call "blind Muriel." She saw, now. + + * * * * + +The same day at evening we three were sitting in the parlour; we +elders only--it was past the children's bed-time. Grief had spent +itself dry; we were all very quiet. Even Ursula, when she came in +from fetching the boys' candle, as had always been her custom, and +though afterwards I thought I had heard her going up-stairs, likewise +from habit,--where there was no need to bid any mother's good-night +now--even Ursula sat in the rocking-chair, nursing Maud, and trying +to still her crying with a little foolish baby-tune that had +descended as a family lullaby from one to the other of the whole +five--how sad it sounded! + +John--who sat at the table, shading the light from his eyes, an open +book lying before him, of which he never turned one page--looked up +at her. + +"Love, you must not tire yourself. Give me the child." + +"No, no! Let me keep my baby--she comforts me so." And the mother +burst into uncontrollable weeping. + +John shut his book and came to her. He supported her on his bosom, +saying a soothing word or two at intervals, or when the paroxysm of +her anguish was beyond all bounds supporting her silently till it had +gone by; never once letting her feel that, bitter as her sorrow was, +his was heavier than hers. + +Thus, during the whole of the day, had he been the stay and +consolation of the household. For himself--the father's grief was +altogether dumb. + +At last Mrs. Halifax became more composed. She sat beside her +husband, her hand in his, neither speaking, but gazing, as it were, +into the face of this their great sorrow, and from thence up to the +face of God. They felt that He could help them to bear it; ay, or +anything else that it was His will to send--if they might thus bear +it, together. + +We all three sat thus, and there had not been a sound in the parlour +for ever so long, when Mrs. Tod opened the door and beckoned me. + +"He will come in--he's crazy-like, poor fellow! He has only just +heard--" + +She broke off with a sob. Lord Ravenel pushed her aside and stood at +the door. We had not seen him since the day of that innocent jest +about his "falling in love" with Muriel. Seeing us all so quiet, and +the parlour looking as it always did when he used to come of +evenings--the young man drew back, amazed. + +"It is not true! No, it could not be true!" he muttered. + +"It is true," said the father. "Come in." + +The mother held out her hand to him. "Yes, come in. You were very +fond of--" + +Ah! that name!--now nothing but a name! For a little while we all +wept sore. + +Then we told him--it was Ursula who did it chiefly--all particulars +about our darling. She told him, but calmly, as became one on whom +had fallen the utmost sorrow and crowning consecration of motherhood- +-that of yielding up her child, a portion of her own being, to the +corruption of the grave--of resigning the life which out of her own +life had been created, unto the Creator of all. + +Surely, distinct and peculiar from every other grief, every other +renunciation, must be that of a woman who is thus chosen to give her +very flesh and blood, the fruit of her own womb, unto the Lord! + +This dignity, this sanctity, seemed gradually to fall upon the +mourning mother, as she talked about her lost one; repeating often-- +"I tell you this, because you were so fond of Muriel." + +He listened silently. At length he said, "I want to see Muriel." + +The mother lit a candle, and he followed her up-stairs. + +Just the same homely room--half-bedchamber, half-nursery--the same +little curtainless bed where, for a week past, we had been accustomed +to see the wasted figure and small pale face lying, in smiling +quietude, all day long. + +It lay there still. In it, and in the room, was hardly any change. +One of Walter's playthings was in a corner of the window-sill, and on +the chest of drawers stood the nosegay of Christmas roses which Guy +had brought for his sister yesterday morning. Nay, her shawl--a +white, soft, furry shawl, that she was fond of wearing--remained +still hanging up behind the door. One could almost fancy the little +maid had just been said "good-night" to, and left to dream the +childish dreams on her nursery pillow, where the small head rested so +peacefully, with that pretty babyish nightcap tied over the pretty +curls. + +There she was, the child who had gone out of the number of our +children--our earthly children--for ever. + +Her mother sat down at the side of the bed, her father at its foot, +looking at her. Lord Ravenel stood by, motionless; then stooping +down, he kissed the small marble hand. + +"Good-bye, good-bye, my little Muriel!" + +And he left the room abruptly, in such an anguish of grief that the +mother rose and followed him. + +John went to the door and locked it, almost with a sort of +impatience; then came back and stood by his darling, alone. Me he +never saw--no, nor anything in the world except that little face, +even in death so strangely like his own. The face which had been for +eleven years the joy of his heart, the very apple of his eye. + +For a long time he remained gazing, in a stupor of silence; then, +sinking on his knee, he stretched out his arms across the bed, with a +bitter cry: + +"Come back to me, my darling, my first-born! Come back to me, +Muriel, my little daughter--my own little daughter!" + +But thou wert with the angels, Muriel--Muriel! + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +We went home, leaving all that was mortal of our darling sleeping at +Enderley, underneath the snows. + +For twelve years after then, we lived at Longfield; in such unbroken, +uneventful peace, that looking back seems like looking back over a +level sea, whose leagues of tiny ripples make one smooth glassy +plain. + +Let me recall--as the first wave that rose, ominous of change--a +certain spring evening, when Mrs. Halifax and I were sitting, as was +our wont, under the walnut-tree. The same old walnut-tree, hardly a +bough altered, though many of its neighbours and kindred had grown +from saplings into trees--even as some of us had grown from children +almost into young men. + +"Edwin is late home from Norton Bury," said Ursula. + +"So is his father." + +"No--this is just John's time. Hark! there are the carriage-wheels!" + +For Mr. Halifax, a prosperous man now, drove daily to and from his +mills, in as tasteful an equipage as any of the country gentry +between here and Enderley. + +His wife went down to the stream to meet him, as usual, and they came +up the field-path together. + +Both were changed from the John and Ursula of whom I last wrote. +She, active and fresh-looking still, but settling into that fair +largeness which is not unbecoming a lady of middle-age, he, inclined +to a slight stoop, with the lines of his face more sharply defined, +and the hair wearing away off his forehead up to the crown. Though +still not a grey thread was discernible in the crisp locks at the +back, which successively five little ones had pulled, and played +with, and nestled in; not a sign of age, as yet, in "father's curls." + +As soon as he had spoken to me, he looked round as usual for his +children, and asked if the boys and Maud would be home to tea? + +"I think Guy and Walter never do come home in time when they go over +to the manor-house." + +"They're young--let them enjoy themselves," said the father, smiling. +"And you know, love, of all our 'fine' friends, there are none you so +heartily approve of as the Oldtowers." + +These were not of the former race. Good old Sir Ralph had gone to +his rest, and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead; Sir Herbert, who in +his dignified gratitude never forgot a certain election day, when he +first made the personal acquaintance of Mr. Halifax. The manor-house +family brought several other "county families" to our notice, or us +to theirs. These, when John's fortunes grew rapidly--as many another +fortune grew, in the beginning of the thirty years' peace, when +unknown, petty manufacturers first rose into merchant princes and +cotton lords--these gentry made a perceptible distinction, often +amusing enough to us, between John Halifax, the tanner of Norton +Bury, and Mr. Halifax, the prosperous owner of Enderley Mills. Some +of them, too, were clever enough to discover, what a pleasant and +altogether "visitable" lady was Mrs. Halifax, daughter of the late +Mr. March, a governor in the West Indies, and cousin of Mr. Brithwood +of the Mythe. But Mrs. Halifax, with quiet tenacity, altogether +declined being visited as anything but Mrs. Halifax, wife of John +Halifax, tanner, or mill-owner, or whatever he might be. All honours +and all civilities that did not come through him, and with him, were +utterly valueless to her. + +To this her peculiarity was added another of John's own, namely, that +all his life he had been averse to what is called "society;" had +eschewed "acquaintances,"--and--but most men might easily count upon +their fingers the number of those who, during a life-time, are found +worthy of the sacred name of "friend." Consequently, our circle of +associations was far more limited than that of many families holding +an equal position with us--on which circumstance our neighbours +commented a good deal. But little we cared; no more than we had +cared for the chit-chat of Norton Bury. Our whole hearts were bound +up within our own home--our happy Longfield. + +"I do think this place is growing prettier than ever," said John, +when, tea being over--a rather quiet meal, without a single child--we +elders went out again to the walnut-tree bench. "Certainly, prettier +than ever;" and his eye wandered over the quaint, low house, all odds +and ends--for nearly every year something had been built, or +something pulled down; then crossing the smooth bit of lawn, Jem +Watkins's special pride, it rested on the sloping field, yellow with +tall buttercups, wavy with growing grass. "Let me see--how long have +we lived here? Phineas, you are the one for remembering dates. What +year was it we came to Longfield?" + +"Eighteen hundred and twelve. Thirteen years ago." + +"Ah, so long!" + +"Not too long," said Mrs. Halifax, earnestly. "I hope we may end our +days here. Do not you, John?" + +He paused a little before answering. "Yes, I wish it; but I am not +sure how far it would be right to do it." + +"We will not open that subject again," said the mother, uneasily. "I +thought we had all made up our minds that little Longfield was a +thousand times pleasanter than Beechwood, grand as it is. But John +thinks he never can do enough for his people at Enderley." + +"Not that alone, love. Other reasons combined. Do you know, +Phineas," he continued, musingly, as he watched the sun set over +Leckington Hill--"sometimes I fancy my life is too easy--that I am +not a wise steward of the riches that have multiplied so fast. By +fifty, a man so blest as I have been, ought to have done really +something of use in the world--and I am forty-five. Once, I hoped to +have done wonderful things ere I was forty-five. But somehow the +desire faded." + +His wife and I were silent. We both knew the truth; that calm as had +flowed his outer existence, in which was omitted not one actual duty, +still, for these twelve years, all the high aims which make the glory +and charm of life as duties make its strength, all the active +energies and noble ambitions which especially belong to the prime of +manhood, in him had been, not dead perhaps, but sleeping. Sleeping, +beyond the power of any human voice to waken them, under the daisies +of a child's grave at Enderley. + +I know not if this was right--but it was scarcely unnatural. In that +heart, which loved as few men love, and remembered as few men +remember, so deep a wound could never be thoroughly healed. A +certain something in him seemed different ever after, as if a portion +of the father's own life had been taken away with Muriel, and lay +buried in the little dead bosom of his first-born, his dearest child. + +"You forget," said Mrs. Halifax, tenderly--"you forget, John, how +much you have been doing, and intend to do. What with your +improvements at Enderley, and your Catholic Emancipation--your +Abolition of Slavery and your Parliamentary Reform--why, there is +hardly any scheme for good, public or private, to which you do not +lend a helping hand." + +"A helping purse, perhaps, which is an easier thing, much." + +"I will not have you blaming yourself. Ask Phineas, there--our +household Solomon." + +"Thank you, Ursula," said I, submitting to the not rare fortune of +being loved and laughed at. + +"Uncle Phineas, what better could John have done in all these years, +than look after his mills and educate his three sons?" + +"Have them educated, rather," corrected he, sensitive over his own +painfully-gained and limited acquirements. Yet this feeling had made +him doubly careful to give his boys every possible advantage of +study, short of sending them from home, to which he had an invincible +objection. And three finer lads, or better educated, there could not +be found in the whole country. + +"I think, John, Guy has quite got over his fancy of going to +Cambridge with Ralph Oldtower." + +"Yes; college life would not have done for Guy," said the father +thoughtfully. + +"Hush! we must not talk about them, for here come the children." + +It was now a mere figure of speech to call them so, though in their +home-taught, loving simplicity, they would neither have been ashamed +nor annoyed at the epithet--these two tall lads, who in the dusk +looked as man-like as their father. + +"Where is your sister, boys?" + +"Maud stopped at the stream with Edwin," answered Guy, rather +carelessly. His heart had kept its childish faith; the youngest, pet +as she was, was never anything to him but "little Maud." One--whom +the boys still talked of, softly and tenderly, in fireside evening +talks, when the winter winds came and the snow was falling--one only +was ever spoken of by Guy as "sister." + +Maud, or Miss Halifax, as from the first she was naturally called--as +naturally as our lost darling was never called anything else than +Muriel--came up, hanging on Edwin's arm, which she was fond of doing, +both because it happened to be the only arm low enough to suit her +childish stature, and because she was more especially "Edwin's girl," +and had been so always. She had grown out of the likeness that we +longed for in her cradle days, or else we had grown out of the +perception of it; for though the external resemblance in hair and +complexion still remained, nothing could be more unlike in spirit +than this sprightly elf, at once the plague and pet of the family--to +our Muriel. + +"Edwin's girl" stole away with him, merrily chattering. Guy sat down +beside his mother, and slipped his arm round her waist. They still +fondled her with a child-like simplicity--these her almost grown-up +sons; who had never been sent to school for a day, and had never +learned from other sons of far different mothers, that a young man's +chief manliness ought to consist in despising the tender charities of +home. + +"Guy, you foolish boy!" as she took his cap off and pushed back his +hair, trying not to look proud of his handsome face, "what have you +been doing all day?" + +"Making myself agreeable, of course, mother." + +"That he has," corroborated Walter, whose great object of hero- +worship was his eldest brother. "He talked with Lady Oldtower, and +he sang with Miss Oldtower and Miss Grace. Never was there such a +fellow as our Guy." + +"Nonsense!" said his mother, while Guy only laughed, too accustomed +to this family admiration to be much disconcerted or harmed thereby. + +"When does Ralph return to Cambridge?" + +"Not at all. He is going to leave college, and be off to help the +Greeks. Father, do you know everybody is joining the Greeks? Even +Lord Byron is off with the rest. I only wish I were." + +"Heaven forbid!" muttered the mother. + +"Why not? I should have made a capital soldier, and liked it too, +better than anything." + +"Better than being my right hand at the mills, and your mother's at +home?--Better than growing up to be our eldest son, our comfort and +our hope?--I think not, Guy." + +"You are right, father," was the answer, with an uneasy look. For +this description seemed less what Guy was than what we desired him to +be. With his easy, happy temper, generous but uncertain, and his +showy, brilliant parts, he was not nearly so much to be depended on +as the grave Edwin, who was already a thorough man of business, and +plodded between Enderley mills and a smaller one which had taken the +place of the flour mill at Norton Bury, with indomitable +perseverance. + +Guy fell into a brown study, not unnoticed by those anxious eyes, +which lingered oftener upon his face than on that of any of her sons. +Mrs. Halifax said, in her quick, decisive way, that it was "time to +go in." + +So the sunset picture outside changed to the home-group within; the +mother sitting at her little table, where the tall silver candlestick +shed a subdued light on her work-basket, that never was empty, and +her busy fingers, that never were still. The father sat beside her; +he kept his old habit of liking to have her close to him; ay, even +though he was falling into the middle-aged comforts of an arm-chair +and newspaper. There he sat, sometimes reading aloud, or talking; +sometimes lazily watching her, with silent, loving eyes, that saw +beauty in his old wife still. + +The young folk scattered themselves about the room. Guy and Walter +at the unshuttered window--we had a habit of never hiding our +home-light--were looking at the moon, and laying bets, sotto voce, +upon how many minutes she would be in climbing over the oak on the +top of One-tree Hill. Edwin sat, reading hard--his shoulders up to +his ears, and his fingers stuck through his hair, developing the +whole of his broad, knobbed, knotted forehead, where, Maud declared, +the wrinkles had already begun to show. For Mistress Maud herself, +she flitted about in all directions, interrupting everything, and +doing nothing. + +"Maud," said her father, at last, "I am afraid you give a great deal +of trouble to Uncle Phineas." + +Uncle Phineas tried to soften the fact, but the little lady was +certainly the most trying of his pupils. Her mother she had long +escaped from, for the advantage of both. For, to tell the truth, +while in the invisible atmosphere of moral training the mother's +influence was invaluable, in the minor branch of lesson-learning +there might have been found many a better teacher than Ursula +Halifax. So the children's education was chiefly left to me; other +tutors succeeding as was necessary; and it had just begun to be +considered whether a lady governess ought not to "finish" the +education of Miss Halifax. But always at home. Not for all the +knowledge and all the accomplishments in the world would these +parents have suffered either son or daughter--living souls intrusted +them by the Divine Father--to be brought up anywhere out of their own +sight, out of the shelter and safeguard of their own natural home. + +"Love, when I was waiting to-day in Jessop's bank--" + +(Ah! that was another change, to which we were even yet not familiar, +the passing away of our good doctor and his wife, and his brother and +heir turning the old dining-room into a "County Bank--open from ten +till four.") + +"While waiting there I heard of a lady who struck me as likely to be +an excellent governess for Maud." + +"Indeed!" said Mrs. Halifax, not over-enthusiastically. Maud became +eager to know "what the lady was like?" I at the same time inquiring +"who she was?" + +"Who? I really did not ask," John answered, smiling. "But of what +she is, Jessop gave me first-rate evidence--a good daughter, who +teaches in Norton Bury anybody's children for any sort of pay, in +order to maintain an ailing mother. Ursula, you would let her teach +our Maud, I know?" + +"Is she an Englishwoman?"--For Mrs. Halifax, prejudiced by a certain +French lady who had for a few months completely upset the peace of +the manor-house, and even slightly tainted her own favourite, pretty +Grace Oldtower, had received coldly this governess plan from the +beginning. "Would she have to live with us?" + +"I think so, decidedly." + +"Then it can't be. The house will not accommodate her. It will +hardly hold even ourselves. No, we cannot take in anybody else at +Longfield." + +"But--we may have to leave Longfield." + +The boys here turned to listen; for this question had already been +mooted, as all family questions were. In our house we had no +secrets: the young folk, being trusted, were ever trustworthy; and +the parents, clean-handed and pure-hearted, had nothing that they +were afraid to tell their children. + +"Leave Longfield!" repeated Mrs. Halifax; "surely--surely--" But +glancing at her husband, her tone of impatience ceased. + +He sat gazing into the fire with an anxious air. + +"Don't let us discuss that question--at least, not to-night. It +troubles you, John. Put it off till to-morrow." + +No, that was never his habit. He was one of the very few who, a +thing being to be done, will not trust it to uncertain "to-morrows." +His wife saw that he wanted to talk to her, and listened. + +"Yes, the question does trouble me a good deal. Whether, now that +our children are growing up, and our income is doubling and trebling +year by year, we ought to widen our circle of usefulness, or close it +up permanently within the quiet bound of little Longfield. Love, +which say you?" + +"The latter, the latter--because it is far the happiest." + +"I am afraid, NOT the latter, because it IS the happiest." + +He spoke gently, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder, and looking +down on her with that peculiar look which he always had when telling +her things that he knew were sore to hear. I never saw that look on +any living face save John's; but I have seen it once in a picture--of +two Huguenot lovers. The woman is trying to fasten round the man's +neck the white badge that will save him from the massacre (of St. +Bartholomew)--he, clasping her the while, gently puts it aside--not +stern, but smiling. That quiet, tender smile, firmer than any frown, +will, you feel sure, soon control the woman's anguish, so that she +will sob out--any faithful woman would--"Go, die! Dearer to me than +even thyself are thy honour and thy duty!" + +When I saw this noble picture, it touched to the core this old heart +of mine--for the painter, in that rare expression, might have caught +John's. Just as in a few crises of his life I have seen it, and +especially in this one, when he first told to his wife that +determination which he had slowly come to--that it was both right and +expedient for us to quit Longfield, our happy home for so many years, +of which the mother loved every flower in the garden, every nook and +stone in the walls. + +"Leave Longfield!" she repeated again, with a bitter sigh. + +"Leave Longfield!" echoed the children, first the youngest, then the +eldest, but rather in curiosity than regret. Edwin's keen, bright +eyes were just lifted from his book, and fell again; he was not a lad +of much speech, or much demonstration of any kind. + +"Boys, come and let us talk over the matter." + +They came at once and joined in the circle; respectfully, yet with +entire freedom, they looked towards their father--these, the sons of +his youth, to whom he had been from their birth, not only parent and +head, but companion, guide, and familiar friend. They honoured him, +they trusted him, they loved him; not, perhaps, in the exact way that +they loved their mother; for it often seems Nature's own ordinance, +that a mother's influence should be strongest over her sons, while +the father's is greatest over his daughters. But even a stranger +could not glance from each to each of those attentive faces, so +different, yet with a curious "family look" running through them all, +without seeing in what deep, reverent affection, such as naturally +takes the place of childish fondness, these youths held their father. + +"Yes, I am afraid, after much serious thought on the matter, and much +consultation with your mother here,--that we ought to leave +Longfield." + +"So I think," said Mistress Maud, from her footstool; which putting +forward of her important opinion shook us all from gravity to +merriment, that compelled even Mrs. Halifax to join. Then, laying +aside her work, and with it the saddened air with which she had bent +over it, she drew her chair closer to her husband, slipping her hand +in his, and leaning against his shoulder. Upon which Guy, who had at +first watched his mother anxiously, doubtful whether or no his +father's plan had her approval, and therefore ought to be assented +to,--relapsed into satisfied, undivided attention. + +"I have again been over Beechwood Hall. You all remember Beechwood?" + +Yes. It was the "great house" at Enderley, just on the slope of the +hill, below Rose Cottage. The beech-wood itself was part of its +pleasure ground, and from its gardens honest James Tod, who had them +in keeping, had brought many a pocketful of pears for the boys, many +a sweet-scented nosegay for Muriel. + +"Beechwood has been empty a great many years, father? Would it be a +safe investment to buy it?" + +"I think so, Edwin, my practical lad," answered the father, smiling. +"What say you, children? Would you like living there?" + +Each one made his or her comment. Guy's countenance brightened at +the notion of "lots of shooting and fishing" about Enderley, +especially at Luxmore; and Maud counted on the numerous visitors that +would come to John Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood Hall. + +"Neither of which excellent reasons happen to be your father's," said +Mrs. Halifax, shortly. But John, often tenderer over youthful +frivolities than she, answered: + +"I will tell you, boys, what are my reasons. When I was a young man, +before your mother and I were married, indeed before I had ever seen +her, I had strongly impressed on my mind the wish to gain influence +in the world--riches if I could--but at all events, influence. I +thought I could use it well, better than most men; those can best +help the poor who understand the poor. And I can; since, you know, +when Uncle Phineas found me, I was--" + +"Father," said Guy, flushing scarlet, "we may as well pass over that +fact. We are gentlefolks now." + +"We always were, my son." + +The rebuke, out of its very mildness, cut the youth to the heart. He +dropped his eyes, colouring now with a different and a holier shame. + +"I know that. Please will you go on, father." + +"And now," the father continued, speaking as much out of his own +thoughts as aloud to his children--"now, twenty-five years of labour +have won for me the position I desired. That is, I might have it for +the claiming. I might take my place among the men who have lately +risen from the people, to guide and help the people--the Cannings, +Huskissons, Peels." + +"Would you enter parliament? Sir Herbert asked me to-day if you ever +intended it. He said there was nothing you might not attain to if +you would give yourself up entirely to politics." + +"No, Guy, no. Wisdom, like charity, begins at home. Let me learn to +rule in my own valley, among my own people, before I attempt to guide +the state. And that brings me back again to the pros and cons about +Beechwood Hall." + +"Tell them, John; tell all out plainly to the children." + +The reasons were--first, the advantage of the boys themselves; for +John Halifax was not one of those philanthropists who would benefit +all the world except their own household and their own kin. He +wished--since the higher a man rises, the wider and nobler grows his +sphere of usefulness--not only to lift himself, but his sons after +him; lift them high enough to help on the ever-advancing tide of +human improvement, among their own people first, and thence extending +outward in the world whithersoever their talents or circumstances +might call them. + +"I understand," cried the eldest son, his eyes sparkling; "you want +to found a family. And so it shall be--we will settle at Beechwood +Hall; all coming generations shall live to the honour and glory of +your name--our name--" + +"My boy, there is only one Name to whose honour we should all live. +One Name 'in whom all the generations of the earth are blessed.' In +thus far only do I wish to 'found a family,' as you call it, that our +light may shine before men--that we may be a city set on a hill--that +we may say plainly unto all that ask us, 'For me and my house, we +will serve the Lord.'" + +It was not often that John Halifax spoke thus; adopting solemnly the +literal language of the Book--his and our life's guide, no word of +which was ever used lightly in our family. We all listened, as in +his earnestness he rose, and, standing upright in the firelight, +spoke on. + +"I believe, with His blessing, that one may 'serve the Lord' as well +in wealth as in poverty, in a great house as in a cottage like this. +I am not doubtful, even though my possessions are increased. I am +not afraid of being a rich man. Nor a great man neither, if I were +called to such a destiny." + +"It may be--who knows?" said Ursula, softly. + +John caught his wife's eyes, and smiled. + +"Love, you were a true prophet once, with a certain 'Yes, you will,' +but now--Children, you know when I married your mother I had nothing, +and she gave up everything for me. I said I would yet make her as +high as any lady in the land,--in fortune I then meant, thinking it +would make her happier; but she and I are wiser now. We know that we +never can be happier than we were in the old house at Norton Bury, or +in this little Longfield. By making her lady of Beechwood I should +double her responsibilities and treble her cares; give her an +infinitude of new duties, and no pleasures half so sweet as those we +leave behind. Still, of herself and for herself, my wife shall +decide." + +Ursula looked up at him; tears stood in her eyes, though through them +shone all the steadfastness of faithful love. "Thank you, John. I +have decided. If you wish it, if you think it right, we will leave +Longfield and go to Beechwood." + +He stooped and kissed her forehead, saying only: "We will go." + +Guy looked up, half-reproachfully, as if the father were exacting a +sacrifice; but I question whether the greater sacrifice were not his +who took rather than hers who gave. + +So all was settled--we were to leave beloved Longfield. It was to be +let, not sold; let to a person we knew, who would take jealous care +of all that was ours, and we might come back and see it continually; +but it would be ours--our own home--no more. + +Very sad--sadder even than I had thought--was the leaving all the +familiar things; the orchard and the flower-garden, the meadow and +the stream, the woody hills beyond, every line and wave of which was +pleasant and dear almost as our children's faces. Ay, almost as that +face which for a year--one little year, had lived in sight of, but +never beheld, their beauty; the child who one spring day had gone +away merrily out of the white gate with her three brothers, and never +came back to Longfield any more. + +Perhaps this circumstance, that her fading away and her departure +happened away from home, was the cause why her memory--the memory of +our living Muriel, in her human childhood--afterwards clung more +especially about the house at Longfield. The other children altered, +imperceptibly, yet so swiftly, that from year to year we half forgot +their old likenesses. But Muriel's never changed. Her image, only a +shade, yet often more real than any of these living children, seemed +perpetually among us. It crept through the house at dusk; in winter +fire-light it sat smiling in dim corners; in spring mornings it moved +about the garden borders, with tiny soft footsteps neither seen nor +heard. The others grew up--would be men and women shortly--but the +one child that "was not," remained to us always a child. + +I thought, even the last evening--the very last evening that John +returned from Enderley, and his wife went down to the stream to meet +him, and they came up the field together, as they had done so for +many, many years;--ay, even then I thought I saw his eyes turn to the +spot where a little pale figure used to sit on the door-sill, +listening and waiting for him, with her dove in her bosom. We never +kept doves now. + +And the same night, when all the household was in bed--even the +mother, who had gone about with a restless activity, trying to +persuade herself that there would be at least no possibility of +accomplishing the flitting to-morrow--the last night, when John went +as usual to fasten the house-door, he stood a long time outside, +looking down the valley. + +"How quiet everything is. You can almost hear the tinkle of the +stream. Poor old Longfield!" And I sighed, thinking we should never +again have such another home. + +John did not answer. He had been mechanically bending aside and +training into its place a long shoot of wild clematis--virgin's +bower, which Guy and Muriel had brought in from the fields and +planted, a tiny root; it covered the whole front of the house now. +Then he came and leaned beside me over the wicket-gate, looking +fixedly up into the moon-light blue. + +"I wonder if she knows we are leaving Longfield?" + +"Who?" said I; for a moment forgetting. + +"The child." + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +Father and son--a goodly sight, as they paced side by side up and +down the gravel walk--(alas! the pretty field-path belonged to days +that were!)--up and down the broad, sunshiny walk, in front of the +breakfast-room windows of Beechwood Hall. + +It was early--little past eight o'clock; but we kept Longfield hours +and Longfield ways still. And besides, this was a grand day--the day +of Guy's coming of age. Curious it seemed to watch him, as he walked +along by his father, looking every inch "the young heir;" and perhaps +not unconscious that he did so;--curious enough, remembering how +meekly the boy had come into the world, at a certain old house at +Norton Bury, one rainy December morning, twenty-one years ago. + +It was a bright day to-day--bright as all our faces were, I think, as +we gathered round the cosy breakfast-table. There, as heretofore, it +was the mother's pride and the father's pleasure that not one face +should be missing--that, summer and winter, all should assemble for +an hour of family fun and family chat, before the busy cares of the +day; and by general consent, which had grown into habit, every one +tried to keep unclouded this little bit of early sunshine, before the +father and brothers went away. No sour or dreary looks, no painful +topics, were ever brought to the breakfast-table. + +Thus it was against all custom when Mr. Halifax, laying down his +paper with a grave countenance, said: + +"This is very ill news. Ten Bank failures in the Gazette to-day." + +"But it will not harm us, father." + +"Edwin is always thinking of 'us,' and 'our business,'" remarked Guy, +rather sharply. It was one of the slight--the very slight--jars in +our household, that these two lads, excellent lads both, as they grew +into manhood did not exactly "pull together." + +"Edwin is scarcely wrong in thinking of 'us,' since upon us depend so +many," observed the father, in that quiet tone with which, when he +did happen to interfere between his sons, he generally smoothed +matters down and kept the balance even. "Yet though we are ourselves +secure, I trust the losses everywhere around us make it the more +necessary that we should not parade our good fortune by launching out +into any of Guy's magnificences--eh, my boy?" + +The youth looked down. It was well known in the family that since we +came to Beechwood his pleasure-loving temperament had wanted all +sorts of improvements on our style of living--fox-hounds, +dinner-parties, balls; that the father's ways, which, though extended +to liberal hospitalities, forbade outward show, and made our life a +thorough family life still--were somewhat distasteful to that most +fascinating young gentleman, Guy Halifax, Esquire, heir of Beechwood +Hall. + +"You may call it 'magnificence,' or what you choose; but I know I +should like to live a little more as our neighbours do. And I think +we ought too--we that are known to be the wealthiest family--" + +He stopped abruptly--for the door opened; and Guy had too much good +taste and good feeling to discuss our riches before Maud's poor +governess--the tall, grave, sad-looking, sad-clothed Miss Silver; the +same whom John had seen at Mr. Jessop's bank; and who had been with +us four months--ever since we came to Beechwood. + +One of the boys rose and offered her a chair; for the parents set the +example of treating her with entire respect--nay, would gladly have +made her altogether one of the family, had she not been so very +reserved. + +Miss Silver came forward with the daily nosegay which Mrs. Halifax +had confided to her superintendence. + +"They are the best I can find, madam--I believe Watkins keeps all his +greenhouse flowers for to-night." + +"Thank you, my dear. These will do very well.--Yes, Guy, persuade +Miss Silver to take your place by the fire. She looks so cold." + +But Miss Silver, declining the kindness, passed on to her own seat +opposite. + +Ursula busied herself over the breakfast equipage rather nervously. +Though an admirable person, Miss Silver in her extreme and all but +repellant quietness was one whom the mother found it difficult to get +on with. She was scrupulously kind to her; and the governess was as +scrupulously exact in all courtesy and attention; still that +impassible, self-contained demeanour, that great reticence--it might +be shyness, it might be pride--sometimes, Ursula privately admitted, +"fidgeted" her. + +To-day was to be a general holiday for both masters and servants; a +dinner at the mills; and in the evening something which, though we +call it a tea-drinking, began to look, I was amused to see, +exceedingly like "a ball." But on this occasion both parents had +yielded to their young people's wishes, and half the neighbourhood +had been invited, by the universally-popular Mr. Guy Halifax to +celebrate his coming of age. + +"Only once in a way," said the mother, half ashamed of herself for +thus indulging the boy--as, giving his shoulder a fond shake, she +called him "a foolish fellow." + +Then we all dispersed; Guy and Walter to ride to the manor-house, +Edwin vanishing with his sister, to whom he was giving daily Latin +lessons in the school-room. + +John asked me to take a walk on the hill with him. + +"Go, Phineas," whispered his wife--"it will do him good. And don't +let him talk too much of old times. This is a hard week for him." + +The mother's eyes were mournful, for Guy and "the child" had been +born within a year and three days of each other; but she never +hinted--it never would have struck her to hint--"this is a hard week +for ME." + +That grief--the one great grief of their life, had come to her more +wholesomely than to her husband: either because men, the very best +of men, can only suffer, while women can endure; or because in the +mysterious ordinance of nature Maud's baby lips had sucked away the +bitterness of the pang from the bereaved mother, while her loss was +yet new. It had never been left to rankle in that warm heart, which +had room for every living child, while it cherished, in tenderness +above all sorrow, the child that was no more. + +John and I, in our walk, stood a moment by the low churchyard wall, +and looked over at that plain white stone, where was inscribed her +name, "Muriel Joy Halifax,"--a line out of that New Testament +miracle-story she delighted in, "WHEREAS I WAS BLIND, NOW I SEE,"-- +and the date when SHE SAW. Nothing more: it was not needed. + +"December 5, 1813," said the father, reading the date. "She would +have been quite a woman now. How strange! My little Muriel!" + +And he walked thoughtfully along, almost in the same footprints where +he had been used to carry his darling up the hillside to the brow of +Enderley Flat. He seemed in fancy to bear her in his arms still-- +this little one, whom, as I have before said, Heaven in its +compensating mercy, year by year, through all changes, had made the +one treasure that none could take away--the one child left to be a +child for ever. + +I think, as we rested in the self-same place, the sunshiny nook where +we used to sit with her for hours together, the father's heart took +this consolation so closely and surely into itself that memory +altogether ceased to be pain. He began talking about the other +children--especially Maud--and then of Miss Silver, her governess. + +"I wish she were more likeable, John. It vexes me sometimes to see +how coldly she returns the mother's kindness." + +"Poor thing!--she has evidently not been used to kindness. You +should have seen how amazed she looked yesterday when we paid her a +little more than her salary, and my wife gave her a pretty silk dress +to wear to-night. I hardly knew whether she would refuse it, or +burst out crying--in girlish fashion." + +"Is she a girl? Why, the boys say she looks thirty at least. Guy +and Walter laugh amazingly at her dowdy dress and her solemn, haughty +ways." + +"That will not do, Phineas. I must speak to them. They ought to +make allowance for poor Miss Silver, of whom I think most highly." + +"I know you do; but do you heartily like her?" + +"For most things, yes. And I sincerely respect her, or, of course, +she would not be here. I think people should be as particular over +choosing their daughter's governess as their son's wife; and having +chosen, should show her almost equal honour." + +"You'll have your sons choosing themselves wives soon, John. I fancy +Guy has a soft place in his heart for that pretty Grace Oldtower." + +But the father made no answer. He was always tenacious over the +slightest approach to such jests as these. And besides, just at this +moment Mr. Brown, Lord Luxmore's steward, passed--riding solemnly +along. He barely touched his hat to Mr. Halifax. + +"Poor Mr. Brown! He has a grudge against me for those Mexican +speculations I refused to embark in; he did, and lost everything but +what he gets from Lord Luxmore. I do think, Phineas, the country has +been running mad this year after speculation. There is sure to come +a panic afterwards, and indeed it seems already beginning." + +"But you are secure? You have not joined in the mania, the crash +cannot harm you? Did I not hear you say that you were not afraid of +losing a single penny?" + +"Yes--unfortunately," with a troubled smile. + +"John, what do you mean?" + +"I mean, that to stand upright while one's neighbours are falling on +all sides is a most trying position. Misfortune makes people unjust. +The other day at the sessions I got cold looks enough from my brother +magistrates--looks that would have set my blood boiling twenty years +ago. And--you saw in the Norton Bury Mercury that article about +'grasping plebeian millionaires'--'wool-spinners, spinning out of +their country's vitals.' That's meant for me, Phineas. Don't look +incredulous. Yes--for me." + +"How disgraceful!" + +"Perhaps so--but to them more than to me. I feel sorry, because of +the harm it may do me--especially among working people, who know +nothing but what they hear, and believe everything that is told them. +They see I thrive and others fail--that my mills are the only cloth +mills in full work, and I have more hands than I can employ. Every +week I am obliged to send new-comers away. Then they raise the old +cry--that my machinery has ruined labour. So, you see, for all that +Guy says about our prosperity, his father does not sleep exactly upon +a bed of roses." + +"It is wicked--atrocious!" + +"Not at all. Only natural--the penalty one has to pay for success. +It will die out most likely; meantime, we will mind it as little as +we can." + +"But are you safe?--your life--" For a sudden fear crossed me--a +fear not unwarranted by more than one event of this year--this +terrible 1825. + +"Safe?--Yes--" and his eyes were lifted, "I believe my life is safe-- +if I have work to do. Still, for others' sake, I have carried this +month past whenever I go to and from the Coltham bank, besides my +cash-box--this." + +He showed me, peering out of his breast-pocket, a small pistol. + +I was greatly startled. + +"Does your wife know?" + +"Of course. But she knows too that nothing but the last extremity +would force me to use it: also that my carrying it, and its being +noised about that I do so, may prevent my ever having occasion to use +it. God grant I never may! Don't let us talk about this." + +He stopped, gazing with a sad abstraction down the sunshiny valley-- +most part of which was already his own property. For whatever +capital he could spare from his business he never sunk in +speculation, but took a patriarchal pleasure in investing it in land, +chiefly for the benefit of his mills and those concerned therein. + +"My poor people--they might have known me better! But I suppose one +never attains one's desire without its being leavened with some +bitterness. If there was one point I was anxious over in my youth, +it was to keep up through life a name like the Chevalier Bayard--how +folk would smile to hear of a tradesman emulating Bayard--'sans peur +et sans reproche!' And so things might be--ought to be. So perhaps +they shall be yet, in spite of this calumny." + +"How shall you meet it? What shall you do?" + +"Nothing. Live it down." + +He stood still, looking across the valley to where the frosty line of +the hill-tops met the steel-blue, steadfast sky. Yes, I felt sure he +WOULD 'live it down.' + +We dismissed the subject, and spent an hour more in pleasant chat, +about many things. Passing homeward through the beech-wood, where +through the bare tree-tops a light snow was beginning to fall, John +said, musingly: + +"It will be a hard winter--we shall have to help our poor people a +great deal. Christmas dinners will be much in request." + +"There's a saying, that the way to an Englishman's heart is through +his stomach. So, perhaps, you'll get justice by spring." + +"Don't be angry, Phineas. As I tell my wife, it is not worth while. +Half the wrongs people do to us are through sheer ignorance. We must +be patient. 'IN YOUR PATIENCE POSSESS YE YOUR SOULS.'" + +He said this, more to himself than aloud, as if carrying out the +thread of his own thought. Mine following it, and observing him, +involuntarily turned to another passage in our Book of books, about +the blessedness of some men, even when reviled and persecuted. + +Ay, and for all his many cares, John Halifax looked like a man who +was "blessed." + +Blessed, and happy too, throughout that day, especially in the midst +of the mill-yard dinner--which reminded me forcibly of that feast at +which guests were gathered out of the highways and hedges--guests +such as John Halifax liked to have--guests who could not, by any +possibility, "recompense"' him. Yet it did one's heart good to hear +the cheer that greeted the master, ay, and the young master too, who +was to-day for the first time presented as such: as the firm +henceforward was to be, "Halifax and Son." + +And full of smiling satisfaction was the father's look, when in the +evening he stood in the midst of his children waiting for "Guy's +visitors," as he pertinaciously declared them to be--these fine +people, for whose entertainment our house had been these three days +turned upside down; the sober old dining-room converted into a +glittering ball-room, and the entrance-hall a very "bower of bliss"-- +all green boughs and Chinese lanterns. John protested he should not +have known his own study again; and that, if these festive +transformations were to happen frequently he should soon not even +know himself! + +Yet for all that, and in spite of the comical horror he testified at +this first bouleversement of our quiet home ways, I think he had a +real pleasure in his children's delight; in wandering with them +through the decorated rooms, tapestried with ivy and laurel, and +arbor vitae; in making them all pass in review before him, and +admiring their handiwork and themselves. + +A goodly group they made--our young folk; there were no "children" +now--for even Maud, who was tall and womanly for her age, had bloomed +out in a ball dress, all white muslin and camellias, and appeared +every inch "Miss Halifax." Walter, too, had lately eschewed jackets, +and began to borrow razors; while Edwin, though still small, had a +keen, old-man-like look, which made him seem--as he was, indeed, in +character--the eldest of the three. Altogether, they were "a fine +family," such as any man might rejoice to see growing, or grown up, +around him. + +But my eyes naturally sought the father as he stood among his boys, +taller than any of them, and possessing far more than they that +quality for which John Halifax had always been remarkable--dignity. +True, Nature had favoured him beyond most men, giving him the +stately, handsome presence, befitting middle age, throwing a kind of +apostolic grace over the high, half-bald crown, and touching with a +softened grey the still curly locks behind. But these were mere +accidents; the true dignity lay in himself and his own personal +character, independent of any exterior. + +It was pleasant to watch him, and note how advancing years had given +rather than taken away from his outward mien. As ever, he was +distinguishable from other men, even to his dress--which had +something of the Quaker about it still, in its sober colour, its +rarely-changed fashion, and its exceeding neatness. Mrs. Halifax +used now and then to laugh at him for being so particular over his +daintiest of cambric and finest of lawn--but secretly she took the +greatest pride in his appearance. + +"John looks well to-night," she said, coming in and sitting down by +me, her eyes following mine. One would not have guessed from her +quiet gaze that she knew--what John had told me she knew, this +morning. But these two in their perfect union had a wonderful +strength--a wonderful fearlessness. And she had learned from him-- +what perhaps originally was foreign to her impressible and somewhat +anxious mind--that steadfast faith, which, while ready to meet every +ill when the time comes, until the time waits cheerfully, and will +not disquiet itself in vain. + +Thus, for all their cares, her face as well as his, was calm and +bright. Bright, even with the prettiest girlish blush, when John +came up to his wife and admired her--as indeed was not surprising. + +She laughed at him, and declared she always intended to grow lovely +in her old age. "I thought I ought to dress myself grandly, too, on +Guy's birthday. Do you like me, John?" + +"Very much: I like that black velvet gown, substantial, soft, and +rich, without any show. And that lace frill round your throat--what +sort of lace is it?" + +"Valenciennes. When I was a girl, if I had a weakness it was for +black velvet and Valenciennes." + +John smiled, with visible pleasure that she had even a "weakness" +gratified now. "And you have put on my brooch at last, I see." + +"Yes; but--" and she shook her head--"remember your promise!" + +"Phineas, this wife of mine is a vain woman. She knows her own price +is 'far above rubies'--or diamonds either. No, Mrs. Halifax, be not +afraid; I shall give you no more jewels." + +She did not need them. She stood amidst her three sons with the +smile of a Cornelia. She felt her husband's eyes rest on her, with +that quiet perfectness of love--better than any lover's love-- + + "The fulness of a stream that knew no fall"-- + +the love of a husband who has been married nearly twenty-five years. + +Here a troop of company arrived, and John left me to assume his duty +as host. + +No easy duty, as I soon perceived; for times were hard, and men's +minds troubled. Every one, except the light-heeled, light-hearted +youngsters, looked grave. + +Many yet alive remember this year--1825--the panic year. War having +ceased, commerce, in its worst form, started into sudden and +unhealthy overgrowth. Speculations of all kinds sprung up like +fungi, out of dead wood, flourished a little, and dropped away. Then +came ruin, not of hundreds, but thousands, of all ranks and classes. +This year, and this month in this year, the breaking of many +established firms, especially bankers, told that the universal crash +had just begun. + +It was felt even in our retired country neighbourhood, and among our +friendly guests this night, both gentle and simple--and there was a +mixture of both, as only a man in Mr. Halifax's position could mix +such heterogeneous elements--towns-people and country-people, +dissenters and church-folk, professional men and men of business. +John dared to do it--and did it. But though through his own personal +influence many of different ranks whom he liked and respected, +meeting in his own house, learned to like and respect one another, +still, even to-night, he could not remove the cloud which seemed to +hang over all--a cloud so heavy that none present liked referring to +it. They hit upon all sorts of extraneous subjects, keeping far +aloof from the one which evidently pressed upon all minds--the +universal distress abroad, the fear that was knocking at almost every +man's door but ours. + +Of course the talk fell on our neighbours--country talk always does. +I sat still, listening to Sir Herbert Oldtower, who was wondering +that Lord Luxmore suffered the Hall to drop into disgraceful decay, +and had begun cutting down the pine-woods round it. + +"Woods, older than his title by many a century--downright sacrilege! +And the property being entailed, too--actual robbery of the heir! +But I understand anybody may do anything with Lord Ravenel--a mere +selfish, cynical, idle voluptuary!" + +"Indeed you are mistaken, Sir Herbert!" cried Mr. Jessop of Norton +Bury--a very honest fellow was Josiah Jessop. "He banks with me-- +that is, there are some poor Catholics in this neighbourhood whom I +pay--but bless me! he told me not to tell. No, indeed. Cynical he +may be; idle, perhaps--most men of fashion are--but Lord Ravenel is +not the least like his father--is he, Mr. Halifax?" + +"I have not seen Lord Ravenel for many years." + +And as if, even to this day, the mention of the young man's name +brought back thoughts of the last day we had seen him--a day which, +its sadness having gone by, still kept its unspoken sacredness, +distinct from all other days--John moved away and went and talked to +a girl whom both he and the mother liked above most young girls we +knew--simple, sunny-faced Grace Oldtower. + +Dancing began. Spite of my Quaker education, or perhaps for that +very reason, I delighted to see dancing. Dancing, such as it was +then, when young folk moved breezily and lightly, as if they loved +it; skimming like swallows down the long lines of the Triumph-- +gracefully winding in and out through the graceful country dance-- +lively always, but always decorous. In those days people did not +think it necessary to the pleasures of dancing that any stranger +should have liberty to snatch a shy, innocent girl round the waist, +and whirl her about in mad waltz or awkward polka, till she stops, +giddy and breathless, with burning cheek and tossed hair, looking,-- +as I would not have liked to see our pretty Maud look. + +No; though while watching the little lady to-night, I was inclined to +say to her: + + "When you do dance, I wish you + A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do + Nothing but that." + +And in her unwearied spirits she seemed as if she would readily have +responded to the wish. + +We did not see Guy among the dancers, who were now forming in a +somewhat confused square, in order to execute a new dance called +quadrilles, of which Miss Grace Oldtower was to be the instructress. + +"Where is Guy?" said the mother, who would have missed him among a +room full of people. "Have you seen Guy anywhere, Miss Silver?" + +Miss Silver, who sat playing tunes--she had declined dancing--turned, +colouring visibly. + +"Yes, I have seen him; he is in the study." + +"Would you be so kind as to fetch him?" + +The governess rose and crossed the room, with a stately walk-- +statelier than usual. Her silk gown, of some rich soft colour, +fashioned after Mrs. Halifax's taste, and the chaplet of bay-leaves, +which Maud had insisted upon putting in her dark hair, made an +astonishing change in Miss Silver. I could not help noticing it to +Mrs. Halifax. + +"Yes, indeed, she looks well. John says her features are fine; but +for my part, I don't care for your statuesque faces; I like colour-- +expression. See that bright little Grace Oldtower!--a thoroughly +English rose;--I like HER. Poor Miss Silver! I wish--" + +What, out of compunction for a certain sharpness with which she had +spoken, Mrs. Halifax was about to wish, remained undeclared. For, +just this minute, Guy entered, and leaning his handsome head and his +tender petits soins over the "English rose," as his mother called +her, led her out to the dancing. + +We sat down and looked on. + +"Guy dances lazily; he is rather pale too, I fancy." + +"Tired, probably. He was out far too long on the ice to-day, with +Maud and Miss Silver. What a pretty creature his partner is!" added +Ursula, thoughtfully. + +"The children are growing up fast," I said. + +"Ay, indeed. To think that Guy is actually twenty-one--the age when +his father was married!" + +"Guy will be reminding you of that fact some day soon." + +Mrs. Halifax smiled. "The sooner the better, if only he makes a +worthy choice--if only he brings me a daughter whom I can love." + +And I fancied there was love--motherly love--in the eyes that +followed through the graceful mazes of her dancing, the bonny English +rose. + +Guy and his partner sat down beside us. His mother noticed that he +had turned very pale again, and the lad owned to be in some pain: he +had twisted his foot that morning, in helping Maud and Miss Silver +across the ice; but it was a mere trifle--not worth mentioning. + +It passed over, with one or two anxious inquiries on the mother's +part, and a soft, dewy shadow over the down-dropped cheek of the +little rose, who evidently did not like to think of any harm coming +to her old play-fellow. Then Sir Herbert appeared to lead Mrs. +Halifax in to supper, Guy limped along with pretty Grace on his arm, +and all the guests, just enough to fill our longest table in John's +study, came thronging round in a buzz of mirthfulness. + +Either the warm, hospitable atmosphere, or the sight of the merry +youngsters, or the general influence of social pleasantness, had for +the time being dispelled the cloud. But certainly it was dispelled. +The master of the feast looked down two long lines of happy faces-- +his own as bright as theirs--down to where, at the foot of the table, +the mother and mistress sat. She had been slightly nervous at times +during the evening, but now she appeared thoroughly at ease and glad- +-glad to see her husband take his place at the head of his own +hospitable board, in the midst of his own friends and his own people +honoured and beloved. It seemed a good omen--an omen that the bitter +things outside would pass away. + +How bitter they had been, and how sore the wife's heart still felt, I +could see from the jealous way in which, smiling and cheerful as her +demeanour was, she caught every look, every word of those around her +which might chance to bear reference to her husband; in her quick +avoidance of every topic connected with these disastrous times, and, +above all, in her hurried grasp of a newspaper that some careless +servant brought in fresh from the night-mail, wet with sleet and +snow. + +"Do you get your country paper regularly?" asked some one at table. +And then some others appeared to recollect the Norton Bury Mercury, +and its virulent attacks on their host--for there ensued an awkward +pause, during which I saw Ursula's face beginning to burn. But she +conquered her wrath. + +"There is often much interest in our provincial papers, Sir Herbert. +My husband makes a point of taking them all in--bad and good--of +every shade of politics. He believes it is only by hearing all sides +that you can truly judge of the state of the country." + +"Just as a physician must hear all symptoms before he decides on the +patient's case. At least, so our good old friend Doctor Jessop used +to say." + +"Eh?" said Mr. Jessop the banker, catching his own name, and waking +up from a brown study, in which he had seemed to see nothing--except, +perhaps, the newspaper, which, in its printed cover, lay between +himself and Mrs. Halifax. "Eh? did any one--Oh, I beg pardon--beg +pardon--Sir Herbert," hastily added the old man; who was a very meek +and worthy soul, and had been perhaps more subdued than usual this +evening. + +"I was referring," said Sir Herbert, with his usual ponderous +civility, "to your excellent brother, who was so much respected among +us,--for which respect, allow me to say, he did not leave us without +an inheritor." + +The old banker answered the formal bow with a kind of nervous hurry; +and then Sir Herbert, with a loud premise of his right as the oldest +friend of our family, tried to obtain silence for the customary +speech, prefatory to the customary toast of "Health and prosperity to +the heir of Beechwood." + +There was great applause and filling of glasses; great smiling and +whispering; everybody glancing at poor Guy, who turned red and white, +and evidently wished himself a hundred miles off. In the confusion I +felt my sleeve touched, and saw leaning towards me, hidden by Maud's +laughing happy face, the old banker. He held in his hand the +newspaper which seemed to have so fascinated him. + +"It's the London Gazette. Mr. Halifax gets it three hours before any +of us. I may open it? It is important to me. Mrs. Halifax would +excuse, eh?" + +Of course she would. Especially if she had seen the old man's look, +as his trembling fingers vainly tried to unfold the sheet without a +single rustle's betraying his surreptitious curiosity. + +Sir Herbert rose, cleared his throat, and began: + +"Ladies and gentlemen, I speak as a father myself, and as son of a +father whom--whom I will not refer to here, except to say that his +good heart would have rejoiced to see this day. The high esteem in +which Sir Ralph always held Mr. Halifax, has descended, and will +descend--" + +Here some one called out: + +"Mr. Jessop! Look at Mr. Jessop!" + +The old man had suddenly sank back, with a sort of choking groan. +His eyes were staring blankly, his cheek was the colour of ashes. +But when he saw every one looking at him he tried desperately to +recover himself. + +"'Tis nothing. Nothing of the slightest moment. Eh?" clutching +tightly at the paper which Mrs. Halifax was kindly removing out of +his hand. "There's no news in it--none, I assure you." + +But from his agitation--from the pitiful effort he made to disguise +it--it was plain enough that there was news. Plain also, as in these +dangerous and critical times men were only too quick to divine, in +what that news consisted. Tidings, which now made every newspaper a +sight of fear,--especially this--the London Gazette. + +Edwin caught and read the fatal page--the fatal column--known only +too well. + +"W----'s have stopped payment." + +W----'s was a great London house, the favourite banking-house in our +country, with which many provincial banks, and Jessop's especially, +were widely connected, and would be no one knew how widely involved. + +"W----'s stopped payment!" + +A murmur--a hush of momentary suspense, as the Gazette was passed +hurriedly from hand to hand; and then our guests, one and all, sat +looking at one another in breathless fear, suspicion, or assured +dismay. For, as every one was aware (we knew our neighbours' affairs +so well about innocent Enderley), there was not a single household of +that merry little company upon whom, near or remote, the blow would +not fall--except ours. + +No polite disguise could gloss over the general consternation. Few +thought of Jessop--only of themselves. Many a father turned pale; +many a mother melted into smothered tears. More than one honest +countenance that five minutes before had beamed like the rising sun, +all friendliness and jocularity, I saw shrink into a wizened, worldly +face with greedy selfishness peering out of the corners of its eyes, +eager to conceal its own alarms and dive as far as possible into the +terrors of its neighbours. + +"There will be a run on Jessop's bank to-morrow," I heard one person +saying; glancing to where the poor old banker still sat, with a +vacant, stupefied smile, assuring all around him that "nothing had +happened; really, nothing." + +"A run? I suppose so. Then it will be 'Sauve qui peut,' and the +devil take the hindmost." + +"What say you to all this, Mr. Halifax?" + +John still kept his place. He sat perfectly quiet, and had never +spoken a syllable. + +When Sir Herbert, who was the first to recover from the shock of +these ill-tidings, called him by his name, Mr. Halifax looked quickly +up. It was to see, instead of those two lines of happy faces, faces +already gathering in troubled groups, faces angry, sullen, or +miserable, all of which, with a vague distrust, seemed instinctively +turned upon him. + +"Mr. Halifax," said the baronet, and one could see how, in spite of +his steadfast politeness, he too was not without his anxieties--"this +is an unpleasant breaking-in upon your kindly hospitalities. I +suppose, through this unpropitious event, each of us must make up our +minds to some loss. Let me hope yours will be trifling." + +John made no answer. + +"Or, perhaps--though I can hardly hope anything so fortunate--perhaps +this failure will not affect you at all?" + +He waited--as did many others, for Mr. Halifax's reply; which was +long in coming. However, since all seemed to expect it, it did come +at last; but grave and sad as if it were the announcement of some +great misfortune. + +"No, Sir Herbert; it will not affect me at all." + +Sir Herbert, and not he alone--looked surprised--uneasily surprised. +Some mutters there were of "congratulation." Then arose a troubled +murmur of talking, in which the master of the house was forgotten; +until the baronet said, "My friends, I think we are forgetting our +courtesy. Allow me to give you without more delay--the toast I was +about to propose,--'Health, long life, and happiness to Mr. Guy +Halifax.'" + +And so poor Guy's birthday toast was drunk; almost in silence; and +the few words he said in acknowledgment were just listened to, +scarcely heard. Every one rose from table, and the festivities were +over. + +One by one all our guests began to make excuse. One by one, +involuntarily perhaps, yet not the less painfully and plainly, they +all shrunk away from us, as if in the universal trouble we, who had +nothing to fear, had no part nor lot. Formal congratulations, given +with pale lips and wandering eyes; brusque adieux, as some of the +more honest or less courteous showed but too obviously how cruelly, +even resentfully, they felt the inequalities of fortune; hasty +departures, full of a dismay that rejected angrily every shadow of +consolation;--all these things John had to meet and to bear. + +He met them with composure; scarcely speaking a word, as indeed what +was there to say? To all the friendly speeches, real or pretended, +he listened with a kind of sad gravity: of all harsher words than +these--and there were not a few--he took not the least notice, but +held his place as master of the house; generously deaf and blind to +everything that it were as well the master of the house should +neither hear nor see. + +At last he was left, a very Pariah of prosperity, by his own hearth, +quite alone. + +The last carriage had rolled away; the tired household had gone to +bed; there was no one in the study but me. John came in and stood +leaning with both his arms against the fireplace, motionless and +silent. He leant there so long, that at last I touched him. + +"Well, Phineas!" + +I saw this night's events had wounded him to the core. + +"Are you thinking of these honest, friendly, disinterested guests of +ours? Don't! They are not worth a single thought." + +"Not an angry thought, certainly." And he smiled at my wrath--a sad +smile. + +"Ah, Phineas! now I begin to understand what is meant by the curse of +prosperity." + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +A great, eager, but doggedly-quiet crowd, of which each had his or +her--for it was half women--individual terror to hide, his or her +individual interest to fight for, and cared not a straw for that of +any one else. + +It was market-day, and this crowd was collected and collecting every +minute, before the bank at Norton Bury. It included all classes, +from the stout farmer's wife or market-woman, to the pale, frightened +lady of "limited income," who had never been in such a throng before; +from the aproned mechanic to the gentleman who sat in his carriage at +the street corner, confident that whatever poor chance there was, his +would be the best. + +Everybody was, as I have said, extremely quiet. You heard none of +the jokes that always rise in and circulate through a crowd; none of +the loud outcries of a mob. All were intent on themselves and their +own business; on that fast-bolted red-baize door, and on the green +blind of the windows, which informed them that it was "open from ten +till four." + +The Abbey clock struck three quarters. Then there was a slight +stirring, a rustling here and there of paper, as some one drew out +and examined his bank notes; openly, with small fear of theft--they +were not worth stealing. + +John and I, a little way off, stood looking on, where we had once +watched a far different crowd; for Mr. Jessop owned the doctor's +former house, and in sight of the green bank blinds were my dear old +father's known windows. + +Guy's birthday had fallen on a Saturday. This was Monday morning. +We had driven over to Norton Bury, John and I, at an unusually early +hour. He did not exactly tell me why, but it was not difficult to +guess. Not difficult to perceive how strongly he was interested, +even affected--as any man, knowing all the circumstances, could not +but be affected--by the sight of that crowd, all the sadder for its +being such a patient, decent, respectable crowd, out of which so +large a proportion was women. + +I noticed this latter fact to John. + +"Yes, I was sure it would be so. Jessop's bank has such a number of +small depositors and issues so many small notes. He cannot cash +above half of them without some notice. If there comes a run, he may +have to stop payment this very day; and then, how wide the misery +would spread among the poor, God knows." + +His eye wandered pitifully over the heaving mass of anxious faces +blue with cold, and growing more and more despondent as every minute +they turned with a common impulse from the closed bank door to the +Abbey clock, glittering far up in the sunshiny atmosphere of morning. + +Its finger touched the one heel of the great striding X--glided on to +the other--the ten strokes fell leisurely and regularly upon the +clear frosty air; then the chimes--Norton Bury was proud of its Abbey +chimes--burst out in the tune of "Life let us Cherish." + +The bells went through all the tune, to the very last note--then +ensued silence. The crowd were silent too--almost breathless with +intent listening--but, alas! not to the merry Abbey chimes. + +The bank door remained closed--not a rattle at the bolts, not a +clerk's face peering out above the blind. The house was as shut-up +and desolate as if it were entirely empty. + +Five whole minutes--by the Abbey clock--did that poor, patient crowd +wait on the pavement. Then a murmur arose. One or two men hammered +at the door; some frightened women, jostled in the press, begun to +scream. + +John could bear it no longer. "Come along with me," he said, +hurriedly. "I must see Jessop--we can get in at the garden door." + +This was a little gate round the corner of the street, well known to +us both in those brief "courting days," when we came to tea of +evenings, and found Mrs. Jessop and Ursula March in the garden +watering the plants and tying up the roses. Nay, we passed out of it +into the same summer parlour, where--I cannot tell if John ever knew +of the incident, at all events he never mentioned it to me--there had +been transacted a certain momentous event in Ursula's life and mine. +Entering by the French window, there rose up to my mental vision, in +vivid contrast to all present scenes, the picture of a young girl I +had once seen sitting there, with head drooped, knitting. Could that +day be twenty-five years ago? + +No summer parlour now--its atmosphere was totally changed. It was a +dull, dusty room, of which the only lively object was a large fire, +the under half of which had burnt itself away unstirred into black +dingy caverns. Before it, with breakfast untasted, sat Josiah +Jessop--his feet on the fender, his elbows on his knees, the picture +of despair. + +"Mr. Jessop, my good friend!" + +"No, I haven't a friend in the world, or shall not have an hour +hence. Oh! it's you, Mr. Halifax?--You have not an account to close? +You don't hold any notes of mine, do you?" + +John put his hand on the old man's shoulder, and repeated that he +only came as a friend. + +"Not the first 'friend' I have received this morning. I knew I +should be early honoured with visitors;" and the banker attempted a +dreary smile. "Sir Herbert and half-a-dozen more are waiting for me +up-stairs. The biggest fish must have the first bite--eh, you know?" + +"I know," said John, gloomily. + +"Hark! those people outside will hammer my door down!--Speak to them, +Mr. Halifax--tell them I'm an old man--that I was always an honest +man--always. If only they would give me time--hark--just hark! +Heaven help me! do they want to tear me in pieces?" + +John went out for a few moments, then came back and sat down beside +Mr. Jessop. + +"Compose yourself,"--the old man was shaking like an aspen leaf. +"Tell me, if you have no objection to give me this confidence, +exactly how your affairs stand." + +With a gasp of helpless thankfulness, looking up in John's face, +while his own quivered like a frightened child's--the banker obeyed. +It seemed that great as was his loss by W----'s failure, it was not +absolute ruin to him. In effect, he was at this moment perfectly +solvent, and by calling in mortgages, etc., could meet both the +accounts of the gentry who banked with him, together with all his own +notes now afloat in the country, principally among the humbler ranks, +petty tradespeople, and such like, if only both classes of customers +would give him time to pay them. + +"But they will not. There will be a run upon the bank and then all's +over with me. It's a hard case--solvent as I am--ready and able to +pay every farthing--if only I had a week's time. As it is I must +stop payment to-day. Hark! they are at the door again! Mr. Halifax, +for God's sake quiet them!" + +"I will; only tell me first what sum, added to the cash you have +available, would keep the bank open--just for a day or two." + +At once guided and calmed, the old man's business faculties seemed to +return. He began to calculate, and soon stated the sum he needed; I +think it was three or four thousand pounds. + +"Very well; I have thought of a plan. But first--those poor fellows +outside. Thank Heaven, I am a rich man, and everybody knows it. +Phineas, that inkstand, please." + +He sat down and wrote: curiously the attitude and manner reminded me +of his sitting down and writing at my father's table, after the bread +riot--years and years ago. Soon a notice, signed by Josiah Jessop, +and afterwards by himself, to the effect that the bank would open, +"without fail," at one o'clock this day,--was given by John to the +astonished clerk, to be posted in the window. + +A responsive cheer outside showed how readily those outside had +caught at even this gleam of hope. Also--how implicitly they trusted +in the mere name of a gentleman who all over the country was known +for "his word being as good as his bond,"--John Halifax. + +The banker breathed freer; but his respite was short: an imperative +message came from the gentlemen above-stairs, desiring his presence. +With a kind of blind dependence he looked towards John. + +"Let me go in your stead. You can trust me to manage matters to the +best of my power?" + +The banker overwhelmed him with gratitude. + +"Nay, that ought to be my word, standing in this house, and +remembering"--His eyes turned to the two portraits--grimly-coloured +daubs, yet with a certain apology of likeness too, which broadly +smiled at one another from opposite walls--the only memorials now +remaining of the good doctor and his cheery little old wife. "Come, +Mr. Jessop, leave the matter with me; believe me, it is not only a +pleasure, but a duty." + +The old man melted into senile tears. + +I do not know how John managed the provincial magnates, who were +sitting in council considering how best to save, first themselves, +then the bank, lastly--If the poor public outside had been made +acquainted with that ominous "lastly!" Or if to the respectable +conclave above-stairs, who would have recoiled indignantly at the +vulgar word "jobbing," had been hinted a phrase--which ran oddly in +and out of the nooks of my brain, keeping time to the murmur in the +street, "Vox populi, vox Dei"--truly, I should have got little credit +for my Latinity. + +John came out in about half an hour, with a cheerful countenance; +told me he was going over to Coltham for an hour or two--would I wait +his return? + +"And all is settled?" I asked. + +"Will be soon, I trust. I can't stay to tell you more now. +Goodbye." + +I was no man of business, and could assist in nothing. So I thought +the best I could do was to pass the time in wandering up and down the +familiar garden, idly watching the hoar-frost on the arbutus leaves, +and on the dry stems of what had been dear little Mrs. Jessop's +favourite roses--the same roses I had seen her among on that +momentous evening--the evening when Ursula's bent neck flushed more +crimson than the sunset itself, as I told her John Halifax was "too +noble to die for any woman's love." + +No--he had lived for it--earned it--won it. And musing over these +long-ago times, my heart melted--foolish old heart that it was! with +a trembling joy, to think that Providence had, in some way, used my +poor useless hand to give to him this blessing, a man's chiefest +blessing of a virtuous and loving wife--which had crowned his life +for all these wonderful years. + +As it neared one o'clock, I could see my ancient friend the Abbey +clock with not a wrinkle in his old face, staring at me through the +bare Abbey trees. I began to feel rather anxious. I went into the +deserted office; and thence, none forbidding, ensconced myself behind +the sheltering bank blinds. + +The crowd had scarcely moved; a very honest, patient, weary crowd +dense in the centre, thinning towards the edges. On its extremest +verge, waiting in a curricle, was a gentleman, who seemed observing +it with a lazy curiosity. I, having like himself apparently nothing +better to do, observed this gentleman. + +He was dressed in the height of the mode, combined with a novel and +eccentric fashion, which had been lately set by that extraordinary +young nobleman whom everybody talked about--my Lord Byron. His +neckcloth was loose, his throat bare, and his hair fell long and +untidy. His face, that of a man about thirty--I fancied I had seen +it before, but could not recall where,--was delicate, thin, with an +expression at once cynical and melancholy. He sat in his carriage, +wrapped in furs, or looked carelessly out on the scene before him, as +if he had no interest therein--as if there was nothing in life worth +living for. + +"Poor fellow!" said I to myself, recalling the bright, busy, laughing +faces of our growing up lads, recalling especially their father's-- +full of all that active energy and wise cheerfulness which gives zest +to existence; God forbid any man should die till he has lived to +learn it!--"poor fellow! I wish his moodiness could take a lesson +from us at home!" + +But the gentleman soon retired from my observation under his furs; +for the sky had gloomed over, and snow began to fall. Those on the +pavement shook it drearily off, and kept turning every minute to the +Abbey clock--I feared it would take the patience of Job to enable +them to hold out another quarter of an hour. + +At length some determined hand again battered at the door. I fancied +I heard a clerk speaking out of the first-floor window. + +"Gentlemen"--how tremblingly polite the voice was!--"Gentlemen, in +five minutes--positively five minutes--the bank will--" + +The rest of the speech was drowned and lost. Dashing round the +street corner, the horses all in a foam, came our Beechwood carriage. +Mr. Halifax leaped out. + +Well might the crowd divide for him--well might they cheer him. For +he carried a canvas bag--a great, ugly, grimy-coloured bag--a +precious, precious bag, with the consolation--perhaps the life--of +hundreds in it! + +I knew, almost by intuition, what he had done--what, in one or two +instances, was afterwards done by other rich and generous Englishmen, +during the crisis of this year. + +The bank door flew open like magic. The crowd came pushing in; but +when John called out to them, "Good people, pray let me pass!" they +yielded and suffered him to go in first. He went right up to the +desk, behind which, flanked by a tolerable array of similar canvas +bags, full of gold--but nevertheless waiting in mortal fear, and as +white as his own neck-cloth--the old banker stood. + +"Mr. Jessop," John said, in a loud, distinct voice, that all might +hear him, "I have the pleasure to open an account with you. I feel +satisfied that in these dangerous times no credit is more safe than +yours. Allow me to pay in to-day the sum of five thousand pounds." + +"Five thousand pounds!" + +The rumour of it was repeated from mouth to mouth. In a small +provincial bank, such a sum seemed unlimited. It gave universal +confidence. Many who had been scrambling, swearing, almost fighting, +to reach the counter and receive gold for their notes, put them again +into their pockets, uncashed. Others, chiefly women, got them cashed +with a trembling hand--nay, with tears of joy. A few who had come to +close accounts, changed their minds, and even paid money in. All +were satisfied--the run upon the bank ceased. + +Mr. Halifax stood aside, looking on. After the first murmur of +surprise and pleasure no one seemed to take any notice of him, or of +what he had done. Only one old widow woman, as she slipped three +bright guineas under the lid of her market-basket, dropped him a +curtsey in passing by. + +"It's your doing, Mr. Halifax. The Lord reward you, sir." + +"Thank you," he said, and shook her by the hand. I thought to +myself, watching the many that came and went, unmindful, "ONLY THIS +SAMARITAN!" + +No--one person more, standing by, addressed him by name. "This is +indeed your doing, and an act of benevolence which I believe no man +alive would have done, except Mr. Halifax." + +And the gentleman who spoke--the same I had seen outside in his +curricle--held out a friendly hand. + +"I see you do not remember me. My name is Ravenel." + +"Lord Ravenel!" + +John uttered this exclamation--and no more. I saw that this sudden +meeting had brought back, with a cruel tide of memory, the last time +they met--by the small nursery bed, in that upper chamber at +Enderley. + +However, this feeling shortly passed away, as must needs be; and we +all three began to converse together. + +While he talked, something of the old "Anselmo" came back into Lord +Ravenel's face: especially when John asked him if he would drive +over with us to Enderley. + +"Enderley--how strange the word sounds!--yet I should like to see the +place again. Poor old Enderley!" + +Irresolutely--all his gestures seemed dreamy and irresolute--he drew +his hand across his eyes--the same white long-fingered, womanish hand +which had used to guide Muriel's over the organ keys. + +"Yes--I think I will go back with you to Enderley. But first I must +speak to Mr. Jessop here." + +It was about some poor Catholic families, who, as we had before +learnt, had long been his pensioners. + +"You are a Catholic still then?" I asked. "We heard the contrary." + +"Did you?--Oh, of course. One hears such wonderful facts about +oneself. Probably you heard also that I have been to the Holy Land, +and turned Jew--called at Constantinople, and come back a +Mohammedan." + +"But are you of your old faith?" John said. "Still a sincere +Catholic?" + +"If you take Catholic in its original sense, certainly. I am a +Universalist. I believe everything--and nothing. Let us change the +subject." The contemptuous scepticism of his manner altered, as he +inquired after Mrs. Halifax and the children. "No longer children +now, I suppose?" + +"Scarcely. Guy and Walter are as tall as yourself; and my daughter-- +" + +"Your daughter?"--with a start--"oh yes, I recollect. Baby Maud. Is +she at all like--like--" + +"No." + +Neither said more than this; but it seemed as if their hearts warmed +to one another, knitted by the same tender remembrance. + +We drove home. Lord Ravenel muffled himself up in his furs, +complaining bitterly of the snow and sleet. + +"Yes, the winter is setting in sharply," John replied, as he reined +in his horses at the turnpike gate. "This will be a hard Christmas +for many." + +"Ay, indeed, sir," said the gate-keeper, touching his hat. + +"And if I might make so bold--it's a dark night and the road's +lonely--" he added, in a mysterious whisper. + +"Thank you, my friend. I am aware of all that." But as John drove +on, he remained for some time very silent. + +On, across the bleak country, with the snow pelting in our faces-- +along roads so deserted, that our carriage-wheels made the only sound +audible, and that might have been heard distinctly for miles. + +All of a sudden, the horses were pulled up. Three or four ill- +looking figures had started out of a ditch-bank, and caught hold of +the reins. + +"Holloa there!--What do you want?" + +"Money." + +"Let go my horses! They're spirited beasts. You'll get trampled +on." + +"Who cares?" + +This brief colloquy passed in less than a minute. It showed at once +our position--miles away from any house--on this desolate moor; +showed plainly our danger--John's danger. + +He himself did not seem to recognize it. He stood upright on the box +seat, the whip in his hand. + +"Get away, you fellows, or I must drive over you!" + +"Thee'd better!" With a yell, one of the men leaped up and clung to +the neck of the plunging mare--then was dashed to the ground between +her feet. The poor wretch uttered one groan and no more. John +sprang out of his carriage, caught the mare's head, and backed her. + +"Hold off!--the poor fellow is killed, or may be in a minute. Hold +off, I say." + +If ever these men, planning perhaps their first ill deed, were struck +dumb with astonishment, it was to see the gentleman they were +intending to rob take up their comrade in his arms, drag him towards +the carriage-lamps, rub snow on his face, and chafe his heavy hands. +But all in vain. The blood trickled down from a wound in the +temples--the head, with its open mouth dropping, fell back upon +John's knee. + +"He is quite dead." + +The others gathered round in silence, watching Mr. Halifax, as he +still knelt, with the dead man's head leaning against him, mournfully +regarding it. + +"I think I know him. Where does his wife live?" + +Some one pointed across the moor, to a light, faint as a glow-worm. +"Take that rug out of my carriage--wrap him in it." The order was at +once obeyed. "Now carry him home. I will follow presently." + +"Surely not," expostulated Lord Ravenel, who had got out of the +carriage and stood, shivering and much shocked, beside Mr. Halifax. +"You would not surely put yourself in the power of these scoundrels? +What brutes they are--the lower orders!" + +"Not altogether--when you know them. Phineas, will you drive Lord +Ravenel on to Beechwood?" + +"Excuse me--certainly not," said Lord Ravenel, with dignity. "We +will stay to see the result of the affair. What a singular man Mr. +Halifax is, and always was," he added, thoughtfully, as he muffled +himself up again in his furs, and relapsed into silence. + +Soon, following the track of those black figures across the snow, we +came to a cluster of peat huts, alongside of the moorland road. John +took one of the carriage-lamps in his hand, and went in, without +saying a word. To my surprise Lord Ravenel presently dismounted and +followed him. I was left with the reins in my hand, and two or three +of those ill-visaged men hovered about the carriage; but no one +attempted to do me any harm. Nay, when John reappeared, after a +lapse of some minutes, one of them civilly picked up the whip and put +it into his hand. + +"Thank you. Now, my men, tell me what did you want with me just +now?" + +"Money," cried one. "Work," shouted another. + +"And a likely way you went about to get it! Stopping me in the dark, +on a lonely road, just like common robbers. I did not think any +Enderley men would have done a thing so cowardly." + +"We bean't cowards," was the surly answer. "Thee carries pistols, +Mr. Halifax." + +"You forced me to do it. My life is as precious to my wife and +children, as--as that poor fellow's to his." John stopped. "God +help us, my men! it's a hard world for us all sometimes. Why did you +not know me better? Why not come to my house and ask honestly for a +dinner and a half-crown?--you should have had both, any day." + +"Thank'ee sir," was the general cry. "And, sir," begged one old man, +"you'll hush up the 'crowner's 'quest--you and this gentleman here. +You won't put us in jail, for taking to the road, Mr. Halifax?" + +"No;--unless you attack me again. But I am not afraid--I'll trust +you. Look here!" He took the pistol out of his breast-pocket, +cocked it, and fired its two barrels harmlessly into the air. "Now, +good-night; and if ever I carry fire-arms again, it will be your +fault, not mine." + +So saying, he held the carriage-door open for Lord Ravenel, who took +his place with a subdued and thoughtful air: then mounting the +box-seat, John drove, in somewhat melancholy silence, across the +snowy, starlit moors to Beechwood. + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +In the home-light. + +It was a scene--glowing almost as those evening pictures at +Longfield. Those pictures, photographed on memory by the summer sun +of our lives, and which no paler after-sun could have power to +reproduce. Nothing earthly is ever reproduced in the same form. I +suppose Heaven meant it to be so; that in the perpetual progression +of our existence we should be reconciled to loss, and taught that +change itself is but another form for aspiration. Aspiration which +never can rest, or ought to rest, in anything short of the One +absolute Perfection--the One all-satisfying Good "IN WHOM IS NO +VARIABLENESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING." + +I say this, to excuse myself for thoughts, which at times made me +grave--even in the happy home-light of John's study; where, for +several weeks after the last incident I have recorded, the family +were in the habit of gathering every evening. For poor Guy was a +captive. The "mere trifle" had turned out to be a sprained foot, +which happening to a tall and strong young man became serious. He +bore his imprisonment restlessly enough at first, but afterwards grew +more reconciled--took to reading, drawing, and society--and even +began to interest himself in the pursuits of his sister Maud, who +every morning had her lessons in the study. + +Miss Silver first proposed this. She had evinced more feeling than +was usual to her, since Guy's accident; showed him many little +feminine kindnesses--out of compunction, it seemed; and altogether +was much improved. Of evenings, as now, she always made one of the +"young people," who were generally grouped together round Guy's sofa- +-Edwin, Walter, and little Maud. The father and mother sat opposite- +-as usual, side by side, he with his newspaper, she with her work. +Or sometimes, falling into pleasant idleness, they would slip hand in +hand, and sit talking to one another in an under-tone, or silently +and smilingly watch the humours of their children. + +For me, I generally took to my nook in the chimney-corner--it was a +very ancient fire-place, with settles on each side, and dogs instead +of a grate, upon which many a faggot hissed and crackled its merry +brief life away. Nothing could be more cheery and comfortable than +this old-fashioned, low-roofed room, three sides of which were +peopled with books--all the books which John had gathered up during +the course of his life. Perhaps it was their long-familiar, friendly +faces which made this his favourite room, his own especial domain. +But he did not keep it tabooed from his family; he liked to have them +about him, even in his studious hours. + +So, of evenings, we all sat together as now, each busy, and none +interrupting the rest. At intervals, flashes of talk or laughter +broke out, chiefly from Guy, Walter, or Maud, when Edwin would look +up from his everlasting book, and even the grave governess relax into +a smile. Since she had learnt to smile, it became more and more +apparent how very handsome Miss Silver was. "Handsome" is, I think, +the fittest word for her; that correctness of form and colour which +attracts the eye chiefly, and perhaps the eye of men rather than of +women;--at least, Mrs. Halifax could never be brought to see it. But +then her peculiar taste was for slender, small brunettes, like Grace +Oldtower; whereas Miss Silver was large and fair. + +Fair, in every sense, most decidedly. And now that she evidently +began to pay a little more attention to her dress and her looks, we +found out that she was also young. + +"Only twenty-one to-day, Guy says," I remarked one day to Ursula. + +"How did Guy know it?" + +"I believe he discovered the wonderful secret from Maud." + +"Maud and her brother Guy have grown wonderful friends since his +illness. Do you not think so?" + +"Yes, I found the two of them--and even Miss Silver--as merry as +possible, when I came into the study this morning." + +"Did you?" said the mother, with an involuntary glance at the group +opposite. + +There was nothing particular to observe. They all sat in most +harmless quietude, Edwin reading, Maud at his feet, playing with the +cat, Miss Silver busy at a piece of that delicate muslin-work with +which young women then used to ornament their gowns. Guy had been +drawing a pattern from it, and now leant back upon his sofa, shading +off the fire with his hand, and from behind it gazing, as I had often +seen him gaze lately, with a curious intentness--at the young +governess. + +"Guy," said his mother (and Guy started), "what were you thinking +about?" + +"Oh, nothing; that is--" here, by some accident, Miss Silver quitted +the room. "Mother, come over here, I want your opinion. There, sit +down--though it's nothing of the least importance." + +Nevertheless, it was with some hesitation that he brought out the +mighty question, namely, that it was Miss Silver's birthday to-day; +that he thought we ought to remember it, and give her some trifle as +a present. + +"And I was considering this large Flora I ordered from London,--she +would like it extremely: she is so fond of botany." + +"What do you know about botany?" said Edwin, sharply and rather +irrelevantly as it seemed, till I remembered how he plumed himself +upon his knowledge of this science, and how he had persisted in +taking Maud, and her governess also, long wintry walks across the +country, "in order to study the cryptogamia." + +Guy vouchsafed no answer to his brother; he was too much absorbed in +turning over the pages of the beautiful Flora on his knee. + +"What do you say, all of you? Father, don't you think she would like +it? Then, suppose you give it to her?" + +At this inopportune moment Miss Silver returned. + +She might have been aware that she was under discussion--at least so +much of discussion as was implied by Guy's eager words and his +mother's silence, for she looked around her uneasily, and was about +to retire. + +"Do not go," Guy exclaimed, anxiously. + +"Pray do not," his mother added; "we were just talking about you, +Miss Silver. My son hopes you will accept this book from him, and +from us all, with all kind birthday wishes." + +And rising, with a little more gravity than was her wont, Mrs. +Halifax touched the girl's forehead with her lips, and gave her the +present. + +Miss Silver coloured, and drew back. "You are very good, but indeed +I would much rather not have it." + +"Why so? Do you dislike gifts, or this gift in particular?" + +"Oh, no; certainly not." + +"Then," said John, as he too came forward and shook hands with her +with an air of hearty kindness, "pray take the book. Do let us show +how much we respect you; how entirely we regard you as one of the +family." + +Guy turned a look of grateful pleasure to his father; but Miss +Silver, colouring more than ever, still held back. + +"No, I cannot; indeed I cannot." + +"Why can you not?" + +"For several reasons." + +"Give me only one of them--as much as can be expected from a young +lady," said Mr. Halifax, good-humouredly. + +"Mr. Guy ordered the Flora for himself. I must not allow him to +renounce his pleasure for me." + +"It would not be renouncing it if YOU had it," returned the lad, in a +low tone, at which once more his younger brother looked up, angrily. + +"What folly about nothing! how can one read with such a clatter going +on?" + +"You old book-worm! you care for nothing and nobody but yourself," +Guy answered, laughing. But Edwin, really incensed, rose and settled +himself in the far corner of the room. + +"Edwin is right," said the father, in a tone which indicated his +determination to end the discussion, a tone which even Miss Silver +obeyed. "My dear young lady, I hope you will like your book; Guy, +write her name in it at once." + +Guy willingly obeyed, but was a good while over the task; his mother +came and looked over his shoulder. + +"Louisa Eugenie--how did you know that, Guy? Louisa Eugenie Sil--is +that your name, my dear?" + +The question, simple as it was, seemed to throw the governess into +much confusion, even agitation. At last, she drew herself up with +the old repulsive gesture, which of late had been slowly wearing off. + +"No--I will not deceive you any longer. My right name is Louise +Eugenie D'Argent." + +Mrs. Halifax started. "Are you a Frenchwoman?" + +"On my father's side--yes." + +"Why did you not tell me so?" + +"Because, if you remember, at our first interview, you said no +Frenchwoman should educate your daughter. And I was homeless-- +friendless." + +"Better starve than tell a falsehood," cried the mother, indignantly. + +"I told no falsehood. You never asked me of my parentage." + +"Nay," said John, interfering, "you must not speak in that manner to +Mrs. Halifax. Why did you renounce your father's name?" + +"Because English people would have scouted my father's daughter. You +knew him--everybody knew him--he was D'Argent the Jacobin--D'Argent +the Bonnet Rouge." + +She threw out these words defiantly, and quitted the room. + +"This is a dreadful discovery. Edwin, you have seen most of her--did +you ever imagine--" + +"I knew it, mother," said Edwin, without lifting his eyes from his +book. "After all, French or English, it makes no difference." + +"I should think not, indeed!" cried Guy, angrily. "Whatever her +father is, if any one dared to think the worse of her--" + +"Hush!--till another time," said the father, with a glance at Maud, +who, with wide-open eyes, in which the tears were just springing, had +been listening to all these revelations about her governess. + +But Maud's tears were soon stopped, as well as this painful +conversation, by the entrance of our daily, or rather nightly, +visitor for these six weeks past, Lord Ravenel. His presence, always +welcome, was a great relief now. We never discussed family affairs +before people. The boys began to talk to Lord Ravenel: and Maud +took her privileged place on a footstool beside him. From the first +sight she had been his favourite, he said, because of her resemblance +to Muriel. But I think, more than any fancied likeness to that sweet +lost face, which he never spoke of without tenderness inexpressible, +there was something in Maud's buoyant youth--just between childhood +and girlhood, having the charms of one and the immunities of the +other--which was especially attractive to this man, who, at +three-and-thirty, found life a weariness and a burthen--at least, he +said so. + +Life was never either weary or burthensome in our house--not even +to-night, though our friend found us less lively than usual--though +John maintained more than his usual silence, and Mrs. Halifax fell +into troubled reveries. Guy and Edwin, both considerably excited, +argued and contradicted one another more warmly than even the +Beechwood liberty of speech allowed. For Miss Silver, she did not +appear again. + +Lord Ravenel seemed to take these slight desagremens very calmly. He +stayed his customary time, smiling languidly as ever at the boys' +controversies, or listening with a half-pleased, half-melancholy +laziness to Maud's gay prattle, his eye following her about the room +with the privileged tenderness that twenty years' seniority allows a +man to feel and show towards a child. At his wonted hour he rode +away, sighingly contrasting pleasant Beechwood with dreary and +solitary Luxmore. + +After his departure we did not again close round the fire. Maud +vanished; the younger boys also; Guy settled himself on his sofa, +having first taken the pains to limp across the room and fetch the +Flora, which Edwin had carefully stowed away in the book-case. Then +making himself comfortable, as the pleasure-loving lad liked well +enough to do, he lay dreamily gazing at the title-page, where was +written her name, and "From Guy Halifax, with--" + +"What are you going to add, my son?" + +He, glancing up at his mother, made her no answer, and hastily closed +the book. + +She looked hurt; but, saying nothing more, began moving about the +room, putting things in order before retiring. John sat in the +arm-chair--meditative. She asked him what he was thinking about? + +"About that man, Jacques D'Argent." + +"You have heard of him, then?" + +"Few had not, twenty years ago. He was one of the most 'blatant +beasts' of the Reign of Terror. A fellow without honesty, +conscience, or even common decency." + +"And that man's daughter we have had in our house, teaching our +innocent child!" + +Alarm and disgust were written on every feature of the mother's face. +It was scarcely surprising. Now that the ferment which had convulsed +society in our younger days was settling down,--though still we were +far from that ultimate calm which enables posterity to judge fully +and fairly such a remarkable historical crisis as the French +Revolution,--most English people looked back with horror on the +extreme opinions of that time. If Mrs. Halifax had a weak point, it +was her prejudice against anything French or Jacobinical. Partly, +from that tendency to moral conservatism which in most persons, +especially women, strengthens as old age advances; partly, I believe, +from the terrible warning given by the fate of one--of whom for years +we had never heard--whose very name was either unknown to, or +forgotten by, our children. + +"John, can't you speak? Don't you see the frightful danger?" + +"Love, try and be calmer." + +"How can I? Remember--remember Caroline." + +"Nay, we are not talking of her, but of a girl whom we know, and have +had good opportunity of knowing. A girl, who, whatever may have been +her antecedents, has lived for six months blamelessly in our house." + +"Would to Heaven she had never entered it! But it is not too late. +She may leave--she shall leave, immediately." + +"Mother!" burst out Guy. Never since she bore him had his mother +heard her name uttered in such a tone. + +She stood petrified. + +"Mother, you are unjust, heartless, cruel. She shall NOT leave; she +shall NOT, I say!" + +"Guy, how dare you speak to your mother in that way?" + +"Yes, father, I dare. I'll dare anything rather than--" + +"Stop. Mind what you are saying--or you may repent it." + +And Mr. Halifax, speaking in that low tone to which his voice fell in +serious displeasure, laid a heavy hand on the lad's shoulder. Father +and son exchanged fiery glances. The mother, terrified, rushed +between them. + +"Don't, John! Don't be angry with him. He could not help it,--my +poor boy!" + +At her piteous look Guy and his father both drew back. John put his +arm round his wife, and made her sit down. She was trembling +exceedingly. + +"You see, Guy, how wrong you have been. How could you wound your +mother so?" + +"I did not mean to wound her," the lad answered. "I only wished to +prevent her from being unjust and unkind to one to whom she must show +all justice and kindness. One whom I respect, esteem--whom I LOVE." + +"Love!" + +"Yes, mother! Yes, father! I love her. I intend to marry her." + +Guy said this with an air of quiet determination, very different from +the usual impetuosity of his character. It was easy to perceive that +a great change had come over him; that in this passion, the silent +growth of which no one had suspected, he was most thoroughly in +earnest. From the boy he had suddenly started up into the man; and +his parents saw it. + +They looked at him, and then mournfully at one another. The father +was the first to speak. + +"All this is very sudden. You should have told us of it before." + +"I did not know it myself till--till very lately," the youth answered +more softly, lowering his head and blushing. + +"Is Miss Silver--is the lady aware of it?" + +"No." + +"That is well," said the father, after a pause. "In this silence you +have acted as an honourable lover should towards her; as a dutiful +son should act towards his parents." + +Guy looked pleased. He stole his hand nearer his mother's, but she +neither took it nor repelled it; she seemed quite stunned. + +At this point I noticed that Maud had crept into the room;--I sent +her out again as quickly as I could. Alas! this was the first secret +that needed to be kept from her; the first painful mystery in our +happy, happy home! + +In any such home the "first falling in love," whether of son or +daughter, necessarily makes a great change. Greater if the former +than the latter. There is often a pitiful truth--I know not why it +should be so, but so it is--in the foolish rhyme which the mother had +laughingly said over to me this morning! + + "My son's my son till he gets him a wife, + My daughter's my daughter all her life." + +And when, as in this case, the son wishes to marry one whom his +father may not wholly approve, whom his mother does not heartily +love, surely the pain is deepened tenfold. + +Those who in the dazzled vision of youth see only the beauty and +splendour of love--first love, who deem it comprises the whole of +life, beginning, aim, and end--may marvel that I, who have been young +and now am old, see as I saw that night, not only the lover's but the +parents' side of the question. I felt overwhelmed with sadness, as, +viewing the three, I counted up in all its bearings and consequences, +near and remote, this attachment of poor Guy's. + +"Well, father," he said at last, guessing by intuition that the +father's heart would best understand his own. + +"Well, my son," John answered, sadly. + +"YOU were young once." + +"So I was;" with a tender glance upon the lad's heated and excited +countenance. "Do not suppose I cannot feel with you. Still, I wish +you had been less precipitate." + +"You were little older than I am when you married?" + +"But my marriage was rather different from this projected one of +yours. I knew your mother well, and she knew me. Both of us had +been tried--by trouble which we shared together, by absence, by many +and various cares. We chose one another, not hastily or blindly, but +with free will and open eyes. No, Guy," he added, speaking earnestly +and softly, "mine was no sudden fancy, no frantic passion. I +honoured your mother above all women. I loved her as my own soul." + +"So do I love Louise. I would die for her any day." + +At the son's impetuosity the father smiled; not incredulously, only +sadly. + +All this while the mother had sat motionless, never uttering a sound. +Suddenly, hearing a footstep and a light knock at the door, she +darted forward and locked it, crying, in a voice that one could +hardly have recognized as hers-- + +"No admittance! Go away." + +A note was pushed in under the door. Mrs. Halifax picked it up-- +opened it, read it mechanically, and sat down again; taking no +notice, even when Guy, catching sight of the hand-writing, eagerly +seized the paper. + +It was merely a line, stating Miss Silver's wish to leave Beechwood +immediately; signed, with her full name--her right name--"Louise +Eugenie D'Argent." + +A postscript added: "Your silence I shall take as permission to +depart; and shall be gone early to-morrow." + +"To-morrow! Gone to-morrow! And she does not even know that--that I +love her. Mother, you have ruined my happiness. I will never +forgive you--never!" + +Never forgive his mother! His mother, who had borne him, nursed him, +reared him; who had loved him with that love--like none other in the +world--the love of a woman for her firstborn son, all these +twenty-one years! + +It was hard. I think the most passionate lover, in reasonable +moments, would allow that it was hard. No marvel that even her +husband's clasp could not remove the look of heart-broken, speechless +suffering which settled stonily down in Ursula's face, as she watched +her boy--storming about, furious with uncontrollable passion and +pain. + +At last, mother-like, she forgot the passion in pity of the pain. + +"He is not strong yet; he will do himself harm. Let me go to him! +John, let me!" Her husband released her. + +Faintly, with a weak, uncertain walk, she went up to Guy and touched +his arm. + +"You must keep quiet, or you will be ill. I cannot have my son ill-- +not for any girl. Come, sit down--here, beside your mother." + +She was obeyed. Looking into her eyes, and seeing no anger there, +nothing but grief and love, the young man's right spirit came into +him again. + +"O mother, mother, forgive me! I am so miserable--so miserable." + +He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed and clasped him close-- +her boy who never could be wholly hers again, who had learned to love +some one else dearer than his mother. + +After a while she said, "Father, shake hands with Guy. Tell him that +we forgive his being angry with us; that perhaps, some day--" + +She stopped, uncertain as to the father's mind, or seeking strength +for her own. + +"Some day," John continued, "Guy will find out that we can have +nothing in the world--except our children's good--so dear to us as +their happiness." + +Guy looked up, beaming with hope and joy. "O father! O mother! will +you, indeed--" + +"We will indeed say nothing," the father answered, smiling; "nothing, +until to-morrow. Then we will all three talk the matter quietly +over, and see what can be done." + +Of course I knew to a certainty the conclusion they would come to. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +Late that night, as I sat up pondering over all that had happened, +Mrs. Halifax came into my room. + +She looked round; asked me, according to her wont, if there was +anything I wanted before she retired for the night?--(Ursula was as +good to me as any sister)--then stood by my easy-chair. I would not +meet her eyes, but I saw her hands fluttering in their restless way. + +I pointed to her accustomed chair. + +"No, I can't sit down. I must say good-night." Then, coming at once +to the point--"Phineas, you are always up first in the morning. Will +you--John thinks it had better be you--will you give a message from +us to--Maud's governess?" + +"Yes. What shall I say?" + +"Merely, that we request she will not leave Beechwood until we have +seen her." + +If Miss Silver had overheard the manner and tone of that "request," I +doubt if it would not have hastened rather than delayed her +departure. But, God help the poor mother! her wounds were still +fresh. + +"Would it not be better," I suggested, "if you were to write to her?" + +"I can't; no, I can't,"--spoken with the sharpness of exceeding pain. +Soon after, as in faint apology, she added, "I am so tired; we are +very late to-night." + +"Yes; it is almost morning. I thought you were both in bed." + +"No; we have been sitting talking in Guy's room. His father thought +it would be better." + +"And is all settled?" + +"Yes." + +Having told me this, and having as it were by such a conclusion +confessed it was right the question should be thus "settled," Guy's +mother seemed more herself. + +"Yes," she repeated; "John thinks it ought to be. At least, that she +should know Guy's--the feeling with which Guy regards her. If, after +the probation of a year, it still remains, and he is content to begin +life on a small income, we have given our consent to our son's +marriage." + +It struck me how the mother's mind entirely dwelt on the one party in +this matter--"Guy's feelings"--"Our son's marriage"--and so on. The +other side of the question, or the possibility of any hindrance +there, never seemed to enter her imagination. Perhaps it would not, +even into mine, for I shared the family faith in its best-beloved +Guy; but for Mrs. Halifax's so entirely ignoring the idea that any +consent except her son's and his parents' was necessary to this +marriage. + +"It will not part him from us so very much, you see, Phineas," she +said, evidently trying to view the bright side--"and she has no +relatives living--not one. For income--Guy will have the entire +profit of the Norton Bury mills; and they might begin, as we did, in +the old Norton Bury house--the dear old house." + +The thought of her own young days seemed to come, soothingly and +sweet, taking the sting out of her pain, showing her how it was but +right and justice that Nature's holy law should be fulfilled--that +children, in their turn, should love, and marry, and be happy, like +their parents. + +"Yes," she answered, as I gently hinted this; "I know you are right; +all is quite right, and as it should be, though it was a shock at +first. No matter: John esteems her--John likes her. For me--oh, I +shall make a capital--what is it?--a capital MOTHER-IN-LAW--in time!" + +With that smile, which was almost cheerful, she bade me good-night-- +rather hastily, perhaps, as if she wished to leave me while her +cheerfulness lasted. Then I heard her step along the passage, +pausing once--most likely at Guy's room door; her own closed, and the +house was in silence. + +I rose early in the morning;--not one whit too early, for I met Miss +Silver in the hall, bonneted and shawled, carrying down with her own +hands a portion of her chattels. She evidently contemplated an +immediate departure. It was with the greatest difficulty that, +without betraying my reasons, which, of course, was impossible, I +could persuade her to change her determination. + +Poor girl! last night's events had apparently shaken her from that +indifference which she seemed to think the best armour of a helpless, +proud governess against the world. She would scarcely listen to a +word. She was in extreme agitation; half-a-dozen times she insisted +on leaving, and then sat down again. + +I had not given her credit for so much wholesome irresolution--so +much genuine feeling. Her manner almost convinced me of a fact which +every one else seemed to hold as certain, but which I myself should +have liked to see proved; namely, that Guy, in asking her love, would +have--what in every right and happy marriage a man ought to have--the +knowledge that the love was his before he asked for it. + +Seeing this, my heart warmed to the girl. I respected her brave +departure--I rejoiced that it was needless. Willingly I would have +quieted her distress with some hopeful, ambiguous word, but that +would have been trenching, as no one ever ought to trench, on the +lover's sole right. So I held my tongue, watching with an amused +pleasure the colour hovering to and fro over that usually impassive +face. At last, at the opening of the study-door--we stood in the +hall still--those blushes rose up to her forehead in one involuntary +tide. + +But it was only Edwin, who had lately taken to a habit of getting up +very early,--to study mathematics. He looked surprised at seeing me +with Miss Silver. + +"What is that box? She is not going?" + +"No; I have been entreating her not. Add your persuasions, Edwin." + +For Edwin, with all his quietness, was a lad of much wisdom, great +influence, and no little penetration. I felt inclined to believe +that though as yet he had not been let into the secret of last night, +he guessed it pretty well already. + +He might have done, by the peculiar manner in which he went up to the +governess and took her hand. + +"Pray stay; I beg of you." + +She made no more ado, but stayed. + +I left her with Edwin, and took my usual morning walk, up and down +the garden, till breakfast-time. + +A strange and painful breakfast it was, even though the most +important element in its painfulness, Guy, was happily absent. The +rest of us kept up a fragmentary, awkward conversation, every one +round the table looking as indeed one might have expected they would +look--with one exception. + +Miss Silver, who, from her behaviour last night, and her demeanour to +me this morning, I had supposed would now have gathered up all her +haughtiness to resist Guy's parents--as, ignorant both of his +feelings and their intentions towards her, a young lady of her proud +spirit might well resist--was, to my astonishment, as mild and meek +as this soft spring morning. Nay, like it, seemed often on the very +verge of the melting mood. More than once her drooping eyelashes +were gemmed with tears. And when, the breakfast-table being quickly +deserted--Edwin, indeed, had left it almost immediately--she, sitting +absently in her place, was gently touched by Mrs. Halifax, she +started up, with the same vivid rush of colour that I had before +noticed. It completely altered the expression of her face; made her +look ten years younger--ten years happier, and, being happier, ten +times more amiable. + +This expression--I was not the only one to notice it--was, by some +intuition, reflected on the mother's. It made softer than any speech +of hers to Miss Silver--the few words-- + +"My dear, will you come with me into the study?" + +"To lessons? Yes. I beg your pardon! Maud--where is Maud?" + +"Never mind lessons just yet. We will have a little chat with my +son. Uncle Phineas, you'll come? Will you come, too, my dear?" + +"If you wish it." And with an air of unwonted obedience, she +followed Mrs. Halifax. + +Poor Guy!--confused young lover!--meeting for the first time after +his confession the acknowledged object of his preference--I really +felt sorry for him! And, except that women have generally twice as +much self-control in such cases as men--and Miss Silver proved it--I +might even have been sorry for her. But then her uncertainties would +soon be over. She had not to make--all her family being aware she +was then and there making it--that terrible "offer of marriage," +which, I am given to understand, is, even under the most favourable +circumstances, as formidable as going up to the cannon's mouth. + +I speak of it jestingly, as we all jested uneasily that morning, save +Mrs. Halifax, who scarcely spoke a word. At length, when Miss +Silver, growing painfully restless, again referred to "lessons," she +said: + +"Not yet. I want Maud for half an hour. Will you be so kind as to +take my place, and sit with my son the while?" + +"Oh, certainly!" + +I was vexed with her--really vexed--for that ready assent; but then, +who knows the ins and outs of women's ways? At any rate, for Guy's +sake this must be got over--the quicker the better. His mother rose. + +"My son, my dear boy!" She leant over him, whispering--I think she +kissed him--then slowly, quietly, she walked out of the study. I +followed. Outside the door we parted, and I heard her go up-stairs +to her own room. + +It might have been half an hour afterwards, when Maud and I, coming +in from the garden, met her standing in the hall. No one was with +her, and she was doing nothing; two very remarkable facts in the +daily life of the mother of the family. + +Maud ran up to her with some primroses. + +"Very pretty, very pretty, my child." + +"But you don't look at them--you don't care for them--I'll go and +show them to Miss Silver." + +"No," was the hasty answer. "Come back, Maud--Miss Silver is +occupied." + +Making some excuse, I sent the child away, for I saw that even Maud's +presence was intolerable to her mother. That poor mother, whose +suspense was growing into positive agony. + +She waited--standing at the dining-room window--listening--going in +and out of the hall,--for another ten minutes. + +"It is very strange--very strange indeed. He promised to come and +tell me; surely at least he ought to come and tell me first--me, his +mother--" + +She stopped at the word, oppressed by exceeding pain. + +"Hark! was that the study door?" + +"I think so; one minute more and you will be quite certain." + +Ay! one minute more, and we WERE quite certain. The young lover +entered--his bitter tidings written on his face. + +"She has refused me, mother. I never shall be happy more." + +Poor Guy!--I slipped out of his sight and left the lad alone with his +mother. + +Another hour passed of this strange, strange day. The house seemed +painfully quiet. Maud, disconsolate and cross, had taken herself +away to the beech-wood with Walter; the father and Edwin were busy at +the mills, and had sent word that neither would return to dinner. I +wandered from room to room, always excepting that shut-up room where, +as I took care, no one should disturb the mother and son. + +At last I heard them both going up-stairs--Guy was still too lame to +walk without assistance. I heard the poor lad's fretful tones, and +the soothing, cheerful voice that answered them. "Verily," thought +I, "if, since he must fall in love, Guy had only fixed his ideal +standard of womanhood a little nearer home--if he had only chosen for +his wife a woman a little more like his mother!" But I suppose that +would have been expecting impossibilities. + +Well, he had been refused!--our Guy, whom we all would have imagined +irresistible--our Guy, "whom to look on was to love." Some harsh +folk might say this might be a good lesson for the lad--nay, for most +lads; but I deny it.--I doubt if any young man, meeting at the outset +of life a rejection like this, which either ignorance or heedlessness +on the woman's part had made totally unexpected, ever is the better +for it: perhaps, for many years, cruelly the worse. For, most women +being quick-sighted about love, and most men--especially young men-- +blind enough in its betrayal,--any woman who wilfully allows an offer +only to refuse it, lowers not only herself but her whole sex, for a +long, long time after, in the lover's eyes. At least, I think so;-- +as I was thinking, in the way old bachelors are prone to moralize +over such things, when, coming out of Guy's room, I met Mrs. Halifax. + +She crossed the passage, hastily but noiselessly, to a small +ante-room which Miss Silver had for her own private study--out of +which half-a-dozen stairs led to the chamber where she and her pupil +slept. The ante-room was open, the bed-chamber door closed. + +"She is in there?" + +"I believe she is." + +Guy's mother stood irresolute. Her knit brow and nervous manner +betrayed some determination she had come to, which had cost her hard: +suddenly she turned to me. + +"Keep the children out of the way, will you, Phineas? Don't let them +know--don't let anybody know--about Guy." + +"Of course not." + +"There is some mistake--there MUST be some mistake. Perhaps she is +not sure of our consent--his father's and mine; very right of her-- +very right! I honour her for her indecision. But she must be +assured to the contrary--my boy's peace must not be sacrificed. You +understand, Phineas?" + +Ay, perhaps better than she did herself, poor mother! + +Yet, when in answer to the hasty knock, I caught a glimpse of Miss +Silver opening the door--Miss Silver, with hair all falling down +dishevelled, and features swollen with crying,--I went away +completely at fault, as the standers-by seemed doomed to be in all +love affairs. I began to hope that this would settle itself somehow- +-in all parties understanding one another after the good old romantic +fashion, and "living very happy to the end of their lives." + +I saw nothing more of any one until tea-time; when Mrs. Halifax and +the governess came in together. Something in their manner struck me- +-one being subdued and gentle, the other tender and kind. Both, +however, were exceedingly grave--nay, sad, but it appeared to be that +sadness which is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from +either anger or resentment. + +Neither Guy nor Edwin, nor the father were present. When John's +voice was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had just risen to retire +with Maud. + +"Good-night, for I shall not come down-stairs again," she said +hastily. + +"Good-night," the mother answered in the same whisper--rose, kissed +her kindly, and let her go. + +When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked remarkably grave- +-as grave as if they had known by intuition all the trouble in the +house. Of course, no one referred to it. The mother merely noticed +how late they were, and how tired they both looked. Supper passed in +silence, and then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed. + +His father called him back. "Edwin, you will remember?" + +"I will, father." + +"Something is amiss with Edwin," said his mother, when the two +younger boys had closed the door behind them. "What did you wish him +to remember?" + +Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with that peculiarly +tender gaze, which she knew well to be the forewarning of trouble; +trouble he could not save her from--could only help her to bear. +Ursula laid her head on his shoulder with one deep sob of long- +smothered pain. + +"I suppose you know all. I thought you would soon guess. Oh, John, +our happy days are over! Our children are children no more." + +"But ours still, love--always will be ours." + +"What of that when we can no longer make them happy? When they look +for happiness to others and not to us? My own poor boy! To think +that his mother can neither give him comfort, nor save him pain, any +more." + +She wept bitterly. + +When she was somewhat soothed, John, making her sit down by him, but +turning a little from her, bade her tell him all that had happened +to-day. A few words explained the history of Guy's rejection and its +cause. + +"She loves some one else. When I--as his mother--went and asked her +the question she confessed this." + +"And what did you say?" + +"What could I say? I could not blame her. I was even sorry for her. +She cried so bitterly, and begged me to forgive her. I said I did +freely, and hoped she would be happy." + +"That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell you who he-- +this lover, was?" + +"No. She said she could not, until he gave her permission. That +whether they would ever be married she did not know. She knew +nothing, save that he was good and kind, and the only creature in the +world who had ever cared for her." + +"Poor girl!" + +"John,"--startled by his manner--"you have something to tell me? You +know who this is--this man who has stood between my son and his +happiness?" + +"Yes, I do know." + +I cannot say how far the mother saw--what, as if by a flash of +lightning, _I_ did; but she looked up in her husband's face, with a +sudden speechless dread. + +"Love, it is a great misfortune, but it is no one's blame--neither +ours, nor theirs--they never thought of Guy's loving her. He says +so--Edwin himself." + +"Is it Edwin?"--in a cry as if her heart was breaking. "His own +brother--his very own brother! Oh, my poor Guy!" + +Well might the mother mourn! Well might the father look as if years +of care had been added to his life that day! For a disaster like +this happening in any household--especially a household where love is +recognized as a tangible truth, neither to be laughed at, passed +carelessly over, nor lectured down--makes the family cease to be a +family, in many things, from henceforward. The two strongest +feelings of life clash; the bond of brotherly unity, in its +perfectness, is broken for ever. + +For some minutes we sat, bewildered as it were, thinking of the tale +as if it had been told of some other family than ours. Mechanically +the mother raised her eyes; the first object they chanced to meet was +a rude water-colour drawing, kept, coarse daub as it was, because it +was the only reminder we had of what never could be recalled--one +red-cheeked child with a hoop, staring at another red-cheeked child +with a nosegay--supposed to represent little Edwin and little Guy. + +"Guy taught Edwin to walk. Edwin made Guy learn his letters. How +fond they were of one another--those two boys. Now--brother will be +set against brother! They will never feel like brothers--never +again." + +"Love--" + +"Don't, John! don't speak to me just yet. It is so terrible to think +of. Both my boys--both my two noble boys! to be made miserable for +that girl's sake. Oh! that she had never darkened our doors. Oh! +that she had never been born." + +"Nay, you must not speak thus. Remember--Edwin loves her--she will +be Edwin's wife." + +"Never!" cried the mother, desperately; "I will not allow it. Guy is +the eldest. His brother has acted meanly. So has she. No, John, I +will NOT allow it." + +"You will not allow what has already happened--what Providence has +permitted to happen? Ursula, you forget--they love one another." + +This one fact--this solemn upholding of the pre-eminent right and law +of love,--which law John believed in, they both believed in, so +sacredly and firmly--appeared to force itself upon Mrs. Halifax's +mind. Her passion subsided. + +"I cannot judge clearly. You can--always. Husband, help me!" + +"Poor wife!--poor mother!" he muttered, caressing her, and in that +caress himself all but giving way--"Alas! that I should have brought +thee into such a sea of trouble." + +Perhaps he referred to the circumstance of his bringing Miss Silver +into our house; perhaps to his own blindness, or want of parental +caution, in throwing the young people continually together. However, +John was not one to lament over things inevitable; or by overweening +blame of his own want of foresight, to imply a doubt of the +foreseeing of Providence. + +"Love," he said, "I fear we have been too anxious to play Deus ex +machina with our children, forgetting in whose Hands are marrying and +giving in marriage--life's crosses and life's crowns. Trouble has +come when we looked not for it. We can but try to see the right +course, and seeing it, to act upon it." + +Ursula assented--with a bursting heart it seemed--but still she +assented, believing, even as in her young days, that her husband's +will was wisest, best. + +He told her, in few words, all that Edwin had that day confessed to +his father; how these two, being much together, had become attached +to one another, as young folks will--couples whom no one would ever +think suited each for each, except Nature, and the instinct of their +own hearts. Absorbed in this love--which, Edwin solemnly declared, +was never openly declared till this morning--they neither of them +thought of Guy. And thus things had befallen--things which no +earthly power could remove or obliterate--things in which, whatever +way we looked, all seemed darkness. We could but walk blindly on, a +step at a time, trusting to that Faith, of which all our lives past +had borne confirmation--the firm faith that evil itself is to the +simple and God-fearing but the disguised messenger of good. + +Something like this John said, talking as his wife loved to hear him +talk--every quiet, low word dropping like balm upon her grieved +heart; not trying to deceive her into the notion that pain is not +pain, but showing her how best to bear it. At length she looked up, +as if with God's help--and her husband's comforting--she could bear +it. + +"Only one thing--Guy does not know. He need not know just yet--not +till he is stronger. Surely, Edwin will not tell him?" + +"No; he promised me he would not. Do not start so. Indeed, there is +no fear." + +But that very assurance seemed to rouse it. She began straining her +ears to catch the least noise in the rooms overhead--the boys' rooms. +Guy and Walter shared one; Edwin had his to himself, + +"They surely will not meet. Yet Guy sometimes likes sitting over +Edwin's fire. Hark!--was not that the creaking of Guy's room-door?" + +"Love--" detaining her. + +"I know, John. I am not thinking of going. Guy might suspect +something. No, indeed I am not afraid. They were always fond of one +another--my boys." + +She sat down, violently forcing herself not to listen, not to fear. +But the truth was too strong for her. + +"Hark! I am sure they are talking. John, you said Edwin promised?" + +"Faithfully promised." + +"But if, by some accident, Guy found out the truth? Hark! they are +talking very loud. That is a chair fallen. Oh, John--don't keep me! +My boys--my boys." And she ran up-stairs in an agony. + +What a sight for a mother's eyes. Two brothers of whom it had been +our boast that from babyhood they had never been known to lift a hand +against each other--now struggling together like Cain and Abel. And +from the fury in their faces, the quarrel might have had a similar +ending. + +"Guy!--Edwin!" But the mother might as well have shrieked to the +winds. + +The father came and parted them. "Boys, are you gone mad? fighting +like brutes in this way. Shame, Guy! Edwin, I trusted you." + +"I could not help it, father. He had no right to steal into my room; +no right to snatch her letter from me." + +"It was her letter, then?" cried Guy, furiously. "She writes to you? +You were writing back to her?" + +Edwin made no answer; but held out his hand for the letter, with that +look of white passion in him so rarely seen--perhaps not thrice since +his infancy. Guy took no heed. + +"Give it me back, Guy; I warn you." + +"Not till I have read it. I have a right." + +"You have none. She is mine." + +"Yours?" Guy laughed in his face. + +"Yes, mine. Ask my father--ask my mother. They know." + +"Mother!"--the letter fell from the poor lad's hand. "Mother, YOU +would not deceive me. He only says it to vex me. I was in a +passion, I know. Mother, it isn't true?" + +His piteous tone--the almost childish way in which he caught at her +sleeve, as she turned from him--ah, poor Guy! + +"Edwin, is it my brother Edwin? Who would have thought it?" +Half-bewildered, he looked from one to the other of us all; but no +one spoke, no one contradicted him. + +Edwin, his passion quite gone, stooped in a sorrowful and humble way +to pick up his betrothed's letter. Then Guy flew at him, and caught +him by the collar. + +"You coward!--how dared you?--No, I won't hurt him; she is fond of +him. Go away, every one of you. Oh, mother, mother, mother!" + +He fell on her neck, sobbing. She gathered him in her arms, as she +had used to do in his childhood; and so we left them. + +"AS ONE WHOM HIS MOTHER COMFORTETH." + +Ay, Prophet of Israel, thou wert wise. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +John and I sat over the study fire till long after midnight. + +Many an anxious watch I had kept with him, but none sadder than this. +Because now, for the first time, our house was divided against +itself. A sorrow had entered it, not from without but from within--a +sorrow which we could not meet and bear, as a family. Alas! darker +and darker had the bitter truth forced itself upon us, that neither +joy nor affliction would ever find us as a family again. + +I think all parents must feel cruelly a pang like this--the first +trouble in which they cannot help their children--the first time when +those children must learn to stand alone, each for himself, compelled +to carry his own burthen and work out, well or ill, his individual +life. When the utmost the wisest or tenderest father can do, is to +keep near with outstretched hand that the child may cling to, assured +of finding sympathy, counsel, and love. + +If this father had stood aloof all his life, on some pinnacle of +paternal "pride," paternal "dignity"--if he had not made himself his +boys' companion, counsellor, and friend, how great would have been +his terrors now! + +For, as we both knew well--too well to trust ourselves to say it--if +there was one thing in the world that ruins a lad, drives him to +desperation, shuts the door of home upon him, and opens many another +door, of which the entrance is the very gate of hell--it is such a +disappointment as this which had happened to our Guy. + +His father saw it all. Saw it clearer, crueller, than even his +mother could see. Yet when, very late, almost at dawn, she came in, +with the tidings that Guy was himself again now--sleeping as quietly +as a child--her husband was able to join in her deep thankfulness, +and give her hope for the days to come. + +"But what is to be done with Guy?" + +"God knows," John answered. But his tone expressed a meaning +different from that generally conveyed in the words: a meaning which +the mother caught at once, and rested on. + +"Ay--you are right. He knows!"--And so they went away together, +almost content. + +Next morning, I woke late; the sunshine falling across my bed, and +the sparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had been dreaming, with a +curious pertinacity, of the old days at Rose Cottage, the days when +John first fell in love with Ursula. + +"Uncle Phineas." I heard myself called. + +It was John's son, who sat opposite, with wan, wild eyes, and a +settled anguish on his mouth--that merry, handsome mouth--the only +really handsome mouth in the family. + +"You are up early, my boy." + +"What was the good of lying in bed? I am not ill. Besides, I wish +to go about as usual. I don't wish anybody to think that--that I +care." + +He stopped--evidently fighting hard against himself. A new lesson, +alas! for our Guy. + +"Was I too violent last night? I did not mean it. I mean to be a +man. Not the first man whom a lady has refused--eh?" And braving it +out, he began to whistle; but the lips fell--the frank brow grew +knotted with pain. The lad broke into a passion of misery. + +The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived. Unwittingly, we +well believed--but still deceived. Many little things he told me-- +Guy's was a nature that at once spent and soothed itself by talking-- +of Miss Silver's extreme gentleness and kindness towards him; a +kindness which seemed so like, so cruelly like love. + +"Love!--Oh, she loved me. She told me so. Of course!--I was Edwin's +brother." + +Ay, there was the sting, which never could be removed; which might +rankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not only lost his love, +but what is more precious than love--faith in womankind. He began to +make light of his losings--to think the prize was not so great after +all. He sat on my bed, singing--Guy had a fine voice and ear-- +singing out of mockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to-- +light songs written by an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, about girls and +wine, and being "far from the lips we love," but always ready enough +"to make love to the lips we are near." Then, laughing at me, he +threw up the window and looked out. + +I think it was wrong of those two, wrong and selfish, as all lovers +are--young lovers in the flush of their happiness; I think it was +cruel of Edwin and Louise to walk up and down there in the elder +brother's very eyes. + +For a moment he struggled against his passion. + +"Uncle Phineas, just look here. How charming! Ha, ha! Did you ever +see such a couple of fools?" + +Fools, maybe, but happy; happy to the very core--thoroughly engrossed +in their happiness. The elder brother was almost maddened by it. + +"He must mind what he does--tell him so, Uncle Phineas--it would be +safer. He MUST mind, or I will not answer for myself. I was fond of +Edwin--I was indeed--but now it seems sometimes as if I HATED him." + +"Guy!" + +"Oh, if it had been a stranger, and not he! If it had been any one +in the world except my brother!" + +And in that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again; it was such a +tender heart--his mother's heart. + +After a time he recovered himself, and came down with me to +breakfast, as he had insisted upon doing; met them all, even Miss +Silver--and Edwin, who had placed himself by her side with an air of +right. These lovers, however deeply grieved they looked--and, to do +justice, it was really so--needed not to be grieved over by any of +us. + +Nor, looking at the father and mother, would we have dared to grieve +over THEM. In the silent watches of the night, heart to heart, +husband and wife had taken council together; together had carried +their sorrow to the only Lightener of burthens. It seemed that +theirs was lightened; that even in this strange entanglement of fate +they were able to wait patiently--trusting unto the Almighty Mercy +not only themselves but the children He had given them. + +When, breakfast being over, John according to his custom read the +chapter and the prayer--no one rose up or went out; no one refused, +even in this anguish of strife, jealousy, and disunion--to repeat +after him the "Our Father" of their childhood. + +I believe every one of us remembered for years, with an awe that was +not altogether pain, this morning's chapter and prayer. + +When it was ended, worldly troubles closed round us again. + +Nothing seemed natural. We hung about in twos and threes, uncertain +what to do. Guy walked up and down, alone. His mother asked him if, +seeing his foot was so well, he would like to go down to the mills as +usual; but he declined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about +"lessons," which Edwin jealously negatived immediately, and proposed +that she and Maud should take a drive somewhere. + +Mrs. Halifax eagerly assented. "Lady Oldtower has been wanting them +both for some time. You would like to go, would you not, for a day +or two?" said she, addressing the governess. + +Guy caught at this. "Going away, are you? When?" + +He put the question to Miss Silver direct--his eyes blazing right +into her own. She made some confused reply, about "leaving +immediately." + +"In the carriage, of course? Shall I have the honour of driving +you?" + +"No," said Edwin, decisively. + +A fierce, vindictive look passed between the brothers--a look +terrible in itself--more terrible in its warning of days to come. No +wonder the mother shuddered--no wonder the young betrothed, pale and +alarmed, slipped out of the room. Edwin followed her. Then Guy, +snatching up his sister, lifted her roughly on his knee. + +"Come along, Maud. You'll be my girl now. Nobody else wants you. +Kiss me, child." + +But the little lady drew back. + +"So, you hate me too? Edwin has been teaching you? Very well. Get +away, you cheat!" + +He pushed her violently aside. Maud began to cry. + +Her father looked up from his book--the book he had not been reading- +-though he had seemingly thought it best to take no notice of what +was passing around him. + +"Come here, Maud, my child. Guy, you should not be unkind to your +little sister. Try and command yourself, my dear boy!" + +The words, though spoken gently, almost in a whisper, were more than +the lad's chafed spirit could brook. + +"Father, you insult me. I will not bear it. I will quit the room." + +He went out, shutting the door passionately after him. His mother +rose up to follow him--then sat down again. The eyes that she lifted +to her husband were deprecating, beseeching, heavy with a speechless +pain. + +For John--he said nothing. Not though, as was plain to see, this, +the first angry or disrespectful word he had ever received from any +one of his children, struck him like an arrow; for a moment stirred +him even to wrath--holy wrath--the just displeasure of a father who +feels that the least portion of his child's sin is the sin against +him. Perhaps this very feeling, distinct from, and far beyond, all +personal indignation, all sense of offended dignity, made the anger +strangely brief--so brief, that when the other children, awed and +startled, looked for some ebullition of it--lo! it was all gone. In +its stead was something at which the children, more awed still, crept +out of the room. + +Ursula even, alarmed, looked in his face as if for the first time she +could not comprehend her husband. + +"John, you should forgive poor Guy! he did not intend any harm." + +"No--no." + +"And he is so very miserable. Never before did he fail in his duty +to you." + +"But what if I have failed in mine to him?--What if--you used to say +I could not understand Guy--what if I have come short towards him? +I, that am accountable to God for every one of my children." + +"John--John"--she knelt down and put her arms round his neck. +"Husband, do not look unhappy. I did not mean to blame you--we may +be wrong, both of us--all of us. But we will not be afraid. We know +Who pities us, even as we pity our children." + +Thus she spoke, and more to the same purport; but it was a long time +before her words brought any consolation. Then the parents talked +together, trying to arrange some plan whereby Guy's mind might be +occupied and soothed, or else Edwin removed out of his sight for a +little while. Once I hinted at the advantage of Guy's leaving home; +but Mrs. Halifax seemed to shrink from this project as though it were +a foreboding of perpetual exile. + +"No, no; anything but that. Beside, Guy would not wish it. He has +never left me in his life. His going would seem like the general +breaking up of the family." + +Alas! she did not, would not see that the family was already +"broken." Broken, more than either absence, marriage, or death +itself could have effected. + +One thing more we had to consider--a thing at once natural and right +in any family, namely, how to hide its wounds from the chattering, +scandalous world. And so, when by a happy chance there came over +that morning our good friend Lady Oldtower and her carriage full of +daughters, Mrs. Halifax communicated, with a simple dignity that +quelled all comment, the fact of "my son Edwin's engagement," and +accepted the invitation for Maud and Miss Silver, which was willingly +repeated and pressed. + +One thing I noticed, that in speaking of or to the girl who in a +single day from merely the governess had become, and was sedulously +treated as, our own, Mrs. Halifax invariably called her, as +heretofore, "Miss Silver," or "my dear;" never by any chance +"Louise," or "Mademoiselle D'Argent." + +Before she left Beechwood, Edwin came in and hurriedly spoke to his +mother. What he said was evidently painful to both. + +"I am not aware of it, Edwin; I had not the slightest intention of +offending her. Is she already made your judge and referee as to the +actions of your mother?" + +Edwin was a good lad, though perhaps a little less loving than the +rest of the boys. His self-restraint, his exceeding patience, lulled +the threatened storm. + +"But you will be kind to her, mother?--I know you will." + +"Did I not say so?" + +"And may I bring her to you here?" + +"If you choose." + +It was the first open recognition between the mother and her son's +betrothed. Their other meeting had been in public, when, with a +sedulous dread, both had behaved exactly as usual, and no word or +manner had betrayed their altered relations. Now, when for the first +time it was needful for Miss Silver to be received as a daughter +elect, with all the natural sympathy due from one woman to another +under similar circumstances, all the warmth of kindness due from a +mother to her son's chosen wife--then the want, the mournful want, +made itself felt. + +Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying vainly to regain +self-control. + +"If I could only love her! If only she had made me love her!" she +muttered, over and over again. + +I hoped, from the bottom of my soul, that Edwin had not heard her-- +had not seen her involuntarily recoil, as he led to his mother his +handsome girl that he seemed so proud of, his happy, affianced wife. +Happiness melts some natures, like spring and sunshine. Louise +looked up with swimming eyes. + +"Oh! be kind to me! Nobody was ever kind to me till I came here!" + +The good heart gave way: Mrs. Halifax opened her arms. + +"Be true to Edwin--love Edwin, and I shall love you--I am sure I +shall." + +Kissing her once or twice, the mother let fall a few tears; then sat +down, still keeping the girl's hand, and busying herself with various +little kindnesses about her. + +"Are you sure you are well wrapped up? Edwin, see that she has my +fur cloak in the carriage. What cold fingers! Have some wine before +you start, my dear." + +Miss Silver altogether melted; sobbing, she murmured something about +forgiveness. + +"Nay, did I say a word about forgiveness? Then, do not you. Let us +be patient--we shall all be happy in time." + +"And--Guy?" + +"Guy will be himself soon," returned the mother, rather proudly. "We +will not mention him, if you please, my dear." + +At this moment, Guy must have heard the carriage-wheels and guessed +Miss Silver was going, for he appeared at the parlour door. He found +his mother toying with Miss Silver's hand; Edwin standing by, proud +and glad, with his arm clasped round Louise. + +He did not remove it. In his brother's very face--perhaps because of +the expression of that face--the lover held fast his own. + +Mrs. Halifax rose up, alarmed. "She is just going, Guy. Shake +hands, and bid her good-bye." + +The girl's hand, which was sorrowfully and kindly extended, Guy +snatched and held fast. + +"Let her pass," cried Edwin, angrily. + +"Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. Good-bye! +A pleasant journey!" And, still keeping her hand, he gazed with +burning eyes on the features he had so loved--as boys do love--with a +wild imaginative passion, kindled by beauty alone. "I shall claim my +right--just for once--may I, sister Louise?" + +With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's +betrothed round the waist and kissed her--once--twice--savagely. + +It was done so suddenly and under such an ingenious disguise of +"right," that open vengeance was impossible. But as Edwin hurried +Louise away, the look that passed between the two young men was +enough to blot out henceforward all friendship, all brotherhood. +That insult would never be forgotten. + +She was gone--the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was left +alone with me and his mother. + +Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings +and goings--his restless starts--his fits of dark musing, when his +face grew like the face of some stranger, some one whom he would have +shrunk from--any one but our own merry Guy. + +"Mother,"--the voice startled me, such irritable, intolerable +bitterness marred its once pleasant tones--"when do they come back?" + +"Do you mean--" + +"I mean those people." + +"In a week or so. Your brother returns to-night, of course." + +"My BROTHER, eh? Better not say it--it's an ugly word." + +Mrs. Halifax attempted no reproof; she knew that it would have been +useless--worse than useless--then. + +"Mother," Guy said at last, coming up and leaning against her chair, +"you must let me go." + +"Where, my son?" + +"Anywhere--out of their sight--those two. You see, I cannot bear it. +It maddens me--makes me wicked--makes me not myself. Or rather makes +me truly MYSELF, which is altogether wicked." + +"No, Guy--no, my own boy. Have patience--all this will pass away." + +"It might, if I had anything to do. Mother," kneeling down by her +with a piteous gaze--"mother, you need not look so wretched. I +wouldn't harm Edwin--would not take from him his happiness; but to +live in sight of it day after day, hour after hour--I can't do it! +Do not ask me--let me get away." + +"But where?" + +"Anywhere, as I said; only let me go far away from them, where no +possible news of them can reach me. In some place, oh, mother +darling! where I can trouble no one and make no one miserable." + +The mother feebly shook her head. As if such a spot could be found +on earth, while SHE lived. + +But she saw that Guy was right. To expect him to remain at home was +cruelty. As he had said, he could not bear it--few could. Few even +among women--of men much fewer. One great renunciation is possible, +sometimes easy, as death may be; but to "die daily?" In youth, too, +with all the passions vehement, the self-knowledge and self-control +small? No; Nature herself, in that universal desire to escape, which +comes with such a trial, hints at the unnaturalness of the ordeal; in +which, soon or late, the weak become paralysed or callous; the +strong--God help them!--are apt to turn wicked. + +Guy's instinct of flight was, his mother felt, wisest, safest, best. + +"My boy, you shall have your desire; you shall go." + +I had not expected it of her--at least, not so immediately. I had +thought, bound up in him as she was, accustomed to his daily sight, +his daily fondness--for he was more with her, and "petted" her more +than any other of the children--I had thought to have seen some +reluctance, some grieved entreaty--but no! Not even when, gaining +her consent, the boy looked up as if her allowing him to quit her was +the greatest kindness she had ever in his life bestowed. + +"And when shall I go?" + +"Whenever you choose." + +"To-day; perhaps I might get away to-day?" + +"You can, if you wish, my dear boy." + +But no sooner had she said it, than the full force and meaning of the +renunciation seemed to burst upon her. Her fingers, which had been +smoothing Guy's hand as it lay on her lap, tightly closed round it; +with the other hand she put back his hair, gazing--gazing, as if it +were impossible to part with him. + +"Guy--oh, Guy, my heart is breaking! Promise that you will try to be +yourself again--that you will never be anything other than my own +good boy, if I agree to let you go?" What he answered, or what +further passed between them, was not for me either to hear or to +know. I left the room immediately. + +When, some time after John's hour for returning from the mills, I +also returned to the house, I found that everything was settled for +Guy's immediate departure. + +There was some business in Spain--something about Andalusian wool-- +which his father made the ostensible reason for the journey. It +would occupy him and distract his mind, besides giving him constant +necessity of change. And, they say, travel is the best cure for the +heart-ache. We hoped it might prove so. + +Perhaps the sorest point, and one that had been left undecided till +both parents saw that in Guy's present mood any opposition was +hurtful, even dangerous, was the lad's obstinate determination to +depart alone. He refused his mother's companionship to London, even +his father's across the country to the nearest point where one of +those new and dangerous things called railways tempted travellers to +their destruction. But Guy would go by it--the maddest and strangest +way of locomotion pleased him best. So it was settled he should go, +as he pleaded, this very day. + +A strange day it seemed--long and yet how short! Mrs. Halifax was +incessantly busy. I caught sight of her now and then, flitting from +room to room, with Guy's books in her hand--Guy's linen thrown across +her arm. Sometimes she stood a few minutes by the window, doing a +few stitches of necessary work, which, when even nurse Watkins +offered to do--Jenny, who had been a rosy lass when Guy was born--she +refused abruptly, and went stitching on. + +There were no regular meals that day; better not, perhaps. I saw +John come up to his wife as she stood sewing, and bring her a piece +of bread and a glass of wine--but she could not touch either. + +"Mother, try," whispered Guy, mournfully. "What will become of me if +I have made you ill?" + +"Oh, no fear, no fear!" She smiled, took the wine and swallowed it-- +broke off a bit of the bread,--and went on with her work. + +The last hour or two passed so confusedly that I do not well remember +them. I can only call to mind seeing Guy and his mother everywhere +side by side, doing everything together, as if grudging each instant +remaining till the final instant came. I have also a vivid +impression of her astonishing composure, of her calm voice when +talking to Guy about indefinite trifles, or, though that was seldom, +to any other of us. It never faltered--never lost its rich, round, +cheerfulness of tone; as if she wished him to carry it as such, and +no other--the familiar mother's voice--in his memory across the seas. + +Once only it grew sharp, when Walter, who hovered about +disconsolately, knelt down to fasten his brother's portmanteau. + +"No! Let go! I can do everything myself." + +And now the time was fast flying--her boy must depart. + +All the household collected in the hall to bid Mr. Guy good-bye--Mr. +Guy whom everybody was so fond of. They believed--which was all that +any one, save ourselves, ever knew--that sudden business had called +him away on a long and anxious journey. They lingered about him, +respectfully, with eager, honest blessings, such as it was good the +lad should have--good that he should bear away with him from England +and from home. + +Finally, Guy, his father, and his mother went into the study by +themselves. Soon even his father came out and shut the door, that +there should be not a single witness to the last few words between +mother and son. These being over, they both came into the hall +together, brave and calm--which calmness was maintained even to the +last good-bye. + +Thus we sent our Guy away, cheerfully and with blessings--away into +the wide, dangerous world; alone, with no guard or restraint, except +(and in that EXCEPT lay the whole mystery of our cheerfulness)--the +fear of God, his father's counsels, and his mother's prayers. + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +Two years rolled over Beechwood--two uneventful years. The last of +the children ceased to be a child; and we prepared for that great era +in all household history, the first marriage in the family. It was +to be celebrated very quietly, as Edwin and Louise both desired. +Time had healed over many a pang, and taught many a soothing lesson; +still it could not be supposed that this marriage was without its +painfulness. + +Guy still remained abroad; his going had produced the happy result +intended. Month after month his letters came, each more hopeful than +the last, each bringing balm to the mother's heart. Then he wrote to +others beside his mother: Maud and Walter replied to him in long +home-histories; and began to talk without hesitation--nay, with great +pride and pleasure--"of my brother who is abroad." + +The family wound was closing, the family peace about to be restored; +Maud even fancied Guy ought to come home to "our wedding;"--but then +she had never been told the whole of past circumstances; and, +besides, she was still too young to understand love matters. Yet so +mercifully had time smoothed down all things, that it sometimes +appeared even to us elders as if those three days of bitterness were +a mere dream--as if the year we dreaded had passed as calmly as any +other year. Save that in this interval Ursula's hair had begun to +turn from brown to grey; and John first mentioned, so cursorily that +I cannot even now remember when or where, that slight pain, almost +too slight to complain of, which he said warned him in climbing +Enderley Hill that he could not climb so fast as when he was young. +And I returned his smile, telling him we were evidently growing old +men; and must soon set our faces to descend the hill of life. Easy +enough I was in saying this, thinking, as I often did, with great +content, that there was not the faintest doubt which of us would +reach the bottom first. + +Yet I was glad to have safely passed my half century of life--glad to +have seen many of John's cares laid to rest, more especially those +external troubles which I have not lately referred to--for, indeed, +they were absorbed and forgotten in the home-troubles that came +after. He had lived down all slanders, as he said he would. Far and +near travelled the story of the day when Jessop's bank was near +breaking; far and near, though secretly--for we found it out chiefly +by its results--poor people whispered the tale of a gentleman who had +been attacked on the high roads, and whose only attempt at bringing +the robbers to justice was to help the widow of one and send the +others safe out of the country, at his own expense, not Government's. +None of these were notable or showy deeds--scarcely one of them got, +even under the disguise of asterisks, into the newspaper; the Norton +Bury Mercury, for its last dying sting, still complained (and very +justly) that there was not a gentleman in the county whose name so +seldom headed a charity subscription as that of John Halifax, +Esquire, of Beechwood. But the right made its way, as, soon or late, +the right always does; he believed his good name was able to defend +itself, and it did defend itself; he had faith in the only victory +worth having--the universal victory of Truth; and Truth conquered at +last. + +To drive with him across the country--he never carried pistols now,-- +or to walk with him, as one day before Edwin's wedding we walked, a +goodly procession, through the familiar streets of Norton Bury, was a +perpetual pleasure to the rest of the family. Everybody knew him, +everybody greeted him, everybody smiled as he passed--as though his +presence and his recognition were good things to have and to win. +His wife often laughed, and said she doubted whether even Mr. +O'Connell of Derrynane, who was just now making a commotion in +Ireland, lighting the fire of religious and political discord from +one end to the other of County Clare;--she doubted if even Daniel +O'Connell had more popularity among his own people than John Halifax +had in the primitive neighbourhood where he had lived so long. + +Mrs. Halifax herself was remarkably gay this morning. She had had +letters from Guy; together with a lovely present, for which he said +he had ransacked all the magazins des modes in Paris--a white +embroidered China shawl. It had arrived this morning--Lord Ravenel +being the bearer. This was not the first time by many that he had +brought us news of our Guy, and thereby made himself welcome at +Beechwood. More welcome than he might have been otherwise; for his +manner of life was so different from ours. Not that Lord Ravenel +could be accused of any likeness to his father; but blood is blood, +and education and habits are not to be easily overcome. The boys +laughed at him for his aristocratic, languid ways; Maud teased him +for his mild cynicism and the little interest he seemed to take in +anything; while the mother herself was somewhat restless about his +coming, wondering what possible good his acquaintance could do to us, +or ours to him, seeing we moved in totally different spheres. But +John himself was invariably kind, nay, tender over him--we all +guessed why. And perhaps even had not the young man had so many good +points, while his faults were more negations than positive ill +qualities, we likewise should have been tender over him--for Muriel's +sake. + +He had arrived at Beechwood this morning, and falling as usual into +our family routine, had come with us to Norton Bury. He looked up +with more interest than usual in his pensive eyes, as he crossed the +threshold of our old house, and told Maud how he had come there many +years ago with his father. + +"That was the first time I ever met your father," I overheard him say +to Maud--not without feeling; as if he thought he owed fate some +gratitude for the meeting. + +Mrs. Halifax, in the casual civil inquiry which was all the old earl +ever won in our house, asked after the health of Lord Luxmore. + +"He is still at Compiegne. Does not Guy mention him? Lord Luxmore +takes the greatest pleasure in Guy's society." + +By her start, this was evidently new and not welcome tidings to Guy's +mother. No wonder. Any mother in England would have shrank from the +thought that her best-beloved son--especially a young man of Guy's +temperament, and under Guy's present circumstances--was thrown into +the society which now surrounded the debauched dotage of the +too-notorious Earl of Luxmore. + +"My son did not mention it. He has been too much occupied in +business matters to write home frequently, since he reached Paris. +However his stay there is limited;" and this seemed to relieve her. +"I doubt if he will have much time left to visit Compiegne." + +She said no more than this, of course, to Lord Luxmore's son; but her +disquiet was sufficiently apparent. + +"It was I who brought your son to Compiegne--where he is a universal +favourite, from his wit and liveliness. I know no one who is a more +pleasant companion than Guy." + +Guy's mother bowed--but coldly. + +"I think, Mrs. Halifax, you are aware that the earl's tastes and mine +differ widely--have always differed. But he is an old man, and I am +his only son. He likes to see me sometimes, and I go:--though, I +must confess, I take little pleasure in the circle he has around +him." + +"In which circle, as I understand, my son is constantly included?" + +"Why not? It is a very brilliant circle. The whole court of Charles +Dix can afford none more amusing. For the rest, what matters? One +learns to take things as they seem, without peering below the +surface. One wearies of impotent Quixotism against unconquerable +evils." + +"That is not our creed at Beechwood," said Mrs. Halifax, abruptly, as +she ceased the conversation. But ever and anon it seemed to recur to +her mind--ay, through all the mirth of the young people, all the +graver pleasure which the father took in the happiness of his son +Edwin; his good son, who had never given him a single care. He +declared this settling of Edwin had been to him almost like the days +when he himself used to come of evenings, hammer in hand, to put up +shelves in the house, or nail the currant-bushes against the wall, +doing everything con amore, and with the utmost care, knowing it +would come under the quick observant eyes of Ursula March. + +"That is, of Ursula Halifax--for I don't think I let her see a single +one of my wonderful doings until she was Ursula Halifax. Do you +remember, Phineas, when you came to visit us the first time, and +found us gardening?" + +"And she had on a white gown and a straw hat with blue ribbons. What +a young thing she looked!--hardly older than Mistress Maud here." + +John put his arm round his wife's waist--not so slender as it had +been, but comely and graceful still, repeating--with something of the +musical cadence of his boyish readings of poetry--a line or two from +the sweet old English song: + + "And when with envy Time transported + Shall think to rob us of our joys, + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing with my boys." + +Ursula laughed, and for the time being the shadow passed from her +countenance. Her husband had happily not noticed it: and +apparently, she did not wish to tell him her trouble. She let him +spend a happy day, even grew happy herself in response to his care to +make her so, by the resolute putting away of all painful present +thoughts, and calling back of sweet and soothing memories belonging +to this their old married home. John seemed determined that, if +possible, the marriage that was to be should be as sacred and as +hopeful as their own. + +So full of it were we all, that not until the day after, when Lord +Ravenel had left us,--longing apparently to be asked to stay for the +wedding, but John did not ask him,--I remembered what he had said +about Guy's association with Lord Luxmore's set. It was recalled to +me by the mother's anxious face, as she gave me a foreign letter to +post. + +"Post it yourself, will you, Phineas? I would not have it miscarry, +or be late in its arrival, on any account." + +No, for I saw it was to her son, at Paris. + +"It will be the last letter I shall need to write," she added, again +lingering over it, to be certain that all was correct--the address +being somewhat illegible for that free, firm hand of hers. "My boy +is coming home." + +"Guy coming home! To the marriage?" + +"No; but immediately after. He is quite himself now. He longs to +come home." + +"And his mother?" + +His mother could not speak. Like light to her eyes, like life to her +heart, was the thought of Guy's coming home. All that week she +looked ten years younger. With a step buoyant as any girl's she went +about the marriage preparations; together with other preparations, +perhaps dearer still to the motherly heart, where, if any preference +did lurk, it was for the one for whom--possibly from whom--she had +suffered most, of all her children. + +John, too, though the father's joy was graver and not unmixed with +some anxiety--anxiety which he always put aside in his wife's +presence--seemed eager to have his son at home. + +"He is the eldest son," he repeated more than once, when talking to +me of his hope that Guy would now settle permanently at Beechwood. +"After myself, the head of the family." + +After John! It was almost ridiculous to peer so far into the future +as that. + +Of all the happy faces I saw the day before the marriage, I think the +happiest was Mrs. Halifax's, as I met her coming out of Guy's room, +which ever since he left had been locked up, unoccupied. Now his +mother threw open the door with a cheerful air. + +"You may go in if you like, Uncle Phineas. Does it not look nice?" + +It did indeed, with the fresh white curtains; the bed laid all in +order; the book-shelves arranged, and even the fowling-piece and +fishing-rod put in the right places. + +The room looked very neat, I said, with an amused doubt as to how +long it was to remain so. + +"That is true, indeed. How he used to throw his things about! A sad +untidy boy!" And his mother laughed; but I saw all her features were +trembling with emotion. + +"He will not be exactly a boy now. I wonder if we shall find him +much changed." + +"Very likely. Brown, with a great beard; he said so in one of his +letters. I shall hardly know my boy again."--With a lighting-up of +the eye that furnished a flat contradiction to the mother's +statement. + +"Here are some of Mrs. Tod's roses, I see." + +"She made me take them. She said Master Guy always used to stop and +pick a bunch as he rode past. She hopes she shall see him ride past +on Sunday next. Guy must pay her one of his very first visits; the +good old soul!" + +I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over the country, to +judge by the number of invitations I had heard of. + +"Yes. Everybody wants to steal my boy. Everybody has a welcome for +him.--How bright old Watkins has polished that gun!--Sir Herbert +says, Guy must come over to the shooting next week. He used to be +exceedingly fond of going to the manor-house." + +I smiled to see the innocent smile of this good mother, who would +have recoiled at the accusation of match-making. Yet I knew she was +thinking of her great favourite, pretty Grace Oldtower; who was Grace +Oldtower still, and had refused, gossip said, half the brilliant +matches in the county, to the amazement and strong disapprobation of +all her friends--excepting Mrs. Halifax. + +"Come away, Phineas!" slightly sighing, as if her joy weighed her +down, or as if conscious that she was letting fancy carry her too far +into the unknown future. "His room is quite ready now, whatever time +the boy arrives. Come away." + +She shut and locked the door. To be opened--when? + +Morning broke, and none could have desired a brighter marriage- +morning. Sunshine out of doors--sunshine on all the faces within; +only family faces,--for no other guests had been invited, and we had +kept the day as secret as we could; there was nothing John disliked +more than a show-wedding. Therefore it was with some surprise that +while they were all up-stairs adorning themselves for church, Maud +and I, standing at the hall-door, saw Lord Ravenel's travelling +carriage drive up to it, and Lord Ravenel himself, with a quicker and +more decided gesture than was natural to him, spring out. + +Maud ran into the porch; startling him much, apparently; for indeed +she was a sweet vision of youth, happiness, and grace, in her pretty +bridesmaid's dress. + +"Is this the wedding-morning? I did not know--I will come again +to-morrow;" and he seemed eager to escape back to his carriage. + +This action relieved me from a vague apprehension of ill tidings, and +made less painful the first question which rose to my lips, "Had he +seen Guy?" + +"No." + +"We thought for the moment it might be Guy come home," Maud cried. +"We are expecting him. Have you heard of him since we saw you? Is +he quite well?" + +"I believe so." + +I thought the answer brief; but then he was looking intently upon +Guy's sister, who held his hands in her childish, affectionate way; +she had not yet relinquished her privilege of being Lord Ravenel's +"pet." When, hesitatingly, he proposed returning to Luxmore, +unwilling to intrude upon the marriage, the little lady would not +hear of it for a moment. She took the unexpected guest to the study, +left him there with her father, explained to her mother all about his +arrival and his having missed seeing Guy--appearing entirely +delighted. + +I came into the drawing-room, and sat watching the sun shining on +marriage-garments and marriage-faces, all as bright as bright could +be,--including the mother's. It had clouded over for a few moments +when the postman's ring was heard; but she said at once that it was +most unlikely Guy would write--she had told him there was no need to +write. So she stood content, smoothing down the soft folds of her +beautiful shawl, which Guy meant her to wear to-day. This, together +with his fond remembrance of her, seemed almost as comfortable as the +visible presence of her boy. Her boy, who was sure to come +to-morrow. + +"John, is that you? How softly you came in. And Lord Ravenel! He +knows we are glad to see him. Shall we make him one of our own +family for the time being, and take him with us to see Edwin +married?" + +Lord Ravenel bowed. + +"Maud tells us you have not seen Guy. I doubt if he will be able to +arrive to-day; but we fully expect him tomorrow." + +Lord Ravenel bowed again. Mrs. Halifax said something about this +unexpected arrival of his. + +"He came on business," John answered quickly, and Ursula made no more +inquiries. + +She stood, talking with Lord Ravenel--as I could see her stand now, +playing with the deep fringe of her shawl; the sun glancing on that +rich silk dress, of her favourite silver-grey; a picture of matronly +grace and calm content, as charming as even the handsome, happy +bride. + +I was still looking at her, when John called me aside. I followed +him to the study. + +"Shut the door." + +By his tone and look I knew in a moment that something had happened. + +"Yes. I'll tell you presently--if there's time." + +While he was speaking some violent pain--physical or mental, or both- +-seemed to seize him. I had my hand on the door to call Ursula, but +he held me fast with a kind of terror. + +"Call no one. I am used to it. Water!" + +He drank a glassful, which stood by, breathed once or twice heavily, +and gradually recovered himself. The colour had scarcely come back +into his face when he heard Maud run laughing through the hall. + +"Father, where are you? We are waiting for you." + +"I will come in two minutes, my child." + +Having said this, in his own natural voice, he closed the door again, +and spoke to me rapidly. + +"Phineas, I want you to stay away from church; make some excuse, or I +will for you. Write a letter for me to this address in Paris. Say-- +Guy Halifax's father will be there, without fail, within a week, to +answer all demands." + +"All demands!" I echoed, bewildered. + +He repeated the sentence word for word. "Can you remember it? +Literally, mind! And post it at once, before we return from church." + +Here the mother's call was heard. "John, are you coming?" + +"In a moment, love," for her hand was on the door outside; but her +husband held the other handle fast. He then went on, breathlessly, +"You understand, Phineas? And you will be careful, very careful? +SHE MUST NOT KNOW--not till tonight." + +"One word. Guy is alive and well?" + +"Yes--yes." + +"Thank God!" + +But Guy's father was gone while I spoke. Heavy as the news might be- +-this ill news which had struck me with apprehension the moment I saw +Lord Ravenel--it was still endurable. I could not conjure up any +grief so bitter as the boy's dying. + +Therefore, with a quietness that came naturally under the compulsion +of such a necessity as the present, I rejoined the rest, made my +excuses, and answered all objections. I watched the marriage-party +leave the house. A simple procession--the mother first, leaning on +Edwin; then Maud, Walter, and Lord Ravenel; John walked last, with +Louise upon his arm. Thus I saw them move up the garden, and through +the beech-wood, to the little church on the hill. + +I then wrote the letter and sent it off. That done, I went back into +the study. Knowing nothing--able to guess nothing--a dull patience +came over me, the patience with which we often wait for unknown, +inevitable misfortunes. Sometimes I almost forgot Guy in my startled +remembrance of his father's look as he called me away, and sat down-- +or rather dropped down--into his chair. Was it illness? yet he had +not complained; he hardly ever complained, and scarcely had a day's +sickness from year to year. And as I watched him and Louise up the +garden, I had noticed his free, firm gait, without the least sign of +unsteadiness or weakness. Besides, he was not one to keep any but a +necessary secret from those who loved him. He could not be seriously +ill, or we should have known it. + +Thus I pondered, until I heard the church bells ring out merrily. +The marriage was over. + +I was just in time to meet them at the front gates, which they +entered--our Edwin and his wife--through a living line of smiling +faces, treading upon a carpet of strewn flowers. Enderley would not +be defrauded of its welcome--all the village escorted the young +couple in triumph home. I have a misty recollection of how happy +everybody looked, how the sun was shining, and the bells ringing, and +the people cheering--a mingled phantasmagoria of sights and sounds, +in which I only saw one person distinctly,--John. + +He waited while the young folk passed in--stood on the hall-steps--in +a few words thanked his people, and bade them to the general +rejoicing. They, uproarious, answered in loud hurrahs, and one +energetic voice cried out: + +"One cheer more for Master Guy!" + +Guy's mother turned delighted--her eyes shining with proud tears. + +"John--thank them; tell them that Guy will thank them himself +to-morrow." + +The master thanked them, but either he did not explain--or the honest +rude voices drowned all mention of the latter fact--that Guy would be +home to-morrow. + +All this while, and at the marriage-breakfast likewise, Mr. Halifax +kept the same calm demeanour. Once only, when the rest were all +gathered round the bride and bridegroom, he said to me: + +"Phineas, is it done?" + +"What is done?" asked Ursula, suddenly passing. + +"A letter I asked him to write for me this morning." + +Now I had all my life been proud of John's face--that it was a safe +face to trust in--that it could not, or if it could, it would not, +boast that stony calm under which some men are so proud of disguising +themselves and their emotions from those nearest and dearest to them. +If he were sad, we knew it; if he were happy, we knew it too. It was +his principle, that nothing but the strongest motive should make a +man stoop to even the smallest hypocrisy. + +Therefore, hearing him thus speak to his wife, I was struck with +great alarm. Mrs. Halifax herself seemed uneasy. + +"A business letter, I suppose?" + +"Partly on business. I will tell you all about it this evening." + +She looked re-assured. "Just as you like; you know I am not +curious." But passing on, she turned back. "John, if it was +anything important to be done--anything that I ought to know at once, +you would not keep me in ignorance?" + +"No--my dearest! No!" + +Then what had happened must be something in which no help availed; +something altogether past and irremediable; something which he +rightly wished to keep concealed, for a few hours at least, from his +other children, so as not to mar the happiness of this day, of which +there could be no second, this crowning day of their lives--this +wedding-day of Edwin and Louise. + +So, he sat at the marriage-table; he drank the marriage-health; he +gave them both a marriage-blessing. Finally, he sent them away, +smiling and sorrowful--as is the bounden duty of young married +couples to depart--Edwin pausing even on the carriage-step to embrace +his mother with especial tenderness, and whisper her to "give his +love to Guy." + +"It reminds one of Guy's leaving," said the mother, hastily brushing +back the tears that would spring and roll down her smiling face. She +had never, until this moment, reverted to that miserable day. "John, +do you think it possible the boy can be at home to-night?" + +John answered emphatically, but very softly, "No." + +"Why not? My letter would reach him in full time. Lord Ravenel has +been to Paris and back since then. But--" turning full upon the +young nobleman--"I think you said you had not seen Guy?" + +"No." + +"Did you hear anything of him?" + +"I--Mrs. Halifax--" + +Exceedingly distressed, almost beyond his power of self-restraint, +the young man looked appealingly to John, who replied for him: + +"Lord Ravenel brought me a letter from Guy this morning." + +"A letter from Guy--and you never told me. How very strange!" + +Still, she seemed only to think it "strange." Some difficulty or +folly perhaps--you could see by the sudden flushing of her cheek, +and her quick, distrustful glance at Lord Ravenel, what she imagined +it was--that the boy had confessed to his father. With an instinct +of concealment--the mother's instinct--for the moment she asked no +questions. + +We were all still standing at the hall-door. Unresisting, she +suffered her husband to take her arm in his and bring her into the +study. + +"Now--the letter, please! Children, go away; I want to speak to your +father. The letter, John?" + +Her hand, which she held out, shook much. She tried to unfold the +paper--stopped, and looked up piteously. + +"It is not to tell me he is not coming home? I can bear anything, +you know--but he MUST come." + +John only answered, "Read,"--and took firm hold of her hand while she +read--as we hold the hand of one undergoing great torture,--which +must be undergone, and which no human love can either prepare for, or +remove, or alleviate. + +The letter, which I saw afterwards, was thus; + +"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, + "I have disgraced you all. I have been drunk--in a gaming- +house. A man insulted me--it was about my father--but you will hear- +-all the world will hear presently. I struck him--there was +something in my hand, and--the man was hurt. + + "He may be dead by this time. I don't know. + + "I am away to America to-night. I shall never come home any +more. God bless you all. + + "GUY HALIFAX. + +"P.S. I got my mother's letter to-day. Mother--I was not in my +right senses, or I should not have done it. Mother, darling! forget +me. Don't let me have broken your heart." + +Alas, he had broken it! + +"Never come home any more!--Never come home any more!" + +She repeated this over and over again, vacantly: nothing but these +five words. + +Nature refused to bear it; or rather, Nature mercifully helped her to +bear it. When John took his wife in his arms she was insensible; and +remained so, with intervals, for hours. + +This was the end of Edwin's wedding-day. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +Lord Ravenel knew--as all Paris did by this time--the whole story. +Though, as he truly said, he had not seen Guy. The lad was hurried +off immediately, for fear of justice: but he had written from +shipboard to Lord Ravenel, begging him himself to take the letter and +break the news to us at Beechwood. + +The man he had struck was not one of Lord Luxmore's set--though it +was through some of his "noble" friends Guy had fallen into his +company. He was an Englishman, lately succeeded to a baronetcy and +estate; his name--how we started to hear it, though by Lord Ravenel +and by us, for his sake, it was both pronounced and listened to, as +if none of us had ever heard it before--Sir Gerard Vermilye. + +As soon as Ursula recovered, Mr. Halifax and Lord Ravenel went to +Paris together. This was necessary, not only to meet justice, but to +track the boy--to whose destination we had no clue but the wide +world, America. Guy's mother hurried them away--his mother, who rose +from her bed, and moved about the house like a ghost--up-stairs and +down-stairs--everywhere--excepting in that room, which was now once +more locked, and the outer blind drawn down, as if Death himself had +taken possession there. + +Alas! we learned now that there may be sorrows bitterer even than +death. + +Mr. Halifax went away. Then followed a long season of torpid gloom-- +days or weeks, I hardly remember--during which we, living shut up at +Beechwood, knew that our name--John's stainless, honourable name--was +in everybody's mouth--parrotted abroad in every society--canvassed in +every newspaper. We tried, Walter and I, to stop them at first, +dreading lest the mother might read in some foul print or other +scurrilous tales about her boy; or, as long remained doubtful, learn +that he was proclaimed through France and England as a homicide--an +assassin. But concealments were idle--she would read everything-- +hear everything--meet everything--even those neighbours who out of +curiosity or sympathy called at Beechwood. Not many times, though; +they said they could not understand Mrs. Halifax. So, after a while, +they all left her alone, except good little Grace Oldtower. + +"Come often," I heard her say to this girl, whom she was fond of: +they had sat talking a whole morning--idly and pensively; of little +things around them, never once referring to things outside. "Come +often, though the house is dull. Does it not feel strange, with Mr. +Halifax away?" + +Ay, this was the change--stranger at first than what had befallen +Guy--for that long seemed a thing we could not realise; like a story +told of some other family than ours. The present tangible blank was +the house with its head and master away. + +Curiously enough, but from his domestic habits easily accountable, he +had scarcely ever been more than a few days absent from home before. +We missed him continually; in his place at the head of the table; in +his chair by the fire; his quick ring at the hall bell, when he came +up from the mills--his step--his voice--his laugh. The life and soul +of the house seemed to have gone out of it from the hour the father +went away. + +I think in the wonderful workings of things--as we know all things do +work together for good--this fact was good for Ursula. It taught her +that, in losing Guy, she had not lost all her blessings. It showed +her what in the passion of her mother-love she might have been +tempted to forget--many mothers do--that beyond all maternal duty, is +the duty that a woman owes to her husband: beyond all loves, is the +love that was hers before any of them were born. + +So, gradually, as every day John's letters came,--and she used to +watch for them and seize them as if they had been love-letters; as +every day she seemed to miss him more, and count more upon his +return; referring all decisions, and all little pleasures planned for +her, to the time "when your father comes home;"--hope and comfort +began to dawn in the heart of the mourning mother. + +And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back, I saw Ursula +tying up the small bundle of his letters--his letters, of which in +all her happy life she had had so few--his tender, comforting, +comfortable letters. + +"I hope I shall never need to have any more," she said, half-smiling- +-the faint smile which began to dawn in her poor face, as if she must +accustom it to look bright again in time for her husband's coming. + +And when the day arrived, she put all the house in trim order, +dressed herself in her prettiest gown, sat patient while Maud brushed +and curled her hair--how white it had turned of late!--and then +waited, with a flush on her cheek--like that of a young girl waiting +for her lover--for the sound of carriage-wheels. + +All that had to be told about Guy--and it was better news than any +one of us had hoped for--John had already told in his letters. When +he came back, therefore, he was burthened with no trouble +undisclosed--greeted with no anguish of fear or bitter remembrance. +As he sprang out of the post-chaise, it was to find his wife standing +at the door, and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome. No +blessing on earth could be like the blessing of the father's return. + +John looked pale, but not paler than might have been expected. +Grave, too--but it was a soft seriousness altogether free from the +restlessness of keen anxiety. The first shock of this heavy +misfortune was over. He had paid all his son's debts; he had, as far +as was possible, saved his good name; he had made a safe home for the +lad, and heard of his safely reaching it, in the New World. Nothing +more was left but to cover over the inevitable grief, and hope that +time would blot out the intolerable shame. That since Guy's hand was +clear of blood--and, since his recovery, Sir Gerard Vermilye had +risen into a positive hero of society--men's minds would gradually +lose the impression of a deed committed in heat of youth, and +repented of with such bitter atonement. + +So the father took his old place, and looked round on the remnant of +his children, grave indeed, but not weighed down by incurable +suffering. Something, deeper even than the hard time he had recently +passed through, seemed to have made his home more than ever dear to +him. He sat in his arm-chair, never weary of noticing everything +pleasant about him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked, and how +delicious it was to be at home. And perpetually, if any chance +unlinked it, his hand would return to its clasp of Ursula's; the +minute she left her place by his side, his restless "Love, where are +you going?" would call her back again. And once, when the children +were out of the room, and I, sitting in a dark corner, was probably +thought absent likewise, I saw John take his wife's face between his +two hands, and look in it--the fondest, most lingering, saddest +look!--then fold her tightly to his breast. + +"I must never be away from her again. Mine--for as long as I live, +mine--MY wife, MY Ursula!" + +She took it all naturally, as she had taken every expression of his +love these nine-and-twenty years. I left them, standing eye to eye, +heart to heart, as if nothing in this world could ever part them. + +Next morning was as gay as any of our mornings used to be, for, +before breakfast, came Edwin and Louise. And after breakfast, the +father and mother and I walked up and down the garden for an hour, +talking over the prospects of the young couple. Then the post came-- +but we had no need to watch for it now. It only brought a letter +from Lord Ravenel. + +John read it, somewhat more seriously than he had been used to read +these letters--which for the last year or so had come often enough-- +the boys usually quizzing, and Mistress Maud vehemently defending, +the delicate small hand-writing, the exquisite paper, the coronetted +seal, and the frank in the corner. John liked to have them, and his +wife also--she being not indifferent to the fact, confirmed by many +other facts, that if there was one man in the world whom Lord Ravenel +honoured and admired, it was John Halifax of Beechwood. But this +time her pleasure was apparently damped; and when Maud, claiming the +letter as usual, spread abroad, delightedly, the news that "her" Lord +Ravenel was coming shortly, I imagined this visit was not so welcome +as usual to the parents. + +Yet still, as many a time before, when Mr. Halifax closed the letter, +he sighed, looked sorrowful, saying only, "Poor Lord Ravenel!" + +"John," asked his wife, speaking in a whisper, for by tacit consent +all public allusion to his doings at Paris was avoided in the family- +-"did you, by any chance, hear anything of--You know whom I mean?" + +"Not one syllable." + +"You inquired?" He assented. "I knew you would. She must be almost +an old woman now, or perhaps she is dead. Poor Caroline!" + +It was the first time for years and years that this name had been +breathed in our household. Involuntarily it carried me back--perhaps +others besides me--to the day at Longfield when little Guy had +devoted himself to his "pretty lady;" when we first heard that other +name, which by a curious conjuncture of circumstances had since +become so fatally familiar, and which would henceforward be like the +sound of a death-bell in our family--Gerard Vermilye. + +On Lord Ravenel's re-appearance at Beechwood--and he seemed eager and +glad to come--I was tempted to wish him away. He never crossed the +threshold but his presence brought a shadow over the parents' looks-- +and no wonder. The young people were gay and friendly as ever; made +him always welcome with us; and he rode over daily from desolate, +long-uninhabited Luxmore, where, in all its desolation, he appeared +so fond of abiding. + +He wanted to take Maud and Walter over there one day, to see some +magnificent firs that were being cut down in a wholesale massacre, +leaving the grand old Hall as bare as a workhouse front. But the +father objected; he was clearly determined that all the hospitalities +between Luxmore and Beechwood should be on the Beechwood side. + +Lord Ravenel apparently perceived this. "Luxmore is not Compiegne," +he said to me, with his dreary smile, half-sad, half-cynical. "Mr. +Halifax might indulge me with the society of his children." + +And as he lay on the grass--it was full summer now--watching Maud's +white dress flit about under the trees, I saw, or fancied I saw, +something different to any former expression that had ever lighted up +the soft languid mien of William Lord Ravenel. + +"How tall that child has grown lately! She is about nineteen, I +think?" + +"Not seventeen till December." + +"Ah, so young?--Well, it is pleasant to be young!--Dear little Maud!" + +He turned on one side, hiding the sun from his eyes with those +delicate ringed hands--which many a time our boys had laughed at, +saying they were mere lady's hands, fit for no work at all. + +Perhaps Lord Ravenel felt the cloud that had come over our +intercourse with him; a cloud which, considering late events, was +scarcely unnatural: for when evening came, his leave-taking, always +a regret, seemed now as painful as his blase indifference to all +emotions, pleasant or unpleasant, could allow. He lingered--he +hesitated--he repeated many times how glad he should be to see +Beechwood again; how all the world was to him "flat, stale, and +unprofitable," except Beechwood. + +John made no special answer; except that frank smile not without a +certain kindly satire, under which the young nobleman's Byronic +affectations generally melted away like mists in the morning. He +kindled up into warmth and manliness. + +"I thank you, Mr. Halifax--I thank you heartily for all you and your +household have been to me. I trust I shall enjoy your friendship for +many years. And if, in any way, I might offer mine, or any small +influence in the world--" + +"Your influence is not small," John returned earnestly. "I have +often told you so. I know no man who has wider opportunities than +you have." + +"But I have let them slip--for ever." + +"No, not for ever. You are young still; you have half a lifetime +before you." + +"Have I?" And for the moment one would hardly have recognized the +sallow, spiritless face, that with all the delicacy of boyhood still, +at times looked so exceedingly old. "No, no, Mr. Halifax, who ever +heard of a man beginning life at seven-and-thirty?" + +"Are you really seven-and-thirty?" asked Maud. + +"Yes--yes, my girl. Is it so very old?" + +He patted her on the shoulder, took her hand, gazed at it--the round, +rosy, girlish hand--with a melancholy tenderness; then bade +"Good-bye" to us all generally, and rode off. + +It struck me then, though I hurried the thought away--it struck me +afterwards, and does now with renewed surprise--how strange it was +that the mother never noticed or took into account certain +possibilities that would have occurred naturally to any worldly +mother. I can only explain it by remembering the unworldliness of +our lives at Beechwood, the heavy cares which now pressed upon us +from without, and the notable fact--which our own family experience +ought to have taught us, yet did not--that in cases like this, often +those whom one would have expected to be most quick-sighted, are the +most strangely, irretrievably, mournfully blind. + +When, the very next day, Lord Ravenel, not on horse-back but in his +rarely-used luxurious coronetted carriage, drove up to Beechwood, +every one in the house except myself was inconceivably astonished to +see him back again. + +He said that he had delayed his journey to Paris, and gave no +explanation of that delay. He joined as usual in our midday dinner; +and after dinner, still as usual, took a walk with me and Maud. It +happened to be through the beech-wood, almost the identical path that +I remembered taking, years and years ago, with John and Ursula. I +was surprised to hear Lord Ravenel allude to the fact, a well-known +fact in our family; for I think all fathers and mothers like to +relate, and all children to hear, the slightest incidents of the +parents' courting days. + +"You did not know father and mother when they were young?" said Maud, +catching our conversation and flashing back her innocent, merry face +upon us. + +"No, scarcely likely." And he smiled. "Oh, yes--it might have been- +-I forget, I am not a young man now. How old were Mr. and Mrs. +Halifax when they married?" + +"Father was twenty-one and mother was eighteen--only a year older +than I." And Maud, half ashamed of this suggestive remark, ran away. +Her gay candour proved to me--perhaps to others besides me--the +girl's entire free-heartedness. The frank innocence of childhood was +still hers. + +Lord Ravenel looked after her and sighed. "It is good to marry +early; do you not think so, Mr. Fletcher?" + +I told him--(I was rather sorry after I had said it, if one ought to +be sorry for having, when questioned, given one's honest opinion)--I +told him that I thought those happiest who found their happiness +early, but that I did not see why happiness should be rejected +because it was the will of Providence that it should not be found +till late. + +"I wonder," he said, dreamily, "I wonder whether I shall ever find +it." + +I asked him--it was by an impulse irresistible--why he had never +married? + +"Because I never found any woman either to love or to believe in. +Worse," he added, bitterly, "I did not think there lived the woman +who could be believed in." + +We had come out of the beech-wood and were standing by the low +churchyard wall; the sun glittered on the white marble head-stone on +which was inscribed, "Muriel Joy Halifax." + +Lord Ravenel leaned over the wall, his eyes fixed upon that little +grave. After a while, he said, sighing: + +"Do you know, I have thought sometimes that, had she lived, I could +have loved--I might have married--that child!" + +Here Maud sprang towards us. In her playful tyranny, which she loved +to exercise and he to submit to, she insisted on knowing what Lord +Ravenel was talking about. + +"I was saying," he answered, taking both her hands and looking down +into her bright, unshrinking eyes, "I was saying, how dearly I loved +your sister Muriel." + +"I know that," and Maud became grave at once. "I know you care for +me because I am like my sister Muriel." + +"If it were so, would you be sorry or glad?" + +"Glad, and proud too. But you said, or you were going to say, +something more. What was it?" + +He hesitated long, then answered: + +"I will tell you another time." + +Maud went away, rather cross and dissatisfied, but evidently +suspecting nothing. For me, I began to be seriously uneasy about her +and Lord Ravenel. + +Of all kinds of love, there is one which common sense and romance +have often combined to hold obnoxious, improbable, or ridiculous, but +which has always seemed to me the most real and pathetic form that +the passion ever takes--I mean, love in spite of great disparity of +age. Even when this is on the woman's side, I can imagine +circumstances that would make it far less ludicrous and pitiful; and +there are few things to me more touching, more full of sad earnest, +than to see an old man in love with a young girl. + +Lord Ravenel's case would hardly come under this category; yet the +difference between seventeen and thirty-seven was sufficient to +warrant in him a trembling uncertainty, and eager catching at the +skirts of that vanishing youth whose preciousness he never seemed to +have recognized till now. It was with a mournful interest that all +day I watched him follow the child about, gather her posies, help her +to water her flowers, and accommodate himself to those whims and +fancies, of which, as the pet and the youngest, Mistress Maud had her +full share. + +When, at her usual hour of half-past nine, the little lady was +summoned away to bed, "to keep up her roses," he looked half +resentful of the mother's interference. + +"Maud is not a child now; and this may be my last night--" he +stopped, sensitively, at the involuntary foreboding. + +"Your last night? Nonsense! you will come back soon again. You +must--you shall!" said Maud, decisively. + +"I hope I may--I trust in Heaven I may!" + +He spoke low, holding her hand distantly and reverently, not +attempting to kiss it, as in all his former farewells he had +invariably done. + +"Maud, remember me! However or whenever I come back, dearest child, +be faithful, and remember me!" + +Maud fled away with a sob of childish pain--partly anger, the mother +thought--and slightly apologized to the guest for her daughter's +"naughtiness." + +Lord Ravenel sat silent for a long, long time. + +Just when we thought he purposed leaving, he said, abruptly, "Mr. +Halifax, may I have five minutes' speech with you in the study?" + +The five minutes extended to half an hour. Mrs. Halifax wondered +what on earth they were talking about. I held my peace. At last the +father came in alone. + +"John, is Lord Ravenel gone?" + +"Not yet." + +"What could he have wanted to say to you?" + +John sat down by his wife, picked up the ball of her knitting, rolled +and unrolled it. She saw at once that something had grieved and +perplexed him exceedingly. Her heart shrunk back--that still sore +heart!--recoiled with a not unnatural fear. + +"Oh, husband, is it any new misfortune?" + +"No, love," cheering her with a smile; "nothing that fathers and +mothers in general would consider as such. He has asked me for our +Maud." + +"What for?" was the mother's first exceedingly simple question--and +then she guessed its answer. "Impossible! Ridiculous--absolutely +ridiculous! She is only a child." + +"Nevertheless, Lord Ravenel wishes to marry our little Maud!" + +"Lord Ravenel wishes to marry our Maud!" + +Mrs. Halifax repeated this to herself more than once before she was +able to entertain it as a reality. When she did, the first +impression it made upon her mind was altogether pain. + +"Oh, John! I hoped we had done with these sort of things; I thought +we should have been left in peace with the rest of our children." + +John smiled again; for, indeed, there was a comical side to her view +of the subject; but its serious phase soon returned; doubly so, when, +looking up, they both saw Lord Ravenel standing before them. Firm +his attitude was, firmer than usual; and it was with something of his +father's stately air, mingled with a more chivalric and sincerer +grace, that he stooped forward and kissed the hand of Maud's mother. + +"Mr. Halifax has told you all, I believe?" + +"He has." + +"May I then, with entire trust in you both, await my answer?" + +He waited it, patiently enough, with little apparent doubt as to what +it would be. Besides, it was only the prior question of parental +consent, not the vital point of Maud's preference. And, with all his +natural humility, Lord Ravenel might be forgiven if, brought up in +the world, he was aware of his position therein--nor quite +unconscious that it was not merely William Ravenel, but the only son +and heir of the Earl of Luxmore, who came a-wooing. + +Not till after a long pause, and even a whispered word or two between +the husband and wife, who knew each other's minds so well that no +more consultation was needed--did the suitor again, with a more +formal air, ask for an answer. + +"It is difficult to give. I find that my wife, like myself, had no +idea of your feelings. The extreme suddenness--" + +"Pardon me; my intention has not been sudden. It is the growth of +many months--years, I might almost say." + +"We are the more grieved." + +"Grieved?" + +Lord Ravenel's extreme surprise startled him from the mere suitor +into the lover; he glanced from one to the other in undisguised +alarm. John hesitated: the mother said something about the "great +difference between them." + +"In age, do you mean? I am aware of that," he answered, with some +sadness. "But twenty years is not an insuperable bar in marriage." + +"No," said Mrs. Halifax, thoughtfully. + +"And for any other disparity--in fortune--or rank--" + +"I think, Lord Ravenel,"--and the mother spoke with her "dignified" +air--"you know enough of my husband's character and opinions to be +assured how lightly he would hold such a disparity--if you allude to +that supposed to exist between the son of the Earl of Luxmore and the +daughter of John Halifax." + +The young nobleman coloured, as if with ingenuous shame at what he +had been implying. "I am glad of it. Let me assure you there will +be no impediments on the side of my family. The earl has long wished +me to marry. He knows well enough that I can marry whom I please-- +and shall marry for love only. Give me your leave to win your little +Maud." + +A dead silence. + +"Again pardon me," Lord Ravenel said with some hauteur; "I cannot +have clearly explained myself. Let me repeat, Mr. Halifax, that I +ask your permission to win your daughter's affection, and, in due +time, her hand." + +"I would that you had asked of me anything that it could be less +impossible to give you." + +"Impossible! What do you mean?--Mrs. Halifax--" He turned +instinctively to the woman--the mother. + +Ursula's eyes were full of a sad kindness--the kindness any mother +must feel towards one who worthily woos her daughter--but she replied +distinctly-- + +"I feel, with my husband, that such a marriage would be impossible." + +Lord Ravenel grew scarlet--sat down--rose again, and stood facing +them, pale and haughty. + +"If I may ask--your reasons?" + +"Since you ask--certainly," John replied. "Though, believe me, I +give them with the deepest pain. Lord Ravenel, do you not yourself +see that our Maud--" + +"Wait one moment," he interrupted. "There is not, there cannot be, +any previous attachment?" + +The supposition made the parents smile. "Indeed, nothing of the +kind: she is a mere child." + +"You think her too young for marriage, then?" was the eager answer. +"Be it so. I will wait, though my youth, alas! is slipping from me; +but I will wait--two years, three--any time you choose to name." + +John needed not to reply. The very sorrow of his decision showed how +inevitable and irrevocable it was. + +Lord Ravenel's pride rose against it. + +"I fear in this my novel position I am somewhat slow of +comprehension. Would it be so great a misfortune to your daughter if +I made her Viscountess Ravenel, and in course of time Countess of +Luxmore?" + +"I believe it would. Her mother and I would rather see our little +Maud lying beside her sister Muriel than see her Countess of +Luxmore." + +These words, hard as they were, John uttered so softly and with such +infinite grief and pain, that they struck the young man, not with +anger, but with an indefinite awe, as if a ghost from his youth--his +wasted youth--had risen up to point out that truth, and show him that +what seemed insult or vengeance was only a bitter necessity. + +All he did was to repeat, in a subdued manner--"Your reasons?" + +"Ah, Lord Ravenel!" John answered sadly, "do you not see yourself +that the distance between us and you is wide as the poles? Not in +worldly things, but in things far deeper;--personal things, which +strike at the root of love, home--nay, honour." + +Lord Ravenel started. "Would you imply that anything in my past +life, aimless and useless as it may have been, is unworthy of my +honour--the honour of our house?" + +Saying this he stopped--recoiled--as if suddenly made aware by the +very words himself had uttered, what--contrasted with the unsullied +dignity of the tradesman's life, the spotless innocence of the +tradesman's daughter--what a foul tattered rag, fit to be torn down +by an honest gust, was that flaunting emblazonment, the so-called +"honour" of Luxmore! + +"I understand you now. 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited +upon the children,' as your Bible says--your Bible, that I had half +begun to believe in. Be it so. Mr. Halifax, I will detain you no +longer. + +John intercepted the young man's departure. + +"No, you do NOT understand me. I hold no man accountable for any +errors, any shortcomings, except his own." + +"I am to conclude, then, that it is to myself you refuse your +daughter?" + +"It is." + +Lord Ravenel once more bowed, with sarcastic emphasis. + +"I entreat you not to mistake me," John continued, most earnestly. +"I know nothing of you that the world would condemn, much that it +would even admire; but your world is not our world, nor your aims our +aims. If I gave you my little Maud, it would confer on you no +lasting happiness, and it would be thrusting my child, my own flesh +and blood, to the brink of that whirlpool where, soon or late, every +miserable life must go down." + +Lord Ravenel made no answer. His new-born energy, his pride, his +sarcasm, had successively vanished; dead, passive melancholy resumed +its empire over him. Mr. Halifax regarded him with mournful +compassion. + +"Oh, that I had foreseen this! I would have placed the breadth of +all England between you and my child." + +"Would you?" + +"Understand me. Not because you do not possess our warm interest, +our friendship: both will always be yours. But these are external +ties, which may exist through many differences. In marriage there +must he perfect unity; one aim, one faith, one love, or the marriage +is incomplete, unholy--a mere civil contract and no more." + +Lord Ravenel looked up amazed at this doctrine, then sat awhile +pondering drearily. + +"Yes, you may be right," at last he said. "Your Maud is not for me, +nor those like me. Between us and you is that 'great gulf fixed;'-- +what did the old fable say? I forget.--Che sara sara! I am but as +others: I am but what I was born to be." + +"Do you recognize what you were born to be? Not only a nobleman, but +a gentleman; not only a gentleman, but a man--man, made in the image +of God. How can you, how dare you, give the lie to your Creator?" + +"What has He given me? What have I to thank Him for?" + +"First, manhood; the manhood His Son disdained not to wear; worldly +gifts, such as rank, riches, influence, things which others have to +spend half an existence in earning; life in its best prime, with much +of youth yet remaining--with grief endured, wisdom learnt, experience +won. Would to Heaven, that by any poor word of mine I could make you +feel all that you are--all that you might be!" + +A gleam, bright as a boy's hope, wild as a boy's daring, flashed from +those listless eyes--then faded. + +"You mean, Mr. Halifax, what I might have been. Now it is too late." + +"There is no such word as 'too late,' in the wide world--nay, not in +the universe. What! shall we, whose atom of time is but a fragment +out of an ever-present eternity--shall we, so long as we live, or +even at our life's ending, dare to cry out to the Eternal One, 'It is +too late!'" + +As John spoke, in much more excitement than was usual to him, a +sudden flush or rather spasm of colour flushed his face, then faded +away, leaving him pallid to the very lips. He sat down hastily, in +his frequent attitude, with the left arm passed across his breast. + +"Lord Ravenel." His voice was faint, as though speech was painful to +him. + +The other looked up, the old look of reverent attention, which I +remembered in the boy-lord who came to see us at Norton Bury; in the +young "Anselmo," whose enthusiastic hero-worship had fixed itself, +with an almost unreasoning trust, on Muriel's father, + +"Lord Ravenel, forgive anything I have said that may have hurt you. +It would grieve me inexpressibly if we did not part as friends." + +"Part?" + +"For a time, we must. I dare not risk further either your happiness +or my child's." + +"No, not hers. Guard it. I blame you not. The lovely, innocent +child! God forbid she should ever have a life like mine!" + +He sat silent, his clasped hands listlessly dropping, his countenance +dreamy; yet, it seemed to me, less hopelessly sad: then with a +sudden effort he rose. + +"I must go now." + +Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her, with much emotion, for +all her kindness. + +"For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as perhaps I may +prove some day. If not, try to believe the best of me you can. +Good-bye." + +They both said good-bye, and bade God bless him; with scarcely less +tenderness than if things had ended as he desired, and, instead of +this farewell, sad and indefinite beyond most farewells, they were +giving the parental welcome to a newly-chosen son. + +Ere finally quitting us, Lord Ravenel turned back to speak to John +once more, hesitatingly and mournfully. + +"If she--if the child should ask or wonder about my absence--she +likes me in her innocent way you know--you will tell her--What shall +you tell her?" + +"Nothing. It is best not." + +"Ay, it is, it is." + +He shook hands with us all three, without saying anything else; then +the carriage rolled away, and we saw his face--that pale, gentle, +melancholy face--no more. + +It was years and years before any one beyond ourselves knew what a +near escape our little Maud had had of becoming Viscountess Ravenel-- +future Countess of Luxmore. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +It was not many weeks after this departure of Lord Ravenel's--the +pain of which was almost forgotten in the comfort of Guy's first long +home letter, which came about this time--that John one morning, +suddenly dropping his newspaper, exclaimed: + +"Lord Luxmore is dead." + +Yes, he had returned to his dust, this old bad man; so old, that +people had begun to think he would never die. He was gone; the man +who, if we owned an enemy in the world, had certainly proved himself +that enemy. Something peculiar is there in a decease like this--of +one whom, living, we have almost felt ourselves justified in +condemning, avoiding--perhaps hating. Until Death, stepping in +between, removes him to another tribunal than this petty justice of +ours, and laying a solemn finger on our mouths, forbids us either to +think or utter a word of hatred against that which is now--what?--a +disembodied spirit--a handful of corrupting clay. + +Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account; it was not ours +to judge him. We never knew--I believe no one except his son ever +fully knew--the history of his death-bed. + +John sat in silence, the paper before him, long after we had passed +the news and discussed it, not without awe, all round the breakfast- +table. + +Maud stole up--hesitatingly, and asked to see the announcement of the +earl's decease. + +"No, my child; but you shall hear it read aloud, if you choose." + +I guessed the reason of his refusal; when, looking over him as he +read, I saw, after the long list of titles owned by the new Earl of +Luxmore, one bitter line; how it must have cut to the heart of him +whom we first heard of as "poor William!" + +"HAD LIKEWISE ISSUE, CAROLINE, MARRIED IN 17--, TO RICHARD BRITHWOOD, +ESQUIRE, AFTERWARDS DIVORCED." + +And by a curious coincidence, about twenty lines further down I read +among the fashionable marriages: + +"AT THE BRITISH EMBASSY, PARIS, SIR GERARD VERMILYE, BART., TO THE +YOUTHFUL AND BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF--" + +I forget who. I only saw that the name was not her name, of whom the +"youthful and beautiful" bride had most likely never heard. He had +not married Lady Caroline. + +This morning's intelligence brought the Luxmore family so much to our +thoughts, that driving out after breakfast, John and I involuntarily +recurred to the subject. Nay, talking on, in the solitude of our +front seat--for Mrs. Halifax, Miss Halifax, and Mrs. Edwin Halifax, +in the carriage behind, were deep in some other subject--we fell upon +a topic which by tacit consent had been laid aside, as in our +household we held it good to lay aside any inevitable regret. + +"Poor Maud! how eager she was to hear the news to-day. She little +thinks how vitally it might have concerned her." + +"No," John answered thoughtfully; then asked me with some abruptness, +"Why did you say 'poor Maud'?" + +I really could not tell; it was a mere accident, the unwitting +indication of some crotchets of mine, which had often come into my +mind lately. Crotchets, perhaps peculiar to one, who, never having +known a certain possession, found himself rather prone to over-rate +its value. But it sometimes struck me as hard, considering how +little honest and sincere love there is in the world, that Maud +should never have known of Lord Ravenel's. + +Possibly, against my will, my answer implied something of this; for +John was a long time silent. Then he began to talk of various +matters; telling me of many improvements he was planning and +executing, on his property, and among his people. In all his plans, +and in the carrying out of them, I noticed one peculiarity, strong in +him throughout his life, but latterly grown stronger than ever-- +namely, that whatever he found to do, he did immediately. +Procrastination had never been one of his faults; now, he seemed to +have a horror of putting anything off even for a single hour. +Nothing that could be done did he lay aside until it was done; his +business affairs were kept in perfect order, each day's work being +completed with the day. And in the thousand-and-one little things +that were constantly arising, from his position as magistrate and +land-owner, and his general interest in the movements of the time, +the same system was invariably pursued. In his relations with the +world outside, as in his own little valley, he seemed determined to +"work while it was day." If he could possibly avoid it, no +application was ever unattended to; no duty left unfinished; no good +unacknowledged; no evil unremedied, or at least unforgiven. + +"John," I said, as to-day this peculiarity of his struck me more than +usual, "thou art certainly one of the faithful servants whom the +Master when He cometh will find watching." + +"I hope so. It ought to be thus with all men--but especially with +me." + +I imagined from his tone that he was thinking of his responsibility +as father, master, owner of large wealth. How could I know--how +could I guess--beyond this! + +"Do you think she looks pale, Phineas?" he asked suddenly. + +"Who--your wife?" + +"No--Maud. My little Maud." + +It was but lately that he called her "his" little Maud; since with +that extreme tenacity of attachment which was a part of his nature-- +refusing to put any one love in another love's place--his second +daughter had never been to him like the first. Now, however, I had +noticed that he took Maud nearer to his heart, made her more often +his companion, watching her with a sedulous tenderness--it was easy +to guess why. + +"She may have looked a little paler of late, a little more +thoughtful. But I am sure she is not unhappy." + +"I believe not--thank God!" + +"Surely," I said anxiously, "you have never repented what you did +about Lord Ravenel?" + +"No--not once. It cost me so much, that I know it was right to be +done." + +"But if things had been otherwise--if you had not been so sure of +Maud's feelings--" + +He started, painfully; then answered--"I think I should have done it +still." + +I was silent. The paramount right, the high prerogative of love, +which he held as strongly as I did, seemed attacked in its liberty +divine. For the moment, it was as if he too had in his middle-age +gone over to the cold-blooded ranks of harsh parental prudence, +despotic paternal rule; as if Ursula March's lover and Maud's father +were two distinct beings. One finds it so, often enough, with men. + +"John," I said, "could you have done it? could you have broken the +child's heart?" + +"Yes, if it was to save her peace, perhaps her soul, I could have +broken my child's heart." + +He spoke solemnly, with an accent of inexpressible pain, as if this +were not the first time by many that he had pondered over such a +possibility. + +"I wish, Phineas, to make clear to you, in case of--of any future +misconceptions--my mind on this matter. One right alone I hold +superior to the right of love,--duty. It is a father's duty, at all +risks, at all costs, to save his child from anything which he +believes would peril her duty--so long as she is too young to +understand fully how beyond the claim of any human being, be it +father or lover, is God's claim to herself and her immortal soul. +Anything which would endanger that should be cut off--though it be +the right hand--the right eye. But, thank God, it was not thus with +my little Maud." + +"Nor with him either. He bore his disappointment well." + +"Nobly. It may make a true nobleman of him yet. But, being what he +is, and for as long as he remains so, he must not be trusted with my +little Maud. I must take care of her while I live: afterwards--" + +His smile faded, or rather was transmuted into that grave +thoughtfulness which I had lately noticed in him, when, as now, he +fell into one of his long silences. There was nothing sad about it; +rather a serenity which reminded me of that sweet look of his +boyhood, which had vanished during the manifold cares of his middle +life. The expression of the mouth, as I saw it in profile--close and +calm--almost inclined me to go back to the fanciful follies of our +youth, and call him "David." + +We drove through Norton Bury, and left Mrs. Edwin there. Then on, +along the familiar road, towards the manor-house; past the white +gate, within sight of little Longfield. + +"It looks just the same--the tenant takes good care of it." And +John's eyes turned fondly to his old home. + +"Ay, just the same. Do you know your wife was saying to me this +morning, that when Guy comes back, when all the young folk are +married, and you retire from business and settle into the otium cum +dignitate, the learned leisure you used to plan--she would like to +give up Beechwood. She said, she hopes you and she will end your +days together at little Longfield." + +"Did she? Yes, I know that has been always her dream." + +"Scarcely a dream, or one that is not unlikely to be fulfilled. I +like to fancy you both two old people, sitting on either side the +fire--or on the same side if you like it best; very cheerful--you +will make such a merry old man, John, with all your children round +you, and indefinite grandchildren about the house continually. Or +else you two will sit alone together, just as in your early married +days--you and your old wife--the dearest and handsomest old lady that +ever was seen." + +"Phineas--don't--don't." I was startled by the tone in which he +answered the lightness of mine. "I mean--don't be planning out the +future. It is foolish--it is almost wrong. God's will is not as our +will; and He knows best." + +I would have spoken; but just then we reached the manor-house gate, +and plunged at once into present life, and into the hospitable circle +of the Oldtowers. + +They were all in the excitement of a wonderful piece of gossip; +gossip so strange, sudden, and unprecedented, that it absorbed all +lesser matters. It burst out before we had been in the house five +minutes. + +"Have you heard this extraordinary report about the Luxmore family?" + +I could see Maud turn with eager attention--fixing her eyes wistfully +on Lady Oldtower. + +"About the earl's death. Yes, we saw it in the newspaper." And John +passed on to some other point of conversation. In vain. + +"This news relates to the present earl. I never heard of such a +thing--never. In fact, if true, his conduct is something which in +its self-denial approaches absolute insanity. Is it possible that, +being so great a friend of your family, he has not informed you of +the circumstances?" + +These circumstances, with some patience, we extracted from the +voluble Lady Oldtower. She had learnt them--I forget how: but news +never wants a tongue to carry it. + +It seemed that on the earl's death it was discovered, what had +already been long suspected, that his liabilities, like his +extravagances, were enormous. That he was obliged to live abroad to +escape in some degree the clamorous haunting of the hundreds he had +ruined: poor tradespeople, who knew that their only chance of +payment was during the old man's life-time, for his whole property +was entailed on the son. + +Whether Lord Ravenel had ever been acquainted with the state of +things, or whether, being in ignorance of it, his own style of living +had in degree imitated his father's, rumour did not say, nor indeed +was it of much consequence. The facts subsequently becoming known +immediately after Lord Luxmore's death, made all former conjectures +unnecessary. + +Not a week before he died, the late earl and his son--chiefly it was +believed on the latter's instigation--had cut off the entail, thereby +making the whole property saleable, and available for the payment of +creditors. Thus by his own act, and--as some one had told somebody +that somebody else had heard Lord Ravenel say: "for the honour of +the family," the present earl had succeeded to an empty title, and-- +beggary. + +"Or," Lady Oldtower added, "what to a man of rank will be the same as +beggary--a paltry two hundred a year or so--which he has reserved, +they say, just to keep him from destitution. Ah--here comes Mr. +Jessop; I thought he would. He can tell us all about it." + +Old Mr. Jessop was as much excited as any one present. + +"Ay--it's all true--only too true, Mr. Halifax. He was at my house +last night." + +"Last night!" I do not think anybody caught the child's exclamation +but me; I could not help watching little Maud, noticing what strong +emotion, still perfectly child-like and unguarded in its +demonstration, was shaking her innocent bosom, and overflowing at her +eyes. However, as she sat still in the corner, nobody observed her. + +"Yes, he slept at my house--Lord Ravenel, the Earl of Luxmore, I +mean. Much good will his title do him! My head clerk is better off +than he. He has stripped himself of every penny, except--bless me, I +forgot; Mr. Halifax, he gave me a letter for you." + +John walked to the window to read it; but having read it, passed it +openly round the circle; as indeed was best. + + "MY DEAR FRIEND, + "You will have heard that my father is no more." + +("He used always to say 'the earl,'" whispered Maud, as she looked +over my shoulder.) + + "I write this merely to say, what I feel sure you will already +have believed--that anything which you may learn concerning his +affairs, I was myself unaware of, except in a very slight degree, +when I last visited Beechwood. + + "Will you likewise believe that in all I have done, or intend +doing, your interests as my tenant--which I hope you will remain-- +have been, and shall be, sedulously guarded? + + "My grateful remembrance to all your household. + "Faithfully yours and theirs, + "LUXMORE." + +"Give me back the letter, Maud my child." + +She had been taking possession of it, as in right of being his "pet" +she generally did of all Lord Ravenel's letters. But now, without a +word of objection, she surrendered it to her father. + +"What does he mean, Mr. Jessop, about my interests as his tenant?" + +"Bless me--I am so grieved about the matter that everything goes +astray in my head. He wished me to explain to you that he has +reserved one portion of the Luxmore property intact--Enderley Mills. +The rent you pay will, he says, be a sufficient income for him; and +then while your lease lasts no other landlord can injure you. Very +thoughtful of him--very thoughtful indeed, Mr. Halifax." + +John made no answer. + +"I never saw a man so altered. He went over some matters with me-- +private charities, in which I have been his agent, you know--grave, +clear-headed, business-like; my clerk himself could not have done +better. Afterwards we sat and talked, and I tried--foolishly enough, +when the thing was done!--to show him what a frantic act it was both +towards himself and his heirs. But he could not see it. He said +cutting off the entail would harm nobody--for that he did not intend +ever to marry. Poor fellow!" + +"Is he with you still?" John asked in a low tone. + +"No; he left this morning for Paris; his father is to be buried +there. Afterwards, he said, his movements were quite uncertain. He +bade me good-bye--I--I didn't like it, I can assure you." + +And the old man, blowing his nose with his yellow +pocket-handkerchief, and twitching his features into all manner of +shapes, seemed determined to put aside the melancholy subject, and +dilated on the earl and his affairs no more. + +Nor did any one. Something in this young nobleman's noble act--it +has since been not without a parallel among our aristocracy--silenced +the tongue of gossip itself. The deed was so new--so unlike anything +that had been conceived possible, especially in a man like Lord +Ravenel, who had always borne the character of a harmless, idle +misanthropic nonentity--that society was really nonplussed concerning +it. Of the many loquacious visitors who came that morning to pour +upon Lady Oldtower all the curiosity of Coltham--fashionable Coltham, +famous for all the scandal of haut ton--there was none who did not +speak of Lord Luxmore and his affairs with an uncomfortable, +wondering awe. Some suggested he was going mad--others, raking up +stories current of his early youth, thought he had turned Catholic +again, and was about to enter a monastery. One or two honest hearts +protested that he was a noble fellow, and it was a pity he had +determined to be the last of the Luxmores. + +For ourselves--Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, Maud and I--we never spoke to +one another on the subject all the morning. Not until after +luncheon, when John and I had somehow stolen out of the way of the +visitors, and were walking to and fro in the garden. The sunny fruit +garden--ancient, Dutch, and square--with its barricade of a high +hedge, a stone wall, and between it and the house a shining fence of +great laurel trees. + +Maud appeared suddenly before us from among these laurels, +breathless. + +"I got away after you, father. I--I wanted to find some +strawberries--and--I wanted to speak to you." + +"Speak on, little lady." + +He linked her arm in his, and she paced between us up and down the +broad walk--but without diverging to the strawberry-beds. She was +grave, and paler than ordinary. Her father asked if she were tired? + +"No, but my head aches. Those Coltham people do talk so. Father, I +want you to explain to me, for I can't well understand all this that +they have been saying about Lord Ravenel." + +John explained, as simply and briefly as he could. + +"I understand. Then, though he is Earl of Luxmore, he is quite poor- +-poorer than any of us? And he has made himself poor in order to pay +his own and his father's debts, and keep other people from suffering +from any fault of his? Is it so?" + +"Yes, my child." + +"Is it not a very noble act, father?" + +"Very noble." + +"I think it is the noblest act I ever heard of. I should like to +tell him so. When is he coming to Beechwood?" + +Maud spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, in the impetuous manner she +inherited from her mother. Her question not being immediately +answered, she repeated it still more eagerly. + +Her father replied--"I do not know." + +"How very strange! I thought he would come at once--to-night, +probably." + +I reminded her that Lord Ravenel had left for Paris, bidding goodbye +to Mr. Jessop. + +"He ought to have come to us instead of to Mr. Jessop. Write and +tell him so, father. Tell him how glad we shall be to see him. And +perhaps you can help him: you who help everybody. He always said +you were his best friend." + +"Did he?" + +"Ah now, do write, father dear--I am sure you will." + +John looked down on the little maid who hung on his arm so +persuasively, then looked sorrowfully away. + +"My child--I cannot." + +"What, not write to him? When he is poor and in trouble? That is +not like you, father," and Maud half-loosed her arm. + +Her father quietly put the little rebellious hand back again to its +place. He was evidently debating within himself whether he should +tell her the whole truth, or how much of it. Not that the debate was +new, for he must already have foreseen this possible, nay, certain, +conjuncture. Especially as all his dealings with his family had +hitherto been open as daylight. He held that to prevaricate, or +wilfully to give the impression of a falsehood, is almost as mean as +a direct lie. When anything occurred that he could not tell his +children, he always said plainly, "I cannot tell you," and they asked +no more. + +I wondered exceedingly how he would deal with Maud. + +She walked with him, submissive yet not satisfied, glancing at him +from time to time, waiting for him to speak. At last she could wait +no longer. + +"I am sure there is something wrong. You do not care for Lord +Ravenel as much as you used to do." + +"More, if possible." + +"Then write to him. Say, we want to see him--I want to see him. Ask +him to come and stay a long while at Beechwood." + +"I cannot, Maud. It would be impossible for him to come. I do not +think he is likely to visit Beechwood for some time." + +"How long? Six months? A year, perhaps?" + +"It may be several years." + +"Then, I was right. Something HAS happened; you are not friends with +him any longer. And he is poor--in trouble--oh, father!" + +She snatched her hand away, and flashed upon him reproachful eyes. +John took her gently by the arm, and made her sit down upon the wall +of a little stone bridge, under which the moat slipped with a quiet +murmur. Maud's tears dropped into it fast and free. + +That very outburst, brief and thundery as a child's passion, gave +consolation both to her father and me. When it lessened, John spoke. + +"Now has my little Maud ceased to be angry with her father?" + +"I did not mean to be angry--only I was so startled--so grieved. +Tell me what has happened, please, father?" + +"I will tell you--so far as I can. Lord Ravenel and myself had some +conversation, of a very painful kind, the last night he was with us. +After it, we both considered it advisable he should not visit us +again for the present." + +"Why not? Had you quarrelled? or if you had, I thought my father was +always the first to forgive everybody." + +"No, Maud, we had not quarrelled." + +"Then, what was it?" + +"My child, you must not ask, for indeed I cannot tell you." + +Maud sprang up--the rebellious spirit flashing out again. "Not tell +me--me, his pet--me, that cared for him more than any of you did. I +think you ought to tell me, father." + +"You must allow me to decide that, if you please." + +After this answer Maud paused, and said humbly, "Does any one else +know?" + +"Your mother, and your uncle Phineas, who happened to be present at +the time. No one else: and no one else shall know." + +John spoke with that slight quivering and blueness of the lips which +any mental excitement usually produced in him. He sat down by his +daughter's side and took her hand. + +"I knew this would grieve you, and I kept it from you as long as I +could. Now you must only be patient, and like a good child trust +your father." + +Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed and said, "she +could not understand it." + +"Neither can I--often times, my poor little Maud. There are so many +sad things in life that we have to take upon trust, and bear, and be +patient with--yet never understand. I suppose we shall some day." + +His eyes wandered upward to the wide-arched blue sky, which in its +calm beauty makes us fancy that Paradise is there, even though we +know that "THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS WITHIN US," and that the kingdom +of spirits may be around us and about us everywhere. + +Maud looked at her father, and crept closer to him--into his arms. + +"I did not mean to be naughty. I will try not to mind losing him. +But I liked Lord Ravenel so much--and he was so fond of me." + +"Child"--and her father himself could not help smiling at the +simplicity of her speech--"it is often easiest to lose those we are +fond of and who are fond of us, because, in one sense, we never can +really lose them. Nothing in this world, nor, I believe, in any +other, can part those who truly and faithfully love." + +I think he was hardly aware how much he was implying, at least not in +its relation to her, else he would not have said it. And he would +surely have noticed, as I did, that the word "love," which had not +been mentioned before--it was "liking," "fond of," "care for," or +some such round-about, childish phrase--the word "love" made Maud +start. She darted from one to the other of us a keen glance of +inquiry, and then turned the colour of a July rose. + +Her attitude, her blushes, the shy tremble about her mouth, reminded +me vividly, too vividly, of her mother twenty-eight years ago. + +Alarmed, I tried to hasten the end of our conversation, lest, +voluntarily or involuntarily, it might produce the very results +which, though they might not have altered John's determination, would +almost have broken his heart. + +So, begging her to "kiss and make friends," which Maud did, timidly, +and without attempting further questions, I hurried the father and +daughter into the house; deferring for mature consideration, the +question whether or not I should trouble John with any too-anxious +doubts of mine concerning her. + +As we drove back through Norton Bury, I saw that while her mother and +Lady Oldtower conversed, Maud sat opposite rather more silent than +her wont; but when the ladies dismounted for shopping, she was again +the lively independent Miss Halifax, + + "Standing with reluctant feet, + Where womanhood and childhood meet;" + +and assuming at once the prerogatives and immunities of both. + +Her girlish ladyship at last got tired of silks and ribbons, and +stood with me at the shop-door, amusing herself with commenting on +the passers-by. + +These were not so plentiful as I once remembered, though still the +old town wore its old face--appearing fairer than ever, as I myself +grew older. The same Coltham coach stopped at the Lamb Inn, and the +same group of idle loungers took an interest in its disemboguing of +its contents. But railways had done an ill turn to the coach and to +poor Norton Bury: where there used to be six inside passengers, +to-day was turned out only one. + +"What a queer-looking little woman! Uncle Phineas, people shouldn't +dress so fine as that when they are old." + +Maud's criticism was scarcely unjust. The light-coloured flimsy +gown, shorter than even Coltham fashionables would have esteemed +decent, the fluttering bonnet, the abundance of flaunting curls--no +wonder that the stranger attracted considerable notice in quiet +Norton Bury. As she tripped mincingly along, in her silk stockings +and light shoes, a smothered jeer arose. + +"People should not laugh at an old woman, however conceited she may +be," said Maud, indignantly. + +"Is she old?" + +"Just look." + +And surely when, as she turned from side to side, I caught her full +face--what a face it was! withered, thin, sallow almost to +deathliness, with a bright rouge-spot on each cheek, a broad smile on +the ghastly mouth. + +"Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas?" + +"Possibly. Do not look at her." For I was sure this must be the +wreck of such a life as womanhood does sometimes sink to--a life, the +mere knowledge of which had never yet entered our Maud's pure world. + +She seemed surprised, but obeyed me and went in. I stood at the +shop-door, watching the increasing crowd, and pitying, with that pity +mixed with shame that every honest man must feel towards a degraded +woman, the wretched object of their jeers. Half-frightened, she +still kept up that set smile, skipping daintily from side to side of +the pavement, darting at and peering into every carriage that passed. +Miserable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and ease +in her movements, as if she had fallen from some far higher estate. + +At that moment, the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood in it, dozing +his daily drive away, his gouty foot propped up before him--slowly +lumbered up the street. The woman made a dart at it, but was held +back. + +"Canaille! I always hated your Norton Bury! Call my carriage. I +will go home." + +Through its coarse discordance, its insane rage, I thought I knew the +voice. Especially when, assuming a tone of command, she addressed +the old coachman: + +"Draw up, Peter; you are very late. People, give way! Don't you see +my carriage?" + +There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. Brithwood opened +his dull, drunken eyes and stared about him. + +"Canaille!"--the scream was more of terror than anger, as she almost +flung herself under the horses' heads in her eagerness to escape from +the mob. "Let me go! My carriage is waiting. I am Lady Caroline +Brithwood!" + +The 'squire heard her. For a single instant they gazed at one +another--besotted husband, dishonoured, divorced wife--gazed with +horror and fear, as two sinners who had been each other's undoing, +might meet in the poetic torments of Dante's "Inferno," or the +tangible fire and brimstone of many a blind but honest Christian's +hell. One single instant,--and then Richard Brithwood made up his +mind. + +"Coachman, drive on!" + +But the man--he was an old man--seemed to hesitate at urging his +horses right over "my lady." He even looked down on her with a sort +of compassion--I remembered having heard say that she was always kind +and affable to her servants. + +"Drive on, you fool! Here"--and Mr. Brithwood threw some coin +amongst the mob--"Fetch the constable--some of you; take the woman to +the watch-house!" + +And the carriage rolled on, leaving her there, crouched on the +kerbstone, gazing after it with something between a laugh and a moan. + +Nobody touched her. Perhaps some had heard of her; a few might even +have seen her--driving through Norton Bury in her pristine state, as +the young 'squire's handsome wife--the charming Lady Caroline. + +I was so absorbed in the sickening sight, that I did not perceive how +John and Ursula, standing behind me, had seen it likewise--evidently +seen and understood it all. + +"What is to be done?" she whispered to him. + +"What ought we to do?" + +Here Maud came running out to see what was amiss in the street. + +"Go in, child," said Mrs. Halifax, sharply. "Stay till I fetch you." + +Lady Oldtower also advanced to the door; but catching some notion of +what the disturbance was, shocked and scandalised, retired into the +shop again. + +John looked earnestly at his wife, but for once she did not or would +not understand his meaning; she drew back uneasily. + +"What must be done?--I mean, what do you want me to do?" + +"What only a woman can do--a woman like you, and in your position." + +"Yes, if it were only myself. But think of the household--think of +Maud. People will talk so. It is hard to know how to act." + +"Nay; how did One act--how would He act now, if He stood in the +street this day? If we take care of aught of His, will He not take +care of us and of our children?" + +Mrs. Halifax paused, thought a moment, hesitated--yielded. + +"John, you are right; you are always right. I will do anything you +please." + +And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, in face of scores of +window-gazers, all of whom knew them, and a great number of whom they +also knew, Mr. Halifax and his wife walk up to where the miserable +woman lay. + +John touched her lightly on the shoulder--she screamed and cowered +down. + +"Are you the constable? He said he would send the constable." + +"Hush--do not be afraid. Cousin--Cousin Caroline." + +God knows how long it was since any woman had spoken to her in that +tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered wits. She rose to her +feet, smiling airily. + +"Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure of +seeing you somewhere. Your name is--" + +"Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?"--speaking gently as she would +have done to a child. + +Lady Caroline bowed--a ghastly mockery of her former sprightly grace. +"Not exactly; but I dare say I shall presently--au revoir, madame!" + +She was going away, kissing her hand--that yellow, wrinkled, old +woman's hand,--but John stopped her. + +"My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to +come home with us." + +"Plait il?--oh yes; I understand. I shall be happy--most happy." + +John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference; Mrs. Halifax +supported her on the other side. Without more ado, they put her in +the carriage and drove home, leaving Maud in my charge, and leaving +astounded Norton Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house--if that +miserable existence of hers could be called living--bedridden, fallen +into second childhood: + + "Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;" + +oblivious to both past and present, recognising none of us, and +taking no notice of anybody, except now and then of Edwin's little +daughter, baby Louise. + +We knew that all our neighbours talked us over, making far more than +a nine days' wonder of the "very extraordinary conduct" of Mr. and +Mrs. Halifax. That even good Lady Oldtower hesitated a little before +she suffered her tribe of fair daughters to visit under the same roof +where lay, quite out of the way, that poor wreck of womanhood, which +would hardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time the +gossip ceased of itself; and when, one summer day, a small decent +funeral moved out of our garden gate to Enderley churchyard, all the +comment was: + +"Oh! is she dead?--What a relief it must be! How very kind of Mr. +and Mrs. Halifax!" + +Yes, she was dead, and had "made no sign," either of repentance, +grief, or gratitude. Unless one could consider as such a moment's +lightening before death, which Maud declared she saw in her--Maud, +who had tended her with a devotedness which neither father nor mother +forbade, believing that a woman cannot too soon learn womanhood's +best "mission"--usefulness, tenderness, and charity. Miss Halifax +was certain that a few minutes before the last minute, she saw a +gleam of sense in the filmy eyes, and stooping down, had caught some +feeble murmur about "William--poor William!" + +She did not tell me this; she spoke of it to no one but her mother, +and to her briefly. So the wretched life, once beautiful and +loveful, was now ended, or perhaps born in some new sphere to begin +again its struggle after the highest beauty, the only perfect love. +What are we that we should place limits to the infinite mercy of the +Lord and Giver of Life, unto whom all life returns? + +We buried her and left her--poor Lady Caroline! + +No one interfered with us, and we appealed to no one. In truth, +there was no one unto whom we could appeal. Lord Luxmore, +immediately after his father's funeral, had disappeared, whither, no +one knew except his solicitor; who treated with and entirely +satisfied the host of creditors, and into whose hands the sole +debtor, John Halifax, paid his yearly rent. Therewith, he wrote +several times to Lord Luxmore; but the letters were simply +acknowledged through the lawyer: never answered. Whether in any of +them John alluded to Lady Caroline I do not know; but I rather think +not, as it would have served no purpose and only inflicted pain. No +doubt, her brother had long since believed her dead, as we and the +world had done. + +In that same world one man, even a nobleman, is of little account. +Lord Ravenel sank in its wide waste of waters, and they closed over +him. Whether he were drowned or saved was of small moment to any +one. He was soon forgotten--everywhere except at Beechwood; and +sometimes it seemed as if he were even forgotten there. Save that in +our family we found it hard to learn this easy, convenient habit--to +forget. + +Hard, though seven years had passed since we saw Guy's merry face, to +avoid missing it keenly still. The mother, as her years crept on, +oftentimes wearied for him with a yearning that could not be told. +The father, as Edwin became engrossed in his own affairs, and +Walter's undecided temperament kept him a boy long after boyhood, +often seemed to look round vaguely for an eldest son's young strength +to lean upon, often said anxiously, "I wish Guy were at home." + +Yet still there was no hint of his coming; better he never came at +all than came against his will, or came to meet the least pain, the +shadow of disgrace. And he was contented and prosperous in the +western world, leading an active and useful life, earning an +honourable name. He had taken a partner, he told us; there was real +friendship between them, and they were doing well; perhaps might +make, in a few years, one of those rapid fortunes which clever men of +business do make in America, and did especially at that time. + +He was also eager and earnest upon other and higher cares than mere +business; entered warmly into his father's sympathy about many +political measures now occupying men's minds. A great number of +comparative facts concerning the factory children in England and +America; a mass of evidence used by Mr. Fowell Buxton in his +arguments for the abolition of slavery; and many other things, +originated in the impulsive activity, now settled into mature manly +energy, of Mr. Guy Halifax, of Boston, U.S.--"our Guy." + +"The lad is making a stir in the world," said his father one day, +when we had read his last letter. "I shall not wonder if when he +comes home a deputation from his native Norton Bury were to appear, +requesting him to accept the honour of representing them in +Parliament. He would suit them--at least, as regards the canvassing +and the ladies--a great deal better than his old father--eh, love?" + +Mrs. Halifax smiled, rather unwillingly, for her husband referred to +a subject which had cost her some pain at the time. After the Reform +Bill passed, many of our neighbours, who had long desired that one of +John's high character, practical knowledge, and influence in the +town, should be its M.P., and were aware that his sole objection to +entering the House was the said question of Reform, urged him very +earnestly to stand for Norton Bury. + +To everybody's surprise, and none more than our own, he refused. + +Publicly he assigned no reason for this except his conviction that he +could not discharge as he ought, and as he would once have done, +duties which he held so sacred and indispensable. His letter, brief +and simple, thanking his "good neighbours," and wishing them "a +younger and worthier" member, might be found in some old file of the +Norton Bury Herald still. Even the Norton Bury Mercury, in +reprinting it, commented on its touching honesty and brevity, and-- +concluding his political career was ended with it--condescended to +bestow on Mr. Halifax the usual obituary line-- + + "We could have better spared a better man." + +When his family, and even his wife, reasoned with him, knowing that +to enter Parliament had long been his thought, nay, his desire, and +perhaps herself taking a natural pride in the idea of seeing M.P.-- +M.P. of a new and unbribed House of Commons--after his well-beloved +name; to us and to her he gave no clearer motive for his refusal than +to the electors of Norton Bury. + +"But you are not old, John," I argued with him one day; "you possess +to the full the mens sana in corpore sano. No man can be more fitted +than yourself to serve his country, as you used to say it might be +served, and you yourself might serve it, after Reform was gained." + +He smiled, and jocularly thanked me for my good opinion. + +"Nay, such service is almost your duty; you yourself once thought so +too. Why have you changed your mind?" + +"I have not changed my mind, but circumstances have changed my +actions. As for duty--duty begins at home. Believe me, I have +thought well over the subject. Brother, we will not refer to it +again." + +I saw that something in the matter pained him, and obeyed his wish. +Even when, a few days after, perhaps as some compensation for the +mother's disappointment, he gave this hint of Guy's taking his place +and entering Parliament in his room. + +For any one--nay, his own son--to take John's place, to stand in +John's room, was not a pleasant thought, even in jest; we let it pass +by unanswered, and John himself did not recur to it. + +Thus time went on, placidly enough; the father and mother changed +into grandfather and grandmother, and little Maud into Auntie Maud. +She bore her new honours and fulfilled her new duties with great +delight and success. She had altered much of late years: at twenty +was as old as many a woman of thirty--in all the advantages of age. +She was sensible, active, resolute, and wise; sometimes thoughtful, +or troubled with fits of what in any less wholesome temperament would +have been melancholy; but as it was, her humours only betrayed +themselves in some slight restlessness or irritability, easily +soothed by a few tender words or a rush out to Edwin's, and a +peaceful coming back to that happy home, whose principal happiness +she knew that she, the only daughter, made. + +She more than once had unexceptionable chances of quitting it; for +Miss Halifax possessed plenty of attractions, both outwardly and +inwardly, to say nothing of her not inconsiderable fortune. But she +refused all offers, and to the best of our knowledge was a +free-hearted damsel still. Her father and mother seemed rather glad +of this than otherwise. They would not have denied her any happiness +she wished for; still it was evidently a relief to them that she was +slow in choosing it; slow in quitting their arms of love to risk a +love untried. Sometimes, such is the weakness of parental humanity, +I verily believe they looked forward with complacency to the +possibility of her remaining always Miss Halifax. I remember one +day, when Lady Oldtower was suggesting--half jest, half earnest-- +"better any marriage than no marriage at all;" Maud's father replied, +very seriously-- + +"Better no marriage, than any marriage that is less than the best." + +"How do you mean?" + +"I believe," he said, smiling, "that somewhere in the world every man +has his right wife, every woman her right husband. If my Maud's come +he shall have her. If not, I shall be well content to see her a +happy old maid." + +Thus after many storms, came this lull in our lives; a season of busy +yet monotonous calm,--I have heard say that peace itself, to be +perfect, ought to be monotonous. We had enough of it to satisfy our +daily need; we looked forward to more of it in time to come, when Guy +should be at home, when we should see safely secured the futures of +all the children, and for ourselves a green old age, + + "Journeying in long serenity away." + +A time of heavenly calm--which as I look back upon it grows +heavenlier still! Soft summer days and autumn afternoons, spent +under the beech-wood, or on the Flat. Quiet winter evenings, all to +ourselves--Maud and her mother working, Walter drawing. The father +sitting with his back to the lamp--its light making a radiance over +his brow and white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the curls +behind, restoring somewhat of the youthful colour to his fading hair. +Nay, the old youthful ring of his voice I caught at times, when he +found something funny in his book and read it out loud to us; or +laying it down, sat talking as he liked to talk about things +speculative, philosophical, or poetical--things which he had +necessarily let slip in the hurry and press of his business life, in +the burthen and heat of the day; but which now, as the cool shadows +of evening were drawing on, assumed a beauty and a nearness, and were +again caught up by him--precious as the dreams of his youth. + +Happy, happy time--sunshiny summer, peaceful winter--we marked +neither as they passed; but now we hold both--in a sacredness +inexpressible--a foretaste of that Land where there is neither summer +nor winter, neither days nor years. + +The first break in our repose came early in the new year. There had +been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never once in all his +wanderings had missed writing home at Christmas time. When the usual +monthly mail came in, and no word from him--a second month, and yet +nothing, we began to wonder about his omission less openly--to cease +scolding him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we +still eagerly brought up instances of the latter--"Guy is such a +thoughtless boy about his correspondence." + +Gradually, as his mother's cheek grew paler, and his father more +anxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up discussing +publicly the many excellent reasons why no letters should come from +Guy. We had written, as usual, by every mail. By the last--by the +March mail, I saw that in addition to the usual packet for Mr. Guy +Halifax--his father, taking another precautionary measure, had +written in business form to "Messrs. Guy Halifax and Co." Guy had +always, "just like his carelessness!" omitted to give the name of his +partner; but addressed thus, in case of any sudden journey or illness +of Guy's, the partner, whoever he was, would be sure to write. + +In May--nay, it was on May day, I remember, for we were down in the +mill-meadows with Louise and her little ones going a-maying--there +came in the American mail. + +It brought a large packet--all our letters of this year sent back +again, directed in a strange hand, to "John Halifax, Esquire, +Beechwood," with the annotation, "By Mr. Guy Halifax's desire." + +Among the rest--though the sickening sight of them had blinded even +his mother at first, so that her eye did not catch it, was one that +explained--most satisfactorily explained, we said--the reason they +were thus returned. It was a few lines from Guy himself, stating +that unexpected good fortune had made him determine to come home at +once. If circumstances thwarted this intention, he would write +without fail; otherwise he should most likely sail by an American +merchantman--the "Stars-and-Stripes." + +"Then he is coming home. On his way home!" + +And the mother, as with one shaking hand she held fast the letter, +with the other steadied herself by the rail of John's desk--I guessed +now why he had ordered all the letters to be brought first to his +counting-house. "When do you think we shall see--Guy?" + +At thought of that happy sight, her bravery broke down. She wept +heartily and long. + +John sat still, leaning over the front of his desk. By his sigh, +deep and glad, one could tell what a load was lifted off the father's +heart at the prospect of his son's return. + +"The liners are only a month in sailing; but this is a barque most +likely, which takes longer time. Love, show me the date of the boy's +letter." + +She looked for it herself. It was in JANUARY! + +The sudden fall from certainty to uncertainty--the wild clutch at +that which hardly seemed a real joy until seen fading down to a mere +hope, a chance, a possibility--who has not known all this? + +I remember how we all stood, mute and panic-struck, in the dark +little counting-house. I remember seeing Louise, with her children +in the door-way, trying to hush their laughing, and whispering to +them something about "poor Uncle Guy." + +John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread, and show that it was +less than at first appeared. + +"We ought to have had this letter two months ago; this shows how +often delays occur--we ought not to be surprised or uneasy at +anything. Guy does not say when the ship was to sail--she may be on +her voyage still. If he had but given the name of her owners! But I +can write to Lloyd's and find out everything. Cheer up, mother. +Please God, you shall have that wandering, heedless boy of yours back +before long." + +He replaced the letters in their enclosure--held a general +consultation, into which he threw a passing gleam of faint gaiety, as +to whether being ours we had a right to burn them, or whether having +passed through the post-office they were not the writer's but the +owner's property, and Guy could claim them, with all their useless +news, on his arrival in England. This was finally decided, and the +mother, with faint smile, declared that nobody should touch them; she +would put them under lock and key "till Guy came home." + +Then she took her husband's arm; and the rest of us followed them as +they walked slowly up the hill to Beechwood. + +But after that day Mrs. Halifax's strength decayed. Not suddenly, +scarcely perceptibly; not with any outward complaint, except what she +jested over as "the natural weakness of old age;" but there was an +evident change. Week by week her long walks shortened; she gave up +her village school to me; and though she went about the house still +and insisted on keeping the keys, gradually, "just for the sake of +practice," the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud. + +An answer arrived from Lloyd's: the "Stars-and-Stripes" was an +American vessel, probably of small tonnage and importance, was the +under-writers knew nothing of it. + +More delay--more suspense. The summer days came--but not Guy. No +news of him--not a word--not a line. + +His father wrote to America--pursuing inquiries in all directions. +At last some tangible clue was caught. The "Stars-and-Stripes" had +sailed, had been spoken with about the Windward Isles--and never +heard of afterwards. + +Still, there was a hope. John told the hope first, before he +ventured to speak of the missing ship, and even then had to break the +news gently, for the mother had grown frail and weak, and could not +bear things as she used to do. She clung as if they had been words +of life or death to the ship-owner's postscript--"that they had no +recollection of the name of Halifax; there might have been such a +gentleman on board--they could not say. But it was not probable; for +the 'Stars-and-Stripes' was a trading vessel, and had not good +accommodation for passengers." + +Then came week after week--I know not how they went by--one never +does, afterwards. At the time they were frightfully vivid, hour by +hour; we rose each morning, sure that some hope would come in the +course of the day; we went to bed at night, heavily, as if there were +no such thing as hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that was +the worst consciousness of all, our life of suspense became perfectly +natural; and everything in and about the house went on as usual, just +as though we knew quite well--what the Almighty Father alone knew!-- +where our poor lad was, and what had become of him. Or rather, as if +we had settled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our own +lives alone would bring us, that he had slipped out of life +altogether, and there was no such being as Guy Halifax under this +pitiless sun. + +The mother's heart was breaking. She made no moan, but we saw it in +her face. One morning--it was the morning after John's birthday, +which we had made a feint of keeping, with Grace Oldtower, the two +little grandchildren, Edwin and Louise--she was absent at breakfast +and dinner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many +days following it happened the same; with the same faint excuse, or +with no excuse at all. How we missed her about the house!--ay, +changed as she had been. How her husband wandered about, ghost-like, +from room to room!--could not rest anywhere, or do anything. +Finally, he left our company altogether, and during the hours that he +was at home rarely quitted for more than a few minutes the quiet bed- +chamber, where, every time his foot entered it, the poor pale face +looked up and smiled. + +Ay, smiled; for I noticed, as many another may have done in similar +cases, that when her physical health definitely gave way, her mental +health returned. The heavy burthen was lighter; she grew more +cheerful, more patient; seemed to submit herself to the Almighty +will, whatever it might be. As she lay on her sofa in the study, +where one or two evenings John carried her down, almost as easily as +he used to carry little Muriel, his wife would rest content with her +hand in his, listening to his reading, or quietly looking at him, as +though her lost son's face, which a few weeks since she said haunted +her continually, were now forgotten in his father's. Perhaps she +thought the one she should soon see--while the other-- + +"Phineas," she whispered one day, when I was putting a shawl over her +feet, or doing some other trifle that she thanked me for,--"Phineas, +if anything happens to me, you will comfort John!" + +Then first I began seriously to contemplate a possibility, hitherto +as impossible and undreamed of as that the moon should drop out of +the height of heaven--What would the house be without the mother? + +Her children never suspected this, I saw; but they were young. For +her husband-- + +I could not understand John. He, so quick-sighted; he who meeting +any sorrow looked steadily up at the Hand that smote him, knowing +neither the coward's dread nor the unbeliever's disguise of pain-- +surely he must see what was impending. Yet he was as calm as if he +saw it not. Calm, as no man could be contemplating the supreme +parting between two who nearly all their lives had been not two, but +one flesh. + +Yet I had once heard him say that a great love, and only that, makes +parting easy. Could it be that this love of his, which had clasped +his wife so firmly, faithfully, and long, fearlessly clasped her +still, by its own perfectness assured of its immortality? + +But all the while his human love clung about her, showing itself in a +thousand forms of watchful tenderness. And hers clung to him, +closely, dependently; she let herself be taken care of, ruled and +guided, as if with him she found helplessness restful and submission +sweet. Many a little outward fondness, that when people have been +long married naturally drops into disuse, was revived again; he would +bring her flowers out of the garden, or new books from the town; and +many a time, when no one noticed, I have seen him stoop and press his +lips upon the faded hand, where the wedding-ring hung so loosely;-- +his own for so many years, his own till the dust claimed it, that +well-beloved hand! + +Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself, are powerless in +the presence of such a love as theirs. + +It was already the middle of July. From January to July--six months! +Our neighbours without--and there were many who felt for us--never +asked now, "Is there any news of Mr. Guy?" Even pretty Grace +Oldtower--pretty still, but youthful no longer--only lifted her eyes +inquiringly as she crossed our doorway, and dropped them again with a +hopeless sigh. She had loved us all, faithfully and well, for a +great many years. + +One night, when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after staying with +us the whole day--Maud and I sat in the study by ourselves, where we +generally sat now. The father spent all his evenings up-stairs. We +could hear his step overhead as he crossed the room or opened the +window, then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife's +bedside. Sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading or talk; then +long silence. + +Maud and I sat in silence too. She had her own thoughts--I mine. +Perhaps they were often one and the same: perhaps--for youth is +youth after all--they may have diverged widely. Hers were deep, +absorbed thoughts, at any rate, travelling fast--fast as her needle +travelled; for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways +and her mother's work. + +We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open; and through the +sultry summer night we could hear the trickle of the stream and the +rustle of the leaves in the beech-wood. We sat very still, waiting +for nothing, expecting nothing; in the dull patience which always +fell upon us about this hour--the hour before bed-time, when nothing +more was to be looked for but how best to meet another dreary day. + +"Maud, was that the click of the front gate swinging?" + +"No, I told Walter to lock it before he went to bed. Last night it +disturbed my mother." + +Again silence. So deep that the maid's opening the door made us both +start. + +"Miss Halifax--there's a gentleman wanting to see Miss Halifax." + +Maud sprung up in her chair, breathless. + +"Any one you know, is it?" + +"No, Miss." + +"Show the gentleman in." + +He stood already in the doorway,--tall, brown, bearded. Maud just +glanced at him, then rose, bending stiffly, after the manner of Miss +Halifax of Beechwood. + +"Will you be seated? My father--" + +"Maud, don't you know me? Where's my mother? I am Guy." + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +Guy and his mother were together. She lay on a sofa in her +dressing-room; he sat on a stool beside her, so that her arm could +rest on his neck and she could now and then turn his face towards her +and look at it--oh, what a look! + +She had had him with her for two whole days--two days to be set +against eight years! Yet the eight years seemed already to have +collapsed into a span of time, and the two days to have risen up a +great mountain of happiness, making a barrier complete against the +woeful past, as happiness can do--thanks to the All-merciful for His +mercies. Most especially for that mercy--true as His truth to the +experience of all pure hearts--that one bright, brief season of joy +can outweigh, in reality and even in remembrance, whole years of +apparently interminable pain. + +Two days only since the night Guy came home, and yet it seemed months +ago! Already we had grown familiar to the tall, bearded figure; the +strange step and voice about the house; all except Maud, who was +rather shy and reserved still. We had ceased the endeavour to +reconcile this our Guy--this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, +looking thirty-five and more--with Guy, the boy that left us, the boy +that in all our lives we never should find again. Nevertheless, we +took him, just as he was, to our hearts, rejoicing in him one and all +with inexpressible joy. + +He was much altered, certainly. It was natural, nay, right, that he +should be. He had suffered much; a great deal more than he ever told +us--at least, not till long after; had gone through poverty, labour, +sickness, shipwreck. He had written home by the "Stars-and-Stripes"- +-sailed a fortnight later by another vessel--been cast away--picked +up by an outward-bound ship--and finally landed in England, he and +his partner, as penniless as they left it. + +"Was your partner an Englishman, then?" said Maud, who sat at the +foot of the sofa, listening. "You have not told us anything about +him yet." + +Guy half smiled. "I will by and by. It's a long story. Just now I +don't want to think of anybody or anything except my mother." + +He turned, as he did twenty times a day, to press his rough cheek +upon her hand and look up into her thin face, his eyes overflowing +with love. + +"You must get well now, mother. Promise!" + +Her smile promised--and even began the fulfilment of the same. + +"I think she looks stronger already--does she, Maud? You know her +looks better than I; I don't ever remember her being ill in old +times. Oh, mother, I will never leave you again--never!" + +"No, my boy." + +"No, Guy, no."--John came in, and stood watching them both +contentedly. "No, my son, you must never leave your mother." + +"I will not leave either of you, father," said Guy, with a reverent +affection that must have gladdened the mother's heart to the very +core. Resigning his place by her, Guy took Maud's, facing them; and +father and son began to talk of various matters concerning their home +and business arrangements; taking counsel together, as father and son +ought to do. These eight years of separation seemed to have brought +them nearer together; the difference between them--in age, far less +than between most fathers and sons, had narrowed into a +meeting-point. Never in all his life had Guy been so deferent, so +loving, to his father. And with a peculiar trust and tenderness, +John's heart turned to his eldest son, the heir of his name, his +successor at Enderley Mills. For, in order that Guy might at once +take his natural place, and feel no longer a waif and stray upon the +world, already a plan had been started, that the firm of Halifax and +Sons should become Halifax Brothers. Perhaps, ere very long--only +the mother said privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not +wish this part of the scheme to be mentioned to Guy just now-- +perhaps, ere long it would be "Guy Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood;" +and "the old people" at happy little Longfield. + +As yet Guy had seen nobody but ourselves, and nobody had seen Guy. +Though his mother gave various good reasons why he should not make +his public appearance as a "ship-wrecked mariner," costume and all, +yet it was easy to perceive that she looked forward not without +apprehension to some meetings which must necessarily soon occur, but +to which Guy made not the smallest allusion. He had asked, cursorily +and generally, after "all my brothers and sisters," and been answered +in the same tone; but neither he nor we had as yet mentioned the +names of Edwin or Louise. + +They knew he was come home; but how and where the first momentous +meeting should take place we left entirely to chance, or, more +rightly speaking, to Providence. + +So it happened thus. Guy was sitting quietly on the sofa at his +mother's feet, and his father and he were planning together in what +way could best be celebrated, by our school-children, tenants, and +work-people, an event which we took a great interest in, though not +greater than in this year was taken by all classes throughout the +kingdom--the day fixed for the abolition of Negro Slavery in our +Colonies--the 1st of August, 1834. He sat in an attitude that +reminded me of his boyish lounging ways; the picture of content; +though a stream of sunshine pouring in upon his head, through the +closed Venetian blind, showed many a deep line of care on his +forehead, and more than one silver thread among his brown hair. + +In a pause--during which no one exactly liked to ask what we were all +thinking about--there came a little tap at the door, and a little +voice outside. + +"Please, me want to come in." + +Maud jumped up to refuse admission; but Mr. Halifax forbade her, and +himself went and opened the door. A little child stood there--a +little girl of three years old. + +Apparently guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily, and sat down in +his place again. + +"Come in, little maid," said the father; "come in, and tell us what +you want." + +"Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy." + +Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took her +grandchild in her feeble arms, and kissed her, saying softly, + +"There--that is Uncle Guy. Go and speak to him." + +And then, touching his knees, Guy felt the tiny, fearless hand. He +turned round, and looked at the little thing, reluctantly, +inquisitively. Still he did not speak to or touch her. + +"Are you Uncle Guy?" + +"Yes." + +"Why don't you kiss me? Everybody kisses me," said everybody's pet; +neither frightened nor shy; never dreaming of a repulse. + +Nor did she find it. Her little fingers were suffered to cling round +the tightly-closed hand. + +"What is your name, my dear?" + +"Louise--mamma's little Louise." + +Guy put back the curls, and gazed long and wistfully into the +childish face, where the inherited beauty was repeated line for line. +But softened, spiritualised, as, years after its burial, some ghost +of a man's old sorrows may rise up and meet him, the very spirit of +peace shining out of its celestial eyes. + +"Little Louise, you are very like--" + +He stopped--and bending down, kissed her. In that kiss vanished for +ever the last shadow of his boyhood's love. Not that he forgot it-- +God forbid that any good man should ever either forget or be ashamed +of his first love! But it and all its pain fled far away, back into +the sacred eternities of dreamland. + +When, looking up at last, he saw a large, fair, matronly lady sitting +by his mother's sofa, Guy neither started nor turned pale. It was +another, and not his lost Louise. He rose and offered her his hand. + +"You see, your little daughter has made friends with me already. She +is very like you; only she has Edwin's hair. Where is my brother +Edwin?" + +"Here, old fellow. Welcome home." + +The two brothers met warmly, nay, affectionately. Edwin was not +given to demonstration; but I saw how his features twitched, and how +he busied himself over the knots in his little girl's pinafore for a +minute or more. When he spoke again it was as if nothing had +happened and Guy had never been away. + +For the mother, she lay with her arms folded, looking from one to the +other mutely, or closing her eyes with a faint stirring of the lips, +like prayer. It seemed as if she dared only THUS to meet her +exceeding joy. + +Soon, Edwin and Louise left us for an hour or two, and Guy went on +with the history of his life in America and his partner who had come +home with him, and, like himself, had lost his all. + +"Harder for him than for me; he is older than I am. He knew nothing +whatever of business when he offered himself as my clerk; since then +he has worked like a slave. In a fever I had he nursed me; he has +been to me these three years the best, truest friend. He is the +noblest fellow. Father, if you only knew--" + +"Well, my son, let me know him. Invite the gentleman to Beechwood; +or shall I write and ask him? Maud, fetch me your mother's desk. +Now then, Guy--you are a very forgetful fellow still; you have never +yet told us your friend's name." + +Guy looked steadily at his father, in his own straightforward way; +hesitated--then apparently made up his mind. + +"I did not tell you because he wished me not; not till you understood +him as well as I do. You knew him yourself once--but he has wisely +dropped his title. Since he came over to me in America he has been +only Mr. William Ravenel." + +This discovery--natural enough when one began to think over it, but +incredible at first, astounded us all. For Maud--well was it that +the little Louise seated in her lap hid and controlled in some +measure the violent agitation of poor Auntie Maud. + +Ay--Maud loved him. Perhaps she had guessed the secret cause of his +departure, and love creates love often times. Then his brave +renunciation of rank, fortune, even of herself--women glory in a +moral hero--one who has strength to lose even love, and bear its +loss, for the sake of duty or of honour. His absence, too, might +have done much:--absence which smothers into decay a rootless fancy, +but often nourishes the least seed of a true affection into full- +flowering love. Ay--Maud loved him. How, or why, or when, at first +no one could tell--perhaps not even herself; but so it was, and her +parents saw it. + +Both were deeply moved--her brother likewise. + +"Father," he whispered, "have I done wrong? I did not know--how +could I guess?" + +"No, no--my son. It is very strange--all things just now seem so +strange. Maud, my child,"--and John roused himself out of a long +silence into which he was falling,--"go, and take Louise to her +mother." + +The girl rose, eager to get away. As she crossed the room--the +little creature clinging round her neck, and she clasping it close, +in the sweet motherliness of character which had come to her so +early--I thought--I hoped-- + +"Maud!" said John, catching her hand as she passed him by--"Maud is +not afraid of her father?" + +"No,"--in troubled uncertainty--then with a passionate decision, as +if ashamed of herself-- + +"No!" + +She leaned over his chair-back and kissed him--then went out. + +"Now--Guy." + +Guy told, in his own frank way, all the history of himself and +William Ravenel; how the latter had come to America, determined to +throw his lot for good or ill, to sink or swim, with Maud's brother-- +chiefly, as Guy had slowly discovered, because he was Maud's brother. +At last--in the open boat, on the Atlantic, with death the great +revealer of all things staring them in the face--the whole secret +came out. It made them better than friends--brothers. + +This was Guy's story, told with a certain spice of determination too, +as if--let his father's will be what it might, his own, which had now +also settled into the strong "family" will, was resolute on his +friend's behalf. Yet when he saw how grave, nay sad, the father sat, +he became humble again, and ended his tale even as he had begun, with +the entreaty--"Father, if you only knew--" + +"My knowing and my judging seem to have been of little value, my son. +Be it so. There is One wiser than I--One in whose hands are the +issues of all things." + +The sort of contrition with which he spoke--thus retracting, as it +costs most men so much to retract, a decision given however justly at +the time, but which fate has afterwards pronounced unjust, affected +his son deeply. + +"Father, your decision was right--William says it was. He says also, +that it could not have been otherwise; that whatever he has become +since, he owes it all to you, and to what passed that day. Though he +loves her still, will never love any one else; yet he declares his +loss of her has proved his salvation." + +"He is right," said Mrs. Halifax. "Love is worth nothing that will +not stand trial--a fiery trial, if needs be. And as I have heard +John say many and many a time--as he said that very night--in this +world there is not, ought not to be, any such words as 'too late.'" + +John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped on his right hand, the +other pressed against his bosom--his favourite attitude. Once or +twice, with a deep-drawn, painful breath, he sighed. + +Guy's eagerness could not rest. "Father, I told him I would either +write to or see him to-day." + +"Where is he?" + +"At Norton Bury. Nothing could induce him to come here, unless +certain that you desired it." + +"I do desire it." + +Guy started up with great joy. "Shall I write, then?" + +"I will write myself." + +But John's hand shook so much, that instead of his customary free, +bold writing, he left only blots upon the page. He leant back in his +chair, and said faintly-- + +"I am getting an old man, I see. Guy, it was high time you came +home." + +Mrs. Halifax thought he was tired, and made a place for his head on +her pillow, where he rested some minutes, "just to please her," he +said. Then he rose and declared he would himself drive over to +Norton Bury for our old friend. + +"Nay, let me write, father. To-morrow will do just as well." + +The father shook his head. "No--it must be to-day." + +Bidding good-bye to his wife--he never by any chance quitted her for +an hour without a special tender leave-taking--John went away. + +Guy was, he avouched, "as happy as a king." His old liveliness +returned; he declared that in this matter, which had long weighed +heavily on his mind, he had acted like a great diplomatist, or like +the gods themselves, whom some unexacting, humble youth calls upon to + + "Annihilate both time and space, + And make two lovers happy!" + +"And I'm sure I shall be happy too, in seeing them. They shall be +married immediately. And we'll take William into partnership--that +was a whim of his, mother--we call one another 'Guy' and 'William,' +just like brothers. Heigho! I'm very glad. Are not you?" + +The mother smiled. + +"You will soon have nobody left but me. No matter. I shall have you +all to myself, and be at once a spoiled child, and an uncommonly +merry old bachelor." + +Again the mother smiled, without reply. She, too, doubtless thought +herself a great diplomatist. + +William Ravenel--he was henceforward never anything to us but +William--came home with Mr. Halifax. First, the mother saw him; then +I heard the father go to the maiden bower where Maud had shut herself +up all day--poor child!--and fetch his daughter down. Lastly, I +watched the two--Mr. Ravenel and Miss Halifax--walk together down the +garden and into the beech-wood, where the leaves were whispering and +the stock-doves cooing; and where, I suppose, they told and listened +to the old tale--old as Adam--yet for ever beautiful and new. + +That day was a wonderful day. That night we gathered, as we never +thought we should gather again in this world, round the family table- +-Guy, Edwin, Walter, Maud, Louise, and William Ravenel--all changed, +yet not one lost. A true love-feast it was: a renewed celebration +of the family bond, which had lasted through so much sorrow, now +knitted up once more, never to be broken. + +When we came quietly to examine one another and fall into one +another's old ways, there was less than one might have expected even +of outward change. The table appeared the same; all took +instinctively their old places, except that the mother lay on her +sofa and Maud presided at the urn. + +It did one's heart good to look at Maud, as she busied herself about, +in her capacity as vice-reine of the household; perhaps, with a +natural feeling, liking to show some one present how mature and +sedate she was--not so very young after all. You could see she felt +deeply how much he loved her--how her love was to him like the +restoring of his youth. The responsibility, sweet as it was, made +her womanly, made her grave. She would be to him at once wife and +child, plaything and comforter, sustainer and sustained. Ay, love +levels all things. They were not ill-matched, in spite of those +twenty years. + +And so I left them, and went and sat with John and Ursula--we, the +generation passing away, or ready to pass, in Heaven's good time, to +make room for these. We talked but little, our hearts were too full. +Early, before anybody thought of moving, John carried his wife +up-stairs again, saying that, well as she looked, she must be +compelled to economise both her good looks and her happiness. + +When he came down again he stood talking for some time with Mr. +Ravenel. While he talked I thought he looked wearied--pallid even to +exhaustion; a minute or two afterwards he silently left the room. + +I followed him, and found him leaning against the chimney-piece in +his study. + +"Who's that?" He spoke feebly; he looked--ghastly! + +I called him by his name. + +"Come in. Fetch no one. Shut the door." + +The words were hoarse and abrupt, but I obeyed. + +"Phineas," he said, again holding out a hand, as if he thought he had +grieved me; "don't mind. I shall be better presently. I know quite +well what it is--ah, my God--my God!" + +Sharp, horrible pain--such as human nature shrinks from--such as +makes poor mortal flesh cry out in its agony to its Maker, as if, for +the time being, life itself were worthless at such a price. I know +now what it must have been; I know now what he must have endured. + +He held me fast, half unconscious as he was, lest I should summon +help; and when a step was heard in the passage, as once before--the +day Edwin was married--how, on a sudden, I remembered all!--he +tottered forward and locked, double-locked, the door. + +After a few minutes the worst suffering abated, and he sat down again +in his chair. I got some water; he drank, and let me bathe his face +with it--his face, grey and death-like--John's face! + +But I am telling the bare facts--nothing more. + +A few heavy sighs, gasped as it were for life, and he was himself +again. + +"Thank God, it is over now! Phineas, you must try and forget all you +have seen. I wish you had not come to the door." + +He said this, not in any tone that could wound me, but tenderly, as +if he were very sorry for me. + +"What is it?" + +"There is no need for alarm;--no more than that day--you recollect?-- +in this room. I had an attack once before then--a few times since. +It is horrible pain while it lasts, you see; I can hardly bear it. +But it goes away again, as you also see. It would be a pity to tell +my wife, or anybody; in fact, I had rather not. You understand?" + +He spoke thus in a matter-of-fact way, as if he thought the +explanation would satisfy me and prevent my asking further. He was +mistaken. + +"John, what is it?" + +"What is it? Why, something like what I had then; but it comes +rarely, and I am well again directly. I had much rather not talk +about it. Pray forget it." + +But I could not; nor, I thought, could he. He took up a book and sat +still; though often times I caught his eyes fixed on my face with a +peculiar earnestness, as if he would fain test my strength--fain find +out how much I loved him; and loving, how much I could bear. + +"You are not reading, John; you are thinking--what about?" + +He paused a little, as if undetermined whether or not to tell me; +then said: "About your father. Do you remember him?" + +I looked surprised at the question. + +"I mean, do you remember how he died?" + +Somehow--though, God knows, not at that dear and sacred remembrance-- +I shuddered. "Yes; but why should we talk of it now?" + +"Why not? I have often thought what a happy death it was--painless, +instantaneous, without any wasting sickness beforehand--his sudden +passing from life present to life eternal. Phineas, your father's +was the happiest death I ever knew." + +"It may be--I am not sure. John," for again something in his look +and manner struck me--"why do you say this to me?" + +"I scarcely know. Yes, I do know." + +"Tell me, then." + +He looked at me across the table--steadily, eye to eye, as if he +would fain impart to my spirit the calmness that was in his own. "I +believe, Phineas, that when I die my death will be not unlike your +father's." + +Something came wildly to my lips about "impossibility," the utter +impossibility, of any man's thus settling the manner of his death, or +the time. + +"I know that. I know that I may live ten or twenty years, and die of +another disease after all." + +"Disease!" + +"Nay--it is nothing to be afraid of. You see I am not afraid. I +have guessed it for many years. I have known it for a certainty ever +since I was in Paris." + +"Were you ill in Paris?--You never said so." + +"No--because--Phineas, do you think you could bear the truth? You +know it makes no real difference. I shall not die an hour sooner for +being aware of it." + +"Aware of--what? Say quickly." + +"Dr. K---- told me--I was determined to be told--that I had the +disease I suspected; beyond medical power to cure. It is not +immediately fatal; he said I might live many years, even to old age; +and I might die, suddenly, at any moment, just as your father died." + +He said this gently and quietly--more quietly than I am writing the +words down now; and I listened--I listened. + +"Phineas!" + +I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder--the hand which +had led me like a brother's all my life. + +"Phineas, we have known one another these forty years. Is our love, +our faith, so small, that either of us, for himself or his brother, +need be afraid of death?--" + +"Phineas!"--and the second time he spoke there was some faint +reproach in the tone; "no one knows this but you. I see I was right +to hesitate; I almost wish I had not told you at all." + +Then I rose. + +At my urgent request, he explained to me fully and clearly the whole +truth. It was, as most truths are, less terrible when wholly known. +It had involved little suffering as yet, the paroxysms being few and +rare. They had always occurred when he was alone, or when feeling +them coming on he could go away and bear them in solitude. + +"I have always been able to do so until to-night. She has not the +least idea--my wife, I mean." + +His voice failed. + +"It has been terrible to me at times, the thought of my wife. +Perhaps I ought to have told her. Often I resolved I would, and then +changed my mind. Latterly, since she has been ill, I have believed, +almost hoped, that she would not need to be told at all." + +"Would you rather, then, that she--" + +John calmly took up the word I shrank from uttering. "Yes; I would +rather of the two that she went away first. She would suffer less, +and it would be such a short parting." + +He spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an impending journey. To +him the great change, the last terror of humanity, was a thought-- +solemn indeed, but long familiar and altogether without fear. And, +as we sat there, something of his spirit passed into mine; I felt how +narrow is the span between the life mortal and the life immortal-- +how, in truth, both are one with God. + +"Ay," he said, "that is exactly what I mean. To me there is always +something impious in the 'preparing for death' that people talk +about; as if we were not continually, whether in the flesh or out of +it, living in the Father's presence; as if, come when He will, the +Master should not find all of us watching? Do you remember saying so +to me, one day?" + +Ah, that day! + +"Does it pain you, my talking thus? Because if so, we will cease." + +"No--go on." + +"That is right. I thought, this attack having been somewhat worse +than my last, some one ought to be told. It has been a comfort to me +to tell you--a great comfort, Phineas. Always remember that." + +I have remembered it. + +"Now, one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You see, though I may +have years of life--I hope I shall--many busy years--I am never sure +of a day, and I have to take many precautions. At home I shall be +quite safe now." He smiled again, with evident relief. "And rarely +I go anywhere without having one of my boys with me. Still, for +fear--look here." + +He showed me his pocket-book; on a card bearing his name and address +was written in his own legible hand, "HOME, AND TELL MY WIFE +CAREFULLY." + +I returned the book. As I did so, there dropped out a little note-- +all yellow and faded--his wife's only "love-letter,"--signed, "Yours +sincerely, Ursula March." + +John picked it up, looked at it, and put it back in its place. + +"Poor darling! poor darling!" He sighed, and was silent for a while. +"I am very glad Guy has come home; very glad that my little Maud is +so happily settled. Hark! how those children are laughing!" + +For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the father's face, +the father to whom all the delights of home had been so dear. But it +soon vanished. + +"How merry they are!--how strangely things have come about for us and +ours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at this moment we have not a +single care." + +I grasped at that, for Dr. K---- had declared that if John had a +quiet life--a life without many anxieties--he might, humanly +speaking, attain a good old age. + +"Ay, your father did. Who knows? we may both be old men yet, +Phineas." + +And as he rose, he looked strong in body and mind, full of health and +cheer--scarcely even on the verge of that old age of which he spoke. +And I was older than he. + +"Now, will you come with me to say good-night to the children?" + +At first I thought I could not--then, I could. After the rest had +merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time in the empty +parlour, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to stand when we were +boys, talking. + +What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every word. And +he--I KNOW he remembers it still. + +Then we clasped hands. + +"Good-night, Phineas." + +"Good-night, John." + + + +CHAPTER XL + +Friday, the first of August, 1834. + +Many may remember that day; what a soft, grey, summer morning it was, +and how it broke out into brightness; how everywhere bells were +ringing, club fraternities walking with bands and banners, school- +children having feasts and work-people holidays; how, in town and +country, there was spread abroad a general sense of benevolent +rejoicing--because honest old England had lifted up her generous +voice, nay, had paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, and in all +her colonies the negro was free. + +Many may still find, in some forgotten drawer, the medal bought by +thousands and tens of thousands, of all classes, in copper, silver, +or gold--distributed in charity-schools, and given by old people to +their grandchildren. I saw Mrs. Halifax tying one with a piece of +blue ribbon round little Louise's neck, in remembrance of this day. +The pretty medal, with the slave standing upright, stretching out to +Heaven free hands, from which the fetters are dropping--as I +overheard John say to his wife, he could fancy the freeman Paul would +stand in the Roman prison, when he answered to those that loved him, +"I HAVE FOUGHT THE GOOD FIGHT. I HAVE FINISHED MY COURSE. I HAVE +KEPT THE FAITH." + + +Now, with my quickened ears, I often heard John talking quietly to +his wife on this wise. + +He remained by her side the whole forenoon--wheeling her about in +her garden-chair; taking her to see her school-children in their +glory on our lawn--to hear the shouts rising up from the people at +the mill-yard below. For all Enderley, following the master's +example, took an interest, hearty even among hearty hard-working +England, in the Emancipation of the Slaves. + +We had our own young people round us, and the day was a glorious day, +they declared one and all. + +John was happy too--infinitely happy. After dinner he carried his +wife to her chair beside the weeping ash, where she could smell the +late hay in the meadow, and hear the ripple of the stream in the +beech-wood--faint, for it was almost dried up now, but pleasant +still. Her husband sat on the grass, making her laugh with his +quaint sayings--admiring her in her new bonnet, and in the lovely +white shawl--Guy's shawl--which Mr. Guy himself had really no time +for admiring. He had gone off to the school tea-drinking, escorting +his sister and sister-in-law, and another lady, whose eyes brightened +with most "sisterly" joy whenever she glanced at her old playfellow. +Guy's "sister" she nevertheless was not, nor was ever likely to be-- +and I questioned whether, in his secret heart, he had not begun +already to feel particularly thankful for that circumstance. + +"Ah, mother," cried the father, smiling, "you'll see how it will end: +all our young birds will soon be flown--there will be nobody left but +you and me." + +"Never mind, John;" and stooping over him, she gave him one of her +quiet, soft kisses, precious now she was an old woman as they had +been in the days of her bloom. "Never mind. Once there were only +our two selves--now there will be only our two selves again. We +shall be very happy. We only need one another." + +"Only one another, my darling." + +This last word, and the manner of his saying it, I can hear if I +listen in silence, clear as if yet I heard its sound. This last +sight--of them sitting under the ash-tree, the sun making still +whiter Ursula's white shawl, brightening the marriage ring on her +bare hand, and throwing, instead of silver, some of their boyish gold +colour into the edges of John's curls--this picture I see with my +shut eyes, vivid as yesterday. + +I sat for some time in my room--then John came to fetch me for our +customary walk along his favourite "terrace" on the Flat. He rarely +liked to miss it--he said the day hardly seemed complete or perfect +unless one had seen the sun set. Thus, almost every evening, we used +to spend an hour or more, pacing up and down, or sitting in that +little hollow under the brow of the Flat, where, as from the topmost +seat of a natural amphitheatre, one could see Rose Cottage and the +old well-head where the cattle drank; our own green garden-gate, the +dark mass of the beech-wood, and far away beyond that Nunneley Hill, +where the sun went down. + +There, having walked somewhat less time than usual, for the evening +was warm and it had been a fatiguing day, John and I sat down +together. We talked a little, ramblingly--chiefly of Longfield--how +I was to have my old room again--and how a new nursery was to be +planned for the grandchildren. + +"We can't get out of the way of children, I see clearly," he said, +laughing. "We shall have Longfield just as full as ever it was, all +summer time. But in winter we'll be quiet, and sit by the chimney- +corner, and plunge into my dusty desert of books--eh, Phineas? You +shall help me to make notes for those lectures I have intended giving +at Norton Bury, these ten years past. And we'll rub up our old +Latin, and dip into modern poetry--great rubbish, I fear! Nobody +like our old friend Will of Avon, or even your namesake, worthy +Phineas Fletcher." + +I reminded him of the "Shepherd's life and fate," which he always +liked so much, and used to say was his ideal of peaceful happiness. + +"Well, and I think so still. 'Keep true to the dreams of thy youth,' +saith the old German; I have not been false to mine. I have had a +happy life, thank God; ay, and what few men can say, it has been the +very sort of happiness I myself would have chosen. I think most +lives, if, while faithfully doing our little best, day by day, we +were content to leave their thread in wiser hands than ours, would +thus weave themselves out; until, looked back upon as a whole, they +would seem as bright a web as mine." + +He sat, talking thus, resting his chin on his hands--his eyes, calm +and sweet, looking out westward--where the sun was about an hour from +the horizon. + +"Do you remember how we used to lie on the grass in your father's +garden, and how we never could catch the sunset except in fragments +between the abbey trees! I wonder if they keep the yew hedge clipped +as round as ever." + +I told him Edwin had said to-day that some strange tenants were going +to make an inn of the old house, and turn the lawn into a bowling- +green. + +"What a shame! I wish I could prevent it. And yet, perhaps not," he +added, after a silence. "Ought we not rather to recognise and submit +to the universal law of change? How each in his place is fulfilling +his day, and passing away, just as that sun is passing. Only we know +not whither he passes; while whither we go we know, and the Way we +know--the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." + +Almost before he had done speaking--(God grant that in the Kingdom I +may hear that voice, not a tone altered--I would not wish it altered +even there)--a whole troop of our young people came out of Mrs. Tod's +cottage, and nodded to us from below. + +There was Mrs. Edwin, standing talking to the good old soul, who +admired her baby-boy very much, but wouldn't allow there could be any +children like Mrs. Halifax's children. + +There was Edwin, deep in converse with his brother Guy, while beside +them--prettier and younger-looking than ever--Grace Oldtower was +making a posy for little Louise. + +Further down the slope, walking slowly, side by side, evidently +seeing nobody but one another, were another couple. + +"I think, sometimes, John, that those two, William and Maud, will be +the happiest of all the children." + +He smiled, looked after them for a minute, and then laid himself +quietly down on his back along the slope, his eyes still directed +towards the sunset. When, brightening as it descended, the sun shone +level upon the place where we were sitting, I saw John pull his broad +straw hat over his face, and compose himself, with both hands clasped +upon his breast, in the attitude of sleep. + +I knew he was very tired, so I spoke no more, but threw my cloak over +him. He looked up, thanked me silently, with his old familiar smile. +One day--one day I shall know him by that smile! I sat half an hour +or more watching the sun, which sank steadily, slowly, round, and +red, without a single cloud. Beautiful, as I had never before seen +it; so clear, that one could note the very instant its disc touched +the horizon's grey. + +Maud and Mr. Ravenel were coming up the slope. I beckoned them to +come softly, not to disturb the father. They and I sat in silence, +facing the west. The sun journeyed down to his setting--lower-- +lower; there was a crescent, a line, a dim sparkle of light; then--he +was gone. And still we sat--grave, but not sad--looking into the +brightness he had left behind; believing, yea, knowing, we should see +his glorious face again to-morrow. + +"How cold it has grown," said Maud. "I think we ought to wake my +father." + +She went up to him, laid her hand upon his, that were folded together +over the cloak--drew back startled--alarmed. + +"Father!" + +I put the child aside. It was I who moved the hat from John's face-- +THE face--for John himself was far, far away. Gone from us unto Him +whose faithful servant he was. While he was sleeping thus the Master +had called him. + +His two sons carried him down the slope. They laid him in the upper +room in Mrs. Tod's cottage. Then I went home to tell his wife. + + * * * + +She was at last composed, as we thought, lying on her bed, death-like +almost, but calm. It was ten o'clock at night. I left her with all +her children watching round her. + +I went out, up to Rose Cottage, to sit an hour by myself alone, +looking at him whom I should not see again for--as he had said--"a +little while." + +"A little while--a little while." I comforted myself with those +words. I fancied I could almost hear John saying them, standing near +me, with his hand on my shoulder. John himself, quite distinct from +that which lay so still before me; beautiful as nothing but death can +be, younger much than he had looked this very morning--younger by +twenty years. + +Farewell, John! Farewell, my more than brother! It is but for a +little while. + +As I sat, thinking how peacefully the hands lay, clasped together +still, how sweet was the expression of the close mouth, and what a +strange shadowy likeness the whole face bore to Muriel's little face, +which I had seen resting in the same deep rest on the same pillow; +some one touched me. It was Mrs. Halifax. + +How she came I do not know; nor how she had managed to steal out from +among her children. Nor how she, who had not walked for weeks, had +found her way up hither, in the dark, all alone. Nor what strength, +almost more than mortal, helped her to stand there, as she did stand, +upright and calm--gazing--gazing as I had done. + +"It is very like him; don't you think so, Phineas?" The voice low +and soft, unbroken by any sob. "He once told me, in case of--this, +he would rather I did not come and look at him; but I can, you see." + +I gave her my place, and she sat down by the bed. It might have been +ten minutes or more that she and I remained thus, without exchanging +a word. + +"I think I hear some one at the door. Brother, will you call in the +children?" + +Guy, altogether overcome, knelt down beside his mother, and besought +her to let him take her home. + +"Presently--presently, my son. You are very good to me; but--your +father. Children, come in and look at your father." + +They all gathered round her--weeping; but she spoke without single +tear. + +"I was a girl, younger than any of you, when first I met your father. +Next month we shall have been married thirty-three years. Thirty- +three years." + +Her eyes grew dreamy, as if fancy had led her back all that space of +time; her fingers moved to and fro, mechanically, over her wedding- +ring. + +"Children, we were so happy, you cannot tell. He was so good; he +loved me so. Better than that, he made me good; that was why I loved +him. Oh, what his love was to me from the first! strength, hope, +peace; comfort and help in trouble, sweetness in prosperity. How my +life became happy and complete--how I grew worthier to myself because +he had taken me for his own! And what HE was--Children, no one but +me ever knew all his goodness, no one but himself ever knew how +dearly I loved your father. We were more precious each to each than +anything on earth; except His service, who gave us to one another." + +Her voice dropped all but inaudible; but she roused herself, and made +it once more clear and firm, the mother's natural voice. + +"Guy, Edwin, all of you, must never forget your father. You must do +as he wishes, and live as he lived--in all ways. You must love him, +and love one another. Children, you will never do anything that need +make you ashamed to meet your father." + +As they hung round her she kissed them all--her three sons and her +daughter, one by one; then, her mind being perhaps led astray by the +room we were in, looked feebly round for one more child--remembered-- +smiled-- + +"How glad her father will be to have her again--his own little +Muriel." + +"Mother! mother darling! come home," whispered Guy, almost in a sob. + +His mother stooped over him, gave him one kiss more--him her +favourite of all her children--and repeated the old phrase: + +"Presently, presently! Now go away, all of you; I want to be left +for a little, alone with my husband." + +As we went out, I saw her turn toward the bed--"John, John!" The +same tone, almost the same words, with which she had crept up to him +years before, the day they were betrothed. Just a low, low murmur, +like a tired child creeping to fond protecting arms. "John, John!" + +We closed the door. We all sat on the stairs outside; it might have +been for minutes, it might have been for hours. Within or without-- +no one spoke--nothing stirred. + +At last Guy softly went in. + +She was still in the same place by the bed-side, but half lying on +the bed, as I had seen her turn when I was shutting the door. Her +arm was round her husband's neck; her face, pressed inwards to the +pillow, was nestled close to his hair. They might have been asleep-- +both of them. + +One of her children called her, but she neither answered nor stirred. + +Guy lifted her up, very tenderly; his mother, who had no stay left +but him--his mother--a widow-- + +No, thank God! she was not a widow now. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of John Halifax, Gentleman. + |