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 goingto say, but she changed her mind. 

My father and I both glanced round, surprised at her unusual reticenceof epithets: but when the lad addressed turned, fixed his eyes on eachof 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, andthere will be shelter enough both for us and thee, " said my father, ashe pulled my little hand-carriage into the alley, under cover, from thepelting rain. The lad, with a grateful look, put out a hand likewise, and pushed me further in. A strong hand it was--roughened and brownedwith labour--though he was scarcely as old as I. What would I not havegiven to have been so stalwart and so tall!

Sally called from her house-door, "Wouldn't Master Phineas come in andsit by the fire a bit?"--But it was always a trouble to me to move orwalk; and I liked staying at the mouth of the alley, watching theautumnal shower come sweeping down the street: besides, I wanted tolook again at the stranger-lad. 

He had scarcely stirred, but remained leaning against the wall--eitherthrough weariness, or in order to be out of our way. He took little orno notice of us, but kept his eyes fixed on the pavement--for weactually boasted pavement in the High Street of our town of NortonBury--watching the eddying rain-drops, which, each as it fell, threw upa little mist of spray. It was a serious, haggard face for a boy ofonly fourteen or so. Let me call it up before me--I can, easily, evenafter more than fifty years. 

Brown eyes, deep-sunken, with strongly-marked brows, a nose like mostother Saxon noses, nothing particular; lips well-shaped, lying one uponthe other, firm and close; a square, sharply outlined, resolute chin, of that type which gives character and determination to the wholephysiognomy, and without which in the fairest features, as in the bestdispositions, 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 himseemed to indicate that which I had not: his muscular limbs, hissquare, broad shoulders, his healthy cheek, though it was sharp andthin--even to his crisp curls of bright thick hair. 

Thus he stood, principal figure in a picture which is even yet as clearto me as yesterday--the narrow, dirty alley leading out of the HighStreet, yet showing a glimmer of green field at the further end; theopen house-doors on either side, through which came the drowsy burr ofmany a stocking-loom, the prattle of children paddling in the gutter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato parings. In front the HighStreet, with the mayor's house opposite, porticoed and grand: andbeyond, just where the rain-clouds were breaking, rose up out of a nestof trees, the square tower of our ancient abbey--Norton Bury's boastand pride. On it, from a break in the clouds, came a sudden stream oflight. 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. Whatcould he be thinking of so intently?--a poor working lad, whom fewwould 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 besideus. 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 hepoked his stick into the little water-pools, that he was longing to bein his tan-yard close by. 

He pulled out his great silver watch--the dread of our house, for itwas 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 Ito 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 hisonly child such a sickly creature as I, now, at sixteen, as helplessand useless to him as a baby. 

"Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee. " For though myfather had got me a sort of carriage in which, with a little externalaid, I could propel myself, so as to be his companion occasionally inhis 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 heardmy father's words, the colour rushed over his face, and he startedforward involuntarily. I had not before perceived how wasted andhungry-looking he was. 

"Father!" I whispered. But here the boy had mustered up his courageand 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 upinto 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 ownmotives, 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 thatwere the terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel Fletcher jingledtemptingly the silver money in the pockets of his long-flapped brownwaistcoat. "I say, art thee a lad to be trusted?"

John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He seemed to feelthat this was a critical moment, and to have gathered all his mentalforces into a serried square, to meet the attack. He met it, andconquered 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, andleft us. 

I followed him with my eyes, as he went sturdily plashing down thestreet; his broad, comfortable back, which owned a coat of true Quakercut, but spotless, warm, and fine; his ribbed hose and leatherngaiters, and the wide-brimmed hat set over a fringe of grey hairs, thatcrowned the whole with respectable dignity. He looked precisely whathe was--an honest, honourable, prosperous tradesman. I watched him downthe street--my good father, whom I respected perhaps even more than Iloved him. The Cornish lad watched him likewise. 

It still rained slightly, so we remained under cover. John Halifaxleaned in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. Once only, whenthe draught through the alley made me shiver, he pulled my cloak roundme carefully. 

"You are not very strong, I'm afraid?"

"No. "

Then he stood idly looking up at the opposite--the mayor's--house, withits 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 toAbbey folk and orthodoxy, I to the Society of Friends--the mayor's rosychildren seemed greatly amused by watching us shivering shelterers fromthe rain. Doubtless our position made their own appear all thepleasanter. For myself it mattered little; but for this poor, desolate, homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in sight of their merrynursery window, and hear the clatter of voices, and of not unwelcomedinner-sounds--I wondered how he felt it. 

Just at this minute another head came to the window, a somewhat olderchild; I had met her with the rest; she was only a visitor. She lookedat us, then disappeared. Soon after, we saw the front door halfopened, and an evident struggle taking place behind it; we even heardloud 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 acarving-knife in the other. She succeeded in cutting off a largeslice, and holding it out. 

"Take it, poor boy!--you look so hungry. Do take it. " But the servantforced her in, and the door was shut upon a sharp cry. 

It made John Halifax start, and look up at the nursery window, whichwas likewise closed. We heard nothing more. After a minute he crossedthe street, and picked up the slice of bread. Now in those days breadwas precious, exceedingly. The poor folk rarely got it; they lived onrye or meal. John Halifax had probably not tasted wheaten bread likethis for months: it appeared not, he eyed it so ravenously;--then, glancing towards the shut door, his mind seemed to change. He was along time before he ate a morsel; when he did so, it was quietly andslowly; 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. Iwished 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 hadsaved me from being overturned by a horseman riding past--young Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, who never cared where he galloped or whomhe 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 firmerfoot, as if he knew he had the world before him--would meet itsingle-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 Ishould 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, tanneras he was, and pertinaciously jealous of the dignity of trade, yet heldstrongly the common-sense doctrine of the advantages of good descent;at least, in degree. For since it is a law of nature, admitting onlyrare exceptions, that the qualities of the ancestors should betransmitted to the race--the fact seems patent enough, that evenallowing equal advantages, a gentleman's son has more chances ofgrowing up a gentleman than the son of a working man. And though hehimself, and his father before him, had both been working men, still, Ithink, Abel Fletcher never forgot that we originally came of a goodstock, and that it pleased him to call me, his only son, after one ofour forefathers, not unknown--Phineas Fletcher, who wrote the "PurpleIsland. "

Thus it seemed to me, and I doubted not it would to my father, muchmore reasonable and natural that a boy like John Halifax--in whom fromevery word he said I detected a mind and breeding above his outwardcondition--should come of gentle than of boorish blood. 

"Then, perhaps, " I said, resuming the conversation, "you would not liketo follow a trade?"

"Yes, I should. What would it matter to me? My father was agentleman. "

"And your mother?"

And he turned suddenly round; his cheeks hot, his lips quivering: "Sheis 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; andthat circumstances had smothered down his quick boyish feelings into aman's tenacity of betraying where he had loved and mourned. I, only afew minutes after, said something about wishing we were not "strangers. "

"Do you?" The lad's half amazed, half-grateful smile went right to myheart. 

"Have you been up and down the country much?"

"A great deal--these last three years; doing a hand's turn as best Icould, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, harvesting; only this summer Ihad 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 beafraid. "

"No, indeed; I had never thought of that. "

We soon became quite sociable together. He guided me carefully out ofthe town into the Abbey walk, flecked with sunshine through overhangingtrees. Once he stopped to pick up for me the large brown fan of ahorse-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-doorwork to be had?"

"I don't know. "

The lad's countenance fell, and that hungry, weary look, which hadvanished while we talked, returned more painfully than ever. Ireproached 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, andcrossed the street; "here we are, at home!"

"Are you?" The homeless lad just glanced at it--the flight of spotlessstone-steps, guarded by ponderous railings, which led to my father'srespectable 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 yearsinto a mournful maturity--this lad's face had come like a flash ofsunshine; a reflection of the merry boyhood, the youth and strengththat never were, never could be, mine. To let it go from me was likegoing back into the dark. 

"Not good-bye just yet!" said I, trying painfully to disengage myselffrom my little carriage and mount the steps. John Halifax came to myaid. 

"Suppose you let me carry you. I could--and--and it would be greatfun, you know. "

He tried to turn it into a jest, so as not to hurt me; but the tremblein 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 mesafely and carefully, and set me at my own door. Then with anothergood-bye he again turned to go. 

My heart cried after him with an irrepressible cry. What I said I donot 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'tgo yet. Ah! here comes my father!"

John Halifax stood aside, and touched his cap with a respectfuldeference, as the old man passed. 

"So here thee be--hast thou taken care of my son? Did he give thee thygroat, 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 todraw 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 Ican'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 thepoor lad's eyes. "Nearly starving. "

"Bless me! then get in, and have thy dinner. But first--" and myinexorable 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 yourdinner, sir; I would have stayed, because your son asked me, and he wascivil 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 themost 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 Jonathanloved him as his own soul. "

And this day, I, a poorer and more helpless Jonathan, had found myDavid. 

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, wherethe stiff, high-backed chairs eyed one another in opposite rows acrossthe wide oaken floor, shiny and hard as marble, and slippery as glass. Except the table, the sideboard and the cuckoo clock, there was noother furniture. 

I dared not bring the poor wandering lad into this, my father'sespecial domain; but as soon as he was away in the tan-yard I sent forJohn. 

Jael brought him in; Jael, the only womankind we ever had about us, andwho, save to me when I happened to be very ill, certainly gave noindication of her sex in its softness and tenderness. There hadevidently been wrath in the kitchen. 

"Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you mustn't keep 'un long. Ibean't going to let you knock yourself up with looking after abeggar-boy. "

A beggar-boy! The idea seemed so ludicrous, that I could not helpsmiling at it as I regarded him. He had washed his face and combed outhis fair curls; though his clothes were threadbare, all but ragged, they were not unclean; and there was a rosy, healthy freshness in histanned skin, which showed he loved and delighted in what poor folkgenerally abominate--water. And now the sickness of hunger had gonefrom his face, the lad, if not actually what our scriptural Saxon terms"well-favoured, " was certainly "well-liking. " A beggar-boy, indeed! Ihoped he had not heard Jael's remark. But he had. 

"Madam, " said he, with a bow of perfect good-humour, and even some slydrollery, "you mistake: I never begged in my life: I'm a person ofindependent property, which consists of my head and my two hands, outof which I hope to realise a large capital some day. "

I laughed. Jael retired, abundantly mystified, and rather cross. JohnHalifax came to my easy chair, and in an altered tone asked me how Ifelt, 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 Ihad been revolving many plans, which had one sole aim and object, tokeep near me this lad, whose companionship and help seemed to me, brotherless, sisterless, and friendless as I was, the very thing thatwould give me an interest in life, or, at least, make it drag on lesswearily. To say that what I projected was done out of charity or pitywould not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfishnesswhich makes one leap towards, and cling to, a possible strength andgood, which I conclude to be the secret of all those sudden likingsthat spring more from instinct than reason. I do not attempt toaccount for mine: I know not why "the soul of Jonathan clave to thesoul of David. " I only know that it was so, and that the first day Ibeheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, "loved him as my ownsoul. "

Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that itapparently touched the friendless boy to the core. 

"Thank you, " he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against thefire-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 manyand wide themes, such as boys delight in--chiefly of life andadventure. 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, beingsomewhat proud of my erudition. 

"And write?"

"Oh, yes; certainly. "

He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, andI don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put downsomething in a book for me. "

"That I will. "

He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under oneof black silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it goout of his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves. It was aGreek 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 theyear of our Lord 1779. 

"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780. "

There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "GuyHalifax, died January 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 oncelet 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 thefire, 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 heknew more himself. He was indebted to no forefathers for a familyhistory: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether hisown making. No romantic antecedents ever turned up: his lineageremained uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his ownhonest name--John Halifax. 

Jael kept coming in and out of the parlour on divers excuses, eyeingvery suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when she heard melaughing--a rare and notable fact--for mirth was not the fashion in ourhouse, nor the tendency of my own nature. Now this young lad, hardlyas the world had knocked him about even already, had an overflowingspirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to me aninexpressible relief. It gave me something I did notpossess--something entirely new. I could not look at the dancing browneyes, at the quaint dimples of lurking fun that played hide-and-seekunder the firm-set mouth, without feeling my heart cheered anddelighted, 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 thetable--"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 laughingbean't good for thee; and it's time this lad were going about his ownbusiness. "

"Hush!--nonsense, Jael. "

"No--she's right, " said John Halifax, rising, while that look ofpremature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased allthe boyish fun from his face. "I've had a merry day--thank you kindlyfor it! and now I'll be gone. "

Gone! It was not to be thought of--at least, not till my father camehome. For now, more determinedly than ever, the plan which I had justventured to hint at to my father fixed itself on my mind. Surely hewould not refuse me--me, his sickly boy, whose life had in it so littlepleasure. 

"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. Inever wanted bread, nor begged it, yet--though I've often been ratherhungry. And as for clothes"--he looked down on his own, light andthreadbare, here and there almost burst into holes by the stout musclesof the big growing boy--looked rather disconsolately. "I'm afraid SHEwould be sorry--that's all! She always kept me so tidy. "

By the way he spoke, "SHE" must have meant his mother. There theorphan 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 turnup?"

"Oh yes, something always does; I'm not afraid!" He tossed back hiscurls, and looked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; thatsteady, brave, honest smile, which will meet Fate in every turn, andfairly coax the jade into good humour. 

"John, do you know you're uncommonly like a childish hero of mine--DickWhittington? Did you ever hear of him?"

"No. "

"Come into the garden then"--for I caught another ominous vision ofJael 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 Abbeybells 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 andparticular story of Sir Richard Whittington. "

I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John found and putthem into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look. 

"You don't need those sort of things, " I said, making pretence tolaugh, 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; mostlikely I shan't live long. " For this was, God forgive me, always thelast and greatest comfort I had. 

John looked at me--surprised, troubled, compassionate--but he did notsay a word. I hobbled past him; he following through the long passageto the garden door. There I paused--tired out. John Halifax tookgentle hold of my shoulder. 

"I think, if you did not mind, I'm sure I could carry you. I carried ameal-sack once, weighing eight stone. "

I burst out laughing, which maybe was what he wanted, and forthwithconsented to assume the place of the meal-sack. He took me on hisback--what a strong fellow he was!--and fairly trotted with me downthe garden walk. We were both very merry; and though I was his seniorI seemed with him, out of my great weakness and infirmity, to feelalmost 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 abouthim observantly, while a quiet, intense satisfaction grew and diffuseditself over his whole countenance. 

"It's a VERY nice place. "

Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as abowling-green, with borders round. Beyond, divided by a low hedge, wasthe kitchen and fruit garden--my father's pride, as this old-fashionedpleasaunce was mine. When, years ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-patternedcarpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk; and above that, apparentlyshut in as with an impassable barrier from the outer world, by athree-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. "Thisgrass plot is very even--thirty yards square, I should guess. I'd getup 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 stillit'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--overthere. I have seen bigger ones--but they're steep enough--bleak andcold, too, especially when one is lying out among the sheep. At adistance they look pleasant. This is a very pretty view. "

Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever now, when I had someone to say to how "very pretty" it was. Let me describe it--this firstlandscape, the sole picture of my boyish days, and vivid as all suchpictures are. 

At the end of the arbour the wall which enclosed us on the riverwardside was cut down--my father had done it at my asking--so as to make aseat, something after the fashion of Queen Mary's seat at Stirling, ofwhich 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 toour cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. Now it slipped onquietly enough, contenting itself with turning a flour-mill hard by, the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone which I wasfond of hearing. 

From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called theHam--dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it was a secondriver, forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But thestream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; youcould only trace the line of its course by the small white sails thatglided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, andacross meadow lands. 

They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, surely. Isthere water there?"

"To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn; thoughat this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough too, asyou may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly believe so, tolook at it here--but I believe it gets broader and broader, and turnsout a noble river by the time it reaches the King's Roads, and formsthe Bristol Channel. "

"I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I like theSevern. "

He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in hiseyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thoughtgrow, 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 lowdegree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgottento tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our gardenwall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the grimold Abbey tower. 

"Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time--ourorchard 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 wentto examine it. 

Now, far and near, our yew-hedge was noted. There was not its like inthe 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 imperviousas a wall. 

John poked in and about it--peering through every interstice--leaninghis breast against the solid depth of branches; but their close shieldresisted all his strength. 

At last he came back to me, his face glowing with the vain efforts hehad 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 tellyou what I'd do--I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced myway through, and got out safe at the other side. "

"Well done, lad!--but if it's all the same to thee, I would rather theedid not try that experiment upon MY hedge at present. "

My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. We were bothsomewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of aspect showed that hewas not displeased--nay, even amused. 

"Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend--what'sthy name?"

I supplied the answer. The minute Abel Fletcher appeared, John seemedto lose all his boyish fun, and go back to that premature gravity andhardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh experience of theworld and of men had necessarily taught him; but which was very sad tosee in a lad so young. 

My father sat down beside me on the bench--pushed aside an intrusivebranch of clematis--finally, because it would come back and tickle hisbald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river: then, leaning onhis stick with both hands, eyed John Halifax sharply, all over, fromtop 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 inrags. 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 meditativelyfor a minute or so; making circles in the gravel walk with the end ofhis stick. People said--nay, Jael herself, once, in a passion, hadthrown the fact at me--that the wealthy Friend himself had come toNorton 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 hastthee been at all this year?--The truth, mind!"

John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him rightagain. He said quietly and respectfully, "Let me think a minute, andI'll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer's, riding theplough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with somesheep: in June I tried hay-making, and caught a fever--you needn'tstart, sir, I've been well these six weeks, or I wouldn't have comenear 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 myfather retained scrupulously the Friend's mode of speech, though he waspractically but a lax member of the Society, and had married out of itspale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, I fancy, morepride than humility. 

"Very well, I will remember, " answered the boy fearlessly, though withan amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. "And now, AbelFletcher, 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 wordsrather modified my pleasure. 

"Phineas, one of my men at the tan-yard has gone and 'listed thisday--left an honest livelihood to be a paid cut-throat. Now, if Icould get a lad--one too young to be caught hold of at every pot-houseby that man of blood, the recruiting sergeant--Dost thee think this ladis 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 boughtfrom the farmers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to meof Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae ofdefunct animals, while in front the said Bill sat enthroned, dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, with his pipe in his mouth. The idea ofJohn Halifax in such a position was not agreeable. 

"But, father--"

He read deprecation in my looks--alas! he knew too well how I dislikedthe tan-yard and all belonging to it. "Thee'rt a fool, and the lad'sanother. 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 notwork neither shall he eat. "

"I will work, " said John, sturdily--he had listened, scarcelycomprehending, to my father and me. "I don't care what it is, if onlyit's honest work. "

Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me--but that Ilittle 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 knowanything 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, aswell as I can. "

"And mind! no stopping on the road. No drinking, to find the king'scursed shilling at the bottom of the glass, like poor Bill, for thymother to come crying and pestering. Thee hasn't got one, eh? So muchthe 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 thisself-control was more moving than if he had wept--at least, it answeredbetter with my father. 

After a few minutes more, during which his stick had made a littlegrave in the middle of the walk, and buried something there--I thinksomething besides the pebble--Abel Fletcher said, not unkindly:

"Well, I'll take thee; though it isn't often I take a lad without acharacter of some sort--I suppose thee hast none. "

"None, " was the answer, while the straightforward, steady gaze whichaccompanied it unconsciously contradicted the statement; his own honestface was the lad's best witness--at all events I thought so. 

"'Tis done then, " said my father, concluding the business more quicklythan I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even such aseemingly trifling matter. I say SEEMINGLY. How blindly we talk whenwe talk of "trifles. "

Carelessly rising, he, from some kindly impulse, or else to mark theclosing 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, Iunderstand--well, I will try and serve you well. "

My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. He was toobusy calculating how many more of those said shillings would be a fairequivalent for such labour as a lad, ever so much the junior of BillWatkins, could supply. After some cogitation he hit upon the rightsum. I forget how much--be sure it was not over much; for money wasscarce enough in this war-time; and besides, there was a belief afloat, so widely that it tainted even my worthy father, that plenty was notgood for the working-classes; they required to be kept low. 

Having settled the question of wages, which John Halifax did not debateat all, my father left us, but turned back when half-way across thegreen-turfed square. 

"Thee said thee had no money; there's a week in advance, my son beingwitness I pay it thee; and I can pay thee a shilling less everySaturday 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, andwe had the garden all to ourselves--we, Jonathan and his new-foundDavid. 

I did not "fall upon his neck, " like the princely Hebrew, to whom Ihave likened myself, but whom, alas! I resembled in nothing save myloving. But I grasped his hand, for the first time, and looking up athim, 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 mannerreturned; he threw his battered cap high up in the air, and shoutedout, "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 veryuseless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish habit of keeping adiary. To me, at least, it has been less foolish and harmful than tomost; and out of it, together with much drawn out of the stores of amemory, made preternaturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, colourless itself, had nothing to do but to reflect and retain clearimages of the lives around it--out of these two sources I have compiledthe present history. 

Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur. These I shall not tryto fill up, but merely resume the thread of narration as recollectionserves. 

Thus, after this first day, many days came and went before I again sawJohn Halifax--almost before I again thought of him. For it was one ofmy seasons of excessive pain; when I found it difficult to think ofanything beyond those four grey-painted walls; where morning, noon, andnight slipped wearily away, marked by no changes, save from daylight tocandle-light, from candle-light to dawn. 

Afterwards, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by occasionalmemories of something pleasant that had crossed my dreary life; visionsof a brave, bright young face, ready alike to battle with and enjoy theworld. I could hear the voice that, speaking to me, was always tenderwith pity--yet not pity enough to wound: I could see the peculiarsmile just creeping round his grave mouth--that irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thorough heart-cheerfulness, which ripensall the fruits of a noble nature, and without which the very noblesthas 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 aboutsuch 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 Ilay for days and days in my sick room, often thinking, but neverspeaking, about the lad. Never once asking for him to come to me; notthough it would have been life to me to see his merry face--I longedafter him so. 

At last I broke the bonds of sickness--which Jael always riveted aslong and as tightly as she could--and plunged into the outer worldagain. 

It was one market-day--Jael being absent--that I came down-stairs. Asoft, bright, autumn morning, mild as spring, coaxing a wandering robinto come and sing to me, loud as a quire of birds, out of the thinnedtrees of the Abbey yard. I opened the window to hear him, though allthe while in mortal fear of Jael. I listened, but caught no tone ofher sharp voice, which usually came painfully from the back regions ofthe house; it would ill have harmonised with the sweet autumn day andthe robin's song. I sat, idly thinking so, and wondering whether itwere 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 ofscarlet winding down the rural road, our house being on the verge whereNorton Bury melted into "the country. " It turned out to be the cloakof a well-to-do young farmer's wife riding to market in her cart besideher jolly-looking spouse. Very spruce and self-satisfied she appeared, and the market-people turned to stare after her, for her costume was anovelty then. Doubtless, many thought as I did, how much prettier wasscarlet than duffle grey. 

Behind the farmer's cart came another, which at first I scarcelynoticed, being engrossed by the ruddy face under the red cloak. Thefarmer himself nodded good-humouredly, but Mrs. Scarlet-cloak turned upher nose. "Oh, pride, pride!" I thought, amused, and watched the twocarts, the second of which was with difficulty passing the farmer's, onthe opposite side of the narrow road. At last it succeeded in gettingin 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 curlyhair. Also, alas! I knew the cart with relics of departed sheepdangling out behind. It was our cart of skins, and John Halifax wasdriving it. 

"John! John!" I called out, but he did not hear, for his horse hadtaken fright at the red cloak, and required a steady hand. Very steadythe boy's hand was, so that the farmer clapped his two great fists, andshouted "Bray-vo!"

But John--my John Halifax--he sat in his cart, and drove. Hisappearance was much as when I first saw him--shabbier, perhaps, as ifthrough repeated drenchings; this had been a wet autumn, Jael had toldme. Poor John!--well might he look gratefully up at the clear blue skyto-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 sogreat pleasure that I forgot to wonder whether or no he would noticeme. He did not at first, being busy over his horse; until, just as thenotion 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 atonce his manner changed; he took off his cap, and bowed ceremoniouslyto his master's son. 

For the moment I was hurt; then I could not but respect the honestpride which thus intimated that he knew his own position, and wishedneither to ignore nor to alter it; all advances between us mustevidently come from my side. So, having made his salutation, he wasdriving 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 crutchesto the front door, forgetting everything but the pleasure of meetinghim--forgetting even my terror of Jael. What could she say? eventhough she held nominally the Friends' doctrine--obeyed in the letterat least, 'Call no man your master'--what would Jael say if she foundme, Phineas Fletcher, talking in front of my father's respectablemansion 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 himcomfortably under a tree, and gave him in charge to a small boy. Thenhe bounded back across the road, and was up the steps to my side in asingle 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 thedoor 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 hadbeen a big elder brother, and I a little ailing child. Well nursed andcarefully guarded as I had always been, it was the first time in mylife I ever knew the meaning of that rare thing, tenderness. A qualitydifferent from kindliness, affectionateness, or benevolence; a qualitywhich can exist only in strong, deep, and undemonstrative natures, andtherefore in its perfection is oftenest found in men. John Halifax hadit 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 ofhis expressed as much as half-a-dozen sympathetic sentences of otherpeople. 

"And how have you been, John? How do you like the tan-yard? Tell mefrankly. "

He pulled a wry face, though comical withal, and said, cheerily, "Everybody must like what brings them their daily bread. It's a grandthing 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--goodfor both to learn--that Heaven's ways are not so unequal as wesometimes 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 theopen hall-door, I perceived Jael sauntering leisurely home from market. 

Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. The avalancheof ill-words I knew must fall--but it should not fall on him, if Icould 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 notquite 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 oughtnot. "

"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 excellentwoman did say I have not the slightest recollection. I only rememberthat 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 att'other;" that I persisted in looking out until the last glimmer of thebright curls had disappeared down the sunshiny road--then shut thefront door, and crept in, content. 

Between that time and dinner I sat quiet enough even to please Jael. Iwas thinking over the beautiful old Bible story, which latterly had sovividly impressed itself on my mind; thinking of Jonathan, as he walked"by the stone Ezel, " with the shepherd-lad, who was to be king ofIsrael. I wondered whether he would have loved him, and seen the samefuture perfection in him, had Jonathan, the king's son, met the poorDavid keeping his sheep among the folds of Bethlehem. 

When my father came home he found me waiting in my place at table. Heonly said, "Thee art better then, my son?" But I knew how glad he wasto see me. He gave token of this by being remarkably conversible overour 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 justbeen 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 violentpassions. " (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 wentabroad--Phineas, this child, this miserable child, will bear the markof the wound all her life. "

"Poor thing!" said I, absently. 

"No need to pity her; her spirit is not half broken yet. Thomas Jessopsaid to me, 'That little Ursula--'"

"Is her name Ursula?" And I called to mind the little girl who hadtried to give some bread to the hungry John Halifax, and whose cry ofpain we heard as the door shut upon her. Poor little lady! how sorry Iwas. I knew John would be so infinitely sorry too--and all to nopurpose--that I determined not to tell him anything about it. The nexttime I saw Dr. Jessop I asked him after the child, and learned she hadbeen taken away somewhere, I forgot where; and then the whole affairslipped from my memory. 

"Father, " said I, when he ceased talking--and Jael, who always ate herdinner at the same time and table as ourselves, but "below the salt, "had ceased nodding a respectful running comment on all hesaid--"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 longrow of chairs, and re-sanding the broad centre Sahara of the room toits dreary, pristine aridness, stopped, fairly aghast with amazement. 

"Abel--Abel Fletcher! the lad's just out of his bed; he is no more fitto--"

"Pshaw, woman!" was the sharp answer. "So, Phineas, thee art reallystrong enough to go out?"

"If thou wilt take me, father. "

He looked pleased, as he always did when I used the Friends' mode ofphraseology--for I had not been brought up in the Society; this havingbeen the last request of my mother, rigidly observed by her husband. The more so, people said, as while she lived they had not been quitehappy together. But whatever he was to her, in their brief union, hewas a good father to me, and for his sake I have always loved andhonoured the Society of Friends. 

"Phineas, " said he (after having stopped a volley of poor Jael'sindignations, beseechings, threats, and prognostications, by a resolute"Get the lad ready to go")--"Phineas, my son, I rejoice to see thy mindturning towards business. I trust, should better health be vouchsafedthee, 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 revoltedfrom my father's trade. I held the tan-yard in abhorrence--to enter itmade me ill for days; sometimes for months and months I never went nearit. That I should ever be what was my poor father's one desire, hisassistant and successor in his business, was, I knew, a thing totallyimpossible. 

It hurt me a little that my project of going with him to-day should inany way have deceived him; and rather silently and drearily we set outtogether; progressing through Norton Bury streets in our old way, myfather marching along in his grave fashion, I steering my littlecarriage, and keeping as close as I could beside him. Many a personlooked at us as we passed; almost everybody knew us, but few, even ofour own neighbours, saluted us; we were Nonconformists and Quakers. 

I had never been in the town since the day I came through it with JohnHalifax. The season was much later now, but it was quite warm still inthe sunshine, and very pleasant looked the streets, even the close, narrow streets of Norton Bury. I beg its pardon; antiquaries hold it amost "interesting and remarkable" place: and I myself have sometimesadmired its quaint, overhanging, ornamented house-fronts--blackened, and wonderfully old. But one rarely notices what has been familiarthroughout life; and now I was less struck by the beauty of thepicturesque old town than by the muddiness of its pathways, and themingled noises of murmuring looms, scolding women, and squabblingchildren, that came up from the alleys which lay between the HighStreet and the Avon. In those alleys were hundreds of our poor folkliving, huddled together in misery, rags, and dirt. Was John Halifaxliving there too?

My father's tan-yard was in an alley a little further on. Already Iperceived the familiar odour; sometimes a not unpleasant barky smell;at other times borne in horrible wafts, as if from a lately forsakenbattle-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 threewomen to split bark, very busy at work; yet he found time to stop nowand then, and administered a wisp of sweet hay to the old blind mare, as she went slowly round and round, turning the bark mill. Nobodyseemed to notice him, and he did not speak to anybody. 

As we passed John did not even see us. I asked my father, in awhisper, how he liked the boy. 

"What boy?--eh, him?--Oh, well enough--there's no harm in him that Iknow of. Dost thee want him to wheel thee about the yard? Here, Isay, lad--bless me! I've forgot thy name. "

John Halifax started up at the sharp tone of command; but when he sawme he smiled. My father walked on to some pits where he told me he wastrying an important experiment, how a hide might be tanned completelyin five months instead of eight. I stayed behind. 

"John, I want you. "

John shook himself free of the bark-heap, and came rather hesitatinglyat 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 tomaintain externally a certain gentle respectfulness of demeanourtowards me, yet it was more the natural deference of the younger to theelder, of the strong to the weak, than the duty paid by a serving-ladto 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 ofabomination, with a slender network of pathways thrown between--untilwe 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 thecarriage I'd make you comfortable here in no time. "

I was quite willing; so he ran off and fetched an old horserug, whichhe laid upon the soft, dry mass. Then he helped me thither, andcovered me with my cloak. Lying thus, with my hat over my eyes, justdistinguishing the shiny glimmer of the Avon running below, and beyondthat the green, level Ham, dotted with cows, my position was anythingbut unpleasant. In fact, positively agreeable--ay, even though thetan-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 thebark-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, thoughin the distance an afternoon mist was slowly creeping on. 

"All very fine now, but there's a fog coming over Severn; and it issure to rain at nightfall. I shall not get my nice little bit ofOctober evening. "

"You must spend it within doors then. " John shook his head. "Youought; it must be dreadfully cold on this bark-heap after sunset. "

"Rather, sometimes. Are you cold now? Shall I fetch--but I haven'tanything fit to wrap you in, except this rug. "

He muffled it closer round me; infinitely light and tender was hisrough-looking boy's hand. 

"I never saw anybody so thin as you; thinner much since I saw you. Haveyou been very, very ill, Phineas? What ailed you?"

His anxiety was so earnest, that I explained to him what I may as wellexplain here, and dismiss, once for all; the useless topic, that frommy birth I had been puny and diseased; that my life had been asuccession of sicknesses, and that I could hope for little else untilthe end. 

"But don't think I mind it; John;" for I was grieved to see his shockedand troubled look. "I am very content; I have a quiet home, a goodfather, and now I think and believe I have found the one thing Iwanted--a good friend. "

He smiled, but only because I did. I saw he did not understand me. Inhim, as in most strong and self-contained temperaments, was a certainslowness to receive impressions, which, however, being once received, are indelible. Though I, being in so many things his opposite, hadnone of this peculiarity, but felt at once quickly and keenly, yet Irather liked the contrary in him, as I think we almost always do likein another those peculiarities which are most different from our own. Therefore I was neither vexed nor hurt because the lad was slow toperceive all that he had so soon become, and all that I meant him tobecome, to me. I knew from every tone of his voice, every chanceexpression of his honest eyes, that he was one of those characters inwhich we may be sure that for each feeling they express lies acountless wealth of the same, unexpressed, below; a character thekeystone of which was that whereon is built all liking and alllove--DEPENDABLENESS. He was one whom you may be long in knowing, butwhom the more you know the more you trust; and once trusting, you trustfor ever. 

Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature indiscovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; andpossibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a littlefrom 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 towhistle a tune. 

"Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the realtruth. "

"Well, then, I hate the tan-yard. "

Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a smallheap of tan right down into the river, he became composed. 

"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend toget used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many aworse thing. It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is theonly thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely becauseit'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 solemnearnest). "And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially thatI'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in theworld--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 youseem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things. "

"Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's thoughtstravel fast enough lying on this bark-heap--faster than indoors. Ioften wish I could read--that is, read easily. As it is, I havenothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, andwhat I should like to be. "

"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to yourmaster'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 anotion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not makehim--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I can't put the subjectclear, 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'llstick to the tanning as long as I can. "

"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as hestood, 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 maybe, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works inyour 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 bowso contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarilyrecalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman. " However, that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, likemany another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence--Heavenknows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon. 

The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to partwith 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 ofblackberries by way of pudding--which is grand! Supper, when I do getit, I like best on this bark-heap, after the men are away, and thetan-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 lowestebb of human misery: so degrading, too--like a common tramp orvagabond, 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 ifhe had read my thoughts, guessed at my suspicions, and was determinedto show that he feared neither--that he would use his own judgment, andfollow his own will, in spite of anybody. "Look here. I get threeshillings a week, which is about fivepence a day; out of that I eatthreepence--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--atthe decentest place I could find, but--" here an expression ofintolerable disgust came over the boy's face--"I don't intend to trythat again. I was never used to it. Better keep my own company andthe open air. Now you see. "

"Oh, John!"

"Nay--there's no need to be sorry. You don't know how comfortable itis to sleep out of doors; and so nice to wake in the middle of thenight 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 upin it like a dormouse, wrapped in this rug, which one of the men gaveme. Besides, every morning early I take a plunge and a swim in thestream, and that makes me warm all day. "

I shivered--I who feared the touch of cold water. Yet there with allhis 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. "Whatshall you do when winter comes?"

John looked grave. "I don't know: I suppose I shall managesomehow--like the sparrows, " he answered, perceiving not how appositehis illustration was. For truly he seemed as destitute as the birds ofthe air, whom ONE feedeth, when they cry to Him. 

My question had evidently made him thoughtful; he remained silent agood while. 

At last I said: "John, do you remember the woman who spoke so sharplyto you in the alley that day?"

"Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened that day, " heanswered, softly. 

"She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, though troublehas sharpened her temper. Her biggest boy Bill, who is gone off for asoldier, used to drive your cart, you know. "

"Yes?" said John, interrogatively; for I was slow in putting forth myplans--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 wouldhelp her; and I dare say, if you'll let me speak to her, you might haveBill's attic all to yourself. She has but one other lad at home: it'sworth trying for. "

"It is indeed. You are very kind, Phineas. " He said no more wordsthan these--but their tone spoke volumes. 

I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxious not to losea day in this matter. I persuaded John to go at once with me to SallyWatkins. My father was not to be seen; but I ventured to leave wordfor him that I was gone home, and had taken John Halifax with me: itwas astonishing how bold I felt myself growing, now that there wasanother beside myself to think and act for. 

We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place--poorer than I hadimagined; but I remembered what agonies of cleanliness had beeninflicted on me in nursery days; and took hope for John. 

Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old jacket thathad once been Bill's, until, being supplanted by the grand red coat, itdescended upon Jem, the second lad. But Bill still engrossed the poormother's heart--she could do nothing but weep over him, and curse"Bonyparty. " Her mind was so full of this that she apparently failedto recognise in the decent young workman, John Halifax, thehalf-starved lad she had belaboured with her tongue in the alley. Sheconsented at once to his lodging with her--though she looked up with anodd 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 himextra-comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came down she wasquite 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 ofher house just like her poor dear boy. 

I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and indeed half-angry, butJohn only smiled. 

"And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now and then about the kitchen--Is'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 bothsat down on the bed that had been poor Bill's. It was nothing to boastof, being a mere sacking stuffed with hay--a blanket below, and anotherat top; I had to beg from Jael the only pair of sheets John owned for along time. The attic was very low and small, hardly big enough "towhip a cat round, " or even a kitten--yet John gazed about it with anair 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 tothe roof, and from the roof was the finest view in all Norton Bury. Onone side, the town, the Abbey, and beyond it a wide stretch of meadowand woodland as far as you could see; on the other, the broad Ham, theglittering 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 tomake the simple, everyday act of "looking out o' window, " unconsciouslyinfluence the mind as much as a world of books. 

"Do you like your 'castle, ' John?" said I, when I had silently watchedhis beaming face; "will it suit you?"

"I rather think it will!" he cried in hearty delight. And my heartlikewise was very glad. 

Dear little attic room! close against the sky--so close, that many atime the rain came pattering in, or the sun beating down upon the roofmade it like a furnace, or the snow on the leads drifted so high as toobscure the window--yet how merry, how happy, we have been there! Howoften 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 wintersinevitably were. I never stirred from my room, and never saw anybodybut my father, Dr. Jessop, and Jael. At last I took courage to say tothe 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 himalone; he'll do well enough if thee doesn't try to lift him out of hisplace. "

Lift John Halifax out of his "place"! I agreed with my father thatthat was impossible; but then we evidently differed widely in ourdefinition 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--andthey were rare--I managed to send John a little note, written carefullyin 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, withoutmaking any more fruitless efforts, I should be sure to see him. I knewenough of himself, and was too jealous over his dignity, to wish eitherto force him by entreaties, or bring him by stratagem, into a housewhere he was not welcome, even though it were the house of my ownfather. 

One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, and soft, plentiful rain had half melted the great snow-drifts, which, Jael toldme, lay about the country everywhere, I thought I would just put myhead out of doors, to see how long the blessed spring would be incoming. So I crawled down into the parlour, and out of the parlourinto the garden; Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. My poorfather! he always had the belief that people need not be ill unlessthey 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 greengrass, which had been hidden for weeks; delicious to walk up and downin the sunshine, under the shelter of the yew hedge. I amused myselfby watching a pale line of snowdrops which had come up one by one, likeprisoners of war to their execution. 

But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, for itreminded 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, burlyBill! better had he still been ingloriously driving our cart of skins. 

"Have you been to see Sally lately?" said I, to Jael, who was cuttingwinter 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, andeats a deal more than he pays, I'm sure. "

I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father had latelyraised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. This, together with afew other facts which lay between Sally and me, made me quite easy inthe mind as to his being no burthen, but rather a help to the widow--soI let Jael have her say; it did no harm to me nor anybody. 

"What bold little things snowdrops are--stop, Jael, you are settingyour 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 hurryand consternation. 

"Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden; and here I be inmy 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 nodifficulty in recognising John Halifax. 

He had on new clothes--let me give the credit due to that wonderfulciviliser, the tailor--clothes neat, decent, and plain, such as any'prentice lad might wear. They fitted well his figure, which hadincreased both in height, compactness, and grace. Round his neck was acoarse but white shirt frill; and over it fell, carefully arranged, thebright 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'tcompany for him, and his father don't choose it. "

"Jael!" I cried, indignantly. John never spoke, but his cheek burntfuriously. 

I took his hand, and told him how glad I was to see him--but, for aminute, 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'seasy 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 hercabbages. John picked them up and restored them; but got for thanksonly a parting thrust. 

"Thee art mighty civil in thy new clothes. Be off, and be back againsharp; and, I say, don't thee be leaving the cart o' skins again underthe parlour windows. "

"I don't drive the cart now, " was all he replied. 

"Not drive the cart?" I asked, eagerly, when Jael had disappeared, forI was afraid some ill chance had happened. 

"Only, that this winter I've managed to teach myself to read and addup, out of your books, you know; and your father found it out, and hesays I shall go round collecting money instead of skins, and it's muchbetter 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 howexceedingly 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'tthat grand?"

"Grand, indeed. What fun we'll have! I almost think I could take awalk myself. "

For the lad's company invariably gave me new life, and strength, andhope. 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 wasguiding my carriage down Norton Bury streets. 

"I think to the Mythe. " The Mythe was a little hill on the outskirtsof the town, breezy and fresh, where Squire Brithwood had built himselfa fine house ten years ago. 

"Ay, that will do; and as we go, you will see the floods out--awonderful sight, isn't it? The river is rising still, I hear; at thetan-yard they are busy making a dam against it. How high are thefloods here, generally, Phineas?"

"I'm sure I can't remember. But don't look so serious. Let us enjoyourselves. "

And I did enjoy, intensely, that pleasant stroll. The mere sunshinewas delicious; delicious, too, to pause on the bridge at the other endof the town, and feel the breeze brought in by the rising waters, andhear the loud sound of them, as they poured in a cataract over theflood-gates hard by. 

"Your lazy, muddy Avon looks splendid now. What masses of white foamit makes, and what wreaths of spray; and see! ever so much of the Hamis 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, tosee him so happy. 

"You can't think how fine this is from my window; I have watched it fora week. Every morning the water seems to have made itself a freshchannel. 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 beendoing all winter. "

It was a brief and simple chronicle--of hard work, all day over, andfrom the Monday to the Saturday--too hard work to do anything ofnights, save to drop into the sound, dreamless sleep of youth andlabour. 

"But how did you teach yourself to read and add up, then?"

"Generally at odd minutes going along the road. It's astonishing whata lot of odd minutes one can catch during the day, if one really setsabout it. And then I had Sunday afternoons besides. I did not thinkit wrong--"

"No, " said I; decisively. "What books have you got through?"

"All you sent--Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the ArabianNights. 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 hearhim own, nor be ashamed to own--that he read "a good deal" in that rarebook for a boy to read--the Bible. 

But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; indeed, itseemed 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 agreat deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were veryclever. How much do you know?"

"Oh--nonsense!" But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was shortenough; 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 whichguided 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 youall I know. "

"O Phineas!" One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walkedhastily 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 offthe 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 inprofile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by that mouth, soflexible, sensitive, and, at times, so infinitely sweet. It wore thatexpression now. I was satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy. 

We reached the Mythe. "David, " I said (I had got into a habit ofcalling him "David;" and now he had read a certain history in that BookI supposed he had guessed why, for he liked the name), "I don't think Ican go any further up the hill. "

"Oh! but you shall! I'll push behind; and when we come to the stileI'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the Mythe--look at thesunset. 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 broughtinto 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 anatural hill, or one of those old Roman or British remains, plentifulenough hereabouts, but it was always called the Mythe. Close below it, at the foot of a precipitous slope, ran the Severn, there broad anddeep enough, gradually growing broader and deeper as it flowed on, through a wide plain of level country, towards the line of hills thatbounded the horizon. Severn looked beautiful here; neither grand norstriking, but certainly beautiful; a calm, gracious, generous river, bearing strength in its tide and plenty in its bosom, rolling onthrough the land slowly and surely, like a good man's life, andfertilising 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 evenI had not often seen on our river. It was a mass of water, three orfour feet high, which came surging along the midstream, upright as awall. 

"It is the eger; I've often seen it on Severn, where the swift seawardcurrent meets the spring-tide. Look what a crest of foam it has, likea 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 byfurze-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 conflictingcurrents, in which no boat could live--least of all that lightpleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. In it was a youth I knew bysight, Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, and another gentleman. 

They both pulled hard--they got out of the mid-stream, but not closeenough to land; and already there was but two oars' length between themand the "boar. "

"Swim for it!" I heard one cry to the other: but swimming would nothave saved them. 

"Hold there!" shouted John at the top of his voice; "throw that ropeout and I will pull you in!"

It was a hard tug: I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in thestream--but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. Theyounger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late. Already the "water-boar" had clutched it--the rope broke like agossamer-thread--the trim, white sail was dragged down--rose up once, broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--thendisappeared. 

"So it's all over with her, poor thing!"

"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives, " sharply said the other, anolder and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in mourning, to whom lifedid not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appeared to valueit so highly. 

They both scrambled up the Mythe, without noticing John Halifax: thenthe 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; "Iknow him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard. "

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with akindly, even half-sad air. "Impossible! Young man, will you tell meto 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 thetan-yard. "

"Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dignity, thoughevidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed. 

"I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eyeing John over, "you've been outat grass, and changed your coat for the better: but you're certainlythe same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day; you were drivinga cart of skins--pah! I remember. "

"So do I, " said John, fiercely; but when the youth's insolent laughterbroke 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 ittowards 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 conflictingintentions, and not very easy in his mind. "My good fellow, " he saidat last, in a constrained voice, "I won't forget your bravery. If Icould do anything for you--and meanwhile if a trifle like this"--and heslipped something into John's hand. 

John returned it with a bow, merely saying "that he would rather nottake any money. "

The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more ofpersistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr. Marchput the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the whilelingeringly 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. "Myname 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 Johndid not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following youngBrithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced atJohn. Then they disappeared. 

"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable. " He flung himselfdown, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so afraid hewould take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults. I satwrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in the sandypath with the rose-switch he had cut. 

A thought struck me. "John, hand me the stick and I'll give you yourfirst writing lesson. "

So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a pen, Itaught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join themtogether. He learned them very quickly--so quickly, that in a littlewhile the simple copy-book that Mother Earth obliged us with wascovered in all directions with "J O H N--John. "

"Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing his giganticpen, which had done such good service; "bravo! I have gained somethingto-day!"

Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at thewaters that were "out. " They had risen considerably, even in thatshort time, and were now pouring in several new channels, one of whichwas alongside of the high road; we stopped a good while watching it. The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part of the Ham; butit awed us to see the fierce power of waters let loose. An oldwillow-tree, about whose roots I had often watched the king-cupsgrowing, was now in the centre of a stream as broad as the Avon by ourtan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent rushed round it--impatientof the divisions its great roots caused--eager to undermine and tear itup. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate, within a few hours morethere would be nothing left of the fine old tree. 

"I don't quite like this, " said John, meditatively, as his quick eyeswept down the course of the river, with the houses and wharves thatabutted on it, all along one bank. "Did you ever see the waters thushigh before?"

"Yes, I believe I have; nobody minds it at Norton Bury; it is only thesudden thaw, my father says, and he ought to know, for he has hadplenty 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--atmy 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 limitedto this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, was possible, evenfor friendship's sake, to John Halifax. 

My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and uneasy, andinstead of going to bed, though it was after nine o'clock, sat down tohis pipe in the chimney-corner. 

"Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to thetan-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. Ithink the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of a longmeditation, 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 ahankering after is a good lad--a very decent lad--if thee doesn't maketoo much of him. Remember; he is but my servant; thee'rt my son--myonly son. "

Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an "onlyson" as I. 

In the middle of the night--or else to me, lying awake, it seemedso--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 mythoughts, I saw my father pass, fully dressed, with a light in hishand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in theother--something which always lay near his strong box, at his bed'shead at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolen fromhim, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law refused toreceive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker. "

The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate atmaking a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the answerhe opened the front door, first shutting mine. 

A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are youhere?--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; hemay 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'tstir--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 sappedat their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of propertywas very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then the floodbegan to turn. 

It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. Atdaybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!

"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast hishands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He didnot repel me. 

"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go backto the fire. "

His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things inAbel Fletcher. 

"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?"

"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen fitto take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this town, ampoorer 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--savefor--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 wantedhim 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; butsure, from the old man's grave face, and the lad's bright one--flushedall over with that excitement of danger so delicious to the young--thatthe peril had not been small. 

"Jael, " cried my father, rousing himself, "give us some breakfast; thelad and me--we have had a hard night's work together. "

Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but either didnot or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more thanone. 

"Another plate, " said my father, sharply. 

"The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher: his breakfast iswaiting 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 wasbidden, and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact made anineffaceable impression on our household. 

After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of thatFebruary morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained to me allhis losses; and how, but for the timely warning he had received, theflood 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 youngshoulders. "

John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given. Butdirectly after it some ill or suspicious thought seemed to come intoAbel Fletcher's mind. 

"Lad, " suddenly turning round on John Halifax, "thee told me thee sawthe 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 enoughto 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 doingno harm. I was in the tan-yard. "

"Thy business there?"

"None at all. I was with the men--they were watching, and had acandle; and I wanted to sit up, and had no light. "

"What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father, keen and sharpas a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister hunting a witness inthose courts of law that were never used by, though often used against, us Quakers. 

John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing blushes triedhim sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. Though I'm such abig fellow I can't write; and your son was good enough to try and teachme. I was afraid of forgetting the letters; so I tried to make themall over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It didnobody any harm that I know of. "

The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won noreproof. At last my father said gently enough--

"Is that all, lad?"

"Yes. "

Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked softlyto each other--afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a wholepipe--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 thereanything you want done?"

He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manlinesspleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such aservant--any father of such a son. My poor father--no, he did not oncelook from John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the worldthat half-smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept back fromhim--as, Heaven knows why, it often does from us all!--the one desireof the heart. 

"John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night. Whatreward shall I give thee?"

And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turnedaway. 

"Thank you--I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have beenuseful to my master, and that he acknowledges it. "

My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand. "Thee'rt in theright, 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 asan emperor, and as happy as a poor man with a bag of gold. 

"Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasure thelad?" said my father, after we had been talking some time--though notabout John. 

I had thought of something--something I had long desired, but whichseemed then all but an impossibility. Even now it was with some doubtand hesitation that I made the suggestion that he should spend everySunday at our house. 

"Nonsense!--thee know'st nought of Norton Bury lads. He would notcare. He had rather lounge about all First-day at street corners withhis acquaintance. "

"John has none, father. He knows nobody--cares for nobody--but me. Dolet him come. "

"We'll see about it. "

My father never broke or retracted his word. So after that JohnHalifax 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 seemedalways to crawl round at Norton Bury. How things went in the outsideworld I little knew or cared. My father lived his life, mechanical andsteady as clock-work, and we two, John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, lived our lives--the one so active and busy, the other so useless anddull. Neither of us counted the days, nor looked backwards or forwards. 

One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was twenty yearsold, and that John Halifax was--a man: the difference between us beingprecisely as I have expressed it. 

Our birthdays fell within a week of each other, and it was inremembering his--the one which advanced him to the dignity ofeighteen--that I called to mind my own. I say, "advanced him to thedignity"--but in truth that is an idle speech; for any dignity whichthe maturity of eighteen may be supposed to confer he had already inpossession. Manhood had come to him, both in character and demeanour, not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired andpresumptuously-asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance, to bereceived humbly, and worn simply and naturally. So naturally, that Inever seemed to think of him as anything but a boy, until this one JuneSunday, 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 Isat in our long-familiar summer seat, the clematis arbour by the gardenwall. 

"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 wereflowing, 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 hewas with it and with every ill mood of mine. And I was grateful, withthat 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 acatalogue of your qualities, internal and external. "

"John, don't be foolish. "

"I will, if I like; though perhaps not quite so foolish as some otherpeople; 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 ofcontention--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 meanshard staring. Take them off me, Phineas, or I'll not lie on the grassa minute longer. Thank you. To return: Imprimis and finis (I'm grandat Latin now, you see)--long hair, which, since the powder tax, hasresumed its original blackness, and is--any young damsel would say, only we count not a single one among our acquaintance--exceedinglybewitching. "

I smiled, feeling myself colour a little too, weak invalid as I was. Iwas, nevertheless, twenty years old; and although Jael and Sally werethe only specimens of the other sex which had risen on my horizon, yetonce or twice, since I had read Shakspeare, I had had a boy's lovelydreams of the divinity of womanhood. They began, and ended--meredreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth, that my character was toofeeble 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 withhereditary disease, ought never to seek to perpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put from me, at once and for ever, every feeling of thatkind; and during my whole life--I thank God!--have never faltered in myresolution. Friendship was given me for love--duty for happiness. Sobest, and I was satisfied. 

This conviction, and the struggle succeeding it--for, though brief, itwas but natural that it should have been a hard struggle--was the onlysecret that I had kept from John. It had happened some months now, andwas quite over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun, and shake athim my "bewitching" black locks, calling him a foolish boy. And whileI said it, the notion slowly dawning during the long gaze he hadcomplained of, forced itself upon me, clear as daylight, that he wasnot 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 itsfull advantage that very creditable altitude, more tall perhaps thangraceful, at present; since, like most youths, he did not as yet quiteknow what to do with his legs and arms. But he was--

I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I only remember thatwhen I looked at him, and began jocularly "Imprimis, " my heart came upinto my throat and choked me. 

It was almost with sadness that I said, "Ah! David, you are quite ayoung man now. "

He smiled, of course only with pleasure, looking forward to the newworld into which he was going forth; the world into which, as I knewwell, I could never follow him. 

"I am glad I look rather old for my years, " said he, when, after apause, he had again flung himself down on the grass. "It tells well inthe tan-yard. People would be slow to trust a clerk who looked a mereboy. Still, your father trusts me. "

"He does, indeed. You need never have any doubt of that. It was onlyyesterday he said to me that now he was no longer dissatisfied withyour working at all sorts of studies, in leisure hours, since it madeyou none the worse man of business. "

"No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would not be doing myduty to myself any more than to my master, if I shirked his work for myown. 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 Ilooked at the lad, though he always combated it so strongly, that Ioften owned my prejudices were unjust: "how I wish you were somethingbetter than a clerk in a tan-yard. I have a plan, John. "

But what that plan was, was fated to remain unrevealed. Jael came tous in the garden, looking very serious. She had been summoned, I knew, to a long conference with her master the day before--the subject ofwhich she would not tell me, though she acknowledged it concernedmyself. 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. " Shenow came with half-dolorous, half-angry looks, to summon me to aninterview with my father and Doctor Jessop. 

I caught her parting mutterings, as she marched behind me: "Kill orcure, indeed, "--"No more fit than a baby, "--"Abel Fletcher be cleanmad, "--"Hope Thomas Jessop will speak out plain, and tell him so, " andthe like. From these, and from her strange fit of tenderness, Iguessed what was looming in the distance--a future which my fatherconstantly held in terrorem over me, though successive illness had keptit in abeyance. Alas! I knew that my poor father's hopes and planswere vain! I went into his presence with a heavy heart. 

There is no need to detail that interview. Enough, that after it heset aside for ever his last lingering hope of having a son able toassist, and finally succeed him in his business, and that I set asideevery dream of growing up to be a help and comfort to my father. Itcost something on both our parts; but after that day's discussion wetacitly covered over the pain, and referred to it no more. 

I came back into the garden, and told John Halifax all. He listenedwith his hand on my shoulder, and his grave, sweet look--dearersympathy than any words! Though he added thereto a few, in his ownwise way; then he and I, also, drew the curtain over an inevitablegrief, and laid it in the peaceful chamber of silence. 

When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax, and I, met at dinner, thesubject had passed into seeming oblivion, and was never afterwardsrevived. 

But dinner being over, and the chatty little doctor gone, while AbelFletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe, and we two at the windowmaintained that respectful and decorous silence which in my young dayswas rigidly exacted by elders and superiors, I noticed my father's eyesfrequently resting, with keen observance, upon John Halifax. Could itbe that there had recurred to him a hint of mine, given faintly thatmorning, as faintly as if it had only just entered my mind, instead ofhaving for months continually dwelt there, until a fitting momentshould arrive?--Could it be that this hint, which he had indignantlyscouted at the time, was germinating in his acute brain, and might bearfruit in future days? I hoped so--I earnestly prayed so. And to thatend 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 theAbbey-tower. We watched it from the garden, where, Sunday afterSunday, in fine weather, we used to lounge, and talk over all manner ofthings in heaven and in earth, chiefly ending with the former, as onSunday nights, with stars over our head, was natural and fit we shoulddo. 

"Phineas, " said John, sitting on the grass with his hands upon hisknees, and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shining down into hiseyes, deepening them into that peculiar look, worth any so-called"handsome eyes;"--"Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to rise upfrom this quiet, easy life, and fight our battles in the world? Also, Iwonder if we are ready for it?"

"I think you are. "

"I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could resist doing anythingwrong, if it were pleasant. So many wrong things are pleasant--justnow, instead of rising to-morrow, and going into the little darkcounting-house, and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn't Ilike to break away!--dash out into the world, take to all sorts of wildfreaks, do all sorts of grand things, and perhaps never come back tothe tanning any more. "

"Never any more?"

"No! no! I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should do such a wrongthing; but merely that I sometimes feel the wish to do it. I can'thelp it; it's my Apollyon that I have to fight with--everybody keeps aprivate Apollyon, I fancy. Now, Phineas, be content; Apollyon isbeaten down. "

He rose up, but I thought that, in the red glow of the twilight, helooked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me up from thegrass. We went into the house together, silently. 

After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, John prepared toleave as usual. He went to bid good-night to my father, who wassitting meditatively over the fireless hearth-place, sometimes pokingthe great bow-pot of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did thecoals: an instance of obliviousness, which, in my sensible and acutefather, 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 theegot to do to-morrow?"

"Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in; I cleared off theweek's accounts last night, as usual. "

"Ay, to-morrow I shall look over all thy books and see how theestand'st, and what further work thou art fit for. Therefore, take aday's holiday, if thee likes. "

We thanked him warmly. "There, John, " whispered I, "you may have yourwish, and run wild to-morrow. "

He said, "the wish had gone out of him. " So we planned a sweet lazyday under the Midsummer sky, in some fields about a mile off, calledthe 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 thewater-courses. " We came out in those quiet hay-fields, which, tradition says, had once grown wine for the rosy monks close by, andhistory avers, were afterwards watered by a darker stream than theblood of grapes. The Vineyards had been a battle-field; and under thelong wavy grass, and the roots of the wild apple trees, slept many aYorkist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrow turned outa white bone--but more often the relics were undisturbed, and themeadows used as pastures or hay-fields. 

John and I lay down on some wind-rows, and sunned ourselves in the warmand delicious air. How beautiful everything was! so very still! withthe Abbey-tower--always the most picturesque point in our Norton Buryviews--showing so near, that it almost seemed to rise up out of thefields and hedge-rows. 

"Well, David, " and I turned to the long, lazy figure beside me, whichhad considerably flattened the hay, "are you satisfied?"

"Ay. "

Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring to a few of theinfinitude of subjects we used to compare notes upon; though we wereneither of us given to wordiness, and never talked but when we hadsomething to say. Often--as on this day--we sat for hours in apleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word; nevertheless, I couldgenerally track John's thoughts, as they went wandering on, ay, asclearly as one might track a stream through a wood; sometimes--liketo-day--I failed. 

In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and cheese--eatenslowly and with graceful dignity, in order to make dinner a moreimportant and lengthy affair--he said abruptly--

"Phineas, don't you think this field is rather dull? Shall we gosomewhere else? not if it tires you, though. "

I protested the contrary, my health being much above the average thissummer. But just as we were quitting the field we met two ratherodd-looking persons entering it, young-old persons they seemed, whomight own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially thatof the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness andhomeliness, such as grey ribbed stockings and shining pasteshoe-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 surethe "first gentleman of his day, " as loyal folk then entitled thePrince Regent, could not have surpassed--"Sir, will you favour me byinforming 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 THATstage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert, in fact, Imay say our dinner. Are you connoisseurs in turnips?"

He offered us--with a polite gesture--one of the "swedes" he wasmunching. I declined; but John, out of a deeper delicacy than I couldboast, 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 personwho has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury fields--ay, and turnedfield-preacher afterwards--the celebrated John Philip--"

Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers interposed witha nudge, indicating silence. 

"My companion is right, sir, " he continued. "I will not betray ourillustrious 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, andnot indulge the world therewith. It was a name wholly out of mysphere, both then and now; but I know it has since risen into noteamong the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carriedup to the topmost height of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanlyspirit and kindly heart which he showed when sitting with us and eatingswedes. Still, I will not mention his surname--I will only call him"Mr. Charles. "

"Now, having satisfactorily 'munched, and munched, and munched, ' likethe sailor's wife who had chestnuts in her lap--are you acquainted withmy friend, Mr. William Shakspeare, young gentleman?--I must try tofulfil the other duties of existence. You said the Coltham mail passedhere in three hours? Very well. I have the honour of wishing you avery 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 hadlately surpassed mine, and whom nothing ever puzzled, explained that Icame from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and GilesFletcher. Upon which Mr. Charles, who till now had somewhat overlookedme, 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. Whatbusiness do you think that Mr. Charles is? A clever man, anyhow; Ishould like to see him again. "

"So should I. "

Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance, westrolled along till we came to a spot called by the country people, "The Bloody Meadow, " from being, like several other places in theneighbourhood, the scene of one of those terrible slaughters chronicledin the wars of the Roses. It was a sloping field, through the middleof which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end, where, fringedand hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. Here, too, in alldirections, the hay-fields lay, either in green swathes, or tedded, orin the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lane was quite populous withwaggons and hay-makers--the men in their corduroys and blue hose--thewomen in their trim jackets and bright calamanco petticoats. Therewere more women than men, by far, for the flower of the peasant youthof England had been drafted off to fight against "Bonyparty. " Stillhay-time was a glorious season, when half our little town turned outand made holiday in the sunshine. 

"I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems a crowd downin the meadow; and who is that man standing on the hay-cart, on theother side the stream?"

"Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. Charles. How he'stalking and gesticulating! What can he be at?"

Without more ado John leaped the low hedge, and ran down the slope ofthe Bloody Meadow. I followed less quickly. 

There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of thesimple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a lowframework 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 thenexclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity. Despitethe powder, the blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches, Mr. Charleswas a very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonder the poorhay-makers had collected from all parts to hear him harangue. 

What was he haranguing upon? Could it be, that like his friend, "JohnPhilip, " whoever that personage might be, his vocation was that of afield preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from thesanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompaniedhim; and who sat in the front of the cart, and folded his hands andgroaned, after the most approved fashion of a methodistical "revival. "

We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked: butno! I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no way did he trespass thebounds of reverence and decorum. His harangue, though given as asermon, was strictly and simply a moral essay, such as might haveemanated from any professor's chair. In fact, as I afterwards learnt, he had given for his text one which the simple rustics received in allrespect, 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 queerconstraint, that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch ofthe corners of his flexible mouth--became those of a man beguiled intoreal 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 thespeaker. Such oratory--a compound of graceful action, polishedlanguage, and brilliant imagination, came to him as a positiverevelation, a revelation from the world of intellect, the world whichhe longed after with all the ardour of youth. 

What that harangue would have seemed like, could we have heard it withmaturer ears, I know not; but at eighteen and twenty it literallydazzled us. No wonder it affected the rest of the audience. Feeblemen, leaning on forks and rakes, shook their old heads sagely, as ifthey understood it all. And when the speaker alluded to the horrors ofwar--a subject which then came so bitterly home to every heart inBritain--many women melted into sobs and tears. At last, when theorator himself, moved by the pictures he had conjured up, pausedsuddenly, quite exhausted, and asked for a slight contribution "to helpa deed of charity, " there was a general rush towards him. 

"No--no, my good people, " said Mr. Charles, recovering his naturalmanner, though a little clouded, I thought, by a faint shade ofremorse; "no, I will not take from any one more than a penny; and thenonly if they are quite sure they can spare it. Thank you, my worthyman. Thanks, my bonny young lass--I hope your sweetheart will soon beback from the wars. Thank you all, my 'very worthy and approved goodmasters, ' and a fair harvest to you!"

He bowed them away, in a dignified and graceful manner, still standingon the hay-cart. The honest folk trooped off, having no more time towaste, 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 oflaughter; but Charles looked grave. 

"Poor, honest souls!" said he, wiping his brows--I am not sure that itwas 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. "Butstarvation is--excuse me, --unpleasant; and necessity has no law. It isof vital consequence that I should reach Coltham to-night; and afterwalking twenty miles one cannot easily walk ten more, and afterwardsappear 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 lookedthin and worn--it did not take much to soften both John's feelings andmine towards the "poor player. " Besides, we had lately been studyingShakspeare, who for the first time of reading generally sends all youngpeople tragedy-mad. 

"You acted well to-day, " said John; "all the folk here took you for amethodist preacher. "

"Yet I never meddled with theology--only common morality. You cannotsay 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 wasplayed out here years ago, as I told you, by John Philip--no, I willnot conceal his name, the greatest actor and the truest gentleman ourEnglish stage has ever seen--John Philip Kemble. "

And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard--atleast 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 allphases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world. Andneither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, all soirresistibly alluring at our age. 

I say OUR, because though I followed where he led, I always did it ofmy own will likewise. 

The afternoon began to wane, while we, with our two companions, yet sattalking by the brook-side. Mr. Charles had washed his face, and histravel-sore, blistered feet, and we had induced him, and the man hecalled Yates, to share our remnants of bread and cheese. 

"Now, " he said, starting up, "I am ready to do battle again, even withthe Thane of Fife--who, to-night, is one Johnson, a fellow of six feetand twelve stone. What is the hour, Mr. Halifax?"

"Mr. Halifax"--(I felt pleased to hear him for the first time soentitled)--had, unfortunately, no watch among his worldly possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near guess by calculatingthe position of his unfailing time-piece, the sun. --It was four o'clock. 

"Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentlemen? Surely youwould not lose such a rare treat as 'Macbeth, ' with--I will not say myhumble self--but with that divine Siddons. Such a woman! Shakspearehimself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You will join us?"

John made a silent, dolorous negative; as he had done once or twicebefore, when the actor urged us to accompany him to Coltham for a fewhours only--we might be back by midnight, easily. 

"What do you think, Phineas?" said John, when we stood in thehigh-road, waiting for the coach; "I have money--and--we have so littlepleasure--we would send word to your father. Do you think it would bewrong?"

I could not say; and to this minute, viewing the question nakedly in astrict and moral sense, I cannot say either whether or no it was anabsolute crime; therefore, being accustomed to read my wrong or rightin "David's" eyes, I remained perfectly passive. 

We waited by the hedge-side for several minutes--Mr. Charles ceased hisurging, half in dudgeon, save that he was too pleasant a man really totake 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 utterlyignorant of what he meant us to do, or if he had any definite purposeat all. 

It came--the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook hands with us andmounted--paying his own fare and that of Yates with their handful ofcharity-pennies, which caused a few minutes' delay in counting, and agreat deal of good-humoured joking, as good-humouredly borne. 

Meanwhile, John put his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hard intomy 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 anaffirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked to go. 

"It is only for once--your father would not grudge us the pleasure, andhe is too busy to be out of the tan-yard before midnight. We will behome 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'sside. 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; butJohn Halifax knew the town pretty well, having latterly in addition tohis clerkship been employed by my father in going about theneighbourhood buying bark. I was amused when the coach stopped at aninn, which bore the ominous sign of the "Fleece, " to see how wellaccustomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. He deportedhimself with perfect self-possession; the waiter served himrespectfully. He had evidently taken his position in the world--atleast, our little world--he was no longer a boy, but a man. I was gladto see it; leaving everything in his hands, I lay down where he placedme in the inn parlour, and watched him giving his orders and walkingabout. Sometimes I thought his eyes were restless and unquiet, but hismanner 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 upand down the room to place my cushions more easy; "they should build anew one, now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionable town. Iwish I could take you to see the "Well-walk, " with all the fine peoplepromenading. 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. Shefirst came out in this same theatre more than twenty years ago. Yatessaw 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 bringme up in the Society, and its restrictions are not binding upon me. "

"True, true. " And he resumed his walk, but not his cheerfulness. "Ifit were myself alone, now, of course what I myself hold to be a lawfulpleasure I have a right to enjoy; or, if not, being yet a lad and undera master--well, I will bear the consequences, " added he, ratherproudly; "but to share them--Phineas, " turning suddenly to me, "wouldyou like to go home?--I'll take you. "

I protested earnestly against any such thing; told him I was sure wewere doing nothing wrong--which was, indeed, my belief; entreated himto be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeded so well, that in a fewminutes we had started in a flutter of gaiety and excitement forCoffee-house Yard. 

It was a poor place--little better than a barn, as Mr. Charles hadsaid--built in a lane leading out of the principal street. This lanewas almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sorts ofequipages, from the coach-and-six to the sedan-chair, mingled with amotley crowd on foot, all jostling, fighting, and screaming, till theplace 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 couldnot have been more tender over my weakness. The physicalweakness--which, however humiliating to myself, and doubtlesscontemptible 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, uptowards the low hills that rose in various directions round the town;how green and quiet they were, in the still June evening! I onlywished we were safe back again at Norton Bury. 

But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a sedan-chair wasborne through--or attempted to be--for the effort failed. There was ascuffle, 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 thesedan 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 thevoice belonged naturally to such a face. "Good people, let me pass--Iam Sarah Siddons. "

The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving set up a cheer thatmust have rang through all the town. There was a minute's pause, whileshe 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 sprangforward, dragging me after him. In another second he had caught up thepole dropped by the man who was hurt; and before I well knew what wewere about we both stood safe inside the entrance of the theatre. 

Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers--a most simpleaction--but so elevated in the doing that even it, I thought, could notbring her to the level of common humanity. The tall, cloaked, andhooded figure, and the tones that issued thence, made her, even in thatnarrow passage, under the one flaring tallow-candle, a veritable Queenof tragedy--at least so she seemed to us two. 

The one man was paid--over-paid, apparently, from his thankfulness--andshe turned to John Halifax. 

"I regret, young man, that you should have had so much trouble. Hereis some requital. "

He took the money, selected from it one silver coin, and returned therest. 

"I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that I once hadthe honour of being useful to Mrs. Siddons. "

She looked at him keenly, out of her wonderful dark eyes, then curtsiedwith grave dignity--"I thank you, sir, " she said, and passed on. 

A few minutes after some underling of the theatre found us out andbrought us, "by Mrs. Siddons' desire, " to the best places the housecould afford. 

It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when I look backupon it my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, it was a gloriousnight!

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 theplace was, it was filled with all the beau monde of Coltham, whichthen, patronized by royalty, rivalled even Bath in its fashion andfolly. Such a dazzle of diamonds and spangled turbans andPrince-of-Wales' plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which wasthen in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to thestately silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by the prim anddecent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun to flaunt in theFrench fashions of flimsy muslins, shortwaisted--narrow-skirted. Thesewe had already heard Jael furiously inveighing against: for Jael, Quakeress as she was, could not quite smother her original propensitytowards the decoration of "the flesh, " and betrayed a suppressed butprofound interest in the same. 

John and I quite agreed with her, that it was painful to see gentleEnglish girls clad, or rather un-clad, after the fashion of our enemiesacross the Channel; now, unhappy nation! sunk to zero in politics, religion, and morals--where high-bred ladies went about dressed asheathen goddesses, with bare arms and bare sandalled feet, gaining noneof the pure simplicity of the ancient world, and losing all thedecorous dignity of our modern times. 

We two--who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for womanhood in itsmost ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I believe, were, in ourignorance, expecting to behold in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or aDesdemona--felt no particular attraction towards the ungracefullyattired, flaunting, simpering belles of Coltham. 

But--the play began. 

I am not going to follow it: all the world has heard of the LadyMacbeth of Mrs. Siddons. This, the first and last play I everwitnessed, stands out to my memory, after more than half a century, asclear as on that night. Still I can see her in her first scene, "reading a letter"--that wondrous woman, who, in spite of her modernblack velvet and point lace, did not act, but WAS, Lady Macbeth: stillI hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sent aninvoluntary shudder through the house, as if supernatural things wereabroad--"THEY MADE THEMSELVES--AIR!" And still there quivers throughthe silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken--"ALL THEPERFUMES OF ARABIA WILL NEVER SWEETEN THIS LITTLE HAND!"

Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on her everybreath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But they havewhirled on--whirled her away with them into the infinite, and intoearthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation only smiles atthe traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw her. For me, Ishall go down to the grave worshipping her still. 

Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I bothsmiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued intothat poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet Ibelieve he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea withthat of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during thefirst colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunityof winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the paraphernaliaof the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of Cawdor aught elsethan our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I never saw him afterthat night. He is still living--may his old age have been as peacefulas his youth was kind and gay!

The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but we wouldnot stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, both in eyesand brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying me. Then wepaused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted by one of thehalf-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried to regain ourmental equilibrium. 

John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he baredit to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was verypale, I saw. 

"John?"

He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "What did you say? Are youcold?"

"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 isover. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder whato'clock it is?"

He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly over thesilent town. I counted the strokes--ELEVEN!

Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Untilthis minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven o'clock! How shouldwe get home to Norton Bury that night?

For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; my limbsalmost sank under me. 

"What must we do, John?"

"Do! oh! 'tis quite easy. You cannot walk--you shall not walk--we musthire a gig and drive home. I have enough money--all my month'swages--see!" He felt in his pockets one after the other; hiscountenance grew blank. "Why! where is my money gone to?"

Where, indeed! But that it was gone, and irretrievably--most likelystolen when we were so wedged in the crowd--there could be no manner ofdoubt. And I had not a groat. I had little use for money, and rarelycarried any. 

"Would not somebody trust us?" suggested I. 

"I never asked anybody for credit in my life--and for a horse andgig--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 recklesslaugh. 

"It's of no use, Phineas--I'm not so respectable as I thought. What'sto be done?"

Ay! what indeed! Here we were, two friendless youths, with not a pennyin our pockets, and ten miles away from home. How to get there, and atmidnight too, was a very serious question. We consulted a minute, andthen 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 bravelythrough the shut-up town, and for a mile or two along the high-roadleading to Norton Bury. There was a cool fresh breeze: and I oftenthink one can walk so much further by night than by day. For sometime, listening to John's talk about the stars--he had lately addedastronomy to the many things he tried to learn--and recalling with himall 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--eventhe scented air of the midsummer-night imparted no freshness. Johnwound his young arm, strong and firm as iron, round my waist, and wegot 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 shallget home by daybreak. "

I feebly assented; but it seemed to me that we never should gethome--at least I never should. For a short way more, I draggedmyself--or rather, was dragged--along; then the stars, the shadowyfields, and the winding, white high-road mingled and faded from me. Ilost all consciousness. 

When I came to myself I was lying by a tiny brook at the roadside, myhead resting on John's knees. He was bathing my forehead: I could notsee 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 yieldedto what his manhood might have been ashamed of--yet need not--a fewtears. 

I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. "Why, it isdaybreak! 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 amnot going to have Jonathan's death laid at David's door. "

And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. What strengthsupported him I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me--with manyrests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile orso--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. Allthe windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment weretaking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Buryhouseholds. Even John's loud knocking was some time before it wasanswered. 

I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five awful minutesseemed interminable. I could not have borne them, save for John'svoice 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 asusual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or hadsuffered any anxiety, I never found out. 

He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed itbehind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. Itwas so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains totell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last place aFriend's son ought to be seen--the play-house. We knew that it was byno means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that myfather--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the harddaylight 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. Hewent because I wished to go. "

"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"

"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, wereyou 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 nowthat it was--but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull; I longsometimes 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 fathershook his head with contemptuous incredulity. ) "Sir!--AbelFletcher--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 hecame 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 Johnaside. 

"Young man, _I_ can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead him intoharm'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!" wasten 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-heartedvoice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn myliving 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, notat 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, butof weakly yielding, and selfishly causing another to yield, to thetemptation of the world. Therefore, as my clerk I retain him; as myson's companion--never!"

We felt that "never" was irrevocable. 

Yet I tried, blindly and despairingly, to wrestle with it; I might aswell have flung myself against a stone wall. 

John stood perfectly silent. 

"Don't, Phineas, " he whispered at last; "never mind me. Your father isright--at least so far as he sees. Let me go--perhaps I may come backto you some time. If not--"

I moaned out bitter words--I hardly knew what I was saying. My fathertook 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--alwaysaccidentally, --after that day for two long years I never once saw theface of John Halifax. 

CHAPTER VII

It was the year 1800, long known in English households as "the dearyear. " The present generation can have no conception of what aterrible time that was--War, Famine, and Tumult stalking hand-in-hand, and no one to stay them. For between the upper and lower classes therewas a great gulf fixed; the rich ground the faces of the poor, the poorhated, yet meanly succumbed to, the rich. Neither had Christianityenough 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 ourquiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, personally, they touched menot, or, at least, only kept fluttering like evil birds outside thedear home-tabernacle, where I and Patience sat, keeping our solemncounsel 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 ofany worldly cares, still I often fancied things were going ill bothwithin and without our doors. Jael complained in an under-key ofstinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in makingends meet: and my father's brow grew continually heavier, graver, sterner; sometimes so stern that I dared not wage, what was, openly orsecretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence--the bringingback of John Halifax. 

He still remained my father's clerk--nay, I sometimes thought he waseven advancing in duties and trusts, for I heard of his being sent longjourneys up and down England to buy grain--Abel Fletcher having addedto his tanning business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazy whirr was sofamiliar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these journeys myfather never spoke; indeed, he rarely mentioned John at all. Howeverhe might employ and even trust him in business relations, I knew thatin every other way he was inexorable. 

And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No under-hand or clandestinefriendship would he admit--no, not even for my sake. I knew quitewell, that until he could walk in openly, honourably, proudly, he neverwould re-enter my father's doors. Twice only he had written to me--onmy two birthdays--my father himself giving me in silence the unsealedletters. They told me what I already was sure of--that I held, andalways should hold, my steadfast place in his friendship. Nothing more. 

One other fact I noticed: that a little lad, afterward discovered tobe Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard-working lot of the lostBill, had somehow crept into our household as errand-boy, or gardener'sboy; and being "cute, " and a "scholard, " was greatly patronized byJael. 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 everinvalid had; knowing intuitively all my needs, and serving me with anunfailing 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 thinharvest-fields--as Jael often told me, when she came home from herafternoon walks. "It was piteous to see them, " she said; "only July, and the quartern loaf nearly three shillings, and meal four shillings apeck. "

And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for several days aweek the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sundays; for my father kept hisgrain locked up, waiting for what, he wisely judged, might be a worseharvest than the last. But Jael, though she said nothing, often lookedat the flour-mill and shook her head. And after one market-day--whenshe came in rather "flustered, " saying there had been a mob outside themill, until "that young man Halifax" had gone out and spoken tothem--she never once allowed me to take my rare walk under the trees inthe Abbey-yard; nor, if she could help it, would she even let me sitwatching the lazy Avon from the garden-wall. 

One Sunday--it was the 1st of August, for my father had just come backfrom meeting, very much later than usual, and Jael said he had gone, aswas his annual custom on that his wedding-day, to the Friends' burialground in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from her own kindred andpeople, my poor young mother had been laid, --on this one Sunday I beganto see that things were going wrong. Abel Fletcher sat at dinnerwearing the heavy, hard look which had grown upon his face notunmingled with the wrinkles planted by physical pain. For, with allhis 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 hourin my old place in the garden, idly watching the stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, more as a pretty bit in thelandscape than as a fact of vital importance, in how many places thehalf-ripe corn was already cut, and piled in thinly-scattered sheavesover the fields. 

After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his household: inthe which, creeping humbly after the woman-kind, was now numbered thelad Jem. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved by thefact that his unlighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoontankard of ale sank from foam to flatness untouched. 

He first addressed Jael. "Woman, was it thee who cooked the dinnerto-day?"

She gave a dignified affirmative. 

"Thee must give us no more such dinners. No cakes, no pastrykickshaws, and only wheaten bread enough for absolute necessity. Ourneighbours shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour in his mill, andplenty in his house, while there is famine abroad in the land. So takeheed. "

"I do take heed, " answered Jael, staunchly. "Thee canst not say Iwaste a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not pity the poor? OnFirst-day a woman cried after me about wasting good flour instarch--to-day, behold. "

And with a spasmodic bridling-up, she pointed to the bouffante whichused to stand up stiffly round her withered old throat, and stick outin front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alikedeparted; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowishmuslin. Poor Jael! I knew this was the most heroic personal sacrificeshe could have made, yet I could not help smiling; even my father didthe same. 

"Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher?" cried she angrily. "Preach not toothers while the sin lies on thy own head. "

And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular intention, asadvancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where his long-wornpowder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age. He bore theassault gravely and unshrinkingly, merely saying, "Woman, peace!"

"Nor while"--pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last and mostpoisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath--"while the poor folk be starvingin scores about Norton Bury, and the rich folk there will not selltheir wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher. "

My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience; and thenJael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out of theroom, and tended her master as carefully as if she had not insultedhim. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, became thequieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long fitof pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at lastrelieved, 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 millwould make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wouldst theemind, 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 ladhas 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 hopewhich could draw me nearer to my heart's desire. 

On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as usual. I spentthe day in my bed-room, which looked over the garden, where I sawnothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over thesmooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, of theAbbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or even inthe 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 anychance overstayed his time, without sending a message home. So aftersome consideration as to whether I dared encroach upon his formalhabits so much, and after much advice from Jael, who betrayed moreanxiety than was at all warranted by the cause she assigned, viz. Thespoiled dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to the tan-yard to see afterhis master. 

He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tan-yard wasblocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, starved patience of ourNorton Bury poor had come to an end at last--they had followed theexample of many others. There was a bread-riot in the town. 

God only knows how terrible those "riots" were; when the people rose indesperation, not from some delusion of crazy, blood-thirsty"patriotism, " but to get food for themselves, their wives, andchildren. God only knows what madness was in each individual heart ofthat concourse of poor wretches, styled "the mob, " when every man tookup arms, certain that there were before him but two alternatives, starving or--hanging. 

The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was not a largeplace, and had always abundance of small-pox and fevers to keep thepoor down numerically. Jem said it was chiefly about our mill and ourtan-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. Ofcourse, despite all her opposition, I went too. 

The tan-yard was deserted; the mob had divided, and gone, one half toour mill, the rest to another that was lower down the river. I askedof a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was? Shethought he was gone for the "millingtary;" but Mr. Halifax was at themill now--she hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax. 

Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. I had notbeen in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I did not know John hadcome already to be called "Mr. Halifax. "

There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father returned. Hecould 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. Whata half-hour it was!

At last, exhausted, I sat down on the bark heap where John and I hadonce sat as lads. He must now be more than twenty; I wondered if hewere altered. 

"Oh, David! David!" I thought, as I listened eagerly for any soundsabroad 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 myfather'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 lookedup in his face--the still boyish face. But the figure was quite thatof a man now. 

For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he let go myhands, 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. Imust go. " And he was gone. 

Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him; marvelling how itwas that he who had never known his father should uphold so sternly theduty of filial obedience. I think it ought to act as a solemn warningto those who exact so much from the mere fact and name of parenthood, without having in any way fulfilled its duties, that orphans from birthoften revere the ideal of that bond far more than those who have knownit in reality. Always excepting those children to whose blessed lot ithas 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, itfailed to move him. Greatly troubled, but staunch as a rock, my oldfather stood, resting his lame foot on a heap of hides. I went to meethim. 

"Phineas, " said John, anxiously, "come and help me. No, AbelFletcher, " he added, rather proudly, in reply to a sharp, suspiciousglance at us both; "your son and I only met ten minutes ago, and havescarcely exchanged a word. But we cannot waste time over that matternow. Phineas, help me to persuade your father to save his property. Hewill 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 dowhat 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 thedirection 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 tocall them--tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and hadsettled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing could afterwardsalter one form, or erase one line--"My son, no opposition. Any who trythat with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I wouldhave sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the quarter; now theyshall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. Get theesafe 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 takecare no harm touches him--but you go home. "

That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brief forargument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father and Ifollowed him. For Jael, she disappeared. 

There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along theriver-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot itwas deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and sawa number of men breaking down our garden wall. 

"They think he is gone home, " whispered John; "we'll get in here thesafer. Quick, Phineas. "

We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, andlet us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that wasbarred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times. 

The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machineryroom, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. Westood 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 ofgrain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a largefortune 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 AbelFletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--weheard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come. 

Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us withstones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but myfather's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their forceseemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the lowhowl 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, halfcheers 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 wasright. "

"Help me with this bag, " was all the reply. 

It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervousand strong. He hauled it up. 

"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On tothe 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. Torturedinto frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my old fatherwould not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemed doubledand trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through thewindow, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the riverbelow. 

Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of thefamished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged intothe water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased--but itwas 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 afterthem, clutching a handful here or there--but by the mill-pool the riverran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remainedin the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought likedemons. 

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 heardirreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight that wouldmove 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 thinkwas not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, ever a justman, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. He seemedsubdued, even to something like remorse. 

John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he listened insilence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father. 

"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire the millnext. "

"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 andwhite with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, or uttera 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 doorwas on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite shore, wherethe rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept forth, anddashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had been made from themill 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 safean hour--unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it. "

Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held tohis principles still. 

"Then you must hide for a time--both of you. Come to my room. Youwill be secure there. Urge him, Phineas--for your sake and his own. "

But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping more tightlyboth John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in his life, heleaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So, after thislong 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. Noone saw us but Jem, and Jem's honour was safe as a rock. I knew thatin the smile with which he pulled off his cap to "Mr. Halifax. "

"Now, " said John, hastily smoothing his bed, so that my father mightlie down, and wrapping his cloak round me--"you must both be verystill. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shall bringyou a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, Abel Fletcher?"

"Ay. " It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respectfully, Johnspoke, and how quietly my father answered. 

"And, Phineas"--he put his arm round my shoulder in his old way--"youwill 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 tenderaccent, so familiar once. All was happening for the best, if it onlygave 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 themill. 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 backin good time. "

He grasped my hands warmly--then unloosed them; and I heard his stepdescending the staircase. The room seemed to darken when he went away. 

The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted with pain, lay onthe bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky over the housetops, whichmet in the old angles, with the same blue peeps between. I half forgotall the day's events--it seemed but two weeks, instead of two yearsago, that John and I had sat in this attic-window, conning ourShakspeare for the first time. 

Ere twilight I examined John's room. It was a good deal changed; thefurniture was improved; a score of ingenious little contrivances madethe tiny attic into a cosy bed-chamber. One corner was full ofshelves, laden with books, chiefly of a scientific and practicalnature. John's taste did not lead him into the current literature ofthe day: Cowper, Akenside, and Peter Pindar were alike indifferent tohim. I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare. 

He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts. There was lyingin the window a telescope--the cylinder made of pasteboard--into whichthe lenses were ingeniously fitted. A rough telescope-stand, of commondeal, stood on the ledge of the roof, from which the field of view musthave been satisfactory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragmentsof skilful handiwork, chiefly meant for machinery on a Lilliputianscale, were strewn about the floor; and on a chair, just as he had leftit that morning, stood a loom, very small in size, but perfect in itsneat workmanship, with a few threads already woven, making some fabricnot so very unlike cloth. 

I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father wasawake, and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise. 

"The lad works hard, " said he, half to himself. "He has useful handsand a clear head. " I smiled, but took no notice whatever. 

Evening began to close in--less peacefully than usual--over NortonBury; for, whenever I ventured to open the window, we heard unusual andominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly. But John wasprudent, as well as brave: besides, "everybody knew him. " Surely hewas 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 evenabout his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yet beheld infancy these starving men fighting over the precious food, destroyed sowilfully--nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, if I too harshlyuse the word; for I think, till the day of his death, that cruel sightnever wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father. 

Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that "master was lookingsprack 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 madecomfortable. 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 forall that, sometimes he'll teach Charley and me a bit o' theReadamadeasy. " (Reading-made-easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupilmeant. ) "He's very kind to we, and to mother too. Her says, that herdo, Mr. Halifax--"

"Send the fellow away, Phineas, " muttered my father, turning his faceto 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 goingto stop all night, either at your house or at the tan-yard, for fear ofa BLAZE. "

The word made my father start; for in these times well we knew whatpoor folk meant by "a blaze. "

"My house--my tan-yard--I must get up this instant--help me. He oughtto come back--that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men athand--Wilkes, and Johnson, and Jacob Baines--I say, Phineas--but theeknow'st nothing. "

He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, sickwith exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed. 

"Phineas, lad, " said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting ashelpless 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 ofthe long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of someincendiary fire--doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard myfather mutter something about "the lad being safe. " I said nothing. Ionly prayed. 

Thus the night wore away. 

CHAPTER VIII

After Midnight--I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours bythe Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out--after midnight I heard bymy father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it forhis sake, and also for another reason. 

I could not sleep--all my faculties were preternaturally alive; my weakbody 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 himtill daylight; therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him, and crept down-stairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, onlythe faithful warder, Jem, dozed over the dull fire. I touched him onthe shoulder--at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down. 

"Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas--hope I didn't hurt 'ee, sir?" cried he, allbut whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the mosttender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought it were some of them folkthat 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 histhumb up the staircase). "So, Master Phineas, I stop. "

And Jem settled himself with a doggedly obedient, but most dissatisfiedair down by the fire-place. It was evident nothing would move himthence: so he was as safe a guard over my poor old father's slumber asthe mastiff in the tan-yard, who was as brave as a lion and as docileas 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 thesaid garments from him, and unbolted the door. At last it seemed tooccur 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 strikethe faithful Jem. He stood on the door-sill, and gazed after me with ahopeless expression. 

"I s'pose you mun have your way, sir; but Mr. Halifax said, 'Jem, youstop y'ere, '--and y'ere I stop. "

He went in, and I heard him bolting the door, with a sullendetermination, as if he would have kept guard against it--waiting forJohn--until doomsday. 

I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very silent--Ineed not have borrowed Jem's exterior, in order to creep through athrong of maddened rioters. There was no sign of any such, except thatunder one of the three oil-lamps that lit the night-darkness at NortonBury lay a few smouldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, then, had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction--fire. Had myterrors been true? Our house--and perhaps John within it!

On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur, which I fancied I heard; but stillthere was no one in the street--no one except the Abbey-watchmanlounging in his box. I roused him, and asked if all was safe?--wherewere 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 theyknew of the glorious constitution of English law was when its iron handwas turned against them. 

I had forgotten this; bitterly I remembered it now. So wasting no morewords, I flew along the church-yard, until I saw, shining against theboles of the chestnut-trees, a red light. It was one of the hempentorches. Now, at last, I had got in the midst of that small body ofmen, "the rioters. "

They were a mere handful--not above two score--apparently the relics ofthe band which had attacked the mill, joined with a few plough-ladsfrom the country around. But they were desperate; they had come up theColtham road so quietly, that, except this faint murmur, neither I norany one in the town could have told they were near. Wherever they hadbeen ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my father's house; itstood up on the other side the road--barred, black, silent. 

I heard a muttering--"Th' old man bean't there. "--"Nobody knows wherehe be. " No, thank God!

"Be us all y'ere?" said the man with the torch, holding it up so as tosee round him. It was well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. But noone noticed me, except one man, who skulked behind a tree, and of whomI 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 knockeddown and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, though whose fault itwas no one seemed to know; but I missed my man from behind thetree--nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to thenearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our ownrailings. He looked round to see if none were by, and then sprang overthe 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 harmedyou. 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 mustget into the house. "

"Who is there?"

"Jael; she is as good as a host of constables; she has braved thefellows 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 sinceyesterday morning, though your father did not know. I have been goingto and fro all night, between there and here, waiting till the riotersshould 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 withsomething that looked very like my father's pistols, though I would notdiscredit 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, JohnHalifax. We are secure, I think. "

Secure? bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was threateningus now. 

"They can't mean it--surely they can't mean it, " repeated John, as thecry of "Burn 'un out!" rose louder and louder. 

But they did mean it. From the attic window we watched them lighttorch after torch, sometimes throwing one at the house, --but it fellharmless against the staunch oaken door, and blazed itself out on ourstone steps. All it did was to show more plainly than even daylighthad shown, the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces, furious withfamine. 

John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight. 

"I'll speak to them, " he said. "Unbar the window, Jael;" and before Icould hinder, he was leaning right out. "Holloa, there!"

At his loud and commanding voice a wave of up-turned faces surgedforward, expectant. 

"My men, do you know what you are about? To burn down a gentleman'shouse 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'enfight, as Mordecai's people fought, hand to hand, until they slew theirenemies. "

"Fight!" repeated John, half to himself, as he stood at the now-closedwindow, 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 shewould have taken under less critical circumstances, and with it wastrying 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 yearafter year, we Christians generally do read, such plain words asthese--"Love your enemies;" "bless them that curse you;" "pray for themthat despitefully use you and persecute you. "

A minute or two John stood with his hand on the Book, thinking. Thenhe touched me on the shoulder. 

"Phineas, I'm going to try a new plan--at least, one so old, that it'salmost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you'll bear me witness to yourfather that I did it for the best, and did it because I thought itright. 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 ashower of missiles, which missed their aim. The rioters were too faroff--our spiked iron railings, eight feet high or more, being a barrierwhich none had yet ventured to climb. But at length one random stonehit John on the chest. 

I pulled him in, but he declared he was not hurt. Terrified, Iimplored 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 thinkright, 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 apistol?"

"Loaded, " she said, handing it over to him with a kind of sterndelight. Certainly, Jael was not meant to be a Friend. 

John ran down-stairs, and before I guessed his purpose, had unboltedthe hall-door, and stood on the flight of steps, in full view of themob. 

There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. A pillarsheltered 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 havenoticed, or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch showedthem the young man standing there, with his back to the door--OUTSIDEthe door. 

The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for the moment hewas safe. They were awed--nay, paralyzed, by his daring. 

But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for one briefminute. 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 madehimself very prominent all along, seemed trying to calm the tumult. 

John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him--he stooped andpicked it up. I thought he was going to hurl it back again, but he didnot; 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 seemedto have power to quiet the rest. 

John Halifax never stirred. Evidently he was pretty well known. Icaught many a stray sentence, such as "Don't hurt the lad. "--"He werekind to my lad, he were. "--"No, he be a real gentleman. "--"No, he comedhere as poor as us, " and the like. At length one voice, sharp andshrill, was heard above the rest. 

"I zay, young man, didst ever know what it was to be pretty nighvamished?"

"Ay, many a time. "

The answer, so brief, so unexpected, struck a great hush into thethrong. 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 burnmy master's house down. "

I expected an outbreak, but none came. They listened, as it were bycompulsion, to the clear, manly voice that had not in it one shade offear. 

"What do you do it for?" John continued. "All because he would notsell you, or give you, his wheat. Even so--it was HIS wheat, notyours. May not a man do what he likes with his own?"

The argument seemed to strike home. There is always a lurking sense ofrude justice in a mob--at least a British mob. 

"Don't you see how foolish you were?--You tried threats, too. Now youall know Mr. Fletcher; you are his men--some of you. He is not a manto be threatened. "

This seemed to be taken rather angrily; but John went on speaking, asif he did not observe the fact. 

"Nor am I one to be threatened, neither. Look here--the first one ofyou who attempted to break into Mr. Fletcher's house I should mostcertainly have shot. But I'd rather not shoot you, poor, starvingfellows! I know what it is to be hungry. I'm sorry for you--sorryfrom the bottom of my heart. "

There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor the murmur whichfollowed it. 

"But what must us do, Mr. Halifax?" cried Jacob Baines: "us be starveda'most. What's the good o' talking to we?"

John's countenance relaxed. I saw him lift his head and shake his hairback, with that pleased gesture I remember so well of old. He wentdown to the locked gate. 

"Suppose I gave you something to eat, would you listen to meafterwards?"

There arose up a frenzied shout of assent. Poor wretches! they werefighting for no principle, true or false, only for bare life. Theywould 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, Iknow you. I could get every one of you hanged, even though AbelFletcher 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 everykind that there was in the house, and give it to him out of theparlour-window. She obeyed--I marvel now to think of it--but sheimplicitly obeyed. Only I heard her fix the bar to the closed frontdoor, and go back, with a strange, sharp sob, to her station at thehall-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 itlike wild beasts. Meat, cooked or raw, loaves, vegetables, meal; allcame alike, and were clutched, gnawed, and scrambled for, in the fierceselfishness 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 drunkardsrioting at my master's door. "

And, either by chance or design, he let them hear the click of hispistol. But it was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightierweapon still--the best weapon a man can use--his own firm indomitablewill. 

At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. John toldthem so; and they believed him. Little enough, indeed, was sufficientfor 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 humanbeings; and there was but one, the little, shrill-voiced man, who askedme 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 byJohn's side, very happy, very proud. 

"Well, my men, " he said, looking round with a smile, "have you hadenough 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. Youwouldn't then have been abroad this summer morning"--and he pointed tothe dawn just reddening in the sky--"this quiet, blessed summermorning, burning and rioting, bringing yourselves to the gallows, andyour children to starvation. "

"They be nigh that a'ready, " said Jacob, sullenly. "Us men ha' gottena 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 getsome food somehow. "

John turned away, his countenance very sad. Another of the men pluckedat him from behind. 

"Sir, when thee was a poor lad I lent thee a rug to sleep on; I doan'tgrudge 'ee getting on; you was born for a gentleman, sure-ly. ButMaster Fletcher be a hard man. "

"And a just one, " persisted John. "You that work for him, did he everstint 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 saythat he would--but he MIGHT even have given you the food you tried tosteal. "

"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 hadspoken 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 fathersome o' these days. Oh! Mr. Halifax, may 'ee ne'er want a meal o' goodmeat 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 wasto write orders, which each man presenting at our mill, should receivea 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 hedoes not give some, he may lose all. But he would not do it for fearof 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 thecounting-house, and wrote. I looked over his shoulder, admiring hisclear, firm hand-writing; the precision, concentrativeness, andquickness, with which he first seemed to arrange and then execute hisideas. He possessed to the full that "business" faculty, so frequentlydespised, but which, out of very ordinary material, often makes aclever man; and without which the cleverest man alive can never bealtogether a great man. 

When about to sign the orders, John suddenly stopped. "No; I hadbetter 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 haddistributed the little bits of paper--precious as pound-notes--and madethem all fully understand the same. "Why, there isn't anothergentleman in Norton Bury, who, if you had come to burn HIS house down, would not have had the constables or the soldiers, have shot downone-half of you like mad dogs, and sent the other half to the countygaol. Now, for all your misdoings, we let you go quietly home, wellfed, 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, hadnever 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; hetook 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 quitehimself 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 sinceyesterday--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 hadbeen 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 anycomments on John's behaviour; he would not have liked it; and, besides, the facts spoke for themselves. I told the simple, plainstory--nothing more. 

Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence. As I proceeded he feltabout for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim close down overhis eyes. Not even when I told him of the flour we had promised in hisname, the giving of which would, as we had calculated, cost himconsiderable 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 hisknees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the rigidmouth 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 notmatch that happy silence. 

By degrees we got my father home. It was just such another summermorning as the one, two years back, when we two had stood, exhaustedand trembling, before that sternly-bolted door. We both thought ofthat day: I knew not if my father did also. 

He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in the very seat, inthe very room, where he had so harshly judged us--judged him. 

Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young man'sspirit 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 wasirresolute, 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 oldhardness. "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, howold 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. Attwenty-one thee wilt be able to set up for thyself, or I may take theeinto partnership--we'll see. But"--and he looked at me, then sternly, nay, fiercely, into John's steadfast eyes--"remember, thee hast in somemeasure taken that lad's place. May God deal with thee as thou dealestwith 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 apartas 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! nowI 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 notnow take that heavy, overpowering grip of me, mind and body, that itonce 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 bravecheerfulness--his way of turning all minor troubles into pleasantries, till they seemed to break and vanish away, sparkling, like the foam onthe top of the wave. Yet, all the while one knew well that he couldmeet any great evil as gallantly as a good ship meets a heavysea--breasting it, plunging through it, or riding over it, as only agood ship can. 

When I recovered--just a month after the bread-riot, and that month wasa great triumph to John's kind care--I felt that if I always had himbeside me I should never be ill any more; I said as much, in a laughingsort of way. 

"Very well; I shall keep you to that bargain. Now, sit down; listen tothe newspaper, and improve your mind as to what the world is doing. Itought 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 onthe 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. Hemarried, 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 andTavistock 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 haveto send me, this winter, on business--won't that be fine? If only youwould go too. "

I shook my head. I had the strongest disinclination to stir from myquiet home, which now held within it, or about it, all I wished for andall 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 weekpast--'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. Acottage--Rose Cottage--for it's all in a bush of cluster-roses, up tothe 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 canfeel it in my face still. "

And even the description was refreshing, this heavy, sultry day, withnot a breath of air moving across the level valley. 

"Shouldn't you like to live on a hill-side, to be at the top ofeverything, overlooking everything? Well, that's Enderley: thevillage 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 whitelittle heads and a dozen round eyes appeared staring at me. But oh, the blessed quiet and solitude of the place! No fights in filthyalleys! no tan-yards--I mean"--he added, correcting himself--"it's athorough country spot; and I like the country better than the town. "

"Do you, still? Would you really like to take to the 'shepherd's lifeand state, ' upon which my namesake here is so eloquent? Let us seewhat he says. "

And from the handful of books that usually lay strewn about wherever wetwo sat, I took up one he had lately got, with no small pains I wassure, and had had bound in its own proper colour, and presented it tome--"The Purple Island, " and "Sicelides, " of Phineas Fletcher. Peopleseldom read this wise, tender, and sweet-voiced old fellow now; so Iwill 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, ' thesun 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 likepoetry to be intelligible. A poet ought to see things more widely, andexpress them more vividly, than ordinary folk. "

"Don't you perceive--he means the pawns on the chess-board--the commonpeople. "

"Phineas, don't say the common people--I'm a common person myself. Butto 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 indonkeys. 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'llallow--that I saw a silken gown hanging up in the kitchen at RoseCottage. Now, though Mrs. Tod is a decent, comely woman, I don't thinkit belonged to her. "

"She may have lodgers. "

"I think she said she had--an old gentleman--but HE wouldn't wear asilken gown. "

"His wife might. Now, do go on reading. "

"Certainly; I only wish to draw a parallel between Thyrsis andourselves in our future summer life at Enderley. So the oldgentleman's wife may appropriate the 'silken pride, ' while we emulatethe 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 ofseriousness, observable in him ever since my father's declaration ofhis intentions concerning him, had, so to speak, settled John's futurecareer. He seemed aware of some crisis in his life, arrived orimpending, which disturbed the generally even balance of histemperament. 

"Nay, I'll be serious;" and passing over the unfinished verse, withanother or two following, he began afresh, in a new place, and in analtogether 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 likethis before. Ending, one missed it like the breaking of music, or likethe 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 notquite true. I was thinking that, so far as happiness goes, this'shepherd's' is my ideal of a happy life--ay, down to the 'grassytomb. '"

"Your fancy leaps at once to the grassy tomb; but the shepherd enjoyeda 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 littleson'?"

"I hope so--God willing. "

It may seem strange, but this was the first time our conversation hadever wandered in a similar direction. Though he was twenty and Itwenty-two--to us both--and I thank Heaven that we could both look upin the face of Heaven and say so!--to us both, the follies andwickednesses of youth were, if not equally unknown, equally and alikehateful. Many may doubt, or smile at the fact; but I state it now, inmy old age, with honour and pride, that we two young men that daytrembled 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 asudden possibility flashed across my mind--"Have you ever seen any onewhom you would like for your wife?"

"No. "

I was satisfied. John's single "No" was as conclusive as a score ofasseverations. 

We said no more; but after one of those pauses of conversation whichwere habitual to us--John used to say, that the true test of friendshipwas to be able to sit or walk together for a whole hour in perfectsilence, without wearying of one another's company--we again begantalking about Enderley. 

I soon found, that in this plan, my part was simply acquiescence; myfather and John had already arranged it all. I was to be in charge ofthe latter; nothing could induce Abel Fletcher to leave, even for aday, his house, his garden, and his tan-yard. We two young men were toset 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, andto fulfil his duties at the tan-yard. One could see plain enough--andvery grateful to me was the sight--that whether or no Abel Fletcheracknowledged it, his right hand in all his business affairs was the ladJohn Halifax. 

On a lovely August day we started for Enderley. It was about eightmiles off, on a hilly, cross-country road. We lumbered slowly along inour post-chaise; I leaning back, enjoying the fresh air, the changingviews, and chiefly to see how intensely John enjoyed them too. 

He looked extremely well to-day--handsome, I was about to write; butJohn was never, even in his youth, "handsome. " Nay, I have heardpeople call him "plain"; but that was not true. His face had thatcharm, perhaps the greatest, certainly the most lasting, either inwomen or men--of infinite variety. You were always finding outsomething--an expression strange as tender, or the track of a swift, brilliant thought, or an indication of feeling different from, perhapsdeeper than, anything which appeared before. When you believed you hadlearnt it line by line it would startle you by a phase quite new, andbeautiful as new. For it was not one of your impassive faces, whoseowners count it pride to harden into a mass of stone those lineamentswhich nature made as the flesh and blood representation of the man'ssoul. True, it had its reticences, its sacred disguises, its noblepowers of silence and self-control. It was a fair-written, open book;only, to read it clearly, you must come from its own country, andunderstand the same language. 

For the rest, John was decidedly like the "David" whose name I stillgave 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 tothink, when I looked at him. He always dressed with extremesimplicity; generally in grey, he was fond of grey; and in something ofour Quaker fashion. On this day, I remember, I noticed an especialcarefulness of attire, at his age neither unnatural nor unbecoming. His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished with thesnowiest of lawn frills and ruffles; his knee-breeches, black silkhose, and shoes adorned with the largest and brightest of steelbuckles, made up a costume, which, quaint as it would now appear, stillis, to my mind, the most suitable and graceful that a young man canwear. I never see any young men now who come at all near the picturewhich still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax as he looked thatday. 

Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially of youth thathas struggled up through so many opposing circumstances as his haddone, he noticed my glance. 

"Anything amiss about me, Phineas? You see I am not much used toholidays 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 andof Enderley that I have slipped off my tan-yard husk, and put on thegentleman. "

"You couldn't do that, John. You couldn't put on what you were bornwith. "

He laughed--but I think he was pleased. 

We had now come into a hilly region. John leaped out and gained thetop of the steep road long before the post-chaise did. I watched himstanding, balancing in his hands the riding-whip which had replaced theeverlasting rose-switch, or willow-wand, of his boyhood. His figurewas outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown backward alittle, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest zest, on the breezyflat before him. His hair--a little darker than it used to be, but ofthe true Saxon colour still, and curly as ever--was blown about by thewind, 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 ofsuch a brother, any young girl of such a lover. Ay, that last tie, theonly one of the three that was possible to him--I wondered how long itwould be before times changed, and I ceased to be the only one who wasproud of him. 

We drove on a little further, and came to the chief landmark of thehigh moorland--a quaint hostelry, called the "Bear. " Bruin swung aloftpole in hand, brown and fierce, on an old-fashioned sign, as he and hisprogenitors 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 pointI can show you something very like it. Do you see that gleaming bit inthe landscape far away? That's water--that's our very own Severn, swelled to an estuary. But you must imagine the estuary--you can onlyget that tiny peep of water, glittering like a great diamond that someyoung 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 windalways sends me half crazy with delight. Did you ever feel such abreeze? And there's something so gloriously free in this high levelcommon--as flat as if my Titaness had found a little Mont Blanc, andamused 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, herflattened Mont Blanc, is very fine. What a broad green sweep--nothingbut sky and common, common and sky. This is Enderley Flat. We shallcome to its edge soon, where it drops abruptly into such a prettyvalley. There, look down--that's the church. We are on a level withthe top of its tower. Take care, my lad, "--to the post-boy, who wascrossing with difficulty the literally "pathless waste. "--"Don't lurchus into the quarry-pits, or topple us at once down the slope, where weshall 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 uponour 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 placebefore. I feel as if we were going to have great happiness here. "

And as he spoke, his unwonted buoyancy softened into a quietness ofmanner more befitting that word "happiness. " Strange word! hardly inmy vocabulary. Yet, when he uttered it, I seemed to understand it andto be content. 

We wound a little way down the slope, and came in front of RoseCottage. It was well named. I never in my life had seen such a bushof 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 awoodbine at the other; the cottage had two entrances, each distinct. But the general impression it gave, both as to sight and scent, was ofroses--nothing but roses. 

"How are you, Mrs. Tod?" as a comely, middle-aged body appeared at theright-hand doorway, dressed sprucely in one of those things Jael calleda "coat and jacket, " likewise a red calamanco petticoat tucked up atthe pocket-holes. 

"I be pretty fair, sir--be you the same? The children ha' notforgotten 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 tosee John with a child in his arms. 

"Don't 'ee make more noise than 'ee can help, my lad, " the good womansaid to our post-boy, "because, sir, the sick gentleman bean't so wellagain to-day. "

"I am sorry for it. We would not have driven up to the door had weknown. Which is his room?"

Mrs. Tod pointed to a window--not on our side of the house, but theother. A hand was just closing the casement and pulling down theblind--a hand which, in the momentary glimpse we had of it, seemed lesslike 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 upin-doors on such a summer evening as this!"

It did seem a sad sight--that closed window, outside which was thefresh, balmy air, the sunset, and the roses. 

"And how do you like Enderley?" asked John, when, tea being over, I layand rested, while he sat leaning his elbow on the window-sill, and hischeek 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; itis so familiar. I seem to know quite well that slope of common beforethe door, with its black dots of furze-bushes. And that wood below;what a clear line its top makes against the yellow sky! There, thathigh ground to the right; it's all dusky now, but it is such a view bydaylight. And between it and Enderley is the prettiest valley, wherethe 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. Wewill have a happy time, Phineas. "

"Oh, yes!" How--even if I had felt differently--could I say anythingbut "yes" to him then?

I lay until it grew quite dark, and I could only see a dim shapesitting at the window, instead of John's known face; then I bade himgood-night, and retired. Directly afterwards, I heard him, as I knewhe would, dash out of the house, and away up the Flat. In the deepquiet of this lonely spot I could distinguish, for several minutes, thediminishing sound of his footsteps along the loose, stony road; and thenotes, clear and shrill, of his whistling. I think it was "Sally inour 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 mostextraordinary woman. "

And leaning his elbows on the table, from which the said extraordinarywoman had just removed breakfast, John looked over to me with his ownmerry brown eyes. 

"Wherefore, David?"

"She has a house full of children, yet manages to keep it quiet and herown temper likewise. Astonishing patience! However people attain itwho have to do with brats, _I_ can't imagine. "

"John! that's mean hypocrisy. I saw you myself half-an-hour agoholding the eldest Tod boy on a refractory donkey, and laughing tillyou could hardly stand. "

"Did I?" said he, half-ashamed. "Well, it was only to keep the littlescamp from making a noise under the windows. And that reminds me ofanother remarkable virtue in Mrs. Tod--she can hold her tongue. "

"How so?"

"In two whole days she has not communicated to us a single factconcerning our neighbours on the other half of Rose Cottage. "

"Did you want to know?"

John laughingly denied; then allowed that he always had a certainpleasure 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 oldgentleman or the old lady?"

"Stop, Phineas: you have a bad habit of jumping at conclusions. Andin our great dearth of occupation here, I think it might be all thebetter for you to take a little interest in your neighbours. So I've agreat mind to indulge you with an important idea, suggestion, discovery. Harkee, friend!"--and he put on an air of sentimentalmystery, not a bad copy of our old acquaintance, Mr. Charles--"what ifthe--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 safeside, and call her the--individual. In short; the owner of that greysilk 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 waybehind, though; for I thought that it--well, let me say SHE--might notlike to be watched or followed. She was trotting along very fast, andshe 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 greatdeal quicker and merrier than any wife ought to walk when her husbandis 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 Idon'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 hispoint--"though this lady did not look like a sylph or awood-nymph--being neither very small nor very slight, and having acomfortable woollen cloak and hood over the grey silk gown--still, Idon'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 thinkit manly to chase a lady as a schoolboy does a butterfly, for the meregratification of staring at her. I stayed on the top of the Flat tillshe had gone indoors. "

"Into Rose Cottage?"

"Why--yes. "

"She had, doubtless, gone to fetch new-laid eggs for her--I mean forthe sick gentleman's breakfast. Kind soul!"

"You may jest, Phineas, but I think she is a kind soul. On her wayhome I saw her stop twice; once to speak to an old woman who wasgathering 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 amsure she had been scolding him. "

"Then she's not young, depend upon it. Your beautiful young creaturesnever scold. "

"I'm not so sure of that, " said John, meditatively. "For my part, Ishould 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 stronglyobject to divinities. How unpleasant it would be to woo an angel ofperfection, 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 suchnonsense 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 saddlethe 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 hisface. No morbid follies had ever tainted his healthy nature, whatsoever romance was there--and never was there a thoroughly noblenature without some romance in it. But it lay deep down, calm andunawakened. His heart was as light and free as air. 

Stooping over my easy chair, he wheeled it to the window, in sight ofthe pleasant view. 

"Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll take a walk beforedinner? You'll not be moping?"

No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent or present, theblessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts andcares? Who, whether he expressed it or not--the best things never areexpressed or expressible--knew by a thousand little daily acts likethese, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly lovefor me. As yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how little else Ihad, will pardon, if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint ofselfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon. 

He lingered about, making me "all right, " as he called it, and planningout my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were the gayestcouple of young bachelors, when, as John said, "the duties of ourresponsible position" would allow. 

"Responsible position! It's our good landlady who ought to talk aboutthat. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite number ofchildren. 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 griefwith that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind. Get up again. "

But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious; anddisappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The nextminute I saw him carrying in the unlucky Jack, who was bleeding from acut 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 yourmother. "

But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no realcause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for hiscarelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman. 

"But he be always getting into mischief, sir--that boy. Three monthsback, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with thecarriage-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 usefretting over that boy. "

"Have patience, " answered John, who had again carried the unfortunateyoung scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Tod's kitchen--the centreroom of the cottage; and was trying to divert the torrent of maternalindignation, while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly lookingwound. "Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards thanif you had punished him. "

"Do'ee think so?" said the woman, as, struck either by the words, themanner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. "Do'ee reallythink so, Mr. Halifax?"

"I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when onehas 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 mandoes, o' Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax; and they're goodfolks, the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There's a deal aboutforgiving in the Bible; isn't there, sir?"

"Exactly, " John answered, smiling. "And so, Jack, you're safe thistime; only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake ofdonkeys or anything else. "

"No, sir--thank'ee, sir, " sobbed Jack, humbly. "You be agentleman--Mr. March bean't--he said it served me right for gettingunder his horses. "

"Hold thy tongue!" said Jack's mother, sharply; for the latch of theopposite 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--apleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone--John and Iboth involuntarily turned. We felt awkward! doubtful whether to stayor 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 themomentary picture. Its momentariness impressed it the more vividly onmy memory--I have it there still. 

A girl, in early but not precocious maturity, rather tall, of a figurebuilt more for activity and energy than the mere fragility ofsylph-like grace: dark-complexioned, dark-eyed, dark-haired--the wholecolouring being of that soft darkness of tone which gives a sense ofsomething at once warm and tender, strong and womanly. Thorough womanshe 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; butthere 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 throatand down to her wrists, where it had some kind of trimming of whitefur, 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; moresensible and pleasanter than her father, who is always ailing, andalways grumbling. Poor gentleman!--most like he can't help it. But itbe 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 lastbandage had been sewn on Jack's cut forehead, and even some minutesafter his protege had begun playing about as usual. It was I who hadto suggest that we should not intrude in Mrs. Tod's kitchen any longer. 

"No--certainly not. Come, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, I hope our presence didnot inconvenience--the young lady?"

"Bless your heart, sir! nothing ever inconveniences she. There bean'ta pleasanter young body alive. She'll often come into thiskitchen--just as you did, gentlemen, and very happy to see you always, "added Mrs. Tod, curtseying. "When Mr. March is asleep she'll come andsit for half an hour, talking to Tod and me; and playing with thebaby--"

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 youngmen 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. Ican easily imagine her trotting over the common with her basket ofeggs--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 itshould turn out to be the very Mr. March you pulled out of Severn fiveyears ago. What a romantic conjuncture of circumstances?"

"Nonsense, " said John, quickly--more quickly than he usually spoke tome; 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--turningonce to look back at Rose Cottage, ere he finally disappeared betweenthe 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 ahand, and I fancied a white-furred wrist, pulling down the blind. Itamused me to think Miss March might possibly have been watching himlikewise. 

I spent the whole long day alone in the cottage parlour, chieflymeditating; though more than once friendly Mrs. Tod broke in upon mysolitude. She treated me in a motherly, free-and-easy way: not halfso deferentially as she treated John Halifax. 

The sun had gone down over Nunnely Hill, behind the four tall Italianpoplars, which stood on the border of our bit of wilderness--threetogether and one apart. They were our landmarks--and skymarks too--forthe first sunbeam coming across the common struck their tops of amorning, and the broad western glimmer showed their forms distinctlyuntil far in the night. They were just near enough for me to heartheir faint rustling in windy weather; on calm days they stood upstraight against the sky, like memorial columns. They were friends ofmine--those four poplars; sometimes they almost seemed alive. We madeacquaintance on this first night, when I sat watching for John; and wekept up the friendship ever afterwards. 

It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs clattering upthe road: joyfully I ran out. 

David was not quite his youthful, gay self that night; not quite, as heexpressed it, "the David of the sheep-folds. " He was very tired, andhad what he called "the tan-yard feeling, " the oppression of businesscares. 

"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. " Shealways seemed to consider him the head of our little menage. 

"The times are very hard, " repeated John, thoughtfully. "I don't seehow your father can rightly be left with so many anxieties on hisshoulders. I must manage to get to Norton Bury at least five days aweek. You will have enough of solitude, I fear. "

"And you will have little enough of the pleasant country life youplanned, and which you seem so to delight in. "

"Never mind--perhaps it's good for me. I have a life of hard workbefore me, and can't afford to get used to too much pleasure. Butwe'll make the most of every bit of time we have. How have you feltto-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 solovely. "

"Of Nature, or human nature?"

He half smiled, though only at my mischievousness. I could see it didnot affect him in the least. "Nay, I know what you mean; but I hadforgotten her, or, if not absolutely forgotten, she was not in my mindjust then. We will go another way, as indeed I had intended: it mightannoy the young lady, our meeting her again. "

His grave, easy manner of treating and dismissing the subject was atacit reproach to me. I let the matter drop; we had much more serioustopics 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 alittle 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, oras if some broad river had been dried up in its course, and, centuryafter century, gradually converted into meadow, woodland, and town. For a little white town sat demurely at the bottom of the hollow, and ascore or two of white cottages scattered themselves from this smallnucleus of civilisation over the opposite bank of this imaginary river, which was now a lovely hill-side. Gorges, purple with shadow, yellowcorn-fields, and dark clumps of woodland dressed this broad hill-sidein many colours; its highest point, Nunnely Hill, forming the horizonwhere last night I had seen the sun go down, and which now was tintedwith the tenderest western morning grey. 

"Do you like this, Phineas? I do, very much. A dear, smiling, Englishvalley, holding many a little nest of an English home. Fancy beingpatriarch over such a region, having the whole valley in one's hand, todo good to, or ill. You can't think what primitive people they arehereabouts--descendants from an old colony of Flemish cloth-weavers:they keep to the trade. Down in the valley--if one could see throughthe beech wood--is the grand support of the neighbourhood, a largecloth mill!"

"That's quite in your line, John;" and I saw his face brighten up as ithad done when, as a boy, he had talked to me about his machinery. "Whathas become of that wonderful little loom you made?"

"Oh! I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth-mill!--I have beenall 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, andwith 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 ofthe matter into my stupid head, where it remained--for ten minutes!Much longer remained the impression of his energetic talk--hisclear-headed way of putting before another what he understood so wellhimself. I marvelled how he had gained all his information. 

"Oh! it's easy enough, when one has a natural propensity for catchinghold of facts; and then, you know, I always had a weakness formachinery; 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 theman. I'm a tanner, and a capital tanner I intend to be. By-the-by, Iwonder if Mrs. Tod, who talks so much about 'gentlefolk, ' knows thatlatter fact about you and me?"

"I think not; I hope not. Oh, David! this one month at least let usget 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 forJohn. 

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 thisfresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, all thick withflowers--what a pretty blue cluster that is at your foot, Phineas!--whowould guess that all yesterday I had been stirring up tan-pits, handling raw hides? Faugh! I wonder the little harebells don't sickenin these, my hands--such ugly hands, too!"

"Nonsense, John! they're not so bad, indeed; and if they were, whatdoes it matter?"

"You are right; lad; it does not matter. They have done me goodservice, 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 friendGrey-gown--I beg her pardon--Miss March. "

"It is she, " said John, so indifferently that I suspect that fact hadpresented 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 differentdirection, 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 seeagain that fresh young face, so earnest, cheerful, and good. Also, as Ilaboured in vain to convince my companion, the said face indicated anindependent dignity which would doubtless make its owner perfectlyindifferent whether her solitary walk were crossed by two gentlemen ortwo hundred. 

John agreed to this; nevertheless, he was inexorable. And, since hewas "a man of the world"--having, in his journeys up and down thecountry for my father, occasionally fallen into "polite" society--Iyielded the point to him and submitted to his larger experience of goodbreeding. 

However, Fate, kinder than he, took the knot of etiquette into her ownhands, and broke it. 

Close to the cottage door, our two paths converging, and probably ourbreakfast-hours likewise, brought us suddenly face to face with MissMarch. 

She saw us, and we had a distinct sight of her. 

I was right: we and our contiguity were not of the smallest importanceto Miss March. Her fresh morning roses did not deepen, nor her eyesdroop, as she looked for a moment at us both--a quiet, maidenly look ofmere observation. Of course no recognition passed; but there was amerry 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. Itstretched out its little arms to come to her, with that pretty, babyishgesture 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 cloakdropping off, showing her graceful shape, and her dark-brown hair, allgathered up in a mass of curls at the top of her head, as the fashionthen was. As she stood, with her eyes sparkling, and the young bloodflushing through her clear brunette cheeks, I was not sure whether Ihad 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 quiteforgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. Tod's bonny boy, until thelandlady made some remark about "letting the gentlemen by. " Then, witha slight start, drawing her hood back over her head, the young ladystepped aside. 

In passing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural enough. For me, Icould hardly take mine from her, such a pleasant creature was she tobehold. She half smiled--he bowed, which she returned, courteously, and we both went in-doors. I told him this was a good beginning ofacquaintance with our neighbour. 

"Not at all, no acquaintance; a mere civility between two people livingunder the same roof. It will never be more. "

"Probably not. "

I am afraid John was disappointed at my "probably. " I am afraid thatwhen he stood at our window, contemplating the little group whichfilled 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, thatthough there had been some lapse of time before I hazarded this remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun to that indefinite personalpronoun. 

"A good--nay, a noble face; though still, with those irregularfeatures, I can't--really I can't--call her beautiful. "

"Nor I. "

"She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, for the firsttime 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 towhat is called 'society. ' Which makes it the more likely that herfather is the Mr. March who was cousin to the Brithwoods. An oddcoincidence. "

"A very odd coincidence. "

After which brief reply John relapsed into taciturnity. 

More than once that morning we recurred to the subject of ourneighbours--that is, I did--but John was rather saturnine anduncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Tod was removing the breakfast, Iventured to ask her a harmless question or two--who Mr. March was, andwhere he came from?--I was abruptly reproved, the very minute our goodlandlady had shut the door, for my tendency to "gossip. "

At which I only laughed, and reminded him that he had ingeniouslyscolded me after, not before, I had gained the desiredinformation--namely, that Mr. March was a gentleman of independentproperty--that he had no friends hereabouts, and that he usually livedin 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 atime that day I laughed at him for evincing such great sympathy overour neighbours, and especially--which was plain enough to see, thoughhe doubtless believed he entirely disguised it--for that interest whicha young man of twenty would naturally take in a very charming andpersonable young woman. Ay, naturally, as I said to myself, for Iadmired her too, extremely. 

It seems strange now to call to mind that morning, and ourlight-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that Destiny shouldoften come thus, creeping like a child to our very doors; we hardlynotice it, or send it away with a laugh; it comes so naturally, sosimply, so accidentally, as it were, that we recognise it not. Wecannot believe that the baby intruder is in reality the king of ourfortunes; the ruler of our lives. But so it is continually; and sinceIT IS, it must be right. 

We finished the morning by reading Shakspeare--Romeo and Juliet--atwhich the old folio seemed naturally to open. There is a time--a sweettime, too, though it does not last--when to every young mind the playof plays, the poem of poems, is Romeo and Juliet. We were at thatphase now. 

John read it all through to me--not for the first time either; andthen, 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 quietnessand dreams. Sometimes a bee came buzzing among the roses, in and awayagain, like a happy thought. Nothing else was stirring; not a singlebird was to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a coo ofthe wood-pigeons among the beech-trees--a low, tender voice--remindingone of a mother's crooning over a cradled child; or of two true loversstanding 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 strangequiver about his mouth?--why that wonderful new glow, that infinitedepth of softness in his eyes?

I closed mine. He never knew I saw him. He thought I slept placidlythrough that half-hour; which seemed to him as brief as a minute. Tome it was long--ah, so long! as I lay pondering with an intensity thatwas 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 leastI had. As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the pretty spothe 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 fourpoplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out over their headsat 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 creptout, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, and there lay alittle under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny shelter, watching theants running in and out of the numerous ant-hills there; or else Iturned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywherehereabouts; for the common, so far from being barren, was a perfectsheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare flowers. Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty andvariety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate for a full hour. 

My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the Enderleyvillagers, or the Tod children, who were a grade above these, anddecidedly "respectable, " would appear and have a game of play at thefoot of the slope, their laughter rising up to where I lay. Or someold woman would come with her pails to the spring below, a curious andvery old stone well, to which the cattle from the common often rusheddown past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their mouths makingglancing circles in the water as they drank. 

Being out of doors almost all day, I saw very little of the inhabitantsof our cottage. Once or twice a lady and gentleman passed, creeping atthe foot of the slope so slowly, that I felt sure it must be Mr. Marchand his daughter. He was tall, with grey hair; I was not near enoughto 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 latelytaken to wearing, and which, Jael said, was called a "bonnet. "

Except on these two occasions, I had no opportunity of making anyobservations on the manners and customs of our neighbours. OccasionallyMrs. Tod mentioned them in her social chatter, while laying the cloth;but it was always in the most cursory and trivial way, such as "MissMarch having begged that the children might be kept quiet--Mrs. Todhoped their noise didn't disturb ME? but Mr. March was such a veryfidgety gentleman--so particular in his dress, too--Why, Miss March hadto iron his cravats with her own hands. Besides, if there was a pinawry 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 aband-box. Mr. March wanted so much waiting on, he seemed to fancy hestill had his big house in Wales, and his seven servants. "

Mrs. Tod conversed as if she took it for granted I was fully acquaintedwith all the prior history of her inmates, or any others that shementioned--a habit peculiar to Enderley folk with strangers. It wasgenerally rather convenient, and it saved much listening; but in thiscase, I would rather have had it broken through. Sometimes I feltstrongly inclined to question her; but on consulting John, he gave hisveto so decidedly against seeking out people's private affairs in suchan illicit manner that I felt quite guilty, and began to doubt whethermy sickly, useless, dreaming life, was not inclining me to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are accustomed--I know notwhy--to insult the other sex by describing as "womanish. "

As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so that we couldhave neither sound nor sight of our neighbours, save upon the neutralground of Mrs. Tod's kitchen; where, however I might have felt inclinedto venture, John's prohibition stopped me entirely. 

Thus--save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on hismare'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, Ispent the week in dignified solitude, and was very thankful for Sunday. 

We determined to make it a long, lovely, country Sunday; so we began itat 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 pathswith such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know youhave 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 wecould 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 whateverother thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was theone 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, thetan-yard, and all belonging to it, drops off like an incubus, and Iwake into free, beautiful life. Now, Phineas, confess; is not thiscommon a lovely place, especially of a morning?"

"Ay, " said I, smiling at his energy. "But you did not tell me whetheryou 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--butnever in any way that could annoy her. "

"That explains why you have become so well acquainted with thedirection of her walks?"

He coloured deeply. "I hope, Phineas, you do not think that--that inany 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 tolook at such a 'cunning piece of Nature's handiwork' as thatapple-cheeked girl of seventeen. "

"Russet apple. She is brown, you know--a real 'nut-brown mayde, '" saidJohn, recovering his gay humour. "Certainly, I like to look at her. Ihave seen many a face that was more good-looking--never one that lookedhalf so good. "

"Sententious that;" yet I could not smile--he spoke with suchearnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would have walkedhalf-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why nothe?

"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 aRoman encampment, the most perfect of the various fosses that seamedthe 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 trainof thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments; "yes, itis quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quitenatural, 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 intothe ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had fallen before it inages gone by. 

The impetuous gesture--the energetic "impossible, " struck me less thanthe quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressedthought--carrying it to a greater length than I myself had evercontemplated. 

"Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of THAT sort ever enteredmy head. I only thought you might admire her, and be unsettled therebyas young men are when they take fancies. That would grieve me verymuch, John. "

"Don't let it then? Why, I have only seen her five times; I neverspoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall do. Could anyone be in a safer position? Besides, " and his tone changed to extremegravity, "I have too many worldly cares to think of; I can't afford theharmless little amusement of falling in love--so be easy, Phineas. "

I smiled; and we began a discussion on camps and fosses, vallum andpraetorium; the Danes, Saxons, and Normans; which, doubtless, wecarried on to a most learned length: but at this distance of time, andindeed the very day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all aboutit. 

That long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never came out allday, 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 wentdown into the beech-wood below the house, and sat idly there among thepleasant-smelling ferns; when, from the morning to the evening, hedevoted himself altogether to my comfort and amusement--to perfectwhich required of him no harder duty than to be near me always;--thatSunday 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 wayI should have murmured. 

About ten o'clock--just as he was luring me out to see how grand thecommon looked under the black night, and we were wondering whether orno the household were in bed--Mrs. Tod came mysteriously into theparlour and shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face lookedsomewhat troubled. 

"Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to 'ee, sir?"

"With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Tod. There's nothing wrong with yourchildren?"

"No, I thank'ee. You are very kind, sir. No, it be about that poorMiss March. "

I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was leaning on. "Ihope--" he began, and stopped. 

"Her father is dreadful bad to-night, and it's a good seven-mile walkto the doctor's at S----; and Miss March says--that is, she don't, forI 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 younggentleman like you to lend Tod your mare to ride over and fetch thedoctor. "

"I will, gladly. At once?"

"Tod bean't come in yet. "

"He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March so--I mean, donot tell her, of course. It was very right of you to come to us inthis way, Mrs. Tod. Really, it would be almost a treat to be ill inyour 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 wouldthink so yourself, if you only knew her. "

"No doubt, " returned John, more politely than warmly, I fancied, as heclosed the door after the retreating figure of Mrs. Tod. But when hecame and sat down again I saw he was rather thoughtful. He turned thebooks restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle toanything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour, and ourpearl of kind-hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; atlast 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 commoncharity. And I know the way. "

"But the dark night?"

"Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a stranger. Andthough I have taken good care that the three horses in the tan-yardshall have the journey, turn and turn about; still it's a good pullfrom here to Norton Bury, and the mare's my favourite. I would rathertake her myself. "

I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simplething; 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 lessfuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, Phineas, orshall I?"

Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what Icalled the Debateable Land. 

No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening tothe 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 embersof the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved; but the expression on hisface was one of pure and holy compassion. That at this moment no lessunselfish 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 heardagain 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, 'tisbest. Tell Mr. --the young gentleman--I forget his name--that I am verymuch obliged to him. "

"I will, Miss March--stay, he is just here. --Bless us! she has shut thedoor already. --Won't you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I'll stir up thefire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are always welcome in my kitchen, young gentlemen. " And Mrs. Tod bustled about, well aware what a cosyand cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings. 

But when John explained the reason of our intrusion there was no end toher pleasure and gratitude. He was the kindest young gentleman thatever lived. --She would tell Miss March so; as, indeed, she had donemany a time. 

"'Miss, ' said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I hadtold her how you came hunting for lodgings--(she often has a chat withme quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too proudto forget that she's a born lady)--'Miss, ' said I, 'who Mr. Halifax maybe 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. Ina few minutes more he had brought the mare round, and after a word ortwo with me was clattering down the road. 

I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blindto watch him. 

John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back withhim. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his cheeksall glowing with the ride. He only remarked, "that the autumn nightswere getting chill, " and sat down. The kitchen clock struck one. 

"You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? Ishall sit up just a little while, to hear how Mr. March is. "

"I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that onelearns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut uptogether in a lonely place like this, especially when they are introuble. "

"Ay, that's it, " said he, quickly. "It's the solitude, and their beingin trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away?"

"Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had gone to bedexcept his daughter and Mrs. Tod. "

"Hark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if one mightask--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 pooryoung thing!"

"Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Doctor Brown surelyknows. "

"I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not mybusiness: my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, asquickly 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 recrossedthe boundary-line, and entered the Tod country. 

All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burnt brightly, and a cricketsang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans overhead were stilled, but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps creptdown-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and Miss March. 

We ought to have left the kitchen: I think John muttered something tothat effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door; but--Idon't know how it was--we stayed. 

She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheekswere faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for manyhours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to thispaleness. 

"I think he is better, Mrs. Tod--decidedly better, " said she, speakingquickly. "You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. Ihope you told Mr. --Oh--"

She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her rosesreturned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend. 

John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; butno--he was thinking too little of himself for that. Hisdemeanour--earnest, gentle, kind--was the sublimation of all manlycourtesy. 

"I hope, madam"--young men used the deferential word in those daysalways--"I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling toretire until we had heard. "

"Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind, " said MissMarch, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes. 

"Indeed he is kind, " broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. "He rode allthe 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 isbetter? 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 whoreverenced all women, simply for their womanhood--seemed entirely toreassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of character, made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a younglady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged neutralground, perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another than themere surname. 

Nature, sincerity, and simplicity conquered all trammels of formalcustom. 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 Marchlook after him: then she turned to speak and smiled with me. A lightword, an easy smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often pitied outof the fulness of her womanly heart. 

Soon I followed John into the parlour. He asked me no questions, madeno remarks, only took his candle and went up-stairs. 

But, years afterwards, he confessed to me that the touch of thathand--it was a rather peculiar hand in the "feel" of it, as thechildren say, with a very soft palm, and fingers that had a habit ofperpetually fluttering, like a little bird's wing--the touch of thathand 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 wasbustling over our breakfast he asked her, in a grave and unconcernedmanner, "How Mr. March was this morning?" which was the only allusionhe made to the previous night's occurrences. 

I had a long, quiet day alone in the beech-wood, close below ourcottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to a thread with thesummer 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 thecottage, with--strange to say--her father. But I had heard that hisparoxysms were often of brief continuance, and that, like mostconfirmed valetudinarians, when real danger stared him in the face heput it from him, and was glad to be well. 

Seeing me coming, Miss March whispered to him; he turned upon me alistless gaze from over his fur collar, and bowed languidly, withoutrising from his easy chair. Yes, it was Mr. March--the very Mr. Marchwe had met! I knew him, changed though he was; but he did not know mein 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 persuademy father. This is Mr. Fletcher, sir, the gentleman who--"

"Was so obliging as to ride to S----, last night, for me? Allow me tothank him myself. "

I began to disclaim, and Miss March to explain; but we must both havebeen slightly incoherent, for I think the poor gentleman was neverquite clear as to who it was that went for Dr. Brown. However, thatmattered little, as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more bya natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of servicerendered. 

"I am a very great invalid, sir; my dear, will you explain to thegentleman?" And he leaned his head back wearily. 

"My father has never recovered his ten years' residence in the WestIndies. "

"'Residence?' Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was governor of--"

"Oh, yes!--The climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher. But sincehe 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 tohim seemed to have melted lazily down into a mere nebula, of which theforlorn nucleus was--himself. What a life for any young creature--evenhis own daughter, to be bound to continually!

I could not help remarking the strong contrast between them. He, withhis sallow, delicately-shaped features--the thin mouth and longstraight nose, of that form I have heard called the "melancholy nose, "which usually indicates a feeble, pensive, and hypochondriactemperament; while his daughter--But I have described her already. 

"Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, father, " she said; so gently, that Icould feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity; and took gratefully aseat she gave me, beside that of Mr. March. She seemed inclined totalk to me; and her manner was perfectly easy, friendly, and kind. 

We spoke of commonplace subjects, near at hand, and of the West Indianisland, which its late "governor" was apparently by no means inclinedto forget. I asked Miss March whether she had liked it?

"I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind, inWales--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 mountainspirit--a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply outlined; but that wouldsoften with time, and was better and wholesomer than any tame greenlevel of soft perfection. At least, one inclined to think so, lookingat her. 

I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it. 

In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he hungtrustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and asked if shecould lend me any books to read? I must find the days long and dullwithout my friend. 

I assented with thanks; and shortly afterwards she brought me an armfulof literature--enough to have caused any young damsel to have beendubbed a "blue, " in those matter-of-fact days. 

"I have no time to study much myself, " said she, in answer to myquestions; "but I like those who do. Now, good evening, for I mustrun. You and your friend can have any books of ours. You must notthink"--and she turned back to tell me this--"that because my fathersaid 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 anyone. "

"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 turningover Miss March's books, and reading either aloud or to himselffragments out of one--which I had expected he would have scouted, inasmuch as it was modern not classical poetry: in fact, a collectionof Lyrical Ballads, brought out that year by a young man named Mr. William Wordsworth, and some anonymous friend, conjointly. I had openedit, and found therein great nonsense; but John had better luck--he hitupon a short poem called "Love, " by the Anonymous Friend, which heread, and I listened to, almost as if it had been Shakspeare. It wasabout a girl named Genevieve--a little simple story--everybody knows itnow; but it was like a strange, low, mystic music, luring the veryheart out of one's bosom, to us young visionaries then. 

I wonder if Miss March knew the harm she did, and the mischief that hasbeen done among young people in all ages (since Caxton's days), by thelending books, especially books of poetry. 

The next day John was in a curious mood. Dreamy, lazy, mild; he satporing in-doors, instead of roaming abroad--in truth, was a changedlad. I told him so, and laid it all to the blame of the AnonymousFriend: who held him in such fascinated thrall that he only looked uponce all the morning, --which was when Mr. And Miss March went by. Inthe afternoon he submitted, lamb-like, to be led down to thebeech-wood--that the wonderful talking stream might hold forth to himas 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 andthe motionless grey rock beside which it ran. The one swept joyfullyon to its appointed course: the other--was what Heaven made it, abodewhere Heaven placed it, and likewise fulfilled its end. 

Coming back out of the little wood, I took John a new way I haddiscovered, through the prettiest undulating meadow, half-field, half-orchard, where trees loaded with ripening cider apples and greencrabs made a variety among the natural foresters. Under one of these, as we climbed the slope--for field, beech-wood, and common formed agradual ascent--we saw a vacant table laid. 

"A pretty piece of rusticity--domestic Arcadia on a small scale, " saidJohn; "I should like to invite myself to tea with them. Who can theybe?"

"Probably visitors. Resident country-folks like their meals best undera 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 haveno opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the house. "

Sure enough they were--Miss March helping her father across the unevenbit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely at thatgate 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 forthe father and daughter to go through. She looked up and acknowledgedhim, smiling. I thought that smile and his courteous, but far lessfrank, 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 youngman, 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 detectedsomething more than curiosity--something of the lingering pensivenesswith which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John--as if thelad 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 himso much that he forgot his usual complainings. "My daughter tells meyou are our neighbours--I am happy to have such friendly ones. Mydear, " in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, "I think your poorbrother Walter would have grown up extremely like Mr. --Mr. --"

"Mr. Halifax, papa. "

"Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there--mydaughter's suggestion--she is so fond of rurality. Will you give usthe pleasure of your company? You and"--here, I must confess, thesecond invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's--"yourfriend. "

Of course we assented: I considerably amused, and not ill-pleased, tosee 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 outof the Arabian Nights--we found ourselves established under theapple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing intored 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 indelicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew insuch clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they werestill growing, in her fair maiden bosom. 

She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our domainsfor her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather incoherentanswer from John about being "quite welcome. "

He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there. It struckme as strange, that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frankand 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 almostentirely confined his talk to her father. 

But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to everyword that was said. I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was onceunloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not that hewas one of your showy conversationalists; language was with him neithera science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle forthought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which hisideas were clothed. His conversation was never wearisome, since heonly spoke when he had something to say; and having said it, in themost concise and appropriate manner that suggested itself at the time, he was silent; and silence is a great and rare virtue at twenty yearsof age. 

We talked a good deal about Wales; John had been there more than oncein 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 usmany an innocent tale of her life there--of her childish days, and ofher dear old governess, whose name, I remember, was Cardigan. Sheseemed to have grown up solely under that lady's charge. It was notdifficult to guess--though I forget whether she distinctly told usso--that "poor mamma" had died so early as to become a mere name to herorphan daughter. She evidently owed everything she was to this goodgoverness. 

"My dear, " at last said Mr. March, rather testily, "you make rather toomuch of our excellent Jane Cardigan. She is going to be married, andshe will not care for you now. "

"Hush! papa, that is a secret at present. Pray, Mr. Halifax, do youknow Norton Bury?"

The abruptness of the question startled John, so that he only answeredin a hurried affirmative. Indeed, Mr. March left him no time forfurther explanation. 

"I hate the place. My late wife's cousins, the Brithwoods of theMythe, with whom I have had--ahem!--strong political differences--livethere. And I was once nearly drowned in the Severn, close by. "

"Papa, don't speak of that, please, " said Miss March, hurriedly; sohurriedly that I am sure she did not notice what would otherwise havebeen plain enough--John's sudden and violent colour. But the flushdied down again--he never spoke a word. And, of course, acting on hisevident desire, neither did I. 

"For my part, " continued the young lady, "I have no dislike to NortonBury. Indeed, I rather admired the place, if I remember right. "

"You have been there?" Though it was the simplest question, John'ssudden look at her, and the soft inflection of his voice, struck me aspeculiar. 

"Once, when I was about twelve years old. But we will talk ofsomething papa likes better. I am sure papa enjoys this lovelyevening. 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, thewoodbine 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 mywalks across the Flat, " said Miss March, smiling, and then blushing athaving 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; theconversation fell to the three younger persons--I may say the two--forI also seceded, and left John master of the field. It was enough forme to sit listening to him and Miss March, as they gradually becamemore friendly; a circumstance natural enough, under the influence ofthat simple, solitary place, where all the pretences of etiquetteseemed naturally to drop away, leaving nothing but the forms dictatedand preserved by true manliness and true womanliness. 

How young both looked, how happy in their frank, free youth, with thesun-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 reachyour eyes here. "

She declined, refusing to punish any one for her convenience. 

"It would not be punishment, " said John, so gravely that one did notrecognize it for a "pretty speech" till it had passed--and went on withtheir conversation. In the course of it he managed so carefully, andat the same time so carelessly, to interpose his broad hat between thesun and her, that the fiery old king went down in splendour before shenoticed that she had been thus guarded and sheltered. Though she didnot speak--why should she? of such a little thing, --yet it was one ofthose "little things" which often touch a woman more than any words. 

Miss March rose. "I should greatly like to hear your stream and itswonderful singing. " (John Halifax had been telling how it held forthto 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 wouldlike that, though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal bya single word. 

Miss March was more single-minded, or else had no reason for being thecontrary. She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness. "Papa, youwouldn'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 mycomprehension. 

The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in perfectsimplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesitation. Even asthe women I have known have treated me all my life--showing me thatsisterly trust and sisterly kindness which have compensated in ameasure for the solitary fate which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me;which, in any case, conscience would have forced me to lay uponmyself--that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister. 

Yet I watched her with pleasure--this young girl, as she tripped onbefore me, noticing everything, enjoying everything. She talked to mea good deal too about myself, in her kindly way, asking what I did allday?--and if I were not rather dull sometimes, in this solitary countrylodging?

"I am dull occasionally myself, or should be, if I had time to thinkabout 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 orsisters?"

"None. No relatives living. "

"Ah!" a compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a woodbine spray, andbegan twisting it with those never-quiet fingers of hers. "You and heseem 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 MissMarch, thoughtfully. "And I believe--at least I have often heard--thatgood men are rare. "

I had no time to enter into that momentous question, when the origin ofit 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 illcompliment to this lovely wood. "

And the eyes of the "nut-browne mayde" were a little mischievous. Johnlooked preternaturally grave, as he said, "I trust you do not object tomy coming?"

She smiled--so merrily, that his slight haughtiness evaporated likemist before the sunbeams. 

"I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bushes; for Iheard my own name. What terrible revelations has this friend of minebeen making to you, Miss March?"

He spoke gaily; but I fancied he looked uneasy. The young lady onlylaughed. 

"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 werean orphan, without relatives. Secondly, that you were his dearestfriend. Thirdly--well, I never compromise truth--that you were good. "

"And you?"

"The first I was ignorant of; the second I had already guessed; thethird--"

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 aswillingly fell behind. But I heard all they said, and joined in it nowand then. 

Thus, sometimes spoken to, and sometimes left silent, watching theirtwo figures, and idly noting their comparative heights--her head camejust above John's shoulder--I followed these young people through thequiet wood. 

Let me say a word about that wood--dear and familiar as it was. Itslike I have never since seen. It was small--so small that in itsdarkest depths you might catch the sunshine lighting up the branches ofits outside trees. A young wood, too--composed wholly of smooth-barkedbeeches and sturdy Scotch firs, growing up side by side--the Adam andEve in this forest Eden. No old folk were there--no gnarled andwithered foresters--every tree rose up, upright in its youth, andperfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking under-growth ofvegetation; nothing but mosses, woodbine, and ferns; and between theboles of the trees you could trace vista after vista, as between theslender pillars of a cathedral aisle. 

John pointed out all this to Miss March, especially noticing thepeculiar character of the two species of trees--the masculine andfeminine--fir and beech. She smiled at the fancy; and much gracefulbadinage went on between them. I had never before seen John in thecompany of women, and I marvelled to perceive the refinement of hislanguage, and the poetic ideas it clothed. I forgot the truth--ofwhose 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 camefrom the spring above; the old well-head where the cattle drank; how ittook its course merrily through the woods, till at the bottom of thevalley 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 palminto the water and drank: she did the same. Then, in her free-heartedgirlish fun, she formed a cup out of a broad leaf, which, by thegreatest ingenuity, she managed to make contain about two teaspoonfulsof 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 theArcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper and more subtledraught 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, sayto those two what it said to me. 

When we took leave of our acquaintances Mr. March was extremelycourteous, and declared our society would always be a pleasure tohimself and his daughter. 

"He always says so formally, 'my daughter, '" I observed, breaking thesilence in which they had left us. "I wonder what her Christian nameis. "

"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 prettyname. "

"A very pretty name. "

When John fell into this echo mood I always found it best to fall intotaciturnity. 

CHAPTER XIII

Next day, the rain poured down incessantly, sweeping blindingly acrossthe hills as I have rarely seen it sweep except at Enderley. Theweather had apparently broken up, even thus early in the autumn; andfor 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 overNunnely Hill, as if to show us what September sunsets might have been. 

John went every day to Norton Bury that week. His mind seemedrestless--he was doubly kind and attentive to me; but every night Iheard him go out in all the storm to walk upon the common. I longed tofollow him, but it was best not. 

On the Saturday morning, coming to breakfast, I heard him ask Mrs. Todhow 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 thanever, 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 neverdisguised the fact that Mr. Halifax was her favourite of all herlodgers, save and except Miss March. 

"Thank you for considering my health, " he replied, smiling. "Only tellme, Mrs. Tod, can anything be done--can we do anything for that poorgentleman?"

"Nothing, sir--thank'ee all the same. "

"If he should grow worse let me go for Doctor Brown. I shall be athome all day. "

"I'll tell Miss March of your kindness, sir, " said Mrs. Tod, as with atroubled 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 thetruth; I had another reason. "

"May I know it?"

"Of course you may. It is about our fellow-lodgers. Doctor Brown--Imet him on the road this morning--told me that her father cannot livemore 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 nearerthan 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. Everyminute he fell into abstractions. At length he said, suddenly:

"Phineas, I do think it is wicked, downright wicked, for a doctor to beafraid 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 tosay to her poor father. And God help her! for such a stroke she oughtto be a little prepared. It might kill her else!"

He rose up and walked about the room. The seal once taken from hisreserve, he expressed himself to me freely, as he had used todo--perhaps because at this time his feelings required no disguise. The dreams which might have peopled that beautiful sunset woodnecessarily faded in an atmosphere like this--filled with the solemngloom of impending death. 

At last he paused in his hurried walk, quieted, perhaps, by what hemight have read in my ever-following eyes. 

"I know you are as grieved as I am, Phineas. What can we do? Let usforget that they are strangers, and act as one Christian ought toanother. 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 sofor long; but he would not believe it, nor have his daughter told. Heclings 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! Godknows 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 dealabout the father and daughter. However, now was not the time toquestion him. For at this moment, through the opened doors, we heardfaint moans that pierced the whole house, and too surely came from thesick--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. Johnmade her sit down, and gave her a glass of wine. 

"I've been with them since four this morning, and it makes me weaklylike, " said she. "That poor Mr. March!--I didn't like him very muchalive, 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 fancieshim no worse than he has been, and has got over it. She WOULDN'T thinkelse. She be a good daughter to him--that she be!"

We all sat silent; and then John said, in a low voice--"Mrs. Tod, sheought 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 athome now--he that is so full o' wisdom learnt in 'the kirk'--"

"I think, " said John, hastily interrupting, "that a woman would be thebest. But if you object, and as Doctor Brown will not be here tillto-morrow--and as there is no one else to perform such a tryingduty--it seems--that is, I believe"--here his rather formal speechfailed. 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 bebest. "

"I'll manage it somehow. The house is very quiet: I've sent all thechildren away, except the baby. The baby'll comfort her, poor dear!afterwards. " And, again drying her honest eyes, Mrs. Tod ran out ofthe room. 

We could do nothing at all that morning. The impending sorrow mighthave been our own, instead of that of people who three weeks ago wereperfect strangers. We sat and talked--less, perhaps, of themindividually, than of the dark Angel, whom face to face I at least hadnever yet known--who even now stood at the door of our littlehabitation, making its various inmates feel as one family, in thepresence 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, andobliterating every thought, save of what was happening under our oneroof--that awful change which was taking place in the upper room, inthe other half of the house, whence the moans descended, and whenceMrs. 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 hisdaughter had at last been persuaded to come down-stairs, and wasstanding 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'tlet her see us both. Stay without the door. If there were anybody totell her this but me!"

"Do you hesitate?"

"No--No. "

And he went out. I did not follow him; but I heard afterwards, bothfrom himself and Mrs. Tod, what transpired. 

She was standing so absorbed that she did not notice his entrance. Shelooked years older and sadder than the young girl who had stood by thestream-side less than a week ago. When she turned and spoke to John itwas with a manner also changed. No hesitation, no shyness; trouble hadput 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, andthen how could I help my poor father? There now, there!"

She laid her hand, with its soft, fluttering motions, on the goodwoman's shoulder, and looked up at John. He said afterwards that thosedry, tearless eyes smote him to the heart. 

"Why does she sob so, Mr Halifax? Papa will be better tomorrow, I amsure. "

"I HOPE so, " he answered, dwelling on the word; "we should always hopeto 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 himclosely for a minute. 

"You mean--yes--I understand what you mean. But you are mistaken. Thedoctor would have told me--if--if--" she shivered, and left thesentence 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 beanswered 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 heseemed 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, andsat down. He did not speak for many minutes. 

After an interval--I know not how long--we heard Mrs. Tod callingloudly for "Mr. Halifax. " We both ran through the empty kitchen to thefoot 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 stealingquietly 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 acrossher knees. The poor creature was insensible, or nearly so. She--welearnt--had been composed under the terrible discovery made when shereturned to his room; and when all restorative means failed, the factof death became certain, she had herself closed her father's eyes, andkissed him, then tried to walk from the room--but at the third step shedropped 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 thinkshe 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 gaveher to him--but there she was. He carried her across the kitchen intoour own little parlour, and laid her down on my sofa. 

"Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, keep everybody out. She is wakingnow. "

She did, indeed, open her eyes, with a long sigh, but closed themagain. Then with an effort she sat upright, and looked at us allaround. 

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, and sobbing overher 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 whichwas written stunned, motionless, impassive grief. For John--twominutes of such a gaze as his might in a man's heart do the work ofyears. 

"She must be roused, " he said at last. "She MUST cry. Mrs. Tod, takeher up-stairs. Let her look at her father. "

The word effected what he desired; what almost her life demanded. Sheclung 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 thehouse, 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 whichhe and I had already settled between ourselves, namely, that we shouldleave our portion of the cottage entirely at Miss March's disposal, while we inhabited hers--save that locked and silent chamber whereinthere was no complaining, no suffering now. 

Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was successful; wereceived a message to the effect that Miss March would not refuse our"kindness. " So we vacated; and all that long Sunday we sat in theparlour lately our neighbour's, heard the rain come down, and thechurch bells ring; the wind blowing autumn gales, and shaking all thewindows, even that of the room overhead. It sounded awful THERE. Wewere very glad the poor young orphan was away. 

On the Monday morning we heard going up-stairs the heavy footsteps thatevery 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--couldbe allowed to look at what had been "poor Mr. March, " any more. Allwith him was ended. 

"The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do then, poorthing!"

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 talkingabout the poor young creature, and wondering if she had any relative orfriend to come to her in this sad time. 

"She said--do you remember, when she was crying--that she had not afriend in the wide world?"

And this fact, which he expressed with a sort of triumph, seemed toafford the greatest possible comfort to John. 

But all our speculations were set at rest by a request brought thismoment by Mrs. Tod--that Mr. Halifax would go with her to speak to MissMarch. 

"I! only I?" said John, starting. 

"Only you, sir. She wants somebody to speak to about the funeral--andI said, 'There be Mr. Halifax, Miss March, the kindest gentleman'; andshe 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 conjointlyarranged the hasty funeral--how brave and composed she had been--thatpoor child, all alone!

"Has she indeed no one to help her?"

"No one. She might send for Mr. Brithwood, but he was not friendlywith 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 youdo 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 offorty. 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 wishesto 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 manya time. Ah, Phineas, we did not think how soon we should be laying ourdead there. "

"Not OUR dead, thank God!"

But the next minute I understood. "OUR dead"--the involuntaryadmission 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 andfirm-set lips contradicting the youthfulness of his looks. Few as werehis years, he had learnt much in them. He was at heart a man, readyand able to design and carry out a man's work in the world. And in hiswhole aspect was such grave purity, such honest truth, that no wonder, young as they both were, and little as she knew of him, this poororphan should not have feared to trust him entirely. And there isnothing that binds heart to heart, of lovers or friends, so quickly andso 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 vainlytried to disguise his extreme satisfaction--"that she will be left withlittle or nothing. "

"Poor Miss March!"

"Why call her poor? She is not a woman to be pitied, but to behonoured. You would have thought so, had you seen her this morning. Sogentle--so wise--so brave. Phineas, "--and I could see his lipstremble--"that was the kind of woman Solomon meant, when he said, 'Herprice was above rubies. '"

"I think so too. I doubt not that when she marries Ursula March willbe 'a crown to her husband. '"

My words, or the half sigh that accompanied them--I could not helpit--seemed to startle John, but he made no remark. Nor did we recur tothe subject again that day. 

Two days after, our little company followed the coffin out of thewoodbine porch--where we had last said good-bye to poor Mr. March--across the few yards of common, to the churchyard, scarcelylarger than a cottage garden, where, at long intervals, the fewEnderley 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 thistime, and henceforth, seemed even, as John had expressed it, "ourdead, " our own. 

We followed the orphan home. She had walked firmly, and stood by thegrave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her face. But when we cameback to Rose Cottage door, and she gave a quick, startled glance up atthe familiar window, we saw Mrs. Tod take her, unresisting, into hermotherly 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 hadbeen--where, through the no longer darkened casement, the unwonted sunpoured in. We tried to settle to our ordinary ways, and feel as ifthis were like all other days--our old sunshiny days at Enderley. Butit would not do. Some imperceptible but great change had taken place. It seemed a year since that Saturday afternoon, when we were drinkingtea so merrily under the apple-tree in the field. 

We heard no more from Miss March that day. The next, we received amessage of thanks for our "kindness. " She had given way at last, Mrs. Tod said, and kept her chamber, not seriously ill, but in spiritthoroughly broken down. For three days more, when I went to meet Johnreturning from Norton Bury, I could see that his first glance, as herode up between the chestnut trees, was to the window of the room thathad been mine. I always told him, without his asking, whatever Mrs. Tod had told me about her state; he used to listen, generally insilence, and then speak of something else. He hardly ever mentionedMiss March's name. 

On the fourth morning, I happened to ask him if he had told my fatherwhat 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 havea little talk with your father. "

He stood irresolutely by the fire. I knew by his countenance thatthere 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 betold? '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 hisriding-whip after the old habit, and called upon me to admire hisfavourite brown mare. 

"I do; and her master likewise. John, when you're on horseback youlook like a young knight of the Middle Ages. Maybe, some of the oldNorman blood was in 'Guy Halifax, gentleman. '"

It was a dangerous allusion. He changed colour so rapidly andviolently that I thought I had angered him. 

"No--that would not matter--cannot--cannot--never shall. I am what Godmade me, and what, with His blessing, I will make myself. "

He said no more, and very soon afterwards he rode away. But notbefore, as every day, I had noticed that wistful wandering glance up atthe darkened window of the room, where sad and alone, save for kindlyMrs. Tod, the young orphan lay. 

In the evening, just before bed-time, he said to me with a rather sadsmile, "Phineas, you wanted to know what it was that I wished to speakabout to your father?"

"Ay, do tell me. "

"It is hardly worth telling. Only to ask him how he set up in businessfor 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--"whenevery trade requires capital, and the only trade I thoroughlyunderstand, a very large one. No, no, Phineas; you'll not see mesetting up a rival tan-yard next year. My capital is NIL. "

"Except youth, health, courage, honour, honesty, and a few other suchtrifles. "

"None of which I can coin into money, however. And your father hasexpressly told me that without money a tanner can do nothing. "

"Unless, as was his own case, he was taken into some partnership wherehis services were so valuable as to be received instead of capital. True, my father earned little at first, scarcely more than you earnnow; but he managed to live respectably, and, in course of time, tomarry. "

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. ' Ihave been vexing myself a good deal about my future, but now I willtake heart. Perhaps, some day, neither you nor any one else will beashamed 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--therethe goad sticks. Here I forget everything unpleasant; I am my own freenatural self; but the minute I get back to Norton Bury--however, it isa wrong, a wicked feeling, and must be kept down. Let us talk ofsomething else. "

"Of Miss March? She has been greatly better all day. "

"She? No, not her to-night!" he said, hurriedly. "Pah! I could almostfancy 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 ablack-veiled figure pass our window. Poor girl!--going to churchalone. We followed--taking care that she should not see us, eitherduring service or afterwards. We did not see anything more of her thatday. 

On Monday a message came, saying that Miss March would be glad to speakwith 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 dignityof 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 rustleof her black dress, not one of us thought--surely the most evil-mindedgossip could not have dared to think--that there was anything strangein her receiving us here. We began to talk of common things--not THEthing. She seemed to have fought through the worst of her trouble, andto have put it back into those deep quiet chambers where all griefs go;never forgotten, never removed, but sealed up in silence, as it shouldbe. Perhaps, too--for let us not exact more from Nature than Naturegrants--the wide, wide difference in character, temperament, andsympathies between Miss March and her father unconsciously made hisloss less a heart-loss, total and irremediable, than one of mere habitand instinctive feeling, which, the first shock over, would insensiblyheal. Besides, she was young--young in life, in hope, in body, andsoul; and youth, though it grieves passionately, cannot for ever grieve. 

I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some degree herselfagain; at least, so much of her old self as was right, natural, andgood for her to be. 

She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him was easy andnatural, as to a friend who deserved and possessed her warm gratitude:his was more constrained. Gradually, however, this wore away; therewas something in her which, piercing all disguises, went at once to theheart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the touchstone oftruth. 

He asked--no, I believe _I_ asked her, how long she intended staying atEnderley?

"I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin Richard Brithwoodwas left my guardian. This my fa--this was to have been altered, Ibelieve. I wish it had been. You know Norton Bury, Mr. Halifax?"

"I live there. "

"Indeed!"--with some surprise. "Then you are probably acquainted withmy 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 ratherimportant that I should learn--what sort of person is Lady Caroline?"

This frank question, put directly, and guarded by the battery of thoseinnocent, girlish eyes, was a very hard question to be answered; forNorton Bury had said many ill-natured things of our young 'squire'swife, whom he married at Naples, from the house of the well-known LadyHamilton. 

"She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Ravenel, the Earl of Luxmore'sdaughter. "

"Yes, yes; but that does not signify. I know nothing of LordLuxmore--I want to know what she is herself. "

John hesitated, then answered, as he could with truth, "She is said tobe very charitable to the poor, pleasant and kind-hearted. But, if Imay venture to hint as much, not exactly the friend whom I think MissMarch would choose, or to whom she would like to be indebted foranything but courtesy. "

"That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to any one. Only, ifshe were a good woman, Lady Caroline would have been a great comfortand 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. Allowme to--to express my pleasure--"

"It does not add to mine, " said she, half-sighing. "Jane Cardiganalways told me riches brought many cares. Poor Jane! I wish I could goback 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 understoodmoney 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 proudtenderness, rested upon her as she spoke. Soon after, he rose up totake leave. 

"Do not go yet; I want to ask about Norton Bury. I had no idea youlived 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 afternight, 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 nearlyforgotten it, though it was very bad at the time; only that I cut mywrist rather dangerously with a bread knife, in a struggle with mynurse. "

"When was that?" eagerly inquired John. 

For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas! the tide of fatewas running strong against my poor David. What could I do but standaside and watch?

"When was it? Let me see--five, six years ago. But, indeed, 'tisnothing. "

"Not exactly 'nothing. ' Do tell me!"

And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as onewould count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yetTime's remorseless hand still keeps on, pouring, pouring. 

"Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses--I was verynaughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread that Iwanted 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 thismark. "

"Let me look at it--may I?"

Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering, just abovethe wrist, a deep, discoloured seam. He gazed at it, his features allquivering, then, without a word either of adieu or apology, he quittedthe room. 

CHAPTER XV

I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door whereJohn had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certainembarrassment. 

"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, atthe same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises orprevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and veryfrequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman towhom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly:

"I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefertelling you himself. "

"As he pleases, " returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering herfrank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in herusual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods andabout 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 wentto our own parlour. 

He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who met him onthe common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return tilldinner-time. Dinner-time came, but I had to dine alone. It was thefirst time I ever knew him break even such a trivial promise. My heartmisgave me--I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search ofhim, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlour. Better, when hedid come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth and--me. 

Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years betterthan anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? Fatehad taken the sceptre out of my hands--I was utterly powerless; I couldneither give him comfort nor save him pain any more. 

What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has feltlikewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over a brother, many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Letthose who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot; let those whowin hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt thenew 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 sodid all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady Caroline's own maid--so Iheard afterwards--sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline's own black-eyedNeapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concludedwas for Miss March. 

I was glad that John was not at home; glad that the coach, with all itsfine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before John camein. 

He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, lookingat my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long fingersstretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. Atfirst I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts Iremained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seenshining 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 sotired. "

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 thepiping 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 waswritten 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. Itwas enough to make one weep. 

After tea I insisted on his taking my arm-chair; saying, that aftersuch 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 andsoul 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! Iwas not enough to make him happy now. 

We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time; but the gates ofhis 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 somethingor other to say, especially since the late events had drawn the wholehousehold of Rose Cottage so closely together; now, she was brim-fullof 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. Whowould have thought Mr. March had such grand relations? Had we seenLady Caroline Brithwood's coach that came that day? Such a beautifulcoach 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 leavingto-morrow. "

When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, to fasten theheavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the bolt, motionless, tillthe good woman was gone. Then he staggered to the mantelpiece, andleaned 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'sfirst 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 himwrithing under it--saw, and could not help him. The next few silentminutes 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 favouritewalk, his "terrace, " as he called it, where he had first seen, and musthave seen many a day after, that girlish figure tripping lightly alongthrough the morning sunshine and morning dew. I had a sort of instinctthat he would be there now; so I climbed up the shortest way, oftenlosing my footing; for it was a pitch-dark night, and the common lookedas wide, and black, and still, as a midnight sea. 

John was not there; indeed, if he had been I could scarcely have seenhim; I could see nothing but the void expanse of the Flat, or, lookingdown, the broad river of mist that rolled through the valley, on theother side of which twinkled a few cottage lights, like unearthlybeacons from the farthest shore of an impassable flood. 

Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Tod say that, on account of its pitsand quarries, the common was extremely dangerous after dark, except tothose who knew it well. In a horrible dread I called out John'sname--but nothing answered. I went on blindly, desperately shouting asI 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 meup. 

"Oh! David--David!"

"Phineas--is that you? You have come out this bitter night--why didyou?"

His tenderness over me, even then, made me break down. I forgot mymanhood, or else it slipped from me unawares. In the old Biblelanguage, "I fell on his neck and wept. "

Afterwards I was not sorry for this, because I think my weakness gavehim strength. I think, amidst the whirl of passion that racked him itwas good for him to feel that the one crowning cup of life is notinevitably life's sole sustenance; that it was something to have afriend and brother who loved him with a love--like Jonathan's--"passingthe love of women. "

"I have been very wrong, " he kept repeating, in a broken voice; "but Iwas 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 thehouse. He even sat down by the fire to talk with me. Whateverstruggle there had been, I saw it was over, he looked his ownself--only so very, very pale--and spoke in his natural voice; ay, evenwhen 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 allthe truth--I felt I had strength to remove all impediments, I now seethat even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse--aknave. 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 abruptlythis 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 myposition. I shall tell her the whole truth--save one thing. She neednever know that. "

I guessed by his broken voice what the "one thing" was;--which hecounted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would havecounted worth everything--the priceless gift of a good man's love. Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last alifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry--ay, even sorryfor 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 beabsolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John Halifax. Butas things now stood I deemed it best to leave him altogether tohimself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through HIS will, would happen: for me to interfere either way wouldbe 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 poorfriendless boy. I never forgot it--never. It did me more good than Ican tell. And that scar on her poor arm--her dear little tenderarm;--how this morning I would have given all the world to--"

He broke off--instinctively, as it were--with the sort of feeling everygood man has, that the sacred passion, the inmost tenderness of hislove, 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, anecessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship--closer than theclosest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps--I hardly know why--I sighed. 

John turned round--"Phineas, you must not think--because of this--whichyou will understand for yourself, I hope, one day; you must not think Icould ever think less, or feel less, about my brother. "

He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands warmly andsilently. Thus was healed my last lingering pain--I was thenceforwardentirely satisfied. 

I think we parted that night as we had never parted before; feelingthat the trial of our friendship--the great trial, perhaps, of anyfriendship--had come and passed, safely: that whatever new ties mightgather round each, our two hearts would cleave together until death. 

The next morning rose, as I have seen many a morning rise atEnderley--misty and grey; but oh, so heavenly fair! with a pearlynetwork of dewy gossamer under foot, and overhead countless thistledowns flying about, like fairy chariots hurrying out of sight of thesun, which had only mounted high enough above the Flat to touch thehorizon of hills opposite, and the tops of my four poplars, leavingRose Cottage and the valley below it all in morning shadow. Johncalled me to go with him on the common; his voice sounded so cheerfuloutside 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 thelight figure coming tripping along the level hill. All that dream wasnow over. He did not speak of it--nor I. He seemed contented--or, atleast, thoroughly calmed down; except that the sweet composure of hismien had settled into the harder gravity of manhood. The crisis andclimax 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 redearth--the as yet nameless grave. Some one stood beside it--the onlyone who was likely to be there. 

Even had I not recognized her, John's manner would have told me who itwas. A deadly paleness overspread his face--its quietness wasgone--every feature trembled. It almost broke my heart to see howdeeply 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 ithad sprung up so early, and come to maturity so fast, might yet be thecurse of his whole existence. Save that no love conceived virtuously, for a good woman, be it ever so hopeless, can be rightly considered asa curse. 

"Shall we go away?" I whispered--"a long walk--to the other side of theFlat? 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 ortwo, then turned. 

"I can't, Phineas, I can't! I MUST look at her again--only for oneminute--one little minute. "

But he stayed--we were standing where she could not see us--till shehad 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 hedid not seem to hear me; so I let him follow his own way--perhaps itmight be for good--who could tell?

He descended from the Flat, and came quickly round the corner of thecottage. Miss March stood there, trying to find one fresh rose amongthe fast-withering clusters about what had been our parlour window andnow was hers. 

She saw us, acknowledged us, but hurriedly, and not without somemomentary 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 likehis manner always with her. 

"Thank you--that will do. I wanted to take some away with me--I amleaving Rose Cottage to-day, Mr. Halifax. "

"So I have heard. "

He did not say "sorry to hear. " I wondered did the omission strikeher? But no--she evidently regarded us both as mere acquaintances, inevitably, perhaps even tenderly, bound up with this time; and assuch, claiming a more than ordinary place in her regard andremembrance. No man with common sense or common feeling could for amoment dare to misinterpret the emotion she showed. 

Re-entering the house, she asked us if we would come in with her; shehad a few things to say to us. And then she again referred gratefullyto 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 andendured the crosses of the world, instead of two young men and a youngwoman, in the very dawn of life. 

"Circumstances have fixed my plans since I saw you yesterday. I amgoing to reside for a time with my cousins, the Brithwoods. It seemsbest 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, andmaking up her mind to endure it. A little more fragmentaryconversation passed, chiefly between herself and me--John utteredscarcely a word. He sat by the window, half shading his face with hishand. Under that covert, the gaze which incessantly followed and dwelton her face--oh, had she seen it!

The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had intended, concerninghis position in the world? Had she guessed or learned anything, orwere we to her simply Mr. Halifax and Mr. Fletcher--two "gentlemen" ofNorton Bury? It appeared so. 

"This is not a very long good-bye, I trust?" said she to me, withsomething more than courtesy. "I shall remain at the Mythe House someweeks, 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 mycousin to express in his own house his thanks and mine for your greatkindness during my trouble?"

Neither of us answered. Miss March looked surprised--hurt--nay, displeased; then her eye, resting on John, lost its haughtiness, andbecame humble and sweet. 

"Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do know you. Will youtell 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? Whatcan that signify? It is enough for me that my friends are gentlemen. "

"Mr. Brithwood, and many others, would not allow my claim to thattitle. "

Astonished--nay, somewhat more than astonished--the young gentlewomandrew back a little. "I do not quite understand you. "

"Let me explain, then;" and her involuntary gesture seeming to havebrought back all honest dignity and manly pride, he faced her, oncemore himself. "It is right, Miss March, that you should know who andwhat I am, to whom you are giving the honour of your kindness. Perhapsyou ought to have known before; but here at Enderley we seemed to beequals--friends. "

"I have indeed felt it so. "

"Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you--what you neverasked, and I was only too ready to forget--that we are not equals--thatis, society would not regard us as such--and I doubt if even youyourself 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 asshe had been. She sat--the eye-lashes dropping over her flushedcheeks--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 andpain. 

"Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He isrich--he has been well educated; I have had to educate myself. I cameto Norton Bury six years ago--a beggar-boy. No, not quite that--for Inever begged! I either worked or starved. "

The earnestness, the passion of his tone, made Miss March lift hereyes, 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, MissMarch--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 todo wrong, she kept me right--the remembrance of her sweet face and herkindness. "

That face was pressed down against the sofa where she sat. I thinkMiss March was all but weeping. 

John continued. 

"I am glad to have met her again--glad to have been able to do her somesmall good in return for the infinite good she once did me. I shallbid 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 itwould neither be for Miss March's honour nor mine did I try to forceupon it the truth--which I may prove openly one day--that we AREequals. "

Miss March looked up at him--it were hard to say with what expression, of pleasure, or pride, or simple astonishment; perhaps a mingling ofall--then her eyelids fell. She silently offered her hand, first to meand then to John. Whether she meant it as friendliness, or as a mereceremony 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--akiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be. Surely shemust 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 adream when one awaketh. " Of her who had been the beautiful centre ofthe dream we had never heard nor spoken since. 

John and I were walking together along the road towards the Mythe; wecould just see the frosty sunset reflected on the windows of the MytheHouse, now closed for months, the family being away. The meadowsalongside, where the Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a popularskating-ground: and the road was alive with lookers-on of every class. All Norton Bury seemed abroad; and half Norton Bury exchangedsalutations with my companion, till I was amused to notice how largeJohn's acquaintance had grown. 

Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, as prim andneat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a happy matron. I saw atonce 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 curiosityof Norton Bury. 

"She seems to like you very much, " I said; as, after a cordialgreeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on. 

"They were both very kind to me in London, last month, as I think Itold you. "

"Ay!" It was one of the few things he had mentioned about that sameLondon journey, for he had grown into a painful habit of silence now. Yet I dreaded to break it, lest any wounds rankling beneath mightthereby be caused to smart once more. And our love to one another wastoo faithful for a little reserve to have power to influence it in anyway. 

We came once more upon the old lady, watching the skaters. She againspoke 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 tohear her call our old bachelor doctor, "Tom!") "were wondering what hadbecome 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 ourdoor-sill since we returned home! Does not your conscience sting youfor your ingratitude?"

He coloured deeply. 

"Indeed, Mrs. Jessop, it was not ingratitude. "

"I know it; I believe it, " she answered, with much kindness. "Tell mewhat it was?"

He hesitated. 

"You ought to believe the warm interest we both take in you. Tell methe plain truth. "

"I will. It is that your kindness to me in London was no reason for myintruding on you at Norton Bury. It might not be agreeable for you andDr. Jessop to have my acquaintance here. I am a tradesman. "

The little old lady's eyes brightened into something beyond merekindness as she looked at him. 

"Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that 'plain truth. ' Truth is alwaysbest. Now for mine. I had heard you were a tradesman; I found out formyself that you were a gentleman. I do not think the two factsincompatible, nor does my husband. We shall be happy to see you at ourhouse at all times and under all circumstances. "

She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in silence, but it waslong 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 littleold lady walked on together. 

I could not help watching Mrs. Jessop with some amusement. Norton Burysaid she had been a poor governess all her days; but that hard life hadleft no shadow on the cheerful sunset of her existence now. It was afrank, bright, happy face, in spite of its wrinkles, and its somewhathard Welsh features. And it was pleasant to hear her talk, even thoughshe talked a good deal, and in a decidedly Welsh accent. Sometimes atone or two reminded me slightly of--Ay, it was easy to guess why Johnevidently liked the old lady. 

"I know this road well, Mr. Halifax. Once I spent a summer here, withan old pupil, now grown up. I am going to-day to inquire about her atthe Mythe House. The Brithwoods came home yesterday. "

I was afraid to look at John. Even to me the news was startling. How Iblessed Mrs. Jessop's innocent garrulousness. 

"I hope they will remain here some time. I have a special interest intheir stay. Not on Lady Caroline's account, though. She patronizes mevery kindly; but I doubt if she ever forgets--what Tom says I am rathertoo 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'tpossibly be--Yes! it certainly was--How strange! Did you ever heartell 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 exceedinglygrave. 

I replied, "that we had had the honour of meeting Miss March lastsummer at Enderley. "

"Yes, " the old lady continued, somewhat formally. "Now I recollect, Miss March told me of the circumstance; of two gentlemen there, whowere very kind to her when her father died; a Mr. Fletcher and hisfriend--was that Mr. Halifax?"

"It was, " I answered: for John was speechless. Alas! I saw at oncethat all my hopes for him, all the design of my long silence on thissubject, had been in vain. No, he had not forgotten her. It was notin 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 mywarmest thanks. Hers was a most trying position. She never told me ofit till afterwards, poor child! I am thankful her trouble was softenedto her by finding that STRANGERS" (was it only my fancy that detected aslight stress on the word?) "mere strangers could be at once sothoughtful and so kind. "

"No one could be otherwise to Miss March. Is she well? Has sherecovered from her trial?"

"I hope so. Happily, few sorrows, few feelings of any kind, takelasting hold at eighteen. She is a noble girl. She did her duty, andit was no light one, to him who is gone; now her life begins anew. Itis sure to be prosperous--I trust it may be very happy. --Now I must bidyou both good-bye. "

She stopped at the gates of the Mythe House; great iron gates, abarrier as proud and impassable as that which in these times the richshut 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, asyou 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 wayup to the Mythe to our favourite stile. There we leaned--still insilence, 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 Inot borne! Five whole months to be dying of thirst, and not a drop ofwater to cool my tongue. "

He bared his head and throat to the cutting wind--his chest heaved, hiseyes seemed in a flame. 

"God forgive me!--but I sometimes think I would give myself body andsoul to the devil for one glimpse of her face, one touch of her littlehand. "

I made no answer. What answer could be made to such words as these? Iwaited--all I could do--till the paroxysm had gone by. Then Ihinted--as indeed seemed not unlikely--that he might see her soon. 

"Yes, a great way off, like that cloud up there. But I want hernear--close--in my home--at my heart;--Phineas, " he gasped, "talk tome--about something else--anything. Don't let me think, or I shall goclean mad. "

And indeed he looked so. I was terrified. So quiet as I had alwaysseen him when we met, so steadily as he had pursued his daily duties;and with all this underneath--this torment, conflict, despair, of ayoung 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"--andhe laughed hoarsely--"I was safest in the tan-yard. The thought of hercould not come there. I was glad of it. I tried to be solely andaltogether 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 agentleman again--just for a pretence, you know--a dream--a bit of theold 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--Iliked my life with them. It was like breathing a higher air, the sameair that--Oh, Phineas, it was horrible to come back to my life here--tothat accursed tan-yard!"

I said nothing. 

"You see, now"--and that hard laugh smote me to the heart again--"yousee, Phineas, how wicked I am growing. You will have to cut myacquaintance 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 CourtCircular. Fancy a lady, whose name was in the Court Circular, beinginquired after by a tanner's lad! But I wanted to look at her--anybeggar might do that, you know--so I watched in streets and parks, bytheatre-doors at night, and by church-doors on Sunday mornings; yet Inever 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'tlook so wretched! Why did you let me say all this? You are too goodfor such as I. "

Of course I took no heed of idle words like these. I let him standthere, leaning against the stile, now and then grasping it with hisnervous, muscular hands, as if he would tear it down; then I saidquietly:

"What do you intend to do?"

"Do? Nothing! What can I do? Though sometimes a score of wild plansrush into my mind, such as to run away to the Indies, like that youngWarren Hastings we were talking of, come back twenty years hence anabob, and--marry her. "

"Marry her, " I repeated, mournfully. 

"Ay, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she and I were to meetand stand together, equal man and woman, I could make her love me; Ifeel I could. Instead of crawling after her thus I would go boldly inat those very gates--do you think she is there?"

He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of her being sonear. 

"Oh, it's hard, hard! I could despise myself. Why cannot I trust mymanhood, my honest manhood that I was born with, go straight to her andtell her that I love her; that God meant her for me and me forher--true husband and true wife? Phineas, mark my words"--and, wild ashis manner was, it had a certain force which sounded almost likeprophecy--"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 goon apart and alone till the next world. Perhaps she will come to methen: 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 maddeststorm of passion: it hushed his. He stood, still looking up, for manyminutes, then his eyes closed, the lashes all wet. 

"We'll never speak of this again, Phineas; I'll not grieve thee anymore; I'll try and be a better brother to thee for the future. Comealong!"

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 leaningmore and more upon John, who never ceased to respect, and make everyone else respect, his master. Though still ostensibly a 'prentice, hehad now the business almost entirely in his hands. It was pleasant tosee how my father brightened up at his coming--how readily, when heturned homeward, he leaned upon John's strong arm, now the support ofboth him and me. Thus we walked through Norton Bury streets, whereeverybody knew us, and indeed, as it seemed to me this morning, nearlyeverybody greeted us--at least, one of us; but my father walked alongsoberly and sternly, frowning at almost every salutation John Halifaxreceived. 

"Thee art making far too many friends, John. I warn thee!"

"Not FRIENDS--only friendly acquaintance, " was the gentle answer: hewas well used to turn away, daily and hourly, Abel Fletcher's wrath. But it was roused beyond control when Dr. Jessop's neat littlecarriage, and neatest of little wives, stopped at the curb-stone andsummoned John. 

"I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us to-morrow instead of thisevening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to see you. "

"Me?"

"Yes, you, " smiled the old lady; "you, John Halifax, the hero of thepeople, who quelled the bread riots, and gave evidence thereupon to Mr. Pitt, in London. Nay! why didn't you tell me the wonderful story? HerLadyship is full of it. She will torment me till she sees you--I knowher 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 outafresh every time John appeared in any livelier garb than his favouritegrey, or was suspected of any more worldly associates than our quietselves. He always took my father's attacks patiently--this timepeculiarly so. He made no answer, but passed his hand once or twiceover 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 hisarm from John's, and eyed him from top to toe. 

"Thee?--a woman of quality wanting to see THEE? Young man, thee art ahypocrite. "

"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'sanger grew. 

"And thee wants to hang on to the tail of other 'gentlemen, ' such asRichard 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 ashis wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an Ahab father!--brought up in theimpious atrocities of France, and the debaucheries of Naples, where, though she keeps it close here, she abode with that vile woman whomthey call Lady Hamilton. "

John started. Well he might, for even to our quiet town had come, allthis winter, foul newspaper tales about Nelson and Lady Hamilton. 

"Take care, " he said, in much agitation. "Any taint upon a woman'sfame 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 LadyCaroline 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 asthee. "

John turned, cruelly galled, but recovered himself. 

"You are unjust to me, Abel Fletcher; and you yourself will think sosoon. May I come in?"

My father made no answer, and I brought John in as usual. In truth, wehad 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 wouldlead to, what I saw John's fancy had at once sprang toward, andrevelled in, madly. A lover's fancy--a lover's hope. Even I could seewhat will-o'-the-wisps they were. 

But the doctor's good wife, Ursula March's wise governess, would neverlure a young man with such phantoms as these. I feltsure--certain--that if we met the Brithwoods we should meet no oneelse. Certain, even when, as we sat at our dish of tea, there came intwo little dainty notes--the first invitations to worldly festivitythat had ever tempted our Quaker household, and which Jael flung out ofher fingers as if they had been coals from Gehenna. Notes, bidding usto a "little supper" at Dr. Jessop's, with Mr. And Lady CarolineBrithwood, of the Mythe House. 

"Give them to your father, Phineas. " And John vainly tried to hide theflash of his eye--the smiles that came and went like summerlightning--"To-morrow--you see, it is to-morrow. "

Poor lad! he had forgotten every worldly thing in the hope of thatto-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 andyour kindness. Do not let us be at warfare now. "

"All thy own fault, lad. Why cannot thee keep in thy own rank? Respectthyself. 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 otherelevate, me. I should not 'respect myself' if I believed otherwise. "

"Eh?"--my father absolutely dropped his pipe in amazement. "Then, theethinkest 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 somethingin John's bold spirit, and free bright eye, seemed to-day to strike himmore 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 inbrave wreaths to the very ceiling two minutes before--and sat musing. 

"But about to-morrow?" persisted John, after watching him some littletime. "I could go--I could have gone, without either your knowledge orpermission; but I had rather deal openly with you. You know I alwaysdo. 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 whichlurked an evident anxiety and pain, might have mollified a harder manthan Abel Fletcher. 

"John, why dost thee want to go among those grand folk?"

"Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons--strongreasons. "

"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 anyelse, 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 CarolineBrithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who isyoung--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 lookwas, 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 hehad forgotten himself and his own secret--thus, for what end I knewnot, voluntarily betrayed--so absorbed was he in contemplating the oldman. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a convulsion passover my father's face. It was like as if some one had touched andrevived 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, oronly--"

"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 awayby him a second time! But thee shall not. I'll put thee under lockand key before thee shalt ruin thyself and disgrace thy father. "

This was hard to bear; but I believe--it was John's teaching--that oneought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy parent. And it was John himself who now grasped my hand, and whisperedpatience. John--who knew, what I myself, as I have said, did not learnfor 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 myconfessing 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 lockedtogether, motionless as stone. 

My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of former dayscame and knocked at the old man's heart. We all three sat silent for along 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--ruinthy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry her?"

"I would--if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honourable means Ican rise to her level, so as to be able to win her love, marry her Iwill. "

That brave "I will"--it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Itsindomitable resolution struck my father with wonder--nay, with a sortof awe. 

"Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee, " he said, kindly. "Maystthee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad--I will keep thycounsel. "

"I knew you would. "

The subject ceased: my father's manner indicated that he wished it tocease. He re-lit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly. 

Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a greenmound beside that other mound, in the Friends' burying-ground in St. Mary's Lane, I learnt--what all Norton Bury, except myself, had longknown--that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whosemarried 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 withdelicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-coloured gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow waistcoats, andsmiles--this was all I noticed of the scene, which was quite a novelscene to me. 

The doctor's wife had introduced us formally to all her guests, as thecustom then was, especially in these small cosy supper-parties. Howthey greeted us I do not now remember; no doubt, with a kind ofwell-bred formal surprise; but society was generally formal then. Mychief 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 willbe 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 modestself-possession which best becomes youth. Society's dangerous watersaccordingly became smooth to him, as to a good swimmer who knows hisown strength, trusts it, and struggles not. 

"Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late, " I overheard the hostesssay. "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 breathingbehind me, but I dared not look at or speak to him. In truth, I wasscarcely calmer than he. For though it must be clearly understood Inever was "in love" with any woman, still the reflected glamour ofthose Enderley days had fallen on me. It often seems now as if I toohad passed the golden gate, and looked far enough into youth's Eden tobe 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 youngman, pinched in by tight light-coloured garments. She was a ladyrather past her first youth, but very handsome still, who floatedabout, leaving a general impression of pseudo-Greek draperies, gleamingarms and shoulders, sparkling jewellery, and equally sparkling smiles. These smiles seemed to fall just as redundantly upon the familyphysician, whom by a rare favour--for so, I suppose, it must havebeen--she was honouring with a visit, as if worthy Dr. Jessop were thenoblest in the land. He, poor man, was all bows and scrapes and prettyspeeches, in the which came more than the usual amount of references tothe time which had made his fortune, the day when Her Majesty QueenCharlotte had done him the honour to be graciously taken ill in passingthrough Norton Bury. Mrs. Jessop seemed to wear her honours as hostessto an earl's daughter very calmly indeed. She performed the ordinarycourtesies, and then went over to talk with Mr. Brithwood. In theirconversation I sought in vain the name of Ursula. 

So it ended--the sickening expectation which I had read in the lad'sface all day. He would not see her--perhaps it was best. Yet my heartbled when I looked at him. But such thoughts could not be indulged innow, especially as Mrs. Jessop's quick eyes seemed often upon him orme, with an expression that I could not make out at all, save that insuch a good woman, whom Miss March so well loved, could lurk nothingevil or unkindly. 

So I tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One could notchoose but look at her, this handsome Lady Caroline, whom half NortonBury adored, the other half pursed up their lips at the mention of--butthese were of the number she declined to "know. " All that she didknow--all that came within her influence, were irresistibly attracted, for to please seemed a part of her nature. To-night nearly every onepresent stole gradually into the circle round her; men and women alikecharmed by the fascination of her ripe beauty, her lively manner, herexquisite smile and laugh. 

I wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brithwood. She could noteasily see him, even though her acute glance seemed to take ineverything and everybody in the room. But on her entrance John haddrawn back a little, and our half-dozen of fellow-guests, who had beenconversing with him, crept shyly out of his way; as if, now the visiblereality appeared, they were aghast at the great gulf that lay betweenJohn Halifax the tanner and the Brithwoods of the Mythe. A few evenlooked askance at our hostess, as though some terrible judgment mustfall upon poor ignorant Mrs. Jessop, who had dared to amalgamate suchopposite ranks. 

So it came to pass, that while everybody gathered round the BrithwoodsJohn 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 andwoollen 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 shecertainly did at this minute. 

"Lui? Mon dieu! Lui!" And her shrug of amazement was stopped, herhalf-extended hand drawn back. No, it was quite impossible topatronise 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 newconquest, and left the already vanquished gentilities of Norton Bury toamuse 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 thehonest trading class, or indeed any but the higher classes in England. 

"But, " John continued, "I must dissent from Lady Caroline Brithwood, ifshe mingles the English people with 'le peuple Francais. ' They are avery different class of beings. "

"Ah, ca ira, ca ira"--she laughed, humming beneath her breath a fewnotes out of that terrible song. "But you know French--let us talk inthat 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 'unhero'--just the last touch of grace that a woman's hand gives--had youever a woman for your friend?--and you would be complete. But I cannotflatter--plain, blunt honesty for me. You must--you shall be--'l'hommedu peuple. ' Were you born such?--Who were your parents?"

I saw John hesitate; I knew how rarely he ever uttered those nameswritten in the old Bible--how infinitely sacred they were to him. Couldhe blazon them out now, to gratify this woman's idle curiosity?

"Madam, " he said, gravely, "I was introduced to you simply as JohnHalifax. It seems to me that, so long as I do no discredit to it, thename suffices to the world. "

"Ah--I see! I see!" But he, with his downcast eyes, did not detect themeaning smile that just flashed in hers was changed into a tone of softsympathy. "You are right; rank is nothing--a cold, glittering marble, with no soul under. Give me the rich flesh-and-blood life of thepeople. Liberte--fraternite--egalite. I would rather be a gamin inParis streets than my brother William at Luxmore Hall. "

Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, the youngman answering little. She only threw her shining arts abroad the more;she seemed determined to please. And Nature fitted her for it. Even ifnot born an earl's daughter, Lady Caroline would have been everywherethe magic centre of any society wherein she chose to move. Not that herconversation was brilliant or deep, but she said the most frivolousthings in a way that made them appear witty; and the grand art, tocharm by appearing charmed, was hers in perfection. She seemed to floataltogether upon and among the pleasantnesses of life; pain, eitherendured or inflicted, was to her an impossibility. 

Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and thus, aftermany years, it strikes me still. I look back upon what she appearedthat evening--lovely, gay, attractive--in the zenith of her richmaturity. What her old age was the world knows, or thinks it knows. But Heaven may be more merciful--I cannot tell. Whatever is now saidof her, I can only say, "Poor Lady Caroline!"

It must have indicated a grain of pure gold at the bottom of thegold-seeming dross, that, from the first moment she saw him, she likedJohn Halifax. 

They talked a long time. She drew him out, as a well-bred woman alwayscan draw out a young man of sense. He looked pleased; he conversedwell. Had he forgotten? No; the restless wandering of his eyes at theslightest sound in the room told how impossible it was he shouldforget. Yet he comported himself bravely, and I was proud thatUrsula'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 ofour young friend to-night. "

"I told you so. Post-travelling is very uncertain, and the Bath roadsare not good. Have you ever visited Bath, Mr. Halifax?"

"But she is surely long on the road, " pursued Mrs. Jessop, ratheranxiously. "What attendants had she?"

"Her own maid, and our man Laplace. Nay, don't be alarmed, excellentand faithful gouvernante! I assure you your fair ex-pupil is quitesafe. The furore about her has considerably abated since theheiress-hunters at Bath discovered the melancholy fact that MissMarch--"

"Pardon me, " interrupted the other; "we are among strangers. I assureyou I am quite satisfied about my dear child. "

"What a charming thing is affectionate fidelity, " observed herladyship, turning once more to John, with a sweet, lazy dropping of theeyelids. 

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 Buryparties. People began to look anxiously to the door. 

"Before we adjourn, " said Lady Caroline, "I must do what it will bedifficult to accomplish after supper;" and for the first time a sharp, sarcastic tone jarred in her smooth voice. "I must introduce youespecially to my husband. Mr. Brithwood?"

"Madam. " He lounged up to her. They were a diverse pair. She, in herwell-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 NortonBury often whispered, that Richard Brithwood was more at home withgrooms than gentlemen. 

"He belongs to this your town--you must have heard of him, perhaps methim. "

"I have more than had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brithwood, but he hasdoubtless 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 ofform, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax will, I hope, dine with usnext Sunday?"

"The devil he will!"

"Richard--you hurt me!"--with a little scream, as she pushed his roughfingers from her arm, so soft, and round, and fair. 

"Madam, you must be crazy. The young man is a tradesman--a tanner. Notfit 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 deepmourning. We knew her--we both knew her--our dream at Enderley--ourNut-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 aglow. Neither spoke, nor offered more than this passingacknowledgment, and she moved on. 

She came and sat down beside me, accidentally, I believe; but when shesaw me she held out her hand. We exchanged a word or two--her mannerwas unaltered; but she spoke hurriedly, and her fingers had their oldnervous 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 foreheadwith its coronet of chestnut curls. How would he bear the sight--he ofwhose heart mine was the mere faint echo? Yet truly an echo, repeatingwith cruel faithfulness every throb. 

He kept his position, a little aloof from the Brithwoods, who wereholding a slight altercation--though more of looks than words. Johnheeded them not. I was sure, though he had never looked directlytowards us, that he had heard every syllable Miss March said to me. 

The 'squire called across the room, in a patronising tone: "My goodfellow--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 washis natural self--a little graver, perhaps, as if he felt what wascoming, and prepared to meet it, knowing in whose presence he had toprove himself--what Richard Brithwood, with all his broad acres, couldnever be--a gentleman. 

Few could doubt that fact, who looked at the two young men, as all werelooking 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 Ireally wish I had not been brought into such a position--you'll notheed my wife's nonsense?"

"I do not understand you. "

"Come, it's no use running to cover in that way. Let's be open andplain. I mean no offence. You may be a very respectable young man foraught I know, still rank is rank. Of course Doctor Jessop asks whom helikes to his house--and, by George! I'm always civil to everybody--butreally, in spite of my lady's likings, I can't well invite you to mytable!"

"Nor could I humiliate myself by accepting any such invitation. "

He said the words distinctly, so that the whole circle might haveheard, and was turning away, when Mr. Brithwood fired up--as an angryman does in a losing game. 

"Humiliate yourself! What do you mean, sir? Wouldn't you be only toothankful to crawl into the houses of your betters, any how, by hook orby crook? Ha! ha! I know you would. It's always the way with youcommon folk, you rioters, you revolutionists. By the Lord! I wish youwere all hanged. "

The young blood rose fiercely in John's cheek, but he restrainedhimself. "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 listeningintently--I had not noticed how intently till now. Her eyes were fixedon 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 havebeen, 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-bywere dumb too, though such fracas were then not uncommon even indrawing-rooms, and in women's presence, especially with men of Mr. Brithwood's stamp. His wife seemed quite used to it. She merelyshrugged her shoulders and hummed a note or two of "Ca ira. " Itirritated the husband beyond all bounds. 

"Hold your tongue, my lady. What, because a 'prentice-lad once savedmy life, and you choose to patronise him as you do many anothervagabond, with your cursed liberty and equality, am I to have him at mytable, and treat him as a gentleman? By ----, madam, never!"

He spoke savagely, and loud. John was silent; he had locked his handstogether convulsively; but it was easy to see that his blood was atboiling heat, and that, did he once slip the leash of his passions, itwould go hard with Richard Brithwood. 

The latter came up to him with clenched fist. "Now mark me, you--youvagabond!"

Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her eyes gleamingfire. 

"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 fatalinsult, which offered from man to man, in those days, could only bewiped out with blood. 

John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would have sprung onhis 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 hisvoice sounded hoarse and strange--"But I am a Christian. I shall notreturn 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; oneor two sheered off from him with contemptuous smiles. Then UrsulaMarch stretched out her friendly hand. John took it, and grew calm ina 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 softlyunclosed her detaining hand, and went up to Mr. Brithwood. "Sir, thereis no need for you to leave this house--I am leaving it. You and Ishall not meet again if I can help it. "

His proud courtesy, his absolute dignity and calmness, completelyoverwhelmed his blustering adversary; who gazed open-mouthed, whileJohn made his adieu to his host and to those he knew. The womengathered round him--woman's instinct is usually true. Even LadyCaroline, amid a flutter of regrets, declared she did not believe therewas 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 impetuousyoung voice, "no insult offered to a man can ever degrade him; the onlyreal degradation is when he degrades himself. "

John, passing out at the doorway, caught her words. As he quitted theroom 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 thepride and joy had both faded. 

"Mrs. Jessop, you see I am right, " he murmured. "I ought not to havecome here. It is a hard world for such as I. I shall never conquerit--never. "

"Yes--you will. " And Ursula stood by him, with crimsoned cheek, andeyes no longer flashing, but fearless still. 

Mrs. Jessop put her arm round the young girl. "I also think you neednot 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 thesake 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 everyfeature of her noble face. "You have but showed me what I shallremember 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 beunderstood by one woman in the world, he--and she too--is strong, safe, and happy. They grasped hands once more, and gazed unhesitatingly intoeach 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 musthave been a blessed moment for both. 

Mrs. Jessop did not interfere. She had herself known what true lovewas, if, as gossips said, she had kept constant to our worthy doctorfor thirty years. But still she was a prudent woman, not unused to theworld. 

"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 herarms round her old governess, and leaning her cheek down on Mrs. Jessop's shoulder. 

We had never seen Miss March show fondness, that is, caressingfondness, to any one before. It revealed her in a new light; betrayingthe depths there were in her nature; infinite depths of softness and oflove. 

John watched her for a minute; a long, wild, greedy minute, thenwhispered 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 livingwithin a stone's throw of us. She had left her cousin's, and come toreside 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 blameher; she held a precious charge, and Norton Bury was a horrible placefor gossip. Already tale after tale had gone abroad about Miss March's"ingratitude" to her relations. Already tongue after tongue hadrepeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of "youngHalifax 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--amomentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in thestreet. I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether hementioned it or not--knew by the wild, troubled look, which did notwear 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 "thelad, " as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a youngman, was going from him--he was becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed. That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had been so beautifulin him all his life through, were utterly lost. 

"What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one evening, when hehad come in, looking worse than usual--I knew why; for Ursula and herfriend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in thespring twilight. "Thou art very ill, I fear?"

"Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with me. Do letme alone. "

Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spokenwords. "It was not THEE that spoke, John, " I said. 

"No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodgeshere:" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives in is at times aburning 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 theAbbey-yard were budding green: there came that faint, sweet sound ofchildren 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 kinddeceit 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 tooought to say, 'Thank God. ' This could not have lasted long, or itwould have made me--what I pray His mercy to save me from, or to let medie. 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 equallydesperate hope, "what if, instead of keeping this silence, you were togo to her and tell her all?"

"I have thought of that: a noble thought, worthy of a poor 'prenticelad! Why, two several evenings I have been insane enough to walk toDr. Jessop's door, which I have never entered, and--mark you well! theyhave never asked me to enter since that night. But each time ere Iknocked my senses came back, and I went home--luckily having mademyself 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 nottwenty-one, a tradesman's apprentice, to ask the hand of a younggentlewoman, 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 atfirst supposed--would, in the eye of the world's honour, be not verymuch 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 ofher--daily--hourly--her unselfishness, her energy, her generous, warmheart! 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 ashrine--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 goodman if I had her for my wife. Now--"

He rose, and walked rapidly up and down. His looks were becomingaltogether wild. 

"Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road--as I meet heralmost every day. Sometimes she merely bends and smiles, sometimes sheholds out her little hand, and 'hopes I am quite well!' And then theypass 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 andsmiling 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 passedour house Ursula turned slightly round, and looked behind; a quiet, maidenly look, with the smile still lingering on her mouth. She sawnothing, and no one; for John had pulled me from the window, and placedhimself 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 setsail for America. "

He wrung my hands with a long, loud, half-mad laugh; and then droppedheavily on a chair. 

A few hours after, he was lying on my bed, struck down by the firstreal sickness he had ever known. It was apparently a low agueishfever, which had been much about Norton Bury since the famine of lastyear. At least, so Jael said; and she was a wise doctoress, and hadcured many. He would have no one else to attend him--seemed terrifiedat the mere mention of Dr. Jessop. I opposed him not at first, forwell I knew, whatever the proximate cause of his sickness might be, itsroot was in that mental pang which no doctors could cure. So I trustedto the blessed quiet of a sick-room--often so healing to misery--toJael's nursing, and his brother's love. 

After a few days we called in a physician--a stranger from Coltham--whopronounced it to be this Norton Bury fever, caught through living, ashe still persisted in doing, in his old attic, in that unhealthy alleywhere was Sally Watkins's house. It must have been coming on, thedoctor said, for a long time; but it had no doubt now reached itscrisis. He would be better soon. 

But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and still he laythere, never complaining, scarcely appearing to suffer, except from thewasting of the fever; yet when I spoke of recovery he "turned his faceunto the wall"--weary of living. 

Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly speaking a word, Ibegan to feel growing palpable the truth which day by day I had thrustbehind me as some intangible, impossible dread--that ere now people haddied of mere soul-sickness, without any bodily disease. I took up hispoor hand that lay on the counterpane;--once, at Enderley, he hadregretted its somewhat coarse strength: now Ursula's own was notthinner 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 thislife--passing from it and from me into another, where, let me callnever so wildly, he could not answer me any more, nor come back to meany 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 whenit should please the Giver of all breath to recall mine, fallingasleep, encompassed and sustained by his love until the last; then, aburden no longer, leaving him to work out a glorious life, whose richweb should include and bring to beautiful perfection all the poorbroken threads in mine. But now, if this should be all vain, if heshould go from me, not I from him--I slid down to the ground, to myknees, 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 itwere right or wrong, honourable or dishonourable. His life hung in thebalance, and there was but one way; besides, had I not cried unto Godfor help?

I put aside the blind, and looked out of doors. For weeks I had notcrossed the threshold; I almost started to find that it was spring. Everything looked lovely in the coloured twilight; a blackbird wassinging loudly in the Abbey trees across the way; all things were freshand glowing, laden with the hope of the advancing year. And there helay on his sick-bed, dying!

All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan--"No light! Ican't bear the light! Do let me rest!"

In half-an-hour, without saying a word to human being, I was on my wayto 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 amongher gooseberry-bushes--so we were safe. 

As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a softdreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, and driven somesweet, shy thought away. 

But she met me cordially--said she was glad to see me--that she had notseen either of us lately; and the knitting pins began to move quicklyagain. 

Those dainty fingers--that soft, tremulous smile--I could have hatedher!

"No wonder you did not see us, Miss March; John has been very ill, isill now--almost dying. "

I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to see themstrike. 

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, forthey were savage, broke down in a burst of misery--"nothing in thisworld 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 shemight see it--feel it; that it might enter all the fair and sightlychambers of her happy life, and make them desolate as mine. For wasshe not the cause?

Forgive me! I was cruel to thee, Ursula; and thou wert so good--sokind!

She rose, came to me, and took my hand. Hers was very cold, and hervoice trembled much. 

"Be comforted. He is young, and God is very merciful. "

She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting and untwistingher fingers. There was in her looks a wild sorrow--a longing to escapefrom notice; but mine held her fast, mercilessly, as a snake holds alittle 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 isconquered--it is his mind. Oh, Miss March!" and I looked up at herlike a wretch begging for life--"Do YOU not know of what my brother isdying?"

"Dying!" A long shudder passed over her, from head to foot--but Irelented not. 

"Think--a life like his, that might be made a blessing to all heloves--to all the world--is it to be sacrificed thus? It may be--I donot say it will--but it may be. While in health he could fight againstthis--this which I must not speak of; but now his health is gone. Hecannot rally. Without some change, I see clearly, even I, who love himbetter than any one can love him--"

She stirred a little here. 

"Far better, " I repeated; "for while John does NOT love me best, he tome is more than any one else in the world. Yet even I have given uphope, 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 hervery arms--her delicate, bare arms. She looked at me once--justonce--with a mute but keen inquiry. 

"It is the truth, Miss March--ay, ever since last year. You willrespect it? You will, you shall respect it?"

She bent her head in acquiescence--that was all. She had not uttered asingle syllable. Her silence almost drove me wild. 

"What! not one word? not one ordinary message from a friend to afriend?--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 youshall 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 atumult of pain, in which right and wrong were strangely confused. Icould not decide--I can scarcely decide now--whether what I had doneought to have been done; I only know that I did it--did it under animpulse so sudden and impetuous that it seemed to me like the guidanceof Providence. All I could do afterwards was to trust the result wherewe say we trust all things, and yet are for ever disquieting ourselvesin vain--we of little faith!

I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true marriage--ofwhich there is probably one in every five thousand of conjugalunions--is brought about by heaven, and heaven only; and that all humaninfluence is powerless either to make or to mar that happy end. Therefore, to heaven I left this marriage, if such it was destined tobe. And so, after a season, I calmed myself enough to dare enteringthat 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'sbed-side. 

Ay, there was a change, but not THAT one--which made my blood run coldin my veins even to think of. Thank God for evermore for His greatmercies--not THAT change!

John was sitting up in bed. New life shone in his eyes, in his wholeaspect. 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 itfor weeks. I flung myself by the bed-side--perhaps I weptoutright--God knows! It is thought a shame for a man to weep; yet OneMan 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 somiraculous 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 ityet. Do you know, Phineas, she has been sitting by me, just where yousit now. "

"She?"

"Ursula. "

If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, which hadnever fallen from his lips before--it was always either "Miss March, "or the impersonal form used by all lovers to disguise the belovedname--"URSULA, " spoken as no man speaks any woman's name save the onewhich is the music of his heart, which he foresees shall be the onefireside tune of his life, ever familiar, yet ever sweet. 

"Yes, she sat there, talking. She told me she knew I loved her--lovedher so much that I was dying for her; that it was very wrong; that Imust rise up and do my work in the world--do it for heaven's sake, notfor hers; that a true man should live, and live nobly for the woman heloves--it is only a coward who dies for her. "

I listened, wonder-struck--for these were the very words that UrsulaMarch might have uttered; the very spirit that seemed to shine in hereyes that night--the last night she and John spoke to one another. Iasked him if there was any more of the dream?

"Nothing clear. I thought we were on the Flat at Enderley, and I wasfollowing her; whether I reached her or not I cannot tell. And whetherI ever shall reach her I cannot tell. But this I know, Phineas, I willdo as she bade me; I will arise and walk. "

And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Nextmorning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a spectre, indeed;but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father noticedit, when at dinner-time, with Jael's help--poor old Jael! how proud shewas--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 dowithout thee, John. Hey, Phineas! who's been meddling with myspectacles?"

The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaperupside 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 layon an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and thewindow-sill. I read to him--trying to keep his attention, and minetoo, solely to the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, justas I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter andmore sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts werewandering--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 thypoor 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 goodlady's eyes brimmed over. 

"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me--but I am an oldwoman, 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? Howlong 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 sheshould see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossingin the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that shemight one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifaxwas 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 goodold lady--but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand andforgive me. 

"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardlyknows how much we--we all--esteem him. " And with a kind motherlygesture 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 shecarefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket--"my dear childsends you this. "

It was a little note--unsealed. The superscription was simply hisname, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing--"John Halifax. "

His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I--she is--very kind. " Thewords 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, sedulouslylooking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it otherwise--I wouldnot wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her season oftrouble. "

I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. She took offher 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 havenot forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like tocome 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 ontwo great drops, large as a child's tear. 

Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we waited--scarcelymoving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes fixed dreamilyon the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron railings betweenthe 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! Yetwe were all young once--let youth enjoy its day!

At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlour door, rosy withwalking--a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, norhad need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by the lawof 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 mighthave seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers--but itdropped down, down, as Ursula March's clear glance had never droppedbefore. Then I knew how all would end. 

Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's wife iswanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she says her greengooseberries bean't half as big as our'n. "

My father awoke--rubbed his eyes--became aware of a lady'spresence--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 wasill, out of her great kindness--"

His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcasteyelids:

"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father. "

Abel Fletcher nodded--adjusted his spectacles--eyed her all over--andnodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied inspection. His hardgaze 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 sitdown?"

Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious gracethat I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in hisown arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her blacksilk 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. Heceased 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 ourparlour beheld the strangest sight it had beheld since--Ah, no wonderthat when she took her place at the table's foot, and gave him his dishof tea with her own hand--her pretty ringed lady's hand--my old fatherstarted, as if it had been another than Miss March who was sittingthere. 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 ifshe had been a ghost from the grave. 

But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as he was, hecould not resist the pleasantness of the doctor's little wife. Thedoctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled themselvesfor a cosy chat, taking very little notice of us three. 

Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring somehyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise present: for allNorton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher had a soft place in his heart itwas for his garden and his flowers. These were very lovely; in colourand scent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay looking atthem and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole lifewere absorbed into that one exquisite hour. 

For me--where I sat I do not clearly know, nor probably did any oneelse. 

"There, " said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childishsatisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking. 

"They are very beautiful, " I heard John's voice answer, with a strangetrembling in it. "It is growing too dark to judge of colours; but thescent 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. Neitherspoke--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 andgravely. 

"Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I remembernoticing it through the trees the night when--"

He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a veryunimportant conversation as they were apparently holding my involuntarylistening 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, " sheadded, hurriedly, "that being independent, and having entirelyseparated from, and been given up by, my cousins, I prefer residingwith Mrs. Jessop altogether. "

"Of course--most natural. " The words were formally spoken, and Johndid not speak again for some time. 

"I hope, "--said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stopping, as ifher own voice frightened her. 

"What do you hope?"

"That long before this moon has grown old you will be quite strongagain. "

"Thank you! I hope so too. I have need for strength, God knows!" Hesighed 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 onehas some inevitable burthen to bear. "

"So I believe. "

And now the room darkened so fast that I could not see them; but theirvoices seemed a great way off, as the children's voices playing at theold well-head used to sound to me when I lay under the brow of theFlat--in the dim twilights at Enderley. 

"I intend, " John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Bury, andgo abroad for some time. "

"Where?"

"To America. It is the best country for a young man who has neithermoney, nor kindred, nor position--nothing, in fact, but his own righthand 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 tonewhich 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 comeback--or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough tobe my friend will know I did not go away from mere youthfulrecklessness, or love of change. "

He waited, apparently for some answer--but it came not, and hecontinued:

"I am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, whileI stay here, I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish to sinkunder it--I had rather, as you said, 'Do my work in the world' as a manought. No man has a right to say unto his Maker, 'My burthen isheavier 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, aninevitable ill?"

"IS it inevitable?"

"Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don't reason with me--you cannotjudge--you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay Ishall become unworthy of myself, unworthy of--Forgive me, I have noright to talk thus; but you called me 'friend, ' and I would like you tothink kindly of me always. Because--because--" and his voiceshook--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 heardit--felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like ayoung bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his lovefor evermore. At once all was made clear between them; for whateverthe world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, and shereceived as much as she gave. 

 * * * * *

When Jael brought in lights the room seemed to me, at first, all in awild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss March with him. Holdingher hand, he led her across the room. His head was erect, his eyesshining--his whole aspect that of a man who declares before all theworld, "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. Blessher--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 acomfort to have thee. "

Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. He was going tocommunicate to Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe, Ursula's legal guardian andtrustee, the fact that she had promised him her hand--him, JohnHalifax, the tanner. He did it--nay, insisted upon doing it--the dayafter he came of age, and just one week after they had beenbetrothed--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 pressedtogether in a firm, almost painful gravity. He was not only a loverbut a man. And no man could go to meet what he knew he must meet inthis house, and on this errand, altogether unmoved. One might foreseea good deal--even in the knowing side-glance of the servant, whom hestartled with his name, "Mr. Halifax. "

"Mr. Brithwood's busy, sir--better come to-morrow, " suggested theman--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 emptydining-room, where, on crimson velvet chairs, we sat and contemplatedthe great stag's head with its branching horns, the silver flagons andtankards, and the throstles hopping outside across the rainy lawn: atour full leisure, too, for the space of fifteen minutes. 

"This will not do, " said John--quietly enough, though this time it waswith 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 slidaway 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--somethingunworthy of Ursula's lover--of Ursula's husband that was to be. 

"Tell your master my business is solely with himself, and I mustrequest to see him. It is important, say, or I would not thus intrudeupon 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, crossingthe court-yard once more--where, just riding out, I saw two ladies, oneof whom kissed her hand gaily to John Halifax--to the magistrate'soffice. There, safely separated from his own noble mansion, Mr. Brithwood administered justice. In the outer room a stout youngfellow--a poacher, probably--sat heavily ironed, sullen and fierce; andby the door a girl with a child in her arms, and--God pity her!--noring on her finger, stood crying; another ill-looking fellow, maudlindrunk, with a constable by him, called out to us as we passed for "adrop o' beer. "

These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, magistrate forthe county of ----, had to judge and punish, according to his own senseof equity and his knowledge of his country's law. 

He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dictating soenergetically to his clerk behind him, that we had both entered, andJohn 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 thatthe giver bore no grudge; that, indeed, it was impossible so dignifieda 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 ofan interview with you, and immediately. "

Whether Mr. Brithwood was seized with some indefinite alarm, he himselfbest knew why, or whether John's manner irresistibly compelled him tocivility, as the stronger always compels the weaker, I cannot tell--buthe signed to the clerk to leave the room. 

"And, Jones, send back all the others to the lock-up house tilltomorrow. Bless my life! it's near three o'clock. They can't expectto keep a gentleman's dinner waiting--these low fellows. "

I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside; at all events, wechose to take it so. 

"Now--you, sir--perhaps you'll despatch your business; the sooner thebetter. "

"It will not take long. It is a mere matter of form, whichnevertheless 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 yourcousin--Miss Ursula March. "

"She's nothing to me--I never wish to see her face again, the--thevixen!"

"You will be kind enough, if you please, to avoid all such epithets; atleast, 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 horsefleshline? Always happy to meet you in the way of business. But what canyou 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 whosemessage I have the honour to bring you. "

"That lady, sir, has chosen to put herself away from her family, andher 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 MissMarch's private concerns?"

"The right--which, indeed, was the purport of her message to you--thatin a few months I shall become her husband. "

John said this very quietly--so quietly that, at first, the 'squireseemed hardly to credit his senses. At last, he burst into a hoarselaugh. 

"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 notget 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 fellowenough; 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 nottouch 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 thefull knowledge and consent of Doctor and Mrs. Jessop, her nearestfriends. "

"And of yours?" asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sarcasm as his bluntwits could furnish him. 

"I have no relatives. "

"So I always understood. And that being the case, may I ask themeaning of the visit? Where are your lawyers, your marriagesettlements, hey? I say, young man--ha! ha! I should like to knowwhat you can possibly want with me, Miss March's trustee?"

"Nothing whatever. Miss March, as you are aware, is by her father'swill left perfectly free in her choice of marriage; and she has chosen. But since, under certain circumstances, I wish to act with perfectopenness, I came to tell you, as her cousin and the executor of thiswill, that she is about to become my wife. "

And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance strengthenedand 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; andthough I wish that difference were on the other side--though it mightand did hinder me from seeking her--yet now she is sought and won, itshall 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 isnot afraid to trust her whole life with me; am I to be afraid to trusther? Am I to be such a coward as not to dare to marry the woman Ilove, because the world might say I married her for her money?"

He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking full intoRichard Brithwood's face. The 'squire sat dumfoundered at the youngman's vehemence. 

"Your pardon, " John added, more calmly. "Perhaps I owe her some pardontoo, for bringing her name thus into discussion; but I wished to haveeverything clear between myself and you, her nearest relative. You nowknow exactly how the matter stands. I will detain you no longer--Ihave 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 shepleases--it's no business of mine. But her fortune is my business, andit's in my hands too. Might's right, and possession's nine-tenths ofthe law. Not one penny shall she get out of my fingers as long as Ican 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 breathedfreely. 

"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 tomeet 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 hadtold her where we were going to-day; her who had a right to know everyone 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. Nothingbut perfect content--perfect trust. 

John drew her arm through his. "Come, we need not mind Norton Burynow, " he said, smiling. 

So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, earnestly andrather seriously to one another; while Mrs. Jessop and I followedbehind. 

"Bless their dear hearts!" said the old lady, as she sat resting on thestile 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 truelovers--young lovers, too, in the morning of their days. Pleasant tosee written on every line of their happy faces the blessedness ofNature's law of love--love began in youth-time, sincere and pure, freefrom all sentimental shams, or follies, or shames--love mutuallyplighted, the next strongest bond to that in which it will end, and ismeant to end, God's holy ordinance of marriage. 

We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. It was John'scustom to go there almost every evening; though certainly he could notbe said to "go a-courting. " Nothing could be more unlike it than hisdemeanour, or indeed the demeanour of both. They were very quietlovers, never making much of one another "before folk. " No whisperingin corners, or stealing away down garden walks. No public show ofcaresses--caresses whose very sweetness must consist in their entiresacredness; at least, _I_ should think so. No coquettish exactions, notesting of either's power over the other, in those perilous smallquarrels which may be the renewal of passion, but are the death of truelove. 

No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat at her work, and he made himself generally pleasant, falling in kindly to theJessop's household ways. But whatever he was about, at Ursula'slightest movement, at the least sound of her voice, I could see himlift a quiet glance, as if always conscious of her presence; her whowas the delight of his eyes. 

To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link seemed to bedrawn closer between them, though they spoke little together, and evensat at opposite sides of the table; but whenever their looks met, onecould trace a soft, smiling interchange, full of trust, and peace, andjoy. He had evidently told her all that had happened to-day, and shewas satisfied. 

More, perhaps, than I was; for I knew how little John would have tolive upon besides what means his wife brought him; but that was theirown 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 Johnleft us, reluctantly enough; but he always made a point of going to thetan-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, silentlyclaimed, which nobody either jested at or interfered with. 

When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a minute or two longerthan was absolutely necessary, there was a wonderful brightness on heryoung face; though she listened with a degree of attention, mostcreditable in its gravity, to a long dissertation of Mrs. Jessop's onthe best and cheapest way of making jam and pickles. 

"You know, my dear, you ought to begin and learn all about such thingsnow. "

"Yes, " said Miss March, with a little droop of the head. 

"I assure you"--turning to me--"she comes every day into thekitchen--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 ahousehold 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 inher cheek, and a thoughtfulness in her eyes, deeper than any that ourconversation warranted or occasioned. I was planning how to divertMrs. Jessop from the subject, when it was broken at once by a suddenentrance, which startled us all like a flash of lightning. 

"Stole away! stole away! as my husband would say. Here have I come inthe dusk, all through the streets to Dr. Jessop's very door. How isshe? 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 Frenchfashion, which Ursula received patiently, and returned--no, I will notbe certain whether she returned it or not. 

"Pardon--how do you do, Mrs. Jessop, my dear woman? What trouble Ihave had in coming! Are you not glad to see me, Ursula?"

"Yes, very. " In that sincere voice which never either falsified orexaggerated 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 youalways had of marital supremacy. So, ma chere, you are going to bemarried yourself, I hear?"

"Yes. "

"Why, how quietly you seem to take it! The news perfectly electrifiedme this morning. I always said that young man was 'un heros deromans!' Ma foi! this is the prettiest little episode I ever heard of. Just King Cophetua and the beggar-maid--only reversed. How do youfeel, my Queen Cophetua?"

"I do not quite understand you, Caroline. "

"Neither should I you, for the tale seems incredible. Only you gave mesuch an honest 'yes, ' and I know you never tell even white lies. But itcan'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. Avery 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 atanner?"

"I am going to marry Mr. Halifax. We will, if you please, cease todiscuss him, Lady Caroline. "

"La belle sauvage!" laughed the lady; and, in the dusk, I fancied I sawher 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. Jet'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 thinkof, and as charming poets make believe--my dear, now-a-days, nous avonschange 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 knowbetter. What of that? All men say they love one--but it will notlast. It burns itself out. It will be over in a year, as we wives allknow. Do we not, Mrs. Jessop? Ah! she is gone away. "

Probably they thought I was away too--or else they took no notice ofme--and went talking on. 

"Jane would not have agreed with you, Cousin Caroline; she loved herhusband very dearly when she was a girl. They were poor, and he wasafraid 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 aboutyourself. "

"I have nothing more to say. "

"Nothing more? Mon Dieu! are you aware that Richard is furious; thathe vows he will keep every sou he has of yours--law or no law--for aslong as ever he can? He declared so this morning. Did young Halifaxtell you?"

"Mr. Halifax has told me. "

"'MR. Halifax!' how proudly she says it. And are you still going to bemarried to him?"

"Yes. "

"What! a bourgeois--a tradesman? with no more money than those sort ofpeople usually have, I believe. You, who have had all sorts ofcomforts, have always lived as a gentlewoman. Truly, though I adore alove-marriage in theory, practically I think you are mad--quite mad, mydear. "

"Do you?"

"And he, too! Verily, what men are! Especially men in love. Allselfish together. "

"Caroline!"

"Isn't it selfish to drag a pretty creature down, and make her adrudge, a slave--a mere poor man's wife?"

"She is proud of being such!" burst in the indignant young voice. "LadyCaroline, you may say what you like to me; you were kind always, and Iwas fond of you; but you shall not say a word against Mr. Halifax. Youdo not know him--how could you?"

"And you do? Ah! ma petite, we all think that, till we find out to thecontrary. And so he urges you to be married at once--rich or poor--atall risks, at all costs? How lover-like--how like a man! I guess itall. Half beseeches--half persuades--"

"He does not!" And the girl's voice was sharp with pain. "I would nothave told you, but I must--for his sake. He asked me this afternoon ifI was afraid of being poor? if I would like to wait, and let him workhard alone, till he could give me a home like that I was born to? Hedid, Caroline. "

"And you answered--"

"No--a thousand times, no! He will have a hard battle to fight--wouldI 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, noconnections, 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 heralmost 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 thatthere is in it one man whom I can trust, can honour, entirely. Also--though I am often ashamed lest this be selfish--because when Iwas 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--Iglory 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 sighbreaking from some deep corner of that light, frivolous heart. 

"Bien! chacun a son gout! But you have never stated one trifle--notunnecessary, perhaps, though most married folk get on quite wellwithout 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--nooffence, ma petite--one does sometimes happen to care for the man onemarries. 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 morethan happiness, uplifted even with a religious thankfulness, as shesaid simply:

"John knows. "

CHAPTER XX

In the late autumn, John married Ursula March. He was twenty-one, andshe eighteen. It was very young--too young, perhaps, prudent folkmight say: and yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on unionslike this. A right and holy marriage, a true love-marriage, be itearly or late, is--must be--sanctified and happy; yet those have thebest chance of happiness, who, meeting on the very threshold of life, enter upon its duties together; with free, fresh hearts, easily mouldedthe 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 asmarriage is only desecrated by outward show. And so, one golden autumnmorning, Ursula walked quietly up the Abbey aisle in her plain whitemuslin gown; and John and she plighted their faithful vows, no onebeing present except the Jessops and I. They then went away for abrief holiday--went away without either pomp or tears, entirelyhappy--husband and wife together. 

When I came home and said what had happened my good father seemedlittle surprised. He had expressly desired not to be told anything ofthe wedding till all was over--he hated marriages. 

"But since it is done, maybe 'tis as well, " said he, grimly. "Sheseems 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;" andhe looked round, as if missing John, who had lived in our house eversince his illness. "I thought as much, when he bade me goodnight, andasked 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 alwaysremain a bachelor. "

We settled ourselves, my father and I; and while the old man smoked hismeditative pipe I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two ladshad read by the fire-side; the summer days when we had lounged on thegarden wall. He was a married man now, the head of a household; othershad a right--the first, best, holiest right--to the love that used tobe 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 mybrother, still it was rather sad to miss him from our house, to feelthat his boyish days were quite over--that his boyish place would knowhim no more. 

But of course I had fully overcome, or at least suppressed, thisfeeling when, John having brought his wife home, I went to see them intheir own house. 

I had seen it once before; it was an old dwelling-house, which myfather bought with the flour-mill, situated in the middle of the town, the front windows looking on the street, the desolate garden behindshut in by four brick walls. A most un-bridal-like abode. I fearedthey would find it so, even though John had been busy there the lasttwo months, in early mornings and late evenings, keeping a comicalsecrecy over the matter as if he were jealous that any one but himselfshould lend an eye, or put a finger, to the dear task of making readyfor his young wife. 

They could not be great preparations, I knew, for the third of myfather's business promised but a small income. Yet the gloomy outsidebeing once passed, the house looked wonderfully bright and clean; thewalls and doors newly-painted and delicately stencilled:--("Master didall that himself, " observed the proud little handmaid, Jenny--JemWatkins's sweetheart. I had begged the place for her myself ofMistress Ursula. ) Though only a few rooms were furnished, and thatvery simply, almost poorly, all was done with taste and care; thecolours 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 ofthem, he kneeling, planting box-edging, she standing by him with herhand on his shoulder--the hand with the ring on it. He was laughing atsomething she had said, thy very laugh of old, David! Neither heard mecome 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, " andboth 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 callher now--slipped away into the house, and John and I were lefttogether. He glanced after his wife till she was out of sight, playedwith 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, andof her!"

He lifted his eyes upwards; there was in them a new look, sweet andsolemn, a look which expressed the satisfied content of a life nowrounded and completed by that other dear life which it had receivedinto 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 toitself, as true marriage should be. A look, unconsciously fulfillingthe law--God's own law--that a man shall leave father and mother, brethren and companions, and shall cleave unto his wife, and "they twoshall become one flesh. "

And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half-sadly for amoment, the vague, fine line of division which was thus for evermoredrawn between him and me of no fault on either side, and of which hehimself was unaware. It was but the right and natural law of things, the difference between the married and unmarried, which only the latterfeel. Which, perhaps, the Divine One meant them to feel--that out oftheir great solitude of this world may grow a little inner Eden, wherethey 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 withfruit. 

"We'll make them bear better next year, " said John, hopefully. "We mayhave a very decent garden here in time. " He looked round his littledomain with the eye of a master, and put his arm, half proudly, halfshyly, round his wife's shoulders--she had sidled up to him, ostensiblybringing him a letter, though possibly only for an excuse, because inthose sweet early days they naturally liked to be in each other's sightcontinually. It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meekmatronliness 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 giveher, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering thetime when John Halifax bowed to the stately and dignified younggentlewoman who stood at Mrs. Tod's door. To think he should ever havecome to call Miss Ursula March "little one!"

But this was not exactly a time for jesting, since, on reading theletter, I saw the young wife flush an angry red, and then look grave. Until John, crumpling up the paper, and dropping it almost with aboyish frolic into the middle of a large rosemary-bush, took his wifeby 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 makeno possible difference. "

"No! But it is so wrong--so unjust. I never believed he dared doit--to you. "

"Hear her, Phineas! She thinks nobody dare do anything ill to herhusband--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 aswe. "

That was true. So Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was left to moulderharmlessly away in the rosemary-bush, and we all walked up and down thegarden, talking over a thousand plans for making ends meet in thatlittle household. To their young hopefulness even poverty itselfbecame a jest; and was met cheerfully, like an honest, hard-featured, hard-handed friend, whose rough face was often kindly, and whose harshgrasp made one feel the strength of one's own. 

"We mean, " John said gaily, "to be two living Essays on the Advantagesof Poverty. We are not going to be afraid of it or ashamed of it. Wedon't care who knows it. We consider that our respectability liessolely in our two selves. "

"But your neighbours?"

"Our neighbours may think of us exactly what they like. Half the stingof poverty is gone when one keeps house for one's own comfort, and notfor the comments of one's neighbours. "

"I should think not, " Ursula cried, tossing back her head in merrydefiance. "Besides, we are young, we have few wants, and we can easilyreduce 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 acotton 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 allsoft and lustrous the inmost depths of his brown eyes; truly no womanneed be afraid, with a smile like that, to be the strength, theguidance, the sunshine of her home. 

We went in, and the young mistress showed us her new house; weinvestigated and admired all, down to the very scullery; then weadjourned to the sitting-room--the only one--and, after tea, Ursulaarranged her books, some on stained shelves, which she proudly informedme were of John's own making, and some on an old spinet, which he hadpicked 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 singnor play. 

"But you don't dislike the spinet, Ursula? It caught my fancy. Do youknow I have a faint remembrance that once, on such a thing as this, mymother 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 tomarry--John Halifax, who had no friends, no kindred, whose parents lefthim 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. "Itwas hard for him not to have known his parents, " she added, when Johnhad left the room. "I should like to have known them too. Butstill--when I know HIM--"

She smiled, tossed back the coronet of curls from her forehead--herproud, pure forehead, that would have worn a coronet of jewels moremeekly than it now wore the unadorned honour of being John Halifax'swife. 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, exceptPhineas there, until now. "

He held in his hand the little Greek Testament which he had showed meyears before. Carefully, and with the same fond, reverent look as whenhe was a boy, he undid the case, made of silk, with ribbonstrings--doubtless a woman's work--it must have been his mother's. Hiswife touched it, softly and tenderly. He showed her the fly-leaf; shelooked 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 awoman, especially a woman reared in pride of birth, not to have feltand 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 headback, she looked at him with all her heart in her eyes. "No, it doesNOT signify. Were your father the king on his throne, or the beggar inthe streets, it would be all the same to me; you would still beyourself--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 keptthem 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 daysa week to help in the garden, under Mr. Halifax's orders. 

"Only, Jenny, " smiled I, with a warning finger, "no idling andchattering. Young folk must work hard if they want to come to thehappy ending of your master and mistress. "

The little maid grew the colour of her swain's pet peonies, andpromised obedience. Conscientious Jem there was no fear of--all therosy-cheeked damsels in Christendom would not have turned him asidefrom one iota of his duty to Mr. Halifax. Thus there was love in theparlour and love in the kitchen. But, I verily believe, the youngmarried couple were served all the better for their kindness andsympathy to the humble pair of sweethearts in the rank below them. 

John walked home with me--a pleasure I had hardly expected, but whichwas insisted upon both by him and Ursula. For from the very first ofher betrothal there had been a thorough brother-and-sisterly bondestablished between her and me. Her womanly, generous nature wouldhave scorned to do what, as I have heard, many young wives do--seek tomake coldness between her husband and his old friends. No; secure inher riches, in her rightful possession of his whole heart, she tookinto hers everything that belonged to John, every one he cared for; tobe 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 hopedwould not fade in their town dwelling--and of good Mrs. Tod's wonderfuldelight at seeing her, when last week they had stayed two days in thedear old cottage at Enderley. But he seemed slow to speak about hiswife, or to dilate on a joy so new that it was hardly to be breathedon, lest it might melt into air. 

Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage passed, helooked 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--whoknows!"

He turned the conversation, and began telling me about the clothmill--his old place of resort; which he had been over once again whenthey were at Rose Cottage. 

"And do you know, while I was looking at the machinery, a notion cameinto my head that, instead of that great water-wheel--you rememberit?--it might be worked by steam. "

"What sort of steam?"

"Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you forgotten mytelling you how, last year, some Scotch engineer tried to move boats bysteam, on the Forth and Clyde canal? Why should not the same power beturned to account in a cloth-mill? I know it could--I have got theplan of the machinery in my head already. I made a drawing of it lastnight, and showed it to Ursula; SHE understood it directly. "

I smiled. 

"And I do believe, by common patience and skill, a man might make hisfortune with it at those Enderley cloth-mills. "

"Suppose you try!" I said in half jest, and was surprised to see howseriously John took it. 

"I wish I could try--if it were only practicable. Once or twice I havethought it might be. The mill belongs to Lord Luxmore. His stewardworks 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--nohobbies now. Above all, I must not, for a mere fancy, give up the workthat lies under my hand. What of the tan-yard, Phineas?"

"My father missed you, and grumbled after you a good deal. He looksanxious, 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 thetan-yard: you know--and he knows too--that everything which can bedone 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 hasbeen for this year past. All trade is bad just now. Never fear, we'llweather the storm--I'm not afraid. "

Cheerfully as he spoke, I began to guess--what he already must haveknown--that our fortunes were as a slowly leaking ship, of which thehelm had slipped from my old father's feeble hand. But John had takenit--John stood firm at the wheel. Perhaps, with God's blessing, hemight guide us safe to land. 

I had not time to say more, when, with its pretty grey ponies, thecurricle once more passed our way. Two ladies were in it: one leanedout and bowed. Presently a lacquey came to beg Mr. Halifax would comeand 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 tothe lady who sat by her--oh, what a lovely face that lady had! nowonder it drove men mad; ay, even that brave man in whose honest lifecan be chronicled only this one sin, of being bewitched by her. 

John caught the name--perhaps, too, he recognized the face--it was onlytoo public, alas! His own took a sternness, such as I had never beforeseen, 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 rathertoo plain admiration--very gravely, too, he bowed. 

"And what of our young bride, our treasure that we stole--nay, it wasquite 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'sfriends need not always be the same as one's husband's, eh, Emma? Youwill be enchanted with our fair bride. We must both seize the firstopportunity, 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. Andif he does--why, he may. I like you both; I intend us to be excellentfriends, whenever I chance to be at Norton Bury. Don't be proud, andreject me, there's good people--the only good people I ever knew whowere not disagreeable. "

And leaning on her large ermine muff, she looked right into John'sface, with the winning sweetness which Nature, not courts, lent tothose fair features--already beginning to fade, already trying to hideby art their painful, premature decay. 

John returned the look, half sorrowfully; it was so hard to give backharshness to kindliness. But a light laugh from the other lady caughthis ear, and his hesitation--if hesitation he had felt-was over. 

"No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see yourself that itcannot. Living, as we do, in the same neighbourhood, we may meetoccasionally by chance, and always, I hope, with kindly feeling; but, under present circumstances--indeed, under any circumstances--intimacybetween your house and ours would be impossible. "

Lady Caroline shrugged her shoulders with a pretty air of pique. "Asyou 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 amungrateful for your former kindness to my wife; but the differencebetween 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 oursociety would not suit you; and that my wife should ever enteryours"--glancing from one to the other of those two faces, painted withfalse 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, whichnothing could ever banish long. 

"Hear him, Emma! So young and so unkindly! Mais nous verrons. Youwill 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 apoor 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 merrylaugh, his old familiar grasp of my shoulder. 

"Lad, take care of thyself, though I'm not by to see. Remember, I amjust 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, andcould go out very little; but they came constantly to me, John andUrsula, especially the latter. During this illness, when I learned towatch longingly for her kind face, and listen for her cheerful voicetalking pleasantly and sisterly beside my chair, she taught me to giveup "Mrs. Halifax, " and call her Ursula. It was only by slow degrees Idid 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 shewas, through life, the meekest and tenderest of women. To every oneelse she comported herself, at least in youth, with a dignity anddecision--a certain stand-offishness--so that, as I said, it was notquite easy to speak to or think of her as "Ursula. " Afterwards, whenseen in the light of a new character, for which Heaven destined andespecially fitted her, and in which she appeared altogetherbeautiful--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 ratherdreary, I got into the habit of creeping over to John's home, andsitting for hours under the apple-trees in his garden. It was nowdifferent from the wilderness he found it; the old trees were prunedand tended, and young ones planted. Mrs. Halifax called it proudly"our orchard, " though the top of the tallest sapling could be reachedwith her hand. Then, in addition to the indigenous cabbages, came longrows of white-blossomed peas, big-headed cauliflowers, and allvegetables easy of cultivation. My father sent contributions from hiscelebrated gooseberry-bushes, and his wall-fruit, the pride of NortonBury; Mrs. Jessop stocked the borders from her great parterres ofsweet-scented common flowers; so that, walled in as it was, and in themidst 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 esteemedtoo mean to be restricted in their natural profusion. Oh, dearold-fashioned garden! full of sweet-Williams and white-Nancies, andlarkspur and London-pride, and yard-wide beds of snowy saxifrage, andtall, 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 therea great bush of southern-wood or rosemary, or a border of thyme, or asweet-briar hedge--a pleasant garden, where all colours and perfumeswere blended together; ay, even a stray dandelion, that stood boldly upin his yellow waistcoat, like a young country bumpkin, who feelshimself a decent lad in his way--or a plant of wild marjoram, that hadsomehow got in, and kept meekly in a corner of the bed, trying to turninto a respectable cultivated herb. Dear old garden!--such as onerarely sees now-a-days!--I would give the finest modern pleasure-groundfor the like of thee!

This was what John's garden became; its every inch and every flowerstill 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. Thesewere Mrs. Halifax and her husband, Jem and Jenny. The master could notdo much; he had long, long hours in his business; but I used to watchUrsula, morning after morning, superintending her domain, with herfaithful attendant Jem--Jem adored his "missis. " Or else, when it washot noon, I used to lie in their cool parlour, and listen to her voiceand step about the house, teaching Jenny, or learning from her--for theyoung 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 ordull for a minute. She did a great deal in the house herself. Oftenshe would sit chatting with me, having on her lap a coarse brown pan, shelling peas, slicing beans, picking gooseberries; her fingers--MissMarch's fair fingers--looking fairer for the contrast with theirunaccustomed work. Or else, in the summer evenings, she would be atthe window sewing--always sewing--but so placed that with one glanceshe could see down the street where John was coming. Far, far off shealways saw him; and at the sight her whole face would change andbrighten, like a meadow when the sun comes out. Then she ran to openthe door, and I could hear his low "my darling!" and a long, longpause, in the hall. 

They were very, very happy in those early days--those quiet days ofpoverty; when they visited nobody, and nobody visited them; when theirwhole world was bounded by the dark old house and the garden, with itsfour high walls. 

One July night, I remember, John and I were walking up and down thepaths by star-light. It was very hot weather, inclining one to staywithout 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 amysterious, perfumy haze they let fall over us!--A haze through whichall around seemed melting away in delicious intangible sweetness, inwhich the very sky above our heads--the shining, world-besprinkledsky--was a thing felt rather than seen. 

"How strange all seems! how unreal!" said John, in a low voice, when hehad walked the length of the garden in silence. "Phineas, how verystrange it seems!"

"What seems?"

"What?--oh, everything. " He hesitated a minute. "No, noteverything--but something which to me seems now to fill and be mixed upwith all I do, or think, or feel. Something you do not know--butto-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 andyet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and I were standing here, tryingto count the blossoms. "

He stopped--touching a branch with his hand. His voice sank so I couldhardly hear it. 

"Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare--we shall, if withGod'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 andmine--little feet to go pattering about our house--a little voice tosay--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 asyoung as I am: whether he felt as I do now. You cannot think what anawful joy it is to be looking forward to a child; a little soul ofGod's giving, to be made fit for His eternity. How shall we do it! wethat are both so ignorant, so young--she will be only just nineteenwhen, please God, her baby is born. Sometimes, of an evening, we sitfor hours on this bench, she and I, talking of what we ought to do, andhow we ought to rear the little thing, until we fall into silence, awedat 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 ofhis face, half uplifted, looking towards those myriad worlds, which weare taught to believe, and do believe, are not more precious in theAlmighty sight than one living human soul. 

But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the thoughtswhich, in the holy hush of that summer night, had risen out of the deepof his heart. And though after this time they never again formedthemselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope, or joy, orfear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by me. 

In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little onecame. 

It was a girl--I think they had wished for a son; but they forgot allabout it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby--atleast, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, wholeft our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs. Halifax's, exhibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies withthe infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehementlydeclared 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 overhis 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 hisbaby in his arms he had wept like a child. 

The little maiden grew with the snowdrops. Winter might have droppedher out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, and pure-lookingwas she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young babybefore; but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to havea clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy, from the time her week-old fingers, with their tiny pink nails--aludicrous picture of her father's hand in little--made me smile as theyclosed 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 secondname. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy--Muriel Joy Halifax. 

That name--beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten among us--Iwrite it now with tears. 

 * * * * *

In December, 1802, she was born--our Muriel. And on February9th--alas! I have need to remember the date!--she formally received hername. We all dined at John's house--Dr. And Mrs. Jessop, my father andI. 

It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but hisown for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked andentreated, he only shook his head; but just when we were all sittingdown to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, and her lipsdimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was so nice andneat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And there, in thedoorway, 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 softeningdown, and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be; dressed carefullyin his First-day clothes, the stainless white kerchief supporting hislarge 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 hismouth--thus he stood--thus I see thee, O my dear old father!

The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough. Heonly said, "I thank thee, John, " "I thank thee, Ursula;" and took hisplace beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his mindand come. Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though therewere no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and whiteChristmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat down to anobler feast. 

Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside thewindow the thickly falling snow. 

"It has not snowed these two months, " said John; "never since the dayour little girl was born. "

And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and wasindignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maidup-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry, which seems tochange the whole atmosphere of a household. 

My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to seeJohn's daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the littlehelpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked afterher with a curious expression, then began to say something about goingback to the tan-yard. 

"Do not, pray do not leave us, " John entreated; "Ursula wants to showyou our little lady. "

My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to thrustfrom him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still, came faintlydown 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 thenMrs. Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter flower, herbaby 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 generaladmiration of her treasure. 

"She might well come in a snow-storm, " said Mrs. Jessop, taking thechild. "She is just like snow, so soft and white. "

"And as soundless--she hardly ever cries. She just lies in this wayhalf the day over, cooing quietly, with her eyes shut. There, she hascaught your dress fast. Now, was there ever a two months' old baby soquick at noticing things? and she does it all with her fingers--shetouches everything;--ah! take care, doctor, " the mother added, reproachfully, at a loud slam of the door, which made the baby trembleall over. 

"I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds, " said John, as he begantalking to it and soothing it;--how strange it was to see him! and yetit seemed quite natural already. "I think even now she knows thedifference between her mother's voice and mine; and any sudden noisealways startles her in this way. "

"She must have astonishingly quick hearing, " said the doctor, slightlyannoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of something else--showedMuriel's eyelashes, very long for such a baby--and descanted on thecolour of her eyes, that fruitful and never-ending theme of mothers andfriends. 

"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 lazyyoung damsel, she hardly ever opens them--we should often fancy herasleep, but for that little soft coo; and then she will wake up all ofa 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, intheir want of it. Many babies have a round, vacant stare--but this wasno stare, only a wide, full look--a look of quiet blankness--anUNSEEING look. 

It caught Dr. Jessop's notice. I saw his air of vexed dignity changeinto a certain anxiety. 

"Well, whose are they like--her father's or mine? His, I hope--it willbe 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 anotherday?--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 andintently into her little face, then at Dr. Jessop. "Do youthink--no--it's not possible--that there can be anything the matterwith 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, thechild being held on her father's lap, while Dr. Jessop was trying toopen the small white lids, kept so continually closed. At last thebaby uttered a little cry of pain--the mother darted forward, andclasped it almost savagely to her breast. 

"I will not have my baby hurt! There is nothing wrong with her sweeteyes. Go away; you shall not touch her, John. "

"Love!"

She melted at that low, fond word; leaning against his shoulder--tryingto 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 quitesatisfied. Phineas, give me the candle. "

The words--caressing, and by strong constraint made calm andsoothing--were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, but let him takeMuriel--little, unconscious, cooing dove! Lulled by her father's voiceshe once more opened her eyes wide. Dr. Jessop passed the candlebefore them many times, once so close that it almost touched her face;but the full, quiet eyes, never blenched nor closed. He set the lightdown. 

"Doctor!" whispered the father, in a wild appeal against--ay, it wasagainst certainty. He snatched the candle, and tried the experimenthimself. 

"She does not see at all. Can she be blind?"

"Born blind. "

Yes, those pretty baby-eyes were dark--quite dark. There was nothingpainful nor unnatural in their look, save, perhaps, the blankness ofgaze which I have before noticed. Outwardly, their organization wasperfect; but in the fine inner mechanism was something wrong--somethingwanting. She never had seen--never would see--in this world. 

"BLIND!" The word was uttered softly, hardly above a breath, yet themother heard it. She pushed every one aside, and took the childherself. Herself, with a desperate incredulity, she looked into thoseeyes, which never could look back either her agony or her love. Poormother!

"John! John! oh, John!"--the name rising into a cry, as if he couldsurely help her. He came and took her in his arms--took both, wife andbabe. 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 shewas a little calmer he whispered to her the comfort--the sole comforteven her husband could give her--through whose will it was that thisaffliction 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 misswhat she never knew. She may be a happy little child. Look, how shelies and smiles. "

But the mother could not take that consolation yet. She walked to andfro, and stood rocking her baby, mute indeed, but with tears falling inshowers. Gradually her anguish wept itself away, or was smothereddown, lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on her breast. 

Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm-chair, gently. Itwas my father. He sat down by her, taking her hand. 

"Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was blind. He was thehappiest creature I ever knew. "

My father sighed. We all marvelled to see the wonderful softness, eventenderness, which had come into him. 

"Give me thy child for a minute. " Ursula laid it across his knees; heput 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 benedictionof the departing patriarchs of old, struck us all. We looked at littleMuriel as if the blessing were already upon her; as if the mysterioustouch which had scaled up her eyes for ever had left on her a sanctitylike 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 parentsshould be left alone. 

"You will come again soon?" begged Ursula, tenderly clasping the handwhich he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured "Godbless thee!"

"Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy husband, my girl. AndJohn, never be thou harsh to her, nor too hard upon her littlefailings. She is but young--but young. "

He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of another thanUrsula. 

As we walked down the street he spoke to me only once or twice, andthen of things which startled me by their strangeness--things which hadhappened 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 hisbed-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 mekindly, even tenderly. "Thee art but weakly still, but thee must pickup, and live to be as old a man as thy father. Goodnight. God be withthee, my son!"

I left him. I was happy. Once I had never expected my old father andI 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 mybed's foot, looking at me. I had been dreaming strangely, about my ownchildish 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 mynurse years ago--seemed at first so unreal as to be like a part of thedream. 

At ten o'clock, when she had locked up the house, she had come as usualto the parlour door, to tell my father it was bed-time. He did notanswer, being sitting with his back to the door, apparently busywriting. So she went away. 

Half an hour afterwards she came again. He sat there still--he had notmoved. One hand supported his head; the other, the fingers stifflyholding the pen, lay on the table. He seemed intently gazing on whathe 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 myadopted brother's house, whither he had brought me on the day of myfather's funeral; entreating that I should never leave it again. For, as was shortly afterwards made clear, fate--say Providence--was nowinevitably releasing him from a bond, from which, so long as my poorfather lived, John would never have released himself. It wasdiscovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merelynominal--that of necessity, for the support of our two families, thetan-yard must be sold, and the business confined entirely to theflour-mill. 

At this crisis, as if the change of all things broke her stout oldheart, which never could bend to any new ways--Jael died. We laid herat my father's and mother's feet--poor old Jael! and that grave-yard inSt. Mary's Lane now covered over all who loved me, all who were of myyouth day--my very own. 

So thought I--or might have thought--but that John and Ursula thendemanded with one voice, "Brother, come home. "

I resisted long: for it is one of my decided opinions that marriedpeople ought to have no one, be the tie ever so close and dear, livingpermanently with them, to break the sacred duality--no, let me say theunity 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 tokeep 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 herlap, cooing softly with shut eyes--Ursula took my hand to play withMuriel's. The baby fingers closed over mine--"See there, Phineas; SHEwants 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 eldestdaughter, little blind Muriel. 

He had several children now. The dark old house, and the square towngarden, were alive with their voices from morning till night. First, and loudest always, was Guy--born the year after Muriel. He was verylike his mother, and her darling. After him came two more, Edwin andWalter. But Muriel still remained as "sister"--the only sister eithergiven or desired. 

If I could find a name to describe that child it would be not the oneher happy mother gave her at her birth, but one more sacred, moretender. She was better than Joy--she was an embodied Peace. 

Her motions were slow and tranquil--her voice soft--every expression ofher little face extraordinarily serene. Whether creeping about thehouse, with a foot-fall silent as snow, or sitting among us, eitherknitting busily at her father's knee, or listening to his talk and thechildren's play, everywhere and always Muriel was the same. No one eversaw her angry, restless, or sad. The soft dark calm in which she livedseemed never broken by the troubles of this our troublous world. 

She was, as I have said, from her very babyhood a living peace. Andsuch she was to us all, during those ten struggling years, when ourhousehold had much to contend with, much to endure. If at night herfather came home jaded and worn, sickened to the soul by the hardbattle he had to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Murielwould come softly and creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. If, busying herself about, doing faithfully her portion too, that thehusband when he came in of evenings might find all cheerful and neverknow how heavy had been the household cares during the day--if, attimes, Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone, at sight of Muriel itsoftened at once. No one could speak any but soft and sweet words whenthe blind child was by. 

Yet, I think either parent would have looked amazed had any one pitiedthem for having a blind child. The loss--a loss only to them, and notto her, the darling!--became familiar, and ceased to wound; theblessedness was ever new. "Ay, and she shall be blessed, " had said mydear father. So she was. From her, or for her, her parents never hadto endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of infancy and childhood, of which the three others had their natural share, always passed herby, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel. 

The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our family. Scarletfever went through the house--safely, but leaving much care behind. When at last they all came round, and we were able to gather our palelittle flock to a garden feast, under the big old pear-tree, it waswith the trembling thankfulness of those who have gone through greatperils, 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 hiswife, and looked in her worn face, where still her own smilelingered--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, thismorning, 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 sogracefully, so carelessly, that I saw--ay, and truly her husband saw--asacred beauty about her jaded cheek, more lovely and lovable than allthe bloom of her youth. Happy woman! who was not afraid of growing old. 

"Love"--John usually called her "Love"--putting it at the beginning ofa sentence, as if it had been her natural Christian name--which, as inall infant households, had been gradually dropped or merged into theuniversal 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 thoughtof--"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'llgo for three months to Longfield. "

Now Longfield was the Utopia of our family, old and young. A verysimple family we must have been--for this Longfield was only a smallfarm-house, about six miles off, where once we had been to tea, andwhere ever since we had longed to live. For, pretty as our domain hadgrown, it was still in the middle of a town, and the children, like allnaturally-reared children, craved after the freedom of thecountry--after corn-fields, hay-fields, nuttings, blackberryings--delights hitherto known only at rare intervals, whentheir father could spare a whole long day, and be at once the sun andthe shield of the happy little band. 

"Hearken, children! father says we shall go for three whole months tolive 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 thehorses. Hurrah!" shouted Guy. 

"And I'll see after the ducks and chickens, and watch all the threshingand winnowing, " said Edwin, the practical and grave. 

"And I'll get a 'ittle 'amb to p'ay wid me, " lisped Walter--still "thebaby"--or considered such, and petted accordingly. 

"But what does my little daughter say?" said the father, turning--as healways 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, " whichin truth she was. To see her now leaning her cheek against his--thesmall soft face, almost a miniature of his own, the hair, a paler shadeof the same bright colour, curling in the same elastic rings--theylooked less like ordinary father and daughter, than like a man and hisgood angel; the visible embodiment of the best half of his soul. Soshe was ever to him, this child of his youth--his first-born and hisdearest. 

The Longfield plan being once started, father and mother and I began toconsult together as to ways and means; what should be given up, andwhat increased, of our absolute luxuries, in order that the childrenmight this summer--possibly every summer--have the glory of "living inthe country. " Of these domestic consultations there was never anydread, for they were always held in public. There were no secrets inour house. Father and mother, though sometimes holding differentopinions, had but one thought, one aim--the family good. Thus, even inour lowest estate there had been no bitterness in our poverty; we metit, looked it in the face, often even laughed at it. For it bound usall together, hand in hand; it taught us endurance, self-dependence, and, best of all lessons, self-renunciation. I think, one's wholeafter-life is made easier and more blessed by having known what it wasto be very poor when one was young. 

Our fortunes were rising now, and any little pleasure did not take nearso much contrivance. We found we could manage the Longfield visit--ay, and a horse for John to ride to and fro--without any worse sacrificethan that of leaving Jenny--now Mrs. Jem Watkins, but our cookstill--in the house at Norton Bury, and doing with one servant insteadof two. Also, though this was not publicly known till afterwards, bythe mother's renouncing a long-promised silk dress--the only one sinceher marriage, in which she had determined to astonish John by choosingthe same colour as that identical grey gown he had seen hanging up inthe kitchen at Enderley. 

"But one would give up anything, " she said, "that the children mighthave such a treat, and that father might have rides backwards andforwards through green lanes all summer. Oh, how I wish we couldalways live in the country!"

"Do you?" And John looked--much as he had looked at long-tailed greyponies in his bridegroom days--longing to give her every thing shedesired. "Well, perhaps, we may manage it some time. "

"When our ship comes in--namely, that money which Richard Brithwoodwill 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 arguingagainst the too Quixotic carrying out of the said crotchets. "Perhaps, as the reward of forbearance, the money will come some day when weleast expect it; then John shall have his heart's desire, and start thecloth-mills at Enderley. "

John smiled, half-sadly. Every man has a hobby--this was his, and hadbeen for fifteen years. Not merely the making a fortune, as he stillfirmly believed it could be made, but the position of useful power, thewide range of influence, the infinite opportunities of doing good. 

"No, love; I shall never be 'patriarch of the valley, ' as Phineas usedto call it. The yew-hedge is too thick for me, eh, Phineas?"

"No!" cried Ursula--we had told her this little incident of ourboyhood--"you have got half through it already. Everybody in NortonBury knows and respects you. I am sure, Phineas, you might have hearda pin fall at the meeting last night when he spoke against hanging theLuddites. 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 defendingthe 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--'Herhusband is known in the gates; he sitteth among the elders of theland. '"

Mrs. Halifax laughed at me for reminding her of this, but allowed thatshe would not dislike its being fulfilled. 

"And it will be too. He is already 'known in the gates'; known far andnear. Think how many of our neighbours come to John to settle theirdifferences, instead of going to law! And how many poachers has he notpersuaded 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 folkas well as poor folk, all about the neighbourhood. I am sure John isas 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 ownhousehold. The glory of his life was its unconsciousness--like our ownsilent Severn, however broad and grand its current might be, thatcourse 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 thehouse the sweet sounds of "Muriel's voice, " as some one had called theold harpsichord. When almost a baby she would feel her way to it, andfind out first harmonies, then tunes, with that quickness and delicacyof ear peculiar to the blind. 

"How well she plays! I wish I could buy her one of those newinstruments they call 'pianofortes;' I was looking into the mechanismof one the other day. "

"She would like an organ better. You should have seen her face in theAbbey 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 dealgrander than father!"

That was true, as regarded the bright nankeens, the blue coat with goldbuttons, and the showiest of cambric kerchiefs swathing him up to thevery chin. To this "grand" personage John bowed formally, but his wifeflushed up in surprised recognition. 

"It is so long since I had the happiness of meeting Miss March, that Iconclude 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 themother's softened and matronly mien;--pride, but not for herself or inherself, now. For, truly, as the two men stood together--though LordLuxmore had been handsome in his youth, and was universally said tohave as fine manners as the Prince Regent himself--any woman might wellhave held her head loftily, introducing John Halifax as "my husband. "

Of the two, the nobleman was least at his ease, for the welcome of bothMr. And Mrs. Halifax, though courteous, was decidedly cold. They didnot seem to feel--and, if rumour spoke true, I doubt if any honest, virtuous, middle-class fathers and mothers would have felt--that theirhouse was greatly honoured or sanctified by the presence of the Earl ofLuxmore. 

But the nobleman was, as I have said, wonderfully fine-mannered. Hebroke the ice at once. 

"Mr. Halifax, I have long wished to know you. Mrs. Halifax, mydaughter encouraged me to pay this impromptu visit. "

Here ensued polite inquiries after Lady Caroline Brithwood; we learnedthat she was just returned from abroad, and was entertaining, at theMythe 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 soonretreated 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 sistermade a great pet of him as a child. He has just completed hiseducation--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 notimagine we are a Catholic family still. I hope the next Earl ofLuxmore will be able to take the oaths and his seat, whether or no weget 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 lifeought to be protected by, and allowed to serve, the state, whatever betheir religious opinions. 

"Mr. Halifax, I entirely agree with you. A wise man esteems all faithsalike worthless. "

"Excuse me, my lord, that was the very last thing I meant to say. Ihold every man's faith so sacred, that no other man has a right tointerfere with it, or to question it. The matter lies solely betweenhimself 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 thentry to put plain truths, or what I believe to be such, before thepeople, in a form they are able to understand. "

"Ay, that is it. My dear sir, the people have no more brains than thehead of my cane (his Royal Highness's gift, Mrs. Halifax); they must beled or driven, like a flock of sheep. We"--a lordly "we!"--"are theirproper shepherds. But, then, we want a middle class--at least, anoccasional voice from it, a--"

"A shepherd's dog, to give tongue, " said John, dryly. "In short, apublic 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 somewhatdelicate 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 expressdesire, 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 totake 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 moreabout it. "

John crossed over to his wife with a cheerful air. She sat lookinggrave and sad. 

Lord Luxmore had the reputation of being a keen-witted, diplomaticpersonage; undoubtedly he had, or could assume, that winning charm ofmanner which had descended in perfection to his daughter. Bothqualities it pleased him to exercise now. He rose, addressing withkindly frankness the husband and wife. 

"If I may ask--being a most sincere well-wisher of yours, and a sort ofconnection of Mrs. Halifax's, too--why is it impossible?"

"I have no wish to disguise the reason: it is because I have nocapital. "

Lord Luxmore looked surprised. "Surely--excuse me, but I had thehonour of being well acquainted with the late Mr. March--surely, yourwife's fortune--"

Ursula rose, in her old impetuous way--"His wife's fortune! (John, letme say it!--I will, I must!)--of his wife's fortune, Lord Luxmore, hehas never received one farthing. Richard Brithwood keeps it back; andmy husband would work day and night for me and our children rather thango to law. "

"Oh! on principle, I suppose? I have heard of such opinions, " said theearl, with the slightest perceptible sneer. "And you agree with him?"

"I do, heartily. I would rather we lived poor all our days than thathe should wear his life out, trouble his spirit, perhaps even soil hisconscience, by squabbling with a bad man over money matters. "

It was good to see Ursula as she spoke; good to see the look thathusband and his wife interchanged--husband and wife, different in manypoints, yet so blessedly, so safely ONE! Then John said, in his quietway, "Love, perhaps another subject than our own affairs would be moreinteresting to Lord Luxmore. "

"Not at all--not at all!" And the earl was evidently puzzled andannoyed. "Such extraordinary conduct, " he muttered: "sovery--ahem!--unwise. If the matter were known--caught up by thosenewspapers--I must really have a little conversation with Brithwood. "

The conversation paused, and John changed it entirely by making someremarks 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 havejust had news by a carrier pigeon--my birds fly well--most importantnews for us and our party. Yesterday, in the lobby of the House ofCommons, 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 poorwife--his fatherless children!"

And for many minutes they stood, hearing the lamentable history, andlooking at their little ones at play in the garden; thinking, as manyan English father and mother did that day, of the stately house inLondon, where the widow and orphans bewailed their dead. He might ormight not be a great statesman, but he was undoubtedly a good man; manystill remember the shock of his untimely death, and how, whether or notthey 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 poorBellingham. For now Perceval is dead there will be an immediateelection; and on that election depends Catholic Emancipation. Mr. Halifax, " turning quickly round to him, "you would be of great use tous in parliament. "

"Should I?"

"Will you--I like plain speaking--will you enter it?"

Enter parliament! John Halifax in parliament! His wife and I wereboth 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 canbring you in at once, for a borough near here--my family borough. "

"Which you wish to be held by some convenient person till Lord Ravenelcomes of age? So Mr. Brown informed me yesterday. "

Lord Luxmore slightly frowned. Such transactions, as common then inthe service of the country as they still are in the service of theChurch, were yet generally glossed over, as if a certain discreditattached to them. The young lord seemed to feel it; at sound of hisname he turned round to listen, and turned back again, blushingscarlet. Not so the earl, his father. 

"Brown is--(may I offer you a pinch, Mr. Halifax?--what, not the PrinceRegent's own mixture?)--is indeed a worthy fellow, but too hasty in hisconclusions. As it happens, my son is yet undecided between theChurch--that is, the priesthood, and politics. But to ourconversation--Mrs. Halifax, may I not enlist you on my side? We couldeasily remove all difficulties, such as qualification, etc. Would younot like to see your husband member for the old and honourable boroughof Kingswell?"

"Kingswell!" It was a tumble-down village, where John held and managedfor me the sole remnant of landed property which my poor father hadleft me. "Kingswell! why there are not a dozen houses in the place. "

"The fewer the better, my dear madam. The election would cost mescarcely any--trouble; and the country be vastly the gainer by yourhusband's talents and probity. Of course he will give up the--I forgetwhat is his business now--and live independent. He is made to shine asa politician: it will be both happiness and honour to myself to havein some way contributed to that end. Mr. Halifax, you will accept myborough?"

"Not on any consideration your lordship could offer me. "

Lord Luxmore scarcely credited his ears. "My dear sir--you are themost extraordinary--may I again inquire your reasons?"

"I have several; one will suffice. Though I wish to gaininfluence--power perhaps; still the last thing I should desire would bepolitical influence. "

"You might possibly escape that unwelcome possession, " returned theearl. "Half the House of Commons is made up of harmless dummies, whovote as we bid them. "

"A character, my lord, for which I am decidedly unfitted. Untilpolitical conscience ceases to be a thing of traffic, until the peopleare allowed honestly to choose their own honest representatives, I mustdecline being of that number. Shall we dismiss the subject?"

"With pleasure, sir. "

And courtesy being met by courtesy, the question so momentous waspassed over, and merged into trivialities. Perhaps the earl, who, ashis pleasures palled, was understood to be fixing his keen wits uponthe pet profligacy of old age, politics--saw, clearly enough, that inthese chaotic days of contending parties, when the maddened outcry ofthe "people" was just being heard and listened to, it might be as wellnot to make an enemy of this young man, who, with a few more, stood asit were midway in the gulf, now slowly beginning to narrow, between thecommonalty and the aristocracy. He stayed some time longer, and thenbowed himself away with a gracious condescension worthy of the Princeof Wales himself, carrying with him the shy, gentle Lord Ravenel, whohad 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 belong before we see an earl in our quiet house again. Come in todinner, my children. "

But his lordship had left an uncomfortable impression behind him. Itlasted even until that quiet hour--often the quietest and happiest ofour day--when, the children being all in bed, we elders closed in roundthe fire. 

Ursula and I sat there, longer alone than usual. 

"John is late to-night, " she said more than once; and I could see herstart, listening to every foot under the window, every touch at thedoor-bell; not stirring, though: she knew his foot and his ring quitewell 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--andthey were heavy enough, God knows--they always seemed to slip off themoment he entered his own door; and whatever slight cares we had athome, 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'mglad of it. Truly to-night is as cold as November. "

"John, if you have a weakness, it is for fire. You're a regularsalamander. "

He laughed--warming his hands at the blaze. "Yes, I would rather behungry than cold, any day. Love, our one extravagance is certainlycoals. A grand fire this! I do like it so!"

She called him "foolish;" but smoothed down with a quiet kiss theforehead he lifted up to her as she stood beside him, looking as if shewould any day have converted the whole house into fuel for his ownprivate and particular benefit. 

"Little ones all in bed, of course?"

"Indeed, they would have lain awake half the night--those naughtyboys--talking of Longfield. You never saw children so delighted. "

"Are they?" I thought the tone was rather sad, and that the father satlistening with less interest than usual to the pleasant littlehousehold chronicle, always wonderful and always new, which it was hiscustom to ask for and have, night after night, when he camehome, --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 answersindicated; so, stealing away to the table where Guy's blurred copy-bookand Edwin's astonishing addition sums were greatly in need of UnclePhineas, I left the fire-side corner to those two. Soon John settledhimself in my easy chair, and then one saw how very weary he was--wearyin body and soul alike--weary as we seldom beheld him. It went to myheart to watch the listless stretch of his large, strong frame--thesharp lines about his mouth--lines which ought not to have come therein his two-and-thirty years. And his eyes--they hardly looked likeJohn's eyes, as they gazed in a sort of dull quietude, too anxious tobe 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 theirthings like our boys. It is pleasant, too. If only clothes did notwear 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 todo any more of it. I shall certainly have no time to waste overfineries at Longfield. "

Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and laid it downagain. After a pause he said:

"Should you be very much disappointed if--if we do not go to Longfieldafter all?"

"Not go to Longfield!" The involuntary exclamation showed how deep herlonging had been. 

"Because I am afraid--it is hard, I know--but I am afraid we cannotmanage 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 lookfaded out of her face; then she turned it, all cheerful once more, toher husband. "Now, John, tell me. Never mind about the children. Tellme. "

He told her, as was his habit at all times, of some losses which hadto-day befallen him--bad debts in his business--which would make it, ifnot impracticable, at least imprudent, to enter on any new expensesthat year. Nay, he must, if possible, retrench a little. Ursulalistened, 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 thechildren. We have so many pleasures, ay, all of us. Husband, it isnot so hard to give up this one. "

He said, in a whisper, low almost as a lover's, "I could give upanything in the world but them and thee. "

So, with a brief information to me at supper-time--"Uncle Phineas, didyou hear? we cannot go to Longfield, "--the renunciation was made, andthe subject ended. For this year, at least, our Arcadian dream wasover. 

But John's troubled looks did not pass away. It seemed as if thisnight his long toil had come to that crisis when the strongest manbreaks down--or trembles within a hair's breadth of breaking down;conscious too, horribly conscious, that if so, himself will be theleast part of the universal ruin. His face was haggard, his movementsirritable and restless; he started nervously at every sound. Sometimeseven a hasty word, an uneasiness about trifles, showed how strong wasthe effort he made at self-control. Ursula, usually by far the mostquick-tempered of the two, became to-night mild and patient. Sheneither watched nor questioned him--wise woman as she was; she only satstill, busying herself over her work, speaking now and then of littlethings, 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 melay it here as the children do. "

His wife made a place for it on her shoulder; there it rested--the poortired head, until gradually the hard and painful expression of thefeatures relaxed, and it became John's own natural face--as quiet asany of the little faces on their pillows up-stairs, whence, doubtless, slumber had long banished all anticipation of Longfield. At last he toofell asleep. 

Ursula held up her finger, that I might not stir. The clock in thecorner, and the soft sobbing of the flame on the hearth, were the onlysounds 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 itselfsoftly against John's hair, and in her eyes, which seemed so intentlycontemplating the little frock, I saw large bright tears gather--fall. But her look was serene, nay, happy; as if she thought of these belovedones, husband and children--her very own--preserved to her in healthand peace, --ay, and in that which is better than either, the unity oflove. For that priceless blessing, for the comfort of being HIScomfort, for the sweetness of bringing up these his children in thefear of God and in the honour of their father--she, true wife andmother as she was, would not have exchanged the wealth of the wholeworld. 

"What's that?" We all started, as a sudden ring at the bell pealedthrough the house, waking John, and frightening the very children intheir beds. All for a mere letter too, brought by a lacquey of LordLuxmore's. Having--somewhat indignantly--ascertained this fact, themother ran upstairs to quiet her little ones. When she came down, Johnstill stood with the letter in his hand. He had not told me what itwas; when I chanced to ask he answered in a low tone--"Presently!" Onhis wife's entrance he gave her the letter without a word. 

Well might it startle her into a cry of joy. Truly the dealings ofheaven to us were wonderful!

"Mr. John Halifax. 

"SIR, "Your wife, Ursula Halifax, having some time since attainedthe age fixed by her late father as her majority, I will, within amonth after date, pay over to your order all moneys, principal andinterest, 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, shouldinfluence another bad man to an act of justice--and that their doubleevil should be made to work out our good! Also, that this should comejust 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 burthenmade him feel how heavy it had been--how terrible theresponsibility--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 armsaround his neck--I quietly went out of the room. 

When I came in again, they were standing by the fire-side--bothcheerful, as two people to whom had happened such unexpected goodfortune might naturally be expected to appear. I offered mycongratulations in rather a comical vein than otherwise; we all of ushad caught John's habit of putting things in a comic light whenever hefelt them keenly. 

"Yes, he is a rich man now--mind you treat your brother with extrarespect, 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 magnificentshe'll look in that grey silk gown!"

"John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! you--the father of afamily! you--that are to be the largest mill-owner at Enderley--"

He looked at her fondly, half deprecatingly. "Not till I have made youand the children all safe--as I said. "

"We are safe--quite safe--when we have you. Oh, Phineas! make him seeit as I do. Make him understand that it will be the happiest day inhis 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 ourfortunes--for they wished to make me feel that now, as ever, what wastheirs was mine; then Ursula took her candle to depart. 

"Love!" John cried, calling her back as she shut the door, and watchingher stand there patient--watching with something of the old mischievoustwinkle in his eyes. "Mrs. Halifax, when shall I have the honour ofordering your long-tailed grey ponies?"

CHAPTER XXIII

Not many weeks afterwards we went to live at Longfield, whichhenceforth became the family home for many years. 

Longfield! happy Longfield! little nest of love, and joy, andpeace--where the children grew up, and we grew old--where season afterseason brought some new change ripening in us and around us--wheresummer and winter, day and night, the hand of God's providence was overour roof, blessing our goings out and our comings in, our basket andour store; crowning us with the richest blessing of all, that we weremade a household where "brethren dwelt together in unity. " BelovedLongfield! my heart, slow pulsing as befits one near the grave, thrillswarm and young as I remember thee!

Yet how shall I describe it--the familiar spot; so familiar that itseems to need no description at all. 

It was but a small place when we first came there. It led out of thehigh-road by a field-gate--the White Gate; from which a narrow pathwound down to a stream, thence up a green slope to the house; a merefarm-house, nothing more. It had one parlour, three decent bedrooms, kitchen and out-houses; we built extempore chambers out of the barn andcheese-room. In one of these the boys, Guy and Edwin, slept, againstthe low roof of which the father generally knocked his head everymorning when he came to call the lads. Its windows were open allsummer round, and birds and bats used oftentimes to fly in, to thegreat delight of the youthful inmates. 

Another infinite pleasure to the little folk was that for the firstyear, the farm-house kitchen was made our dining-room. There, throughthe open door, Edwin's pigeons, Muriel's two doves, and sometimes astately hen, walked in and out at pleasure. Whether our live stock, brought up in the law of kindness, were as well-trained andwell-behaved as our children, I cannot tell; but certain it is that wenever found any harm from this system, necessitated by our earlystraits at Longfield--this "liberty, fraternity, and equality. "

Those words, in themselves true and lovely, but wrested to falsemeaning, whose fatal sound was now dying out of Europe, merged in theequally false and fatal shout of "Gloire! gloire!" remind me of anevent which I believe was the first that broke the delicious monotonyof our new life. 

It was one September morning. Mrs. Halifax, the children, and I weredown 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 resistedthe long-tailed grey ponies. For with all the necessary improvementsat Longfield, with the large settlement that John insisted upon makingon his wife and children, before he would use in his business anyportion of her fortune, we found we were by no means so rich as to makeany great change in our way of life advisable. And, after all, themother's best luxuries were to see her children merry and strong, herhusband's face lightened of its care, and to know he was now placedbeyond doubt in the position he had always longed for; for was he notthis very day gone to sign the lease of Enderley Mills?

Mrs. Halifax had just looked at her watch, and she and I werewondering, with quite a childish pleasure, whether he were not nowsigning the important deed, when Guy came running to say acoach-and-four was trying to enter the White Gate. 

"Who can it be?--But they must be stopped, or they'll spoil John's newgravel road that he takes such pride in. Uncle Phineas, would you mindgoing to see?"

Who should I see, but almost the last person I expected--who had notbeen beheld, hardly spoken of, in our household these ten years--LadyCaroline Brithwood, in her travelling-habit of green cloth, her velvetriding-hat, with its Prince of Wales' feathers, gayer than ever--thoughher pretty face was withering under the paint, and her lively mannergrowing coarse and bold. 

"Is this Longfield?--Does Mr. Halifax--mon Dieu, Mr. Fletcher, is thatyou?"

She held out her hand with the frankest condescension, and in thebrightest humour in the world. She insisted on sending on thecarriage, and accompanying me down to the stream, for a "surprise"--a"scene. "

Mrs. Halifax, seeing the coach drive on, had evidently forgotten allabout 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'sweight. Her right hand kept firm hold of Guy, who was paddlingbarefoot in the stream: Edwin, the only one of the boys who never gaveany trouble, was soberly digging away, beside little Muriel. 

The lady clapped her hands. "Brava! bravissima! a charming familypicture, Mrs. Halifax. "

"Lady Caroline!"

Ursula left her children, and came to greet her old acquaintance, whomshe had never once seen since she was Ursula Halifax. Perhaps thatfact touched her, and it was with a kind of involuntary tenderness thatshe looked into the sickly face, where all the smiles could not hidethe 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?--Ohyes, I remember William told me--poor little thing!" And with uneasyawe she turned from our blind Muriel, our child of peace. 

"Will you come up to the house? my husband has only ridden over toEnderley; he will be home soon. "

"And glad to see me, I wonder? For I am rather afraid of that husbandof yours--eh, Ursula? Yet I should greatly like to stay. "

Ursula laughed, and repeated the welcome. She was so happyherself--she longed to distribute her happiness. They walked, thechildren following, towards the house. 

Under the great walnut-tree, by the sunk fence which guarded theflower-garden from the sheep and cows, Mrs. Halifax stopped and pointeddown the green slope of the field, across the valley, to the woodedhills opposite. 

"Isn't it a pretty view?" said Guy, creeping up and touching thestranger's gown; our children had lived too much in an atmosphere oflove 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 therethis afternoon. "

"Do you like going walks with your father?"

"Oh, don't we!" An electric smile ran through the whole circle. Ittold enough of the blessed home-tale. 

Lady Caroline laughed a sharp laugh. "Eh, my dear, I see how thingsare. You don't regret having married John Halifax, the tanner?"

"Regret!"

"Nay, be not impetuous. I always said he was a noble fellow--so doesthe earl now. And William--you can't think what a hero your husband isto William. "

"Lord Ravenel?"

"Ay, my little brother that was--growing a young man now--a frightfulbigot, wanting to make our house as Catholic as when two or three of uslost our heads for King James. But he is a good boy--poor William! Ihad 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 astonishinghonesty to Mr. Halifax cost him a fit of gout--mais n'importe. If theymeet, 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, 'tiselection time, and the earl wishes to put in a gentleman, a friend ofours, 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; Ionly know that they want your husband to be friendly with mine. Isthis plain enough?"

"Certainly: be under no apprehension. Mr. Halifax never bears maliceagainst any one. Was this the reason of your visit, Lady Caroline?"

"Eh--mon Dieu! what would become of us if we were all asstraightforward as you, Mistress Ursula? But it sounds charming--inthe country. No, my dear; I came--nay, I hardly know why. Probably, because I liked to come--my usual reason for most actions. Is thatyour salle-a-manger? Won't you ask me to dinner, ma cousine?"

"Of course, " the mother said, though I fancied, afterwards, theinvitation rather weighed upon her mind, probably from the doubtwhether 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 whatshe felt to be right was the surest way to be right in her husband'seyes. 

So Lady Caroline was our guest for the day--a novel guest--but she madeherself at once familiar and pleasant. Guy, a little gentleman fromhis 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 allfavours, insisted on escorting her to pay a visit to the beautiful calfnot a week old. 

Laughing, she followed the boys; telling them how lately in Sicily shehad been presented to a week-old prince, son of Louis Philippe theyoung Duke of Orleans and the Princess Marie-Amelie. "And truly, children, he was not half so pretty as your little calf. Ursula, I amsick of courts sometimes. I would turn shepherdess myself, if we couldfind a tolerable Arcadia. "

"Is there any Arcadia like home?"

"Home!"--Her face expressed the utmost loathing, fear, and scorn. Iremembered hearing that the 'Squire since his return from abroad hadgrown just like his father; was drunk every day and all day long. "Isyour 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, thatparadise of husbands, where the first husband in the realm sets such anillustrious example. How do you stay-at-home British matrons feeltowards my friend the Princess of Wales?"

"God help her, and make her as good a woman as she is a wronged andmiserable wife, " said Ursula, sadly. 

"Query, Can a 'good woman' be made out of a 'wronged and miserablewife'? If so, Mrs. Halifax, you should certainly take out a patent forthe manufacture. "

The subject touched too near home. Ursula wisely avoided it, byinquiring if Lady Caroline meant to remain in England. 

"Cela depend. " She turned suddenly grave. "Your fresh air makes mefeel weary. Shall we go in-doors?"

Dinner was ready laid out--a plain meal; since neither the father norany of us cared for table dainties; but I think if we had lived in ahut, and fed off wooden platters on potatoes and salt, our repast wouldhave been fair and orderly, and our hut the neatest that a hut couldbe. For the mother of the family had in perfection almost the bestgenius a woman can have--the genius of tidiness. 

We were not in the least ashamed of our simple dinner-table, where nodifference was ever made for anybody. We had little plate, but plentyof snow-white napery and pretty china; and what with the scents of theflower-garden on one side, and the green waving of the elm-tree on theother, it was as good as dining out-of-doors. 

The boys were still gathered round Lady Caroline, in the little closetoff the dining-room where lessons were learnt; Muriel sat as usual onthe door-sill, petting one of her doves that used to come and perch onher head and her shoulder, of their own accord, when I heard the childsay to herself:

"Father's coming. "

"Where, darling?"

"Up the farm-yard way. There--he is on the gravel-walk. He hasstopped; I dare say it is to pull some of the jessamine that grows overthe 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 thesechildren, who in its fullest sense could understand the word "father!"to whom, from the dawn of their little lives, their father was what allfathers should be--the truest representative here on earth of thatFather in heaven, who is at once justice, wisdom, and perfect love. 

Happy, too--most blessed among women--the woman who gave her childrensuch a father!

Ursula came--for his eye was wandering in search of her--and receivedthe 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, ascongratulation. He was going to tell more, when Ursula said, ratherhesitatingly, "We have a visitor to-day. "

Lady Caroline came out of her corner, laughing. "You did not expectme, 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 hefelt, as it seemed to my observant eye, more surprise thangratification in this incursion on his quiet home. Also I noticed thatwhen Lady Caroline, in the height of her condescension, would haveMuriel close to her at dinner, he involuntarily drew his littledaughter to her accustomed place beside himself, "She always sits here, thank you. "

The table-talk was chiefly between the lady and her host; she rarelytalked to women when a man was to be had. Conversation veered betweenthe Emperor Napoleon and Lord Wellington, Lord William Bentinck andSardinian policy, the conjugal squabbles of Carlton House, and theone-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 beencommenting on it to us that morning rather severely. An election! itwas merely a talk in the King's Head parlour, a nomination, and show ofhands by some dozen poor labourers, tenants of Mr. Brithwood and LordLuxmore, who got a few pounds a-piece for their services--and the thingwas done. 

"Who is the nominee, Lady Caroline?"

"A young gentleman of small fortune, but excellent parts, who returnedwith 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 LadyCaroline. 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 fixedhis admiring gaze upon the "pretty lady, " insisted on taking her downthe garden and gathering for her a magnificent arum lily, the mother'sfavourite lily. I suggested gaining permission first; and was sent toask 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 hadnot come here, I would never have grieved you by telling it. "

"Perhaps it is not true, " said Ursula, warmly. "The world is readyenough to invent cruel falsehoods about us women. "

"'Us women!' Don't say that, Ursula. I will not have my wife named inthe same breath with HER. "

"John!"

"I will not, I say. You don't know what it cost me even to see hertouch 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 wifeof mine. I could not bear to think of her holding intercourse with alight 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 childrennow? Oh! John--think--she has no children. "

The deep pity passed from Ursula's heart to her husband's. Johnclasped fondly the two hands that were laid on his shoulders, as, looking up in his face, the happy wife pleaded silently for one whomall the world knew was so wronged and so unhappy. 

"We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a betterChristian than I. "

All afternoon they both showed more than courtesy--kindness, to thiswoman, at whom, as any one out of our retired household would haveknown, and as John did know well--all the world was already pointingthe finger, on account of Mr. Gerard Vermilye. She, on her part, withher chameleon power of seizing and sunning herself in the delight ofthe moment, was in a state of the highest enjoyment. She turned"shepherdess, " fed the poultry with Edwin, pulled off her jewelledornaments, and gave them to Walter for playthings; nay, she even washedoff her rouge at the spring, and came in with faint natural roses uponher faded cheeks. So happy she seemed, so innocently, childishlyhappy; that more than once I saw John and Ursula exchange satisfiedlooks, 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; thechildren playing about; while the father and mother strolled up anddown the sloping field-path, arm in arm like lovers, or sometimes hefondly leaning upon her. Thus they would walk and talk together in thetwilight, for hours. 

Lady Caroline pointed to them. "Look! Adam and Eve modernized; Baucisand 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 werecoming upon her--the dark days. 

"People are always young, " I answered, "who love one another as thesedo. "

"Love! what an old-fashioned word. I hate it! It is so--what wouldyou say in English?--so dechirant. I would not cultivate une grandepassion for the world. "

I smiled at the idea of the bond between Mr. And Mrs. Halifax takingthe Frenchified character of "une grande passion. "

"But home-love, married love, love among children and at thefire-side;--you believe in that?"

She turned upon me her beautiful eyes; they had a scared look, like abird's driven right into the fowler's net. 

"C'est impossible--impossible!"

The word hissed itself out between her shut teeth--"impossible. " Thenshe walked quickly on, and was her lively self once more. 

When the evening closed, and the younger children were gone to bed, shebecame rather restless about the non-appearance of her coach. At lasta lacquey arrived on foot. She angrily inquired why a carriage had notbeen 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 hesays, 'My lady went out against his will, and she may come home whenand 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 theeasiest 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 ourwhole establishment, my husband and I. We are at the Mythe what thePrince Regent and the Princess of Wales are to the country at large. Wedivide our people between us; I fascinate--he bribes. Ha! ha! Welldone, 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 twolonger. Could you send a letter for me?"

"To your husband? Certainly. "

"My husband?--Never!--Yes, to MY HUSBAND. " The first part of thesentence was full of fierce contempt; the latter, smothered, and slowlydesperate. "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--everythingthat constitutes happiness and--"

"Sin. "

The word in her ear was so low, that she started as if conscience onlyhad 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 inmy 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 allthings, not absolutely wrong, her husband's will. I am glad youthought 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 whomis this letter?"

"To--" I think she would have told a falsehood, if John's eyes had notbeen 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 mostunlawfully--hovering about, ready to do any chivalrous duty to his idolof 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 burstinto a passion of tears. 

The mother signed me to carry Guy away; she and John took Lady Carolineinto 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 shebecame composed--asked again for writing materials--then countermandedthe request. 

"No, I will wait till to-morrow. Ursula, you will take me in for thenight?"

Mrs. Halifax looked appealingly to her husband, but he gave no assent. 

"Lady Caroline, you should willingly stay, were it not, as you mustknow, so fatal a step. In your position, you should be most careful toleave 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 hecould. "

"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 thesimple statement of a fact. The convicted woman dropped her facebetween 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 beautifulhair--beautiful still, though she must have been five or six and thirtyat least--"Yes, it is true--it shall be true. I will break my bondsand live the life I was made for. I would have done it long ago, butfor--no matter. Why, Ursula, he adores me; young and handsome as heis, 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 sesplaisirs, la jeunesse, l'amour. "

The mother grew sterner--any such wife and mother would. Then andthere, compassion might have died out of even her good heart, had itnot been for the sudden noise over-head of children's feet--children'schattering. Once more the pitiful thought came--"She has no children. "

"Caroline, " she said, catching her gown as she passed, "when I was withyou, 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 noafter-life. "

Ursula turned away in horror. "John, what shall we do with her? Nohome!--no husband!--no God!"

"He never leaves Himself without a witness. Look, love. "

The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro--weeping and wringing herhands. "It was cruel--cruel! You should not have spoken about mybaby. Now--"

"Tell me--just one word--I will not believe anybody's word except yourown. Caroline, are you--still innocent?"

Lady Caroline shrank from her touch. "Don't hold me so. You may haveone standard of virtue, I another. "

"Still, tell me. "

"And if I did, you, an 'honourable English matron'--was not that yourhusband's word?--would turn from me, most likely. "

"She will not, " John said. "She has been happy, and you mostmiserable. "

"Oh, most miserable. "

That bitter groan went to both their hearts, Ursula leaned overher--herself almost in tears. "Cousin Caroline, John says true--I willnot turn from you. I know you have been sinnedagainst--cruelly--cruelly. Only tell me that you yourself have notsinned. "

"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 yourhand. "

"Husband, shall I?"

"No. "

For some minutes they stood together, both silent, with this poorwoman. I call her "poor, " as did they, knowing, that if a suffererneeds pity, how tenfold more does a sinner!

John spoke first. "Cousin Caroline. " She lifted up her head inamazement. "We are your cousins, and we wish to be your friends, mywife 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 Ilove him. That is the true marriage. No, I will make you no suchpromise. Let me go. "

"Pardon me--not yet. I cannot suffer my wife's kinswoman to elope frommy own house, without trying to prevent it. "

"Prevent!--sir!--Mr. Halifax! You forget who you are, and who Iam--the daughter of the Earl of Luxmore. "

"Were you the King's daughter it would make no difference. I will saveyou 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 mustfollow him--quick--quick. "

"You cannot. He is miles distant by this time. He is afraid lest thisstory should come out to-morrow at Kingswell; and to be an M. P. Andsafe from arrest is better to Mr. Vermilye than even yourself, LadyCaroline. "

John's wife, unaccustomed to hear him take that cool, worldly, half-sarcastic tone, turned to him somewhat reproachfully; but hejudged best. For the moment, this tone had more weight with the womanof the world than any homilies. She began to be afraid of Mr. Halifax. Impulse, rather than resolution, guided her, and even these impulseswere 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 youdisown 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 theself-convicted woman all the sentimental disguises with which the worldthen hid, and still hides, its corruptions. Her sin arose and staredher blackly in the face--AS SIN. She cowered before it. 

"Am I--THAT? And William will know it. Poor William!" She looked upat Ursula--for the first time with the guilty look; hitherto, it hadbeen only one of pain or despair. "Nobody knows it, except you. Don'ttell William. I would have gone long ago, but for him. He is a goodboy;--don't let him guess his sister was--"

She left the word unspoken. Shame seemed to crush her down to theearth; shame, the precursor of saving penitence--at least, John thoughtso. He quitted the room, leaving her to the ministry of his otherself, his wife. As he sat down with me, and told me in a few wordswhat indeed I had already more than half guessed, I could not butnotice the expression of his own face. And I recognized how a man canbe at once righteous to judge, tender to pity, and strong to save; aman the principle of whose life is, as John's was--that it should bemade "conformable to the image" of Him, who was Himself on earth theimage of God. 

Ursula came out and called her husband. They talked some timetogether. I guessed, from what I heard, that she wished Lady Carolineto stay the night here, but that he with better judgment was urging thenecessity of her returning to the protection of her husband's homewithout an hour's delay. 

"It is her only chance of saving her reputation. She must do it. Tellher so, Ursula. "

After a few minutes, Mrs. Halifax came out again. 

"I have persuaded her at last. She says she will do whatever you thinkbest. Only before she goes, she wants to look at the children. Mayshe?"

"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 bevery fond of riding. 

"She can ride back again from the Mythe, " said John. "She wishes togo, and it is best she should; so that nothing need be said, exceptthat Lady Caroline spent a day at Longfield, and that my wife and Iaccompanied her safe home. "

While he spoke, the two ladies came down the field-path. I fancied Iheard, even now, a faint echo of that peculiarly sweet and carelesslaugh, indicating how light were all impressions on a temperament soplastic and weak--so easily remoulded by the very next influence thatfate might throw across her perilous way. 

John Halifax assisted her on horseback, took the bridle under one armand gave the other to his wife. Thus they passed up the path, and outat the White Gate. 

I delayed a little while, listening to the wind, and to the prattle ofthe stream, that went singing along in daylight or in darkness, by ourhappy 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'sepisode, except us three. 

In the morning, Guy looked wistfully around him, asking for the "prettylady;" and being told that she was gone, and that he would not belikely to see her again, seemed disappointed for a minute; but soon hewent down to play at the stream, and forgot all. 

Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about the house wasrarer than its wont; that her quick, active, cheerfulpresence--penetrating every nook, and visiting every creature, as withthe freshness of an April wind--was this day softer and sadder; but shedid 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 upany old associations. At dinner-time he came home, saying he was goingout again immediately. 

Ursula looked uneasy. A few minutes after, she followed me under thewalnut-tree, where I was sitting with Muriel, and asked me if I wouldgo 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 notthe slightest need--my husband can do all that he has to doalone--still, for my own satisfaction, I would like his brother to benear him. "

They invariably called me their brother now; and it seemed as if thename had been mine by right of blood always. 

Of course, I went to Kingswell, riding John's brown mare, he himselfwalking 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 aswe passed along the quiet roads and green lanes, just as when we wereboys together, when I had none I cared for but David, and David caredonly for me. The natural growth of things had made a difference inthis, but our affection had changed its outward form only, not itsessence. I often think that all loves and friendships need a certainthree days' burial before we can be quite sure of their truth andimmortality. Mine--it happened just after John's marriage, and I mayconfess it now--had likewise its entombment, bitter as brief. Manycruel 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 themorning, it rose, and I met it in the desolate garden, different, yetthe very same. And after that, it walked with me continually, secureand imperishable evermore. 

I rode, and John sauntered beside me along the footpath, now and thenplucking a leaf or branch off the hedge, and playing with it, as washis habit when a lad. Often I caught the old smile--not one of histhree boys, not even handsome Guy, had their father's smile. 

He was telling me about Enderley Mill, and all his plans there, in thewhich he seemed very happy. At last, his long life of duty was merginginto the life he loved. He looked as proud and pleased as a boy, intalking of the new inventions he meant to apply in cloth-weaving; andhow he and his wife had agreed together to live for some years to comeat little Longfield, strictly within their settled income, that all theremainder of his capital might go to the improvement of Enderley Millsand mill-people. 

"I shall be master of nearly a hundred, men and women. Think what goodwe may do! She has half-a-dozen plans on foot already--bless her dearheart!"

It was easy to guess whom he referred to--the one who went hand-in-handwith 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 theold tan-yard people, and those about the flour-mill, and the Kingswelltenants--ah, Phineas, wasn't I right about those Kingswell folk?"

These were about a dozen poor families, whom, when our mortgage fellin, he had lured out of Sally Watkins' miserable alley to these oldhouses, where they had at least fresh country air, and space enough tolive wholesomely and decently, instead of herding together like pigs ina sty. 

"You ought to be proud of your tenants, Phineas. I assure you, theyform quite a contrast to their neighbours, who are Lord Luxmore's. "

"And his voters likewise, I suppose?--the 'free and independentburgesses' who are to send Mr. Vermilye to Parliament?"

"If they can, " said John, biting his lip with that resolutehalf-combative air which I now saw in him at times, roused by thingswhich continually met him in his dealings with the world--thingsrepugnant alike to his feelings and his principles, but which he hadstill to endure, not having risen high enough to oppose, single-handed, the great mass of social corruption which at this crisis of Englishhistory kept gathering and gathering, until out of the very horror andloathsomeness of it an outcry for purification arose. 

"Do you know, Phineas, I might last week have sold your houses fordouble price? They are valuable, this election year, since your fivetenants are the only voters in Kingswell who are not likewise tenantsof Lord Luxmore. Don't you see how the matter stands?"

It was not difficult, for that sort of game was played all overEngland, connived at, or at least winked at, by those who had politicalinfluence to sell or obtain, until the Reform Bill opened up theelection system in all its rottenness and enormity. 

"Of course I knew you would not sell your houses; and I shall use everypossible influence I have to prevent your tenants selling their votes. Whatever may be the consequence, the sort of thing that this Kingswellelection bids fair to be, is what any honest Englishman ought to sethis face against, and prevent if he can. "

"Can you?"

"I do not feel sure, but I mean to try. First, for simple right andconscience; secondly, because if Mr. Vermilye is not saved from arrestby being placed in Parliament, he will be outlawed and driven safe outof the country. You see?"

Ay, I did, only too well. Though I foresaw that whatever John wasabout to do, it must necessarily be something that would run directlycounter to Lord Luxmore--and he had only just signed the lease ofEnderley Mills. Still, if right to be done, he ought to do it at allrisks, at all costs; and I knew his wife would say so. 

We came to the foot of Kingswell Hill, and saw the little hamlet--withits grey old houses, its small, ancient church, guarded by enormousyew-trees, and clothed with ivy that indicated centuries of growth. 

A carriage overtook us here; in it were two gentlemen, one of whombowed 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--Ilike him--even his fine old Norman face, like one of his knightlyancestors on the tomb in Kingswell church. There's something pleasantabout his stiff courtesy and his staunch Toryism; for he fully believesin it, and acts up to his belief. A true English gentleman, and Irespect him. "

"Yet, John, Norton Bury calls you a democrat. "

"So I am, for I belong to the people. But I nevertheless uphold a truearistocracy--the BEST MEN of the country, --do you remember our Greeksof old? These ought to govern, and will govern, one day, whether theirpatent 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 hisbusy life of constant action. I liked to observe how during these tenyears his mind had brooded over many things; how it had grown, strengthened, and settled itself, enlarging both its vision and itsaspirations; as a man does, who, his heart at rest in a happy home, hastime 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 withthe strength of an intellect which owed all its development to himselfalone; calm with the wisdom which, if a man is ever to be wise, comesto him after he has crossed the line of thirty years. In that face, where day by day Time was writing its fit lessons--beautiful, becausethey were so fit--I ceased to miss the boyish grace, and rejoiced inthe manhood present, in the old age that was to be. 

It seemed almost too short a journey, when, putting his hand on themare's bridle--the creature loved him, and turned to lick his arm theminute he came near--John stopped me to see the view from acrossKingswell 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 tolook at them. Nay, it brings back a little bit of me which rarelycomes uppermost now, as it used to come long ago, when we read yournamesake, and Shakspeare, and that Anonymous Friend who has since madesuch a noise in the world. I delight in him still. Think of a man ofbusiness liking Coleridge. "

"I don't see why he should not. "

"Nor I. Well, my poetic tastes may come out more at Enderley. Orperhaps 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 towalk 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 allKingswell 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 manknows how much he can do till he tries. "

So saying, he went into the large parlour of the Luxmore Arms, wherethe election was going on. 

A very simple thing, that election! Sir Ralph Oldtower, who wassheriff, sat at a table, with his son, the grave-looking young man whohad been with him in the carriage; near them were Mr. Brithwood of theMythe, 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 mostheads present; the sheriff saw him at once, and bowed courteously. Sodid young Mr. Herbert Oldtower, so did the Earl of Luxmore. RichardBrithwood alone took no notice, but turned his back and looked anotherway. 

It was now many years since I had seen the 'squire, Lady Caroline'shusband. He had fulfilled the promise of his youth, and grown into abloated, coarse-featured, middle-aged man; such a man as one rarelymeets with now-a-days; for even I, Phineas Fletcher, have lived to seeso great a change in manners and morals, that intemperance, instead ofbeing the usual characteristic of "a gentleman, " has become a rarefailing--a universally-contemned disgrace. 

"Less noise there!" growled Mr. Brithwood. "Silence, you fellows atthe door! Now, Sir Ralph, let's get the business over, and be back fordinner. "

Sir Ralph turned his stately grey head to the light, put on his goldspectacles, 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 withrather frosty civility to Lord Luxmore. Their acquaintance seemedsolely that of business. People whispered that Sir Ralph never forgotthat the Oldtowers were Crusaders when the Ravenels were--nobody. Alsothe baronet, whose ancestors were all honourable men and stainlesswomen, found it hard to overlook a certain royal bar-sinister, whichhad originated the Luxmore earldom, together with a few other blotswhich had tarnished that scutcheon since. So folk said; but probablySir Ralph's high principle was at least as strong as his pride, andthat the real cause of his dislike was founded on the too well-knowncharacter of the Earl of Luxmore. 

They ceased talking; the sheriff rose, and briefly stated that RichardBrithwood, Esquire, of the Mythe, would nominate a candidate. 

The candidate was Gerard Vermilye, Esquire; at the mention of whosename one Norton Bury man broke into a horse-laugh, which was quenchedby his immediate ejection from the meeting. 

Then, Mr. Thomas Brown, steward of the Earl of Luxmore, seconded thenomination. 

After a few words between the sheriff, his son, and Lord Luxmore, theresult of which seemed rather unsatisfactory than otherwise, Sir RalphOldtower 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 myinterruption, 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 whichproved 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, youare a freeman of Kingswell?"

"I am. "

This fact surprised none more than myself. 

Brithwood furiously exclaimed that it was a falsehood. "The fellowdoes not belong to this neighbourhood at all. He was picked up inNorton Bury streets--a beggar, a thief, for all I know. "

"You do know very well, Mr. Brithwood. Sir Ralph, I was never either abeggar or a thief. I began life as a working lad--afarm-labourer--until Mr. Fletcher, the tanner, took me into his employ. "

"So I have always understood, " said Sir Ralph, courteously. "And nextto the man who is fortunate enough to boast a noble origin, I respectthe 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 claimto be a freeman of this borough. "

"On what grounds?"

"You will find in the charter a clause, seldom put in force, that thedaughter of a freeman can confer the freedom on her husband. My wife'slate father, Mr. Henry March, was a burgess of Kingswell. I claimed myrights, and registered, this year. Ask your clerk, Sir Ralph, if Ihave not spoken correctly. "

The old white-headed clerk allowed the fact. 

Lord Luxmore looked considerably surprised, and politely incredulousstill. 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 dearsir, may I request so useful a vote and so powerful an interest asyours, for our friend, Mr. Vermilye?"

"My lord, I should be very sorry for you to misapprehend me for amoment. It is not my intention, except at the last extremity, to voteat all. If I do, it will certainly not be for Mr. Brithwood's nominee. Sir Ralph, I doubt if, under some circumstances, which by yourpermission 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 bysuch propinquity to gentry and even nobility, had hitherto hungsheepishly 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 snuffwith 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 fewfacts have reached my knowledge, though possibly not Lord Luxmore's, which make me feel that Mr. Vermilye's election would be an insult toall three; therefore, I oppose it. "

A louder murmur rose. 

"Silence, you scoundrels!" shouted Mr. Brithwood; adding his usualformula of speech, which a second time extorted the old baronet's graverebuke. 

"It seems, Sir Ralph, that democracy is rife in your neighbourhood. True, my acquaintance has not lain much among the commonalty, but stillI 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 youto allege against Mr. Brithwood's nominee?"

"First, his qualification. He has not three hundred, nor one hundreda-year. He is deeply in debt, at Norton Bury and elsewhere. Warrantsare 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 notwink 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 saidenough to convince any honest Englishman that Mr. Gerard Vermilye isnot fit to represent them in Parliament. "

Here a loud cheer broke from the crowd at the door and under the openwindows, 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 thoughbribery was, as John had truly said, "as common as daylight, " still, ifbrought openly before the public, the said virtuous public generallycondemned 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 ofthe soil. 

"Really, Mr. Brithwood, you must have been as ignorant as I was of thecharacter of your nominee, or you would have chosen some one else. Herbert"--he turned to his son, who, until the late dissolution, hadsat for some years as member for Norton Bury--"Herbert, are youacquainted with any of these facts?"

Mr. Herbert Oldtower looked uncomfortable. 

"Answer, " said his father. "No hesitation in a matter of right andwrong. 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 madebefore. What do you purpose doing?"

"By the Lord that made me, nothing! The borough is Lord Luxmore's; Icould nominate Satan himself if I chose. My man shall stand. "

"I think, " Lord Luxmore said, with meaning, "it would be better for allparties that Mr. Vermilye should stand. "

"My lord, " said the baronet; and one could see that not only rigidjustice, but a certain obstinacy, marked his character, especially whenanything jarred against his personal dignity or prejudices; "you forgetthat, however desirous I am to satisfy the family to whom this boroughbelongs, it is impossible for me to see with satisfaction--even thoughI cannot prevent--the election of any person so unfit to serve HisMajesty. If, indeed, there were another candidate, so that the popularfeeling might decide this very difficult matter--"

"Sir Ralph, " said John Halifax, determinedly, "this brings me to thepurpose for which I spoke. Being a landholder, and likewise a freemanof this borough, I claim the right of nominating a second candidate. "

Intense, overwhelming astonishment struck all present. Such a righthad been so long unclaimed, that everybody had forgotten it was a rightat all. Sir Ralph and his clerk laid their venerable heads togetherfor some minutes, before they could come to any conclusion on thesubject. At last the sheriff rose. 

"I am bound to say, that, though very uncommon, this proceeding is notillegal. "

"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 gentlemanwhom I in this emergency can name; and is one whom myself, and Ibelieve all my neighbours, will be heartily glad to see once more inParliament. I beg to nominate Mr. Herbert Oldtower. "

A decided sensation at the upper half of the room. At the lower halfan unanimous, involuntary cheer; for among our county families therewere few so warmly respected as the Oldtowers. 

Sir Ralph rose, much perplexed. "I trust that no one present willsuppose I was aware of Mr. Halifax's intention. Nor, I understand, wasMr. Oldtower. My son must speak for himself. "

Mr. Oldtower, with his accustomed gravity, accompanied by a notunbecoming modesty, said, that in this conjuncture, and beingpersonally unacquainted with both Mr. Brithwood and the Earl ofLuxmore, he felt no hesitation in accepting the honour offered to him. 

"That being the case, " said his father, though evidently annoyed, "Ihave only to fulfil my duty as public officer to the Crown. "

Amidst some confusion, a show of hands was called for; and then a cryrose 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, yourson's mad. "

"Sir, insanity is not in the family of the Oldtowers. My position hereis simply as sheriff of the county. If a poll be called for--"

"Excuse me, Sir Ralph, it would be hardly worth while. May I offeryou--"

It was--only his snuff-box. But the Earl's polite and meaning smilefilled up the remainder of the sentence. 

Sir Ralph Oldtower drew himself up haughtily, and the fire of youthflashed indignantly from his grand old eyes. 

"Lord Luxmore seems not to understand the duties and principles of uscountry gentlemen, " he said coldly, and turned away, addressing thegeneral 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, andmore emphatically. "A gentleman, "--he paused, as if doubtful whetherin that title he were awarding a right or bestowing a courtesy, lookedat John, and decided--"a gentleman for whom, ever since I have knownhim, I have entertained the highest respect. "

It was the first public recognition of the position which for some timehad been tacitly given to John Halifax in his own neighbourhood. Comingthus, from this upright and honourable old man, whose least merit itwas to hold, and worthily, a baronetage centuries old, it made John'scheek glow with an honest gratification and a pardonable pride. 

"Tell her, " he said to me, when, the meeting having dispersed, he askedme to ride home and explain the reason of his detention atKingswell--"Tell my wife all. She will be pleased, you know. "

Ay, she was. Her face glowed and brightened as only a wife's can--awife 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 parishwere agog to see the novel sight. A contested election! truly, such athing had not been known within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. The fifteen voters--I believe that was the number--were altogetherbewildered by a sense of their own importance. Also, by a new andstartling fact--which I found Mr. Halifax trying to impress upon a fewof them, gathered under the great yew-tree in the churchyard--that aman'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 inthe liberty of his son or the honour of his daughter. Among those wholistened most earnestly, was a man whom I had seen before to-day--JacobBaines, once the ringleader of the bread-riots, who had long workedsteadily in the tan-yard, and then at the flour-mill. He was thehonestest and faithfulest of all John's people--illustratingunconsciously that Divine doctrine, that often they love most to whommost has been forgiven. 

The poll was to be held in the church--a not uncommon usage in countryboroughs, but which from its rarity struck great awe into the Kingswellfolk. The churchwarden was placed in the clerk's desk to receivevotes. Not far off, the sheriff sat in his family-pew, bare-headed; byhis grave and reverent manner imposing due decorum, which was carefullyobserved 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 wasa very small building, narrow and cruciform; every word said in it wasdistinctly audible throughout. 

"My lord, gentlemen, and my friends all, " said Sir Ralph, risinggravely, "let me hope that every one will respect the sanctity of thisplace. "

Lord Luxmore, who had been going about with his dazzling diamondsnuff-box and equally dazzling smile, stopped in the middle of theaisle, bowed, replied, "With pleasure--certainly!" and walked insidethe communion rail, as if believing that his presence there conveyedthe highest compliment he could pay the spot. 

The poll began in perfect silence. One after the other, three farmerswent up and voted for Mr. Vermilye. There was snuff under theirnoses--probably something heavier than snuff in their pockets. 

Then came up the big, grey-headed fellow I have before mentioned--JacobBaines. He pulled his fore-lock to Sir Ralph, rather shyly; possiblyin his youth he had made the sheriff's acquaintance under lessfavourable 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 wasnoted for his kindly manner to humble folk. 

"Sir, I be a poor man. I lives in one o' my lord's houses. I hannapaid no rent for a year. Mr. Brown zays to me, he zays--'Jacob, votefor Vermilye, and I'll forgive 'ee the rent, and here be two pound tento 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 nighfour pound for his vote), I sure us be poor men, and his lordship alord and all that--it's no harm, I reckon. "

"Holloa! cut it short, you rascal; you're stopping the poll. Vote, Isay. "

"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' gotshut o' these. "

And he counted out of his ragged pockets a handful of guineas. Poorfellow! how bright they looked; those guineas, that were food, clothing, life. 

"Three was paid to I, two to Will Horrocks, and the rest to MatthewHales. But, sir, we has changed our minds; and please, would 'ee giveback 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 themaster in the face else. Twelve year ago, come Michaelmas, he keptsome on us from starving--may be worse. We bean't going to turnrascals on's hands now. Now I'll vote, sir, --and it won't be forVermilye. "

A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob, as he marched backdown the aisle, where on the stone benches of the porch was seated arural jury, who discussed not over-favourably the merits of LordLuxmore'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 allEngland. "

"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 thecommunion-chair, apparently satisfied that as things always had been sothey would continue to be; that despite the unheard-of absurdity of acontested election, his pocket-borough was quite secure. It must havebeen, to say the least, a great surprise to his lordship, when, thepoll being closed, its result was found thus: Out of the fifteenvotes, six were for Mr. Vermilye, nine for his opponent. Mr. HerbertOldtower was therefore duly elected as member for the borough ofKingswell. 

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 Iwill!"

"You may find it difficult, " said John Halifax, counting out theguineas deposited by Jacob Baines, and laying them in a heap before Mr. Brown, the steward. "Small as the number is, I believe any Committeeof the House of Commons will decide that nine honester votes were neverpolled. But I regret, my lord--I regret deeply, Mr. Brithwood, "--andthere was a kind of pity in his eye--"that in this matter I have beenforced, as it were, to become your opponent. Some day, perhaps, youmay both do me the justice that I now can only look for from my ownconscience. "

"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 toNorton 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 amaware what usually results when tenants in arrear vote against theirlandlords--if, without taking any harsher measures, your agent will beso 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 thefield, Lord Luxmore departed. Soon not one remained of all those whohad filled the church and churchyard, making there a tumult that ischronicled to this very day by some ancient villagers, who still thinkthemselves greatly ill-used because the Reform Act has blotted out ofthe list of English boroughs the "loyal and independent" borough ofKingswell. 

Sir Ralph Oldtower stood a good while talking with John; and finally, having sent his carriage on, walked with him down Kingswell Hilltowards the manor-house. I, riding alongside, caught fragments oftheir conversation. 

"What you say is all true, Mr. Halifax; and you say it well. But whatcan we do? Our English constitution is perfect--that is, as perfect asanything human can be. Yet corruptions will arise; we regret, we evenblame--but we cannot remove them. It is impossible. "

"Do you think, Sir Ralph, that the Maker of this world--which, so faras we can see, He means like all other of His creations gradually toadvance toward perfection--do you think He would justify us inpronouncing any good work therein 'impossible'?"

"You talk like a young man, " said the baronet, half sadly. "Comingyears 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 thevery youth which he thus charitably excused as a thing to be allowedfor till riper wisdom came. Something might have smote the old manwith a conviction, that in this youth was strength and life, the spiritof the new generation then arising, before which the old worn-outgeneration would crumble into its natural dust. Dust of the dead ages, honourable dust, to be reverently inurned, and never parricidallyprofaned by us the living age, who in our turn must follow the samedownward 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 himhesitate, added, that "Lady Oldtower would shortly have the honour ofcalling upon Mrs. Halifax. "

John bowed. "But I ought to tell you, Sir Ralph, that my wife and Iare very simple people--that we make no mere acquaintances, and onlydesire friends. "

"It is fortunate that Lady Oldtower and myself share the samepeculiarity. " And, shaking hands with a stately cordiality, the oldman 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 thehedge-leaves as he went along. 

"What will your wife say?"

"My wife? bless her!" and he seemed to be only speaking the conclusionof his thinking. "It will make no difference to her--though it mightto me. She married me in my low estate--but some day, God willing, nolady in the land shall be higher than my Ursula. "

Thus as in all things each thought most of the other, and both ofHim--whose will was to them beyond all human love, ay, even such loveas theirs. 

Slowly, slowly, I watched the grey turrets of the manor-house fade awayin the dusk; the hills grew indistinct, and suddenly we saw the littletwinkling light that we knew was the lamp in Longfield parlour, shineout 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; thefatherly 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 mostwomen; but I knew by her waiting there, and by the nervous tremble ofher 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 roundher, for she was shivering. "We have done all we could and must waitthe 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 morningsun climbing over One-Tree Hill, catching the larch-wood, and creepingdown the broad slope of our field; thence up toward Redwood andLeckington--until, while the dews yet lay thick on our shadowed valley, Leckington Hill was all in a glow of light. Delicious, too, to hearthe little ones running in and out, bright and merry as children oughtto be in the first wholesome hours of the day--to see them feedingtheir chickens and petting their doves--calling every minute on fatheror mother to investigate and enjoy some wonder in farm-yard or garden. And either was ever ready to listen to the smallest of these littlemysteries, knowing that nothing in childhood is too trivial for thenotice, too foolish for the sympathy, of those on whom the Father ofall men has bestowed the holy dignity of parenthood. 

I could see them now, standing among the flower-beds, out in the sunnymorning, the father's tall head in the centre of the group--for he wasalways the important person during the brief hour or two that he wasable to be at home. The mother close beside him, and both knottedround with an interlaced mass of little arms and little eager faces, each wanting to hear everything and to look at everything--everybody tobe 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, andunwittingly was treated by him less like the other children, than likesome stray spirit of another world, caught and held jealously, butwithout much outward notice, lest haply it might take alarm, and vanishback again unawares. Whenever he came home and did not see her waitingat the door, his first question was always--"Where's Muriel?"

Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning--the Monday morningafter the election--because her father was going to be at home thewhole day. It was the annual holiday he had planned for hiswork-people. This only "dinner-party" we had ever given, was in itscharacter not unlike that memorable feast, to which were gathered thepoor, the lame, the halt, and the blind--all who needed, and all whocould not return, the kindness. There were great cookingpreparations--everything that could make merry the heart of man--tea, to comfort the heart of woman, hard-working woman--and lots of brightpennies and silver groats to rejoice the very souls of youth. 

Mrs. Halifax, Jem Watkins, and his Jenny, were as busy as bees allmorning. John did his best to help, but finally the mother pleaded howhard 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 littleones played about till they were tired; then John took out thenewspaper, and read about Ciudad Rodrigo and Lord Wellington's entryinto Madrid--the battered eagles and the torn and bloody flags ofBadajoz, 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 theaccounts of battles, played domestic games of French and English, actedgarden sieges and blockades. 

"How strange and awful it seems, to sit on this green grass, lookingdown on our quiet valley, and then think of the fighting far away inSpain--perhaps this very minute, under this very sky. Boys, I'll neverlet 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 brotherscoming home, work thriving, poor men's food made cheap, and all thingsprospering. "

"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, thatwhile all the boys' future was merrily planned out--the mother oftensaid, laughing, she knew exactly what sort of a young man Guy wouldbe--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 mylittle 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 theirfamilies came about noon. Soon after, they all sat down to dinner; JemWatkins' plan of the barn being universally scouted in favour of anopen-air feast, in the shelter of a hay-rick, under the mild blueSeptember sky. Jem presided with a ponderous dignity which throughoutthe day furnished great private amusement to Ursula, John, and me. 

In the afternoon, all rambled about as they liked--many under theciceroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, who were very popular andgrand indeed. Then the mother, with Walter clinging shy-eyed to hergown, 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 spokefreely, sometimes even with some sharpness, when reproving comment wasneeded; but her earnest kindness, her active goodness, darting at onceto the truth and right of things, touched the women's hearts. While afew were a little wholesomely afraid of her--all recognized theinfluence of "the mistress, " penetrating deep and sure, extending farand wide. 

She laughed at me when I told her so--said it was all nonsense--thatshe only followed John's simple recipe for making his work-people feelthat he was a friend as well as a master. 

"What is that?"

"To pay attention and consideration to all they say; and always to takecare and remember to call them by their right Christian names. "

I could not help smiling--it was an answer so like Mrs. Halifax, whonever indulged in any verbal sentimentalism. Her part in the world wasdeeds. 

It was already evening, when, having each contributed our quota, greator small, to the entertainment, we all came and sat on the long benchunder the walnut-tree. The sun went down red behind us, throwing alast glint on the upland field, where, from top to bottom, the youngmen and women were running in a long "Thread-the-needle. " Their voicesand laughter came fairly down to us. 

"I think they have had a happy day, John. They will work all thebetter 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 everysubject, greatly petted and looked up to by all, to the no smallamusement of us elders. 

"Why, my son?" asked the father, smiling. 

But here Master Guy was posed, and everybody laughed at him. Hecoloured up with childish anger, and crept nearer his mother. She madea place for him at her side, looking appealingly at John. 

"Guy has got out of his depth--we must help him into safe watersagain, " said the father. "Look here, my son, this is the reason--andit is well not to be 'quite sure' of a thing unless one knows thereason. Our people will work the better, because they will work fromlove. Not merely doing their duty, and obeying their master in a blindway, 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 hisservants, he never forgets that saying, which I read out of the Bible, children, this morning: 'ONE IS YOUR MASTER--EVEN CHRIST, AND ALL YEARE BRETHREN. ' Do you understand?"

I think they did, for he was accustomed to talk with them thus--evenbeyond their years. Not in the way of preachifying--for these littleones had in their childish days scarcely any so-called "religiousinstruction, " save the daily chapter out of the New Testament, and thefather and mother's daily life, which was a simple and literal carryingout of the same. To that one test was brought all that was thought, orsaid, or done, in our household, where it often seemed as if the Masterwere as visibly obeyed and followed as in the household which He lovedat Bethany. 

As to what doctrinal creed we held, or what sect we belonged to, I cangive but the plain answer which John gave to all such inquiries--thatwe were CHRISTIANS. 

After these words from the Holy Book (which the children alwayslistened to with great reverence, as to the Book which their parentsmost loved and honoured, the reading and learning of which was grantedas a high reward and favour, and never carelessly allowed, or--horribleto think!--inflicted as a punishment), we ceased smiling at Guy, who inhis turn ceased to frown. The little storm blew over, as our domesticstorms 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, " saidMuriel. 

The father paused in a great romp with his sons--paused, as he ever didwhen his little daughter's soft voice was heard. "'Tis only a poorboy--who can he be?"

"One of the folk that come for milk most likely--but we have none togive away to-day. What do you want, my lad?"

The lad, who looked miserable and scared, opened his mouth with astupid "Eh?"

Ursula repeated the question. 

"I wants Jacob Baines. "

"You'll find him with the rest, in front of that hay-rick, over hispipe 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 aglance at the face of Ursula. Soon she rose and went after him. Ifollowed her. 

We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men, angrily talking. Thegossiping mothers were just joining them. Far off, in the field, theyounger 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 loudcurses from the men. 

"What's amiss?" said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the midst--and bothcurses and sobbings were silenced. All began a confused tale ofwrongs. "Stop, Jacob--I can't make it out. "

"This lad ha' seen it all. And he bean't a liar in big things--speakup, Billy. "

Somehow or other, we extracted the news brought by ragged Billy, who onthis day had been left in charge of the five dwellings rented of LordLuxmore. During the owners' absence there had been a distraint forrent; every bit of the furniture was carried off; two or three aged andsick folk were left lying on the bare floor--and the poor families herewould 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 Englishblood was boiling within him. "Jem"--and Jem Watkins started, sounusually sharp and commanding was his master's tone--"Saddle themare--quick. I shall ride to Kingswell, and thence to the sheriff's. "

"God bless 'ee, sir!" sobbed Jacob Baines' widowed daughter-in-law, whohad left, as I overheard her telling Mrs. Halifax, a sick child to-dayat home. 

Jacob Baines took up a heavy knobbed stick which happened to be leaningagainst 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. Youwill trust me, my men?"

They gathered round him--those big, fierce-looking fellows, in whom wasbrute force enough to attack or resist anything--yet he made themlisten to reason. He explained as much as he could of the injusticewhich had apparently been done them--injustice which had oversteppedthe 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 doso 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 intill morning--can we not, love?"

"Oh, readily!" said the mother. "Don't cry, my good women. MaryBaines, 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 noselfishness or weakness, but was his right hand and support ineverything. 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 nightcame down, and round about the house crept wailing the loud Septemberwind. We brought the women into the kitchen--the men lit a fire in thefarm-yard, and sat sullenly round it. It was as much as I could do topersuade 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 toreason into patience those poor fellows, savage with their wrongs. 

"How far have they been wronged, Phineas? What is the strict law ofthe case? Will any harm come to John for interfering?"

I told her, no, so far as I knew. That the cruelty and illegality layin the haste of the distraint, and in the goods having been carried offat once, giving no opportunity of redeeming them. It was easy to grindthe 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 anenemy. No matter--I fear not. I fear nothing while John does what hefeels to be right--as I know he will; the issue is in higher hands thanours or Lord Luxmore's. But where's Muriel?"

For as we sat talking, the little girl--whom nothing could persuade togo to bed till her father came home--had slipped from my hand, and goneout into the blustering night. We found her standing all by herselfunder 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 stayout 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 outwardlife, so innocent and harmless, she knew no dark. No cold looks--nosorrowful sights--no winter--no age. The hand laid upon her clear eyespressed eternal peace down on her soul. I believe she was, if everhuman being was, purely and entirely happy. It was always sweet for usto know this--it is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved!

We brought her within the house, but she persisted in sitting in herusual place, on the door-sill, "waiting" for her father. It was shewho 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 lameold woman, and his wife carried in her arms a sick child, on whom, whenthey entered the kitchen, Mary Baines threw herself in a passion ofcrying. 

"What have they been doing to 'ee, Tommy?--'ee warn't like this when Ileft '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 theresults of his journey. 

It was--as I had expected from his countenance the first minute heappeared--fruitless. He had found all things at Kingswell as stated. Then he rode to the sheriff's; but Sir Ralph was absent, sent for toLuxmore Hall on very painful business. 

"My friends, " said the master, stopping abruptly in his narrative, "fora 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--Iwould rather be the poorest among you than Lord Luxmore this night. Bepatient; we'll lodge you all somehow. To-morrow I will pay yourrent--get your goods back--and you shall begin the world again, as mytenants, not Lord Luxmore's. "

"Hurrah!" shouted the men, easily satisfied; as working people are, whohave been used all their days to live from hand to mouth, and to whomthe present is all in all. They followed the master, who settled themin the barn; and then came back to consult with his wife as to wherethe women could be stowed away. So, in a short time, the five homelessfamilies were cheerily disposed of--all but Mary Baines and her sickboy. 

"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 isthe chief thing that ails the lad. She fancies that he has had themeasles; but our children have had it too, so there's no fear. Comeup-stairs, Mary Baines. "

Passing, with a thankful look, the room where her own boys slept, thegood mother established this forlorn young mother and her two childrenin a little closet outside the nursery door; cheered her withcomfortable words; helped her ignorance with wise counsels--for Ursulawas the general doctress of all the poor folk round. It was almostmidnight before she came down to the parlour where John and I sat, hewith little Muriel asleep in his arms. The child would gladly haveslumbered away all night there, with the delicate, pale profile pressedclose into his breast. 

"Is all right, love? How tired you must be!" John put his left armround his wife as she came and knelt by him, in front of the cheerfulfire. 

"Tired? Oh, of course; but you can't think how comfortable they areup-stairs. Only poor Mary Baines does nothing but cry, and keeptelling me that nothing ails her lad but hunger. Are they so verypoor?"

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 withmeasles. "

"Yet how they suffered, poor pets! especially Walter. It was thethought 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 wakenher--but we must go to bed now. "

"Stay one minute, " I said. "Tell us, John--I quite forgot to ask tillnow--what is that 'painful business' you mentioned, which called thesheriff to Lord Luxmore's?"

John glanced at his wife, leaning fondly against him, her face full ofsweet peace, then at his little daughter asleep, then round thecheerful fire-lit room, outside which the autumn night-wind wenthowling 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 isimpossible!"

"It is true. She has gone away. "

Ursula sank down, hiding her face. "Horrible! And only two days sinceshe was here, kissing our children. "

We all three kept a long silence; then I ventured to ask when she wentaway?

"This morning, early. They took--at least, Mr. Vermilye did--all theproperty of Lord Luxmore's that he could lay his hands upon--familyjewels and money to a considerable amount. The earl is pursuing himnow, 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 ofall. "

There was no more to be said. She had dropped for ever out of her oldlife, as completely as a star out of the sky. Henceforth, for yearsand years, neither in our home, nor, I believe, in any other, was therethe slightest mention made of Lady Caroline Brithwood. 

 * * * * *

All the next day John was from home, settling the Kingswell affair. Theejected tenants--our tenants now--left us at last, giving a partingcheer for Mr. Halifax, the best master in all England. 

Sitting down to tea, with no small relief that all was over, John askedhis 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. Shecast an anxious glance on her little ones; her hand slightly shook asshe poured out their cups of milk. "Do you think, John--it was hard todo it when the child is so ill--I ought to have sent them away with theothers?"

"Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course Mary Baineswould have told us. What are the lad's symptoms?"

As Ursula informed him, I thought he looked more and more serious; buthe did not let her see. 

"Make your mind easy, love; a word from Dr. Jessop will decide all. Iwill fetch him after tea. Cheer up! Please God, no harm will come toour little ones!"

The mother brightened again; with her all the rest; and the tea-tableclatter went on merry as ever. Then, it being a wet night, Mrs. Halifax gathered her boys round her knee for an evening chat over thekitchen-fire; while through the open door, out of the dim parlour came"Muriel's voice, " as we called the harpsichord. It seemed sweeter thanever 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 andwent 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--butmind 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 neednot speak of. Still, precautions are wise. Do you remember that daywhen, rather against Ursula's wish, I vaccinated the children?"

I remembered. Also that the virus had taken effect with all butMuriel; and we had lately talked of repeating the much-blamed andmiraculous experiment upon her. I hinted this. 

"Phineas, you mistake, " he answered, rather sharply. "She is quitesafe--as safe as the others. I wrote to Dr. Jenner himself. But don'tmention 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 itless fatal among the upper classes, this frightful scourge stilldecimated the poor, especially children. Great was the obstinacy inrefusing relief; and loud the outcry in Norton Bury, when Mr. Halifax, who had met and known Dr. Jenner in London--finding no practitionerthat would do it, persisted in administering the vaccine virus himselfto his children. But still, with a natural fear, he had kept them outof 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 ofterror 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 elderbrothers, and warming his rosy toes. 

The mother had recovered herself entirely: was content and gay. I sawJohn'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 betterwhen I went up to see him last. And there--I hear the poor motherup-stairs crying. "

"She may cry; she has need, " said John, bitterly. "She knew it all thewhile. She never thought of our children; but they are safe. Becontent, love--please God, they are quite safe. Very few take it aftervaccination. "

"It--do you mean the small-pox? Has the lad got small-pox? Oh, Godhelp 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 alltogether in her arms, turning her head with a wild savage look, as ifsome one were stealing behind to take them from her. 

Muriel, perceiving the silence, felt her way across the room, andtouching her mother's face, said, anxiously, "Has anybody been naughty?"

"No, my darling; no!"

"Then never mind. Father says, nothing will harm us, except beingnaughty. Did you not, father?"

John snatched his little daughter up to his bosom, and called her forthe 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: wecomforted the boys and Muriel, telling them that in truth nothing wasthe matter, only we were afraid of their catching the little lad'ssickness, and they must not go near him. 

"Yes; she shall quit the house this minute--this very minute, " said themother, sternly, but with a sort of wildness too. 

Her husband made no immediate answer; but as she rose to leave theroom, he detained her. "Ursula, do you know the child is all butdying?"

"Let him die! The wicked woman! She knew it, and she let me bring himamong 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 adying child. "

"Hush! hush!"--She sank down with a sob. 

"My darling!" whispered John, as he made her lean against him--hersupport and comfort in all things: "do you think my heart is not readyto break, like yours? But I trust in God. This trouble came upon uswhile 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 terrorwhich exaggerates the danger. They may not take the disease at all. Then, how could we answer it to our conscience if we turned out thispoor soul, and HER child died?"

"No! no!"

"We will use all precautions. The boys shall be moved to the other endof the house. "

I proposed that they should occupy my room, as I had had smallpox, andwas safe. 

"Thank you, Phineas; and even should they take it, Dr. Jenner hasassured me that in every case after vaccination it has been the veryslightest form of the complaint. Be patient, love; trust in God, andhave no fear. "

Her husband's voice gradually calmed her. At last, she turned andclung round his neck, silently and long. Then she rose up and wentabout her usual duties, just as if this horrible dread were not upon us. 

Mary Baines and her children stayed in the house. Next day, aboutnoon, the little lad died. 

It was the first death that had ever happened under our roof. Itshocked us all very much, especially the children. We kept them faraway on the other side of the house--out of the house, whenpossible--but still they would be coming back and looking up at thewindow, at which, as Muriel declared, the little sick boy "had turnedinto 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'sinstinctive notion of "turning into an angel and flying away. " So wearranged that the poor little body should be coffined and removedbefore 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 thesimple manner of Scripture--he "was not, for God took him. " But whenthey saw Mary Baines go crying down the field-path, Muriel asked "whyshe cried? how could she cry, when it was God who had taken littleTommy?"

Afterwards she tried to learn of me privately, what sort of place itwas he had gone to, and how he went; whether he had carried with himall his clothes, and especially the great bunch of woodbine she sent tohim yesterday; and above all, whether he had gone by himself, or ifsome 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 careof him. She hoped--indeed, she felt sure--they had. She wished she hadmet them, or heard them about in the house. 

And seeing how the child's mind was running on the subject, I thoughtit best to explain to her as simply as I could, the solemn putting offof life and putting on of immortality. I wished that my darling, whocould never visibly behold death, should understand it as no image ofterror, but only as a calm sleep and a joyful waking in anothercountry, the glories of which eye had not seen nor ear heard. 

"Eye has not seen!" repeated Muriel, thoughtfully; "can people SEEthere, Uncle Phineas?"

"Yes, my child. There is no darkness at all. "

She paused a minute, and said earnestly, "I want to go--I very muchwant to go. How long do you think it will be before the angels comefor me?"

"Many, many years, my precious one, " said I, shuddering; for truly shelooked so like them, that I began to fear they were close at hand. 

But a few minutes afterwards she was playing with her brothers andtalking to her pet doves, so sweet and humanlike, that the fear passedaway. 

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 inthese 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 tobed greatly comforted, and the household sank into quiet slumbers, eventhough under its roof slept, in deeper sleep, the little dead child. 

That small closet, which was next to the nursery I occupied, safelyshut out by it from the rest of the house, seemed very still now. Iwent to sleep thinking of it, and dreamed of it afterwards. 

In the middle of the night a slight noise woke me, and I almost fanciedI was dreaming still; for there I saw a little white figure glidingpast my bed's foot; so softly and soundlessly--it might have been theghost 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 asound in the next room--a faint cry, quickly smothered--a very humancry. All the stories I had ever heard of supposed death and prematureburial rushed horribly into my mind. Conquering alike my superstitiousdread or fear of entering the infected room, I leaped out of bed, threwon some clothes, got a light, and went in. 

There laid the little corpse, all safe and still--for ever. And likeits 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 wasleft of little Tommy. I touched it--it was so cold. Oh! UnclePhineas! 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 toldhim where I had found his little daughter. He never spoke, butsnatched her out of my arms into his own, took her in his room, andshut the door. 

From that time our fears never slumbered. For one whole week wewaited, watching the children hour by hour, noting each change in eachlittle face; then Muriel sickened. 

It was I who had to tell her father, when as he came home in theevening I met him by the stream. It seemed to him almost like thestroke of death. 

"Oh, my God! not her! Any but her!" And by that I knew, what I hadlong guessed, that she was the dearest of all his children. 

Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though lightly. No one wasin absolute danger except Muriel. But for weeks we had what peoplecall "sickness in the house;" that terrible overhanging shadow whichmothers and fathers well know; under which one must live and move, never resting night nor day. This mother and father bore theirportion, 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 beingout all day, night after night he would sit up watching by and nursingeach little fretful sufferer, patient as a woman, and pleasant as achild 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 Ialways did, at the white gate; and many a time, as we walked down tothe stream, I saw--what no one else saw but God. After such times Iused often to ponder over what great love His must be, who, as theclearest revelation of it, and of its nature, calls Himself "theFather. "

And He brought us safe through our time of anguish: He left us everyone of our little ones. 

One November Sunday, when all the fields were in a mist, and the raincame pouring softly and incessantly upon the patient earth which hadbeen so torn and dried up by east winds, that she seemed glad enough toput aside the mockery of sunshine and melt in quiet tears, we once moregathered our flock together in thankfulness and joy. 

Muriel came down-stairs triumphantly in her father's arms, and lay onthe sofa smiling; the firelight dancing on her small white face--whiteand unscarred. The disease had been kind to the blind child; she was, I think, more sweet-looking than ever. Older, perhaps; the roundprettiness of childhood gone--but her whole appearance wore thatinexpressible expression, in which, for want of a suitable word, we allembody our vague notions of the unknown world, and call "angelic. "

"Does Muriel feel quite well--quite strong and well?" the father andmother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her. Shealways answered, "Quite well. "

In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and Johnand I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of therain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel's "voice. "

"Father, listen!" whispered the mother, linking her arm through his ashe stood at the door. Soft and slow came the notes of the oldharpsichord--she was playing one of the abbey anthems. Then it meltedaway into melodies we knew not--sweet and strange. Her parents lookedat 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 beenthe 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-timenow--(ay, and many hours in the day-time, though we hardly noticed itat first). Taking between his hands the little face, which broke intosmiles at the merest touch of the father's fingers, he asked her "whenshe 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 playedout 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 thelads 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 hadsuch a severe winter. Every one of the children has suffered, " saidthe mother, in a cheerful tone, as she poured out a cup of cream forher daughter, to whom was now given, by common consent, all the richestand rarest of the house. 

"I think every one has, " said John, looking round on his apple-cheekedboys; it must have been a sharp eye that detected any decrease ofhealth, or increase of suffering, there. "But my plan will set all torights. I spoke to Mrs. Tod yesterday. She will be ready to take usall in. Boys, shall you like going to Enderley? You shall go as soonas ever the larch-wood is green. "

For, at Longfield, already we began to make a natural almanack andchronological table. "When the may was out"--"When Guy found the firstrobin's nest"--"When the field was all cowslips"--and so on. 

"Is it absolutely necessary we should go?" said the mother, who had astrong home-clinging, and already began to hold tiny Longfield as theapple 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; whynot bear them with as good heart as possible? They cannot last--letLord Luxmore do what he will. If, as I told you, we re-let Longfieldfor this one summer to Sir Ralph, we shall save enough to put the millin thorough repair. If my landlord will not do it, I will; and add asteam-engine, too. "

Now the last was a daring scheme, discussed many a winter night by usthree in Longfield parlour. At first, Mrs. Halifax had lookedgrave--most women would, especially wives and mothers, in those dayswhen every innovation was regarded with horror, and improvement andruin were held synonymous. She might have thought so too, had she notbelieved in her husband. But now, at mention of the steam-engine, shelooked up and smiled. 

"Lady Oldtower asked me about it to-day. She said, 'she hoped youwould not ruin yourself, like Mr. Miller of Glasgow!' I said I was notafraid. "

Her husband returned a bright look. "It is easier to make the worldtrust one, when one is trusted by one's own household. "

"Ah! never fear; you will make your fortune yet, in spite of LordLuxmore. "

For, all winter, John had found out how many cares come with anattained wish. Chiefly, because, as the earl had said, his lordshippossessed an "excellent memory. " The Kingswell election had worked itsresults in a hundred small ways, wherein the heavy hand of the landlordcould be laid upon the tenant. He bore up bravely against it; but hardwas the struggle between might and right, oppression and staunchresistance. It would have gone harder, but for one whom John now beganto call his "friend;" at least, one who invariably called Mr. Halifaxso--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 bringMuriel and take luncheon at the Manor House. I shall not go--I toldher so. "

"But gently, I hope?--you are so very outspoken, love. You made herclearly understand that it is not from incivility we decline herinvitations?--Well--never mind! Some day we will take our place, andso shall our children, with any gentry in the land. "

I think--though John rarely betrayed it--he had strongly thispresentiment of future power, which may often be noticed in men whohave carved out their own fortunes. They have in them the instinct torise; and as surely as water regains its own level, so do they, fromhowever low a source, ascend to theirs. 

Not many weeks after, we removed in a body to Enderley. Though thechief reason was, that John might be constantly on the spot, superintending his mills, yet I fancied I could detect a secondaryreason, which he would not own even to himself; but which peered outunconsciously in his anxious looks. I saw it when he tried to rouseMuriel into energy, by telling her how much she would enjoy EnderleyHill; how sweet the primroses grew in the beechwood, and how wild andfresh the wind swept over the common, morning and night. His dailylonging seemed to be to make her love the world, and the thingstherein. He used to turn away, almost in pain, from her smile, as shewould listen to all he said, then steal off to the harpsichord, andbegin that soft, dreamy music, which the children called "talking toangels. "

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 listento the drowsy fall of the miniature Niagara, or watch the incessantturning--turning of the great water-wheel. Little we thought he shouldever 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 climbthe steep meadows and narrow mule-paths, up which he used to help me sokindly. He could not now; he had his little daughter in his arms. Ithad come, alas! to be a regular thing that Muriel should be carried upevery slight ascent, and along every hard road. We paused half-way upon a low wall, where I had many a time rested, watching the sunset overNunneley Hill--watching for John to come home. Every night--at leastafter Miss March went away--he usually found me sitting there. 

He turned to me and smiled. "Dost remember, lad?" at which appellationGuy widely stared. But, for a minute, how strangely it brought backold times, when there were neither wife nor children--only he and I!This seat on the wall, with its small twilight picture of the valleybelow the mill, and Nunneley heights, with that sentinel row of sun-settrees--was all mine--mine solely--for evermore. 

"Enderley is just the same, Phineas. Twelve years have made nochange--except in us. " And he looked fondly at his wife, who stood alittle way off, holding firmly on the wall, in a hazardous group, herthree boys. "I think the chorus and comment on all life might beincluded in two brief phrases given by our friend Shakspeare, one toHamlet, the other to Othello: ''Tis very strange, ' and ''Tis better asit is. '"

"Ay, ay, " said I thoughtfully. Better as it was; better a thousandtimes. 

I went to Mrs. Halifax, and helped her to describe the prospect to theinquisitive boys; finally coaxing the refractory Guy up the windingroad, where, just as if it had been yesterday, stood my old friends, myfour Lombardy poplars, three together and one apart. 

Mrs. Tod descried us afar off and was waiting at the gate; a littlestouter, a little rosier--that was all. In her delight, she soabsolutely forgot herself as to address the mother as Miss March; atwhich long-unspoken name Ursula started, her colour went and came, andher eyes turned restlessly towards the church hard by. 

"It is all right--Miss--Ma'am, I mean. Tod bears in mind Mr. Halifax'sorders, 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 wherethe mother was, went out towards the little churchyard, and found herquietly sitting there. 

We were very happy at Enderley. Muriel brightened up before she hadbeen there many days. She began to throw off her listlessness, and goabout with me everywhere. It was the season she enjoyed most--the timeof the singing of birds, and the springing of delicate-scented flowers. I myself never loved the beech-wood better than did our Muriel. Sheused continually to tell us this was the happiest spring she had everhad in her life. 

John was much occupied now. He left his Norton Bury business underefficient care, and devoted himself almost wholly to the cloth-mill. Early and late he was there. Very often Muriel and I followed him, andspent whole mornings in the mill meadows. Through them the stream onwhich the machinery depended was led by various contrivances, checkedor 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 thewater-hen to her young among the reeds. Then the father would come tous and remain a few minutes--fondling Muriel, and telling me how thingswent on at the mill. 

One morning, as we three sat there, on the brick-work of a littlebridge, underneath an elm tree, round the roots of which the water madea pool so clear, that we could see a large pike lying like a blackshadow, 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 youwere drawing off the water. "

"Nothing of the kind--I must look after it. Good-bye, my littledaughter. Don't cling so fast; father will be back soon--and isn'tthis 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 downthe meadows, and went into his mill. Then I saw him retracing hissteps, examining where the stream entered the bounds of his property. Finally, he walked off towards the little town at the head of thevalley--beyond which, buried in woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was twohours more before we saw him again. 

Then he came towards us, narrowly watching the stream. It had sunkmore and more--the muddy bottom was showing plainly. 

"Yes--that's it--it can be nothing else! I did not think he would havedared 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 mymill. "

I tried to urge that such an act was improbable; in fact, against thelaw. 

"Not against the law of the great against the little. Besides, hegives a decent colouring--says he only wants the use of the streamthree days a week, to make fountains at Luxmore Hall. But I see whatit is--I have seen it coming a whole year. He is determined to ruinme!"

John said this in much excitement. He hardly felt Muriel's tinycreeping 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 onlygood. And father is always good. "

"I wish I were. "

He sat down with her on his knee; the murmur of the elm-leaves, and theslow 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. Butfirst I must speak to my people--I shall have to shorten wages for atime. "

"How soon?"

"To-night. If it must be done--better done at once, before winter setsin. 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 Ican;--God knows, it is not they alone who want it. "

He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on the far whitewing of Luxmore Hall. 

"Have you no way of righting yourself? If it is an unlawful act, whynot go to law?"

"Phineas, you forget my principle--only mine, however; I do not forceit 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 theold saying, 'See how these Christians FIGHT!'"

I urged no more; since, whether abstractedly the question be right orwrong, there can be no doubt that what a man believes to be evil, tohim it is evil. 

"Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my wife what hasoccurred--say, I will come to tea as soon as I can. But I may havesome little trouble with my people here. She must not alarm herself. "

No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerileapprehensions--it was not her nature; she had the rare feminine virtueof never "fidgetting"--at least, externally. What was to be borne--shebore: 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, moreclearly than I did--probably from being better acquainted with herhusband's plans and fears. She saw at once the position in which hewas 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 pleasantto hear her thus answer. For, as I have said, Ursula was not a womanto be led blindfold, even by her husband. Sometimes they differed onminor points, and talked their differences lovingly out; but on anygreat question she had always this safe trust in him--that if one wereright and the other wrong, the erring one was much more likely to beherself than John. 

She said no more; but put the children to bed; then came downstairswith her bonnet on. 

"Will you come with me, Phineas? Or are you too tired? I am goingdown to the mill. "

She started, walking quickly--yet not so quick but that on the slope ofthe common she stooped to pick up a crying child, and send it home toits mother in Enderley village. 

It was almost dark, and we met no one else except a young man, whom Ihad 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 theopprobrious word "Papist. ") "Mrs. Tod says there are a good manyhidden hereabouts. They used to find shelter at Luxmore. "

And that name set both our thoughts anxiously wandering; so that notuntil we reached the foot of the hill did I notice that the person hadfollowed us almost to the mill-gates. 

In his empty mill, standing beside one of its silenced looms, we foundthe master. He was very much dejected--Ursula touched his arm beforehe 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 theyear?"

"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 greatlylessened, 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? Havea 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 ruinme?--Worse than this--he is ruining my good name. If you had heardthose poor people whom I sent away tonight! What must they, who willhave short work these two months, and after that machinery-work, whichthey fancy is taking the very bread out of their mouths--what must theythink of the master?"

He spoke--as we rarely heard John speak: as worldly cares and worldlyinjustice cause even the best of men to speak sometimes. 

"Poor people!" he added, "how can I blame them? I was actually dumbbefore them to-night, when they said I must take the cost of what Ido--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 theloom, a heavy sigh. John and Ursula were too anxious to notice it. 

"Could anything be done?" she asked. "Just to keep things going tillyour steam-engine is ready? Will it cost much?"

"More than I like to think of. But it must be;--nothingventure--nothing have. You and the children are secure anyhow, that'sone 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 toeye. Often, it seemed that from long habit they could read oneanother'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 plainerway; 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 hisalmost morbid anxiety lest his family should take harm by any possiblenon-success in his business, had settled upon his wife. Three months oflittle renunciations--three months of the old narrow way of living, asat Norton Bury--and the poor people at Enderley might have full wages, whether or no there was full work. Then in our quiet valley therewould be no want, no murmurings, and, above all, no blaming of themaster. 

They decided it all--in fewer words than I have taken to write it--itwas 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 likewisethis 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 tooppression; and the young man whom Ursula had supposed to be a Catholicappeared 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 allrecognized the face--more wan than ever--with a sadder and morehopeless 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 itlong ago. I would have hid myself away from him and from the world, ifhe would have let me. "

"He--do you mean your father?"

The boy--no, he was a young man now, but scarcely looked more than aboy--assented silently, as if afraid to utter the name. 

"Would not your coming here displease him?" said John, always tenaciousof trenching a hair's breadth upon any lawful authority. 

"It matters not--he is away. He has left me these six months alone atLuxmore. "

"Have you offended him?" asked Ursula, who had cast kindly looks on thethin face, which perhaps reminded her of another--now for ever banishedfrom 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 ofobservers. "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 youa 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 wassome reason for the young man's fears; since, even in those days, Catholics were hunted down both by law and by public opinion, asvirulently as Protestant nonconformists. All who kept out of the paleof 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 whocared for me--and now--Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis. "

His lips moved in a paroxysm of prayer--helpless, parrot-learnt, Latinprayer; 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 memorytoo--"Poor William!--don't tell William!"--turned and spoke to himkindly, asking him if he would go home with us. 

He looked exceedingly surprised. "I--you cannot mean it? After LordLuxmore has done you all this evil?"

"Is that any reason why I should not do good to his son--that is, if Icould? Can I?"

The lad lifted up those soft grey eyes, and then I remembered what hissister 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 yourchildren. "

"Come, and welcome. "

"Heartily welcome, Lord--"

"No--not that name, Mrs. Halifax. Call me as they used to call me atSt. Omer--Brother Anselmo. "

The mother was half inclined to smile; but John never smiled at anyone's religious beliefs, howsoever foolish. He held in universalsacredness that one rare thing--sincerity. 

So henceforward "Brother Anselmo" was almost domesticated at RoseCottage. What would the earl have said, had a little bird flown overto London and told him that his only son, the heir-apparent to histitle and political opinions, was in constant and open association--forclandestine acquaintance was against all our laws and rules--with JohnHalifax the mill-owner, John Halifax the radical, as he was stillcalled sometimes; imbibing principles, modes of life and of thought, which, to say the least, were decidedly different from those of thehouse of Luxmore!

Above all, what would that noble parent have said, had he been awarethat this, his only son, for whom, report whispered, he was alreadyplanning a splendid marriage--as grand in a financial point of view asthat he planned for his only daughter--that Lord Ravenel was spendingall the love of his loving nature in the half paternal, half lover-likesentiment which a young man will sometimes lavish on a mere child--uponJohn Halifax's little blind daughter, Muriel!

He said, "She made him good"--our child of peace. He would sit, gazingon her almost as if she were his guardian angel--his patron saint. Andthe little maid in her quiet way was very fond of him; delighting inhis company when her father was not by. But no one ever was to herlike her father. 

The chief bond between her and Lord Ravenel--or "Anselmo, " as he wouldhave us call him--was music. He taught her to play on the organ, inthe empty church close by. There during the long midsummer evenings, they two would sit for hours in the organ-gallery, while I listeneddown below; hardly believing that such heavenly sounds could come fromthose small child-fingers; almost ready to fancy she had called downsome celestial harmonist to aid her in playing. Since, as we used tosay--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. Hewas oppressed with business cares; daily, hourly vexations. Only twicea week the great water-wheel, the delight of our little Edwin as it hadonce been of his father, might be seen slowly turning; and thewater-courses along the meadows, with their mechanically-forcedchannels, and their pretty sham cataracts, were almost always low ordry. It ceased to be a pleasure to walk in the green hollow, betweenthe two grassy hills, which heretofore Muriel and I had liked evenbetter than the Flat. Now she missed the noise of the water--the cryof the water-hens--the stirring of the reeds. Above all, she missedher father, who was too busy to come out of his mill to us, and hardlyever had a spare minute, even for his little daughter. 

He was setting up that wonderful novelty--a steam-engine. He hadalready been to Manchester and elsewhere, and seen how the new powerwas applied by Arkwright, Hargreaves, and others; his own ingenuity andmechanical knowledge furnished the rest. He worked early andlate--often with his own hands--aided by the men he brought with himfrom Manchester. For it was necessary to keep the secret--especiallyin our primitive valley--until the thing was complete. So theignorant, simple mill people, when they came for their easy Saturday'swages, only stood and gaped at the mass of iron, and thecuriously-shaped brickwork, and wondered what on earth "the master" wasabout? 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 littleyellow autumn flowers to show themselves all over the common, while inthe 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 usin our slow walk along John's favourite "terrace" before any one elsewas stirring. Her father at first missed her sorely, but always keptrepeating that "early walks were not good for children. " At last hegave up the walk altogether, and used to sit with her on his knee infront of the cottage till breakfast-time. 

After that, saying with a kind of jealousy "that every one of us hadmore of his little daughter than he, " he got into a habit of fetchingher down to the mill every day at noon, and carrying her about in hisarms, wherever he went, during the rest of his work. 

Many a time I have seen the rough, coarse, blue-handed, blue-pinaforedwomen of the mill stop and look wistfully after "master and littleblind miss. " I often think that the quiet way in which the Enderleymill people took the introduction of machinery, and the peaceablenesswith which they watched for weeks the setting up of the steam-engine, was partly owing to their strong impression of Mr. Halifax's goodnessas a father, and the vague, almost superstitious interest whichattached to the pale, sweet face of Muriel. 

Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate the cosyfireside of Longfield. 

"The children will all go home looking better than they came; do younot think so, Uncle Phineas?--especially Muriel?"

To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent; after which I wasfain to rise and walk away, thinking how blind love was--all love savemine, which had a gift for seeing the saddest side of things. 

When I came back, I found the mother and daughter talking mysteriouslyapart. I guessed what it was about, for I had overheard Ursula sayingthey had better tell the child--it would be "something for her to lookforward to--something to amuse her next winter. "

"It is a great secret, mind, " the mother whispered, after itscommunication. 

"Oh, yes!" The tiny face, smaller than ever, I thought, flushedbrightly. "But I would much rather have a little sister, if youplease. Only"--and the child suddenly grew earnest--"will she be likeme?"

"Possibly; sisters often are alike. "

"No, I don't mean that; but--you know?" And Muriel touched her owneyes. 

"I cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else, pray God she may belike you, Muriel, my darling--my child of peace!" said Ursula, embracing her with tears. 

After this confidence, of which Muriel was very proud, and onlycondescended, upon gaining express permission, to re-confide it to me, she talked incessantly of the sister that was coming, until "littleMaud"--the name she chose for her--became an absolute entity in thehousehold. 

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 littlemaid of eleven years old. She grew quite womanly, as it were; tried tohelp her mother in a thousand little ways, and especially by her ownsolitary branch of feminine industry--poor darling! She set on a pairof the daintiest elfin socks that ever were knitted. I found them, years after--one finished, one with the needles (all rusty) stuckthrough the fine worsted ball, just as the child had laid it out of herhand. Ah, Muriel, Muriel!

The father took great delight in this change, in her resuming hersimple work, and going about constantly with her mother. 

"What a comfort she will be to Ursula one day--an eldest daughteralways is. So will she: will she not, Uncle Phineas?"

I smiled assentingly. Alas! his burthens were heavy enough! I think Idid right to smile. 

"We must take her down with us to see the steam-engine first worked. Iwish Ursula would have gone home without waiting for to-morrow. Butthere is no fear--my men are so quiet and good-humoured. What in mostmills 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 isto 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 quitean old man in his ways--wise even from his babyhood, and quiet evenwhen Guy snubbed him; but, I noticed, he did not come to "kiss and makefriends" so soon as Guy. And though Guy was much the naughtiest, weall loved him best. Poor Guy! he had the frankest, warmest, tenderestboy-heart, always struggling to be good, and never able to accomplishit. 

"Father, " cried Guy, "I want to see the steam-engine move, but I'll notbe a baby like Edwin; I'll not hold Uncle Phineas' hand. "

Hereupon ensued one of those summer storms which sometimes swept acrossthe family horizon, in the midst of which Muriel and I stole out intothe empty church, where, almost in the dark--which was no dark toher--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 figuresitting below. 

Once or twice she stooped from the organ-loft to ask me where wasBrother Anselmo, who usually met us in the church of evenings, and whomto-night--this last night before the general household moved back toLongfield--we had fully expected. 

At last he came, sat down by me, and listened. She was playing afragment 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, notales I ever heard of young Wesley and the infant Mozart ever surpassedthe 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 churchlike a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, and opening theflute-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 likea 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 Luxmorefor some time. We guessed why--because the earl was coming. Bidding usgood-bye, he said, mournfully, to his little pet, "I wish I were notleaving 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 extremelysensitive fingers over the faces of those she liked. After which shealways 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 ofmotherly pride she watched him walk hastily down between thosechestnut-trees, known of old--"truly, time flies fast. Things begin tolook serious--eh, father? Five years hence we shall have that youngman falling in love with Muriel. "

But John and I looked at the still, soft face, half a child's and halfan angel's. 

"Hush!" he said, as if Ursula's fancy were profanity; then eagerlysnatched it up and laughed, confessing how angry he should be ifanybody dared to "fall in love" with Muriel. 

Next day was the one fixed for the trial of the new steam-engine; whichtrial being successful, we were to start at once in a post-chaise forLongfield; 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 childrenworthy to compare with our children. And truly, as the three boysscampered down the road--their few regrets soon over, eager foranything new--three finer lads could not be seen in the whole country. 

Mrs. Halifax looked after them proudly--mother-like, she gloried in hersons; while John, walking slowly, and assuring Mrs. Tod over and overagain that we should all come back next summer, went down the steephill, carrying, hidden under many wraps and nestled close to his warmshoulder, his little frail winter-rose--his only daughter. 

In front of the mill we found a considerable crowd; for the time beingripe, Mr. Halifax had made public the fact that he meant to work hislooms by steam, the only way in which he could carry on the mill atall. The announcement had been received with great surprise andremarkable quietness, both by his own work-people and all alongEnderley valley. Still there was the usual amount of contemptuousscepticism, incident on any new experiment. Men were peering about thelocked door of the engine-room with a surly curiosity; and one villageoracle, to prove how impossible it was that such a thing as steam couldwork anything, had taken the trouble to light a fire in the yard andset thereon his wife's best tea-kettle, which, as she snatched angrilyaway, scalded him slightly, and caused him to limp away swearing, apainful illustration of the adage, that "a little knowledge is adangerous thing. "

"Make way, my good people, " said Mr. Halifax; and he crossed themill-yard, his wife on his arm, followed by an involuntary murmur ofrespect. 

"He be a fine fellow, the master; he sticks at nothing, " was thecomment heard made upon him by one of his people, and probably itexpressed the feeling of the rest. There are few things which give aman more power over his fellows than the thoroughly English quality ofdaring. 

Perhaps this was the secret why John had as yet passed safely throughthe crisis which had been the destruction of so many mill-owners, namely, the introduction of a power which the mill-people wereconvinced would ruin hand-labour. Or else the folk in our valley, outof their very primitiveness, had more faith in the master; forcertainly, as John passed through the small crowd, there was only onepresent 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 littleknot 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 doorof the room which he had turned into an engine-room, and where, alongwith the two men he had brought from Manchester, he had been busyalmost night and day for this week past in setting up his machinery. They worked--as the Manchester fellows said they had often been obligedto work--under lock and key. 

"Your folk be queer 'uns, Mr. Halifax. They say there's six devilsinside on her, theer. "

And the man pointed to the great boiler which had been built up in anout-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, thecomplicated but delicate machinery; rubbed here and there at thebrass-work, which shone as bright as a mirror; then stepped back, andeyed it with pride, almost with affection. 

"Isn't it a pretty thing?--If only I have set it up right--if it willbut work. "

His hands shook--his cheeks were burning--little Edwin came peeringabout at his knee; but he pushed the child hastily away; then he foundsome slight fault with the machinery, and while the workmen rectifiedit stood watching them, breathless with anxiety. His wife came to hisside. 

"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 herfingers closed round his, strengthening, cheering. Her husband faintlysmiled. 

"Here!"--He unlocked the door, and called to the people outside. "Comein, 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 willnot be frightened? Now, my men--ready?"

He opened the valve. 

With a strange noise, that made the two Enderley men spring back as ifthe six devils were really let loose upon them, the steam came rushinginto 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 strongright arm of some automaton giant. Greater and lesser cog-wheelscaught up the motive power, revolving slowly and majestically, and withsteady, regular rotation, or whirling round so fast you could hardlysee that they stirred at all. Of a sudden a soul had been put intothat wonderful creature of man's making, that inert mass of wood andmetal, mysteriously combined. The monster was alive!

Speechless, John stood watching it. Their trial over, his energiescollapsed; he sat down by his wife's side, and taking Muriel on hisknee, 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, hereyes glowing with triumph, her head erect and proud. 

John dropped his lower, lower still. "Yes, " he murmured; "yes, thankGod. "

Then he opened the door, and let all the people in to see the wondroussight. 

They crowded in by dozens, staring about in blank wonder, gapingcuriosity, ill-disguised alarm. John took pains to explain themachinery, stage by stage, till some of the more intelligent caught upthe principle, and made merry at the notion of "devils. " But they alllooked with great awe at the master, as if he were something more thanman. They listened open-mouthed to every word he uttered, cramming thesmall engine-room till it was scarcely possible to breathe, but keepingat a respectful distance from the iron-armed monster, that wentworking, 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 hadstood for the last few minutes by her father's side, listening with apleasing look to the monotonous regular sound, like the breathing ofthe demon, was unwilling to go. 

"I am very glad I was with you to-day, --very glad, father, " she keptsaying. 

He said, as often--twice as often--that next summer, when he came backto Enderley, she should be with him at the mills every day, and all dayover, if she liked. 

There was now nothing to be done but to hasten as quickly and asmerrily as possible to our well-beloved Longfield. 

Waiting for the post-chaise, Mrs. Halifax and the boys sat down on thebridge over the defunct and silenced water-fall, on the muddy steps ofwhich, where the stream used to dash musically over, weeds and longgrasses, mingled with the drooping water-fern, were already beginningto 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 itin any way I choose. My people will not hinder; they trust me, theylike me. "

"And, perhaps, are just a little afraid of you. No matter, it iswholesome fear. I should not like to have married a man whom nobodywas afraid of. "

John smiled; he was looking at the horseman riding towards us along thehigh road. "I do believe that is Lord Luxmore. I wonder whether hehas heard of my steam-engine. Love, will you go back into the mill ornot?"

"Certainly not. " The mother seated herself on the bridge, her boysaround her; John avouched, with an air like the mother of the Gracchi, or like the Highland woman who trained one son after another to fightand 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, inpassing, bowed. 

Mrs. Halifax returned it, haughtily enough. But at the moment a loudcheer 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 bestterms 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 cheeryou, may I ask?"

John briefly told him, speaking with perfect courtesy as he wasaddressed. 

"And this steam-engine--I have heard of it before--will greatlyadvantage your mills?"

"It will, my lord. It renders me quite independent of your stream, ofwhich the fountains at Luxmore can now have the full monopoly. "

It would not have been human nature if a spice of harmless malice--eventriumph--had not sparkled in John's eye, as he said this. He waswalking 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 yoursentence?"

"Merely, my lord, that your cutting off of the water-course has been tome 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 spurredhis 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 firsttime in our lives, we had forgotten Muriel. 

She stood in the horse's path--the helpless, blind child. The nextinstant she was knocked down. 

I never heard a curse on John Halifax's lips but once--that once. LordLuxmore heard it too. The image of the frantic father, snatching uphis darling from under the horse's heels, must have haunted the earl'sgood memory for many a day. 

He dismounted, saying, anxiously, "I hope the little girl is notinjured? 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 theditch-bank. When the water touched her she opened her eyes with thatwide, momentary stare so painful to behold. 

"My little darling!"

Muriel smiled, and nestled to him. "Indeed, I am not hurt, dearfather. "

Lord Luxmore, standing by, seemed much relieved, and again pressed hisapologies. 

No answer. 

"Go away, " sobbed out Guy, shaking both his fists in the nobleman'sface. "Go away--or I'll kill you--wicked man! I would have done it ifyou had killed my sister. "

Lord Luxmore laughed at the boy's fury--threw him a guinea, which Guythrew back at him with all his might, and rode placidly away. 

"Guy--Guy--" called the faint, soft voice which had more power over himthan 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, andfeeling all her little fragile limbs, to make sure that in no way shewas injured. 

It appeared not; though the escape seemed almost miraculous. Johnrecurred, with a kind of trembling tenacity, to the old saying in ourhouse, that "nothing ever harmed Muriel. "

"Since it is safe over, and she can walk--you are sure you can, mypet?--I think we will not say anything about this to the mother; atleast not till we reach Longfield. "

But it was too late. There was no deceiving the mother. Every changein every face struck her instantaneously. The minute we rejoined hershe 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 theextreme pallor and silence of the child. 

Mrs. Halifax sat down by the roadside, bathed Muriel's forehead andsmoothed her hair; but still the little curls lay motionless againstthe 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 askingJohn anything. 

"We must go back again to Enderley, " she said decidedly. 

So, giving Muriel into her father's arms, she led the way, and, amelancholy procession, we again ascended the hill to Rose Cottage door. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Without any discussion, our plans were tacitly changed--no more wassaid about going home to dear Longfield. Every one felt, though no onetrusted it to words, that the journey was impossible. For Muriel lay, day after day, on her little bed in an upper chamber, or was carriedsoftly 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 feltill, 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 shouldnot 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 itgrieves father. "

"Does it?" She roused herself, sat upright, and began to move herlimbs, 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 attable 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, dearfather. "

Her father took her, looked long in her sightless face, then buried hisagainst her shoulder, saying nothing. But I think in that moment hetoo saw, glittering and bare, the long-veiled Hand which, for this yearpast, _I_ had seen stretched out of the immutable heavens, claimingthat which was its own. Ever after there was discernible in John'scountenance a something which all the cares of his anxious yet happylife had never written there--an ineffaceable record, burnt in withfire. 

He held her in his arms all day. He invented all sorts of tales andlittle amusements for her; and when she was tired of these he let herlie in his bosom and sleep. After her bed-time he asked me to go outwith him on the Flat. 

It was a misty night. The very cows and asses stood up large andspectral as shadows. There was not a single star to be seen. 

We took our walk along the terrace and came back again, withoutexchanging 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 beled to imagine, or to fear--anything. You must not look as you lookedthis morning. You must not, Phineas. "

He spoke almost angrily. I answered in a few quieting words. We weresilent, until over the common we caught sight of the light in Muriel'swindow. 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 shouldso 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; andmeanwhile the desire of our eyes--be it a life, a love, or ablessing--slowly, slowly goes--is gone. And yet we have to believe inour 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 thateven 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 childrenbeing all in bed--no one could have told that there was any shadow overus, 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 especialmercy of heaven which put that unaccountable blindness before her eyes, and gave her other duties and other cares to intercept the thought ofMuriel. While, from morning till night, it was the incessant secretcare of her husband, myself, and good Mrs. Tod, to keep her out of herlittle daughter's sight, and prevent her mind from catching the dangerof one single fear. 

Thus, within a week or two, the mother lay down cheerfully upon hercouch of pain, and gave another child to the household--a little sisterto 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 everyother thought. 

"She is come, darling! little Maud is come. I am very rich--for I havetwo daughters now. "

"Muriel is glad, father. " But she showed her gladness in a strangelyquiet, 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 thefirst one sometimes. "

"She is jealous!" cried John, in the curious delight with which healways detected in her any weakness, any fault, which brought her downto the safe level of humanity. "See, Uncle Phineas, our Muriel isactually jealous. "

But Muriel only smiled. 

That smile--so serene--so apart from every feeling or passionappertaining to us who are "of the earth, earthy, " smote the father tothe 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 snowis fond of me, father. It would like me to lie down and be all coveredover, 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, Ishall be--that is, I should have been--a woman grown. Fancy me twentyyears old, as tall as mother, wearing a gown like her, talking andordering, and busy about the house. How funny!" and she laughed again. "Oh! no, father, I couldn't do it. I had better remain always yourlittle Muriel, weak and small, who liked to creep close to you, and goto 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 ortwo that the Hand seemed drawn back into the clouds, till of a suddenagain we discerned it there. 

One Sunday--it was ten days or so after Maud's birth, and the weatherhad been so bitterly cold that the mother had herself forbidden ourbringing Muriel to the other side of the house where she and the babylay--Mrs. Tod was laying the dinner, and John stood at the windowplaying with his three boys. 

He turned abruptly, and saw all the chairs placed round the table--allsave one. 

"Where is Muriel's chair, Mrs. Tod?"

"Sir, she says she feels so tired like, she'd rather not come downto-day, " answered Mrs. Tod, hesitatingly. 

"Not come down?"

"Maybe better not, Mr. Halifax. Look out at the snow. It'll be warmerfor the dear child to-morrow. "

"You are right. Yes, I had forgotten the snow. She shall come downto-morrow. "

I caught Mrs. Tod's eyes; they were running over. She was too wise tospeak of it--but she knew the truth as well as we. 

This Sunday--I remember it well--was the first day we sat down todinner with the one place vacant. 

For a few days longer, her father, every evening when he came in fromthe mills, persisted in carrying her down, as he had said, holding heron his knee during tea, then amusing her and letting the boys amuse herfor half-an-hour or so before bed-time. But at the week's end eventhis ceased. 

When Mrs. Halifax, quite convalescent, was brought triumphantly to herold place at our happy Sunday dinner-table, and all the boys camepressing about her, vying which should get most kisses from littlesister 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 Ithought it better she should not come down to dinner. "

"No, " added Guy, wondering and dolefully, "sister has not been down todinner 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 Murieland to his mother, --"sister isn't ill a bit, I know. She was laughingand talking with me just now--saying she knows she could carry baby agreat 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 ofthat maternal love which was in her almost a passion. She looked moresatisfied. 

Nevertheless, when Mrs. Tod came into the parlour, she rose and putlittle 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 goodwoman. 

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, takethe others with you. You shall go up-stairs in one minute, my darlingwife!"

He turned us all out of the room, and shut the door. How he told herthat which was necessary she should know--that which Dr. Jessop himselfhad told us this very morning--how the father and mother had borne thisfirst open revelation of their unutterable grief--for ever remainedunknown. 

I was sitting by Muriel's bed, when they came up-stairs. The darlinglaid listening to her brother, who was squatted on her pillow, makingall sorts of funny talk. There was a smile on her face; she lookedquite 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 herrecoil--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 mymother!"

The mother folded her to her breast. 

Muriel shed a tear or two there--in a satisfied, peaceful way; themother 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 herharm. We must be very happy to-day. "

"Oh, yes. " Then, in a fond whisper, "Please, I do so want to seelittle Maud. "

"Who?" with an absent gaze. 

"My little sister Maud--Maud that is to take my place, and beeverybody'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 boysfollowing. Quite a levee was held round the bed, where, laid closebeside her, her weak hands being guided over the tiny face and form, Muriel first "saw" her little sister. She was greatly pleased. With agrave elder-sisterly air she felt all over the baby-limbs, and whenMaud set up an indignant cry, began hushing her with so quaint animitation 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 fingerstake hold! And her head is so round, and her hair feels so soft--assoft as my dove's neck at Longfield. What colour is it? Like mine?"

It was; nearly the same shade. Maud bore, the mother declared, thestrongest 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 sistertouching you. How wide open your eyes feel! I wonder, "--with athoughtful pause--"I wonder if you can see me. Little Maud, I shouldlike you to see sister. "

"She does see, of course; how she stares!" cried Guy. And then Edwinbegan to argue to the contrary, protesting that as kittens and puppiescould not see at first, he believed little babies did not: whichproduced a warm altercation among the children gathered round the bed, while Muriel lay back quietly on her pillow, with her little sisterfondly hugged to her breast. 

The father and mother looked on. It was such a picture--these fivedarlings, these children which God had given them--a group perfect andcomplete in itself, like a root of daisies, or a branch of ripeningfruit, which not one could be added to, or taken from--

No. I was sure, from the parents' smile, that, this once, Mercy hadblinded their eyes, so that they saw nothing beyond the present moment. 

The children were wildly happy. All the afternoon they kept up theirinnocent 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 thosewe heard not; as if through the wide-open orbs the soul were strainingat sights wonderful and new--sights unto which HER eyes were theclear-seeing, and ours the blank and blind. 

It seems strange now, to remember that Sunday afternoon, and how merrywe all were; how we drank tea in the queer bed-room at the top of thehouse; and how afterwards Muriel went to sleep in the twilight, withbaby Maud in her arms. Mrs. Halifax sat beside the little bed, asudden blazing up of the fire showing the intentness of her watch overthese two, her eldest and youngest, fast asleep; their breathing sosoft, one hardly knew which was frailest, the life slowly fading or thelife but just begun. Their breaths seemed to mix and mingle, and thetwo faces, lying close together, to grow into a strange likeness eachto each. At least, we all fancied so. 

Meanwhile, John kept his boys as still as mice, in the broadwindow-seat, looking across the white snowy sheet, with black bushespeering out here and there, to the feathery beech-wood, over the topsof which the new moon was going down. Such a little young moon! andhow peacefully--nay, smilingly--she set among the snows!

The children watched her till the very last minute, when Guy startledthe 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 downagain 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 veryunwillingly let the little sister go. 

"I wish she might stay with me--just this one night; and to-morrow ismy 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 didon Sunday evenings. 

"Yes, please; and Guy will come and sit quiet on the bed beside me andlisten. That will be pleasant. Guy was always very good to hissister--always. "

"I don't know that, " said Guy, in a conscience-stricken tone. "But Imean to be when I grow a big man--that I do. "

No one answered. John opened the large Book--the Book he had taughtall his children to long for and to love--and read out of it theirfavourite history of Joseph and his brethren. The mother sat by him atthe fireside, rocking Maud softly on her knees. Edwin and Waltersettled themselves on the hearth-rug, with great eyes intently fixed ontheir father. From behind him the candle-light fell softly down on themotionless figure in the bed, whose hand he held, and whose face heevery now and then turned to look at--then, satisfied, continued toread. 

In the reading his voice had a fatherly, flowing calm--as Jacob's mighthave had, when "the children were tender, " and he gathered them allround him under the palm-trees of Succoth--years before he cried untothe Lord that bitter cry--(which John hurried over as he read)--"IF IAM BEREAVED OF MY CHILDREN, I AM BEREAVED. "

For an hour, nearly, we all sat thus--with the wind coming up thevalley, howling in the beech-wood, and shaking the casement as itpassed outside. Within, the only sound was the father's voice. Thisceased at last; he shut the Bible, and put it aside. The group--thatlast perfect household picture--was broken up. It melted away intothings of the past, and became only a picture, for evermore. 

"Now, boys--it is full time to say good-night. There, go and kiss yoursister. "

"Which?" said Edwin, in his funny way. "We've got two now; and I don'tknow 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 oftenthought to be her favourite brother. 

"Now, off with you, boys; and go down-stairs quietly--mind, I sayquietly. "

They obeyed--that is, as literally as boy-nature can obey such anadmonition. But an hour after I heard Guy and Edwin arguingvociferously in the dark, on the respective merits and future treatmentof their two sisters, Muriel and Maud. 

John and I sat up late together that night. He could not rest--eventhough he told me he had left the mother and her two daughters as cosyas a nest of wood-pigeons. We listened to the wild night, till it hadalmost howled itself away; then our fire went out, and we came and satover 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 ourconversation did not touch upon, by at least ten years. Nor did wegive expression to a thought which strongly oppressed me, and which Ionce or twice fancied I could detect in John likewise--how very likethis night seemed to the night when Mr. March died; the same silentnessin the house--the same windy whirl without--the same blaze of thewood-fire on the same kitchen ceiling. 

More than once I could almost have deluded myself that I heard thefaint moans and footsteps over-head--that the staircase door wouldopen, and we should see there Miss March, in her white gown, and herpale, 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 andchildren were all sound asleep. 

"I think I may leave them until daylight to-morrow. And now, UnclePhineas, 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 Ipictured over and over again, first the night when Mr. March died--thenthe night at Longfield, when the little white ghost had crossed by mybed's foot, into the room where Mary Baines' dead boy lay. Andcontinually, towards morning, I fancied I heard through my window, which faced the church, the faint, distant sound of the organ, as whenMuriel used to play it. 

Long before it was light I rose. As I passed the boy's room Guy calledout to me:

"Halloa! Uncle Phineas, is it a fine morning?--for I want to go downinto 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 quailsbefore it still. 

John went early to the room up-stairs. It was very still. Ursula laycalmly asleep, with baby Maud in her bosom; on her other side, witheyes wide open to the daylight, lay--that which for more than ten yearswe had been used to call "blind Muriel. " She saw, now. 

 * * * * *

The same day at evening we three were sitting in the parlour; we eldersonly--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 fetchingthe boys' candle, as had always been her custom, and though afterwardsI thought I had heard her going up-stairs, likewise from habit, --wherethere was no need to bid any mother's good-night now--even Ursula satin the rocking-chair, nursing Maud, and trying to still her crying witha little foolish baby-tune that had descended as a family lullaby fromone to the other of the whole five--how sad it sounded!

John--who sat at the table, shading the light from his eyes, an openbook lying before him, of which he never turned one page--looked up ather. 

"Love, you must not tire yourself. Give me the child. "

"No, no! Let me keep my baby--she comforts me so. " And the motherburst 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 heranguish was beyond all bounds supporting her silently till it had goneby; never once letting her feel that, bitter as her sorrow was, his washeavier than hers. 

Thus, during the whole of the day, had he been the stay and consolationof 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 theface 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 thatit 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 parlourfor 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 justheard--"

She broke off with a sob. Lord Ravenel pushed her aside and stood atthe door. We had not seen him since the day of that innocent jestabout his "falling in love" with Muriel. Seeing us all so quiet, andthe parlour looking as it always did when he used to come ofevenings--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 veryfond of--"

Ah! that name!--now nothing but a name! For a little while we all weptsore. 

Then we told him--it was Ursula who did it chiefly--all particularsabout our darling. She told him, but calmly, as became one on whom hadfallen the utmost sorrow and crowning consecration of motherhood--thatof yielding up her child, a portion of her own being, to the corruptionof the grave--of resigning the life which out of her own life had beencreated, unto the Creator of all. 

Surely, distinct and peculiar from every other grief, every otherrenunciation, must be that of a woman who is thus chosen to give hervery flesh and blood, the fruit of her own womb, unto the Lord!

This dignity, this sanctity, seemed gradually to fall upon the mourningmother, as she talked about her lost one; repeating often--"I tell youthis, 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 samelittle curtainless bed where, for a week past, we had been accustomedto see the wasted figure and small pale face lying, in smilingquietude, all day long. 

It lay there still. In it, and in the room, was hardly any change. Oneof Walter's playthings was in a corner of the window-sill, and on thechest of drawers stood the nosegay of Christmas roses which Guy hadbrought for his sister yesterday morning. Nay, her shawl--a white, soft, furry shawl, that she was fond of wearing--remained still hangingup behind the door. One could almost fancy the little maid had justbeen said "good-night" to, and left to dream the childish dreams on hernursery pillow, where the small head rested so peacefully, with thatpretty babyish nightcap tied over the pretty curls. 

There she was, the child who had gone out of the number of ourchildren--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 themother 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 sostrangely like his own. The face which had been for eleven years thejoy 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 abitter 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 atEnderley, 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 alevel sea, whose leagues of tiny ripples make one smooth glassy plain. 

Let me recall--as the first wave that rose, ominous of change--acertain spring evening, when Mrs. Halifax and I were sitting, as wasour wont, under the walnut-tree. The same old walnut-tree, hardly abough altered, though many of its neighbours and kindred had grown fromsaplings into trees--even as some of us had grown from children almostinto 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 hismills, in as tasteful an equipage as any of the country gentry betweenhere and Enderley. 

His wife went down to the stream to meet him, as usual, and they cameup 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 largenesswhich is not unbecoming a lady of middle-age, he, inclined to a slightstoop, with the lines of his face more sharply defined, and the hairwearing away off his forehead up to the crown. Though still not a greythread was discernible in the crisp locks at the back, whichsuccessively five little ones had pulled, and played with, and nestledin; 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 hischildren, 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 tothe 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 soheartily approve of as the Oldtowers. "

These were not of the former race. Good old Sir Ralph had gone to hisrest, and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead; Sir Herbert, who in hisdignified gratitude never forgot a certain election day, when he firstmade the personal acquaintance of Mr. Halifax. The manor-house familybrought 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, pettymanufacturers first rose into merchant princes and cotton lords--thesegentry made a perceptible distinction, often amusing enough to us, between John Halifax, the tanner of Norton Bury, and Mr. Halifax, theprosperous owner of Enderley Mills. Some of them, too, were cleverenough to discover, what a pleasant and altogether "visitable" lady wasMrs. Halifax, daughter of the late Mr. March, a governor in the WestIndies, and cousin of Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe. But Mrs. Halifax, with quiet tenacity, altogether declined being visited as anything butMrs. Halifax, wife of John Halifax, tanner, or mill-owner, or whateverhe might be. All honours and all civilities that did not come throughhim, and with him, were utterly valueless to her. 

To this her peculiarity was added another of John's own, namely, thatall his life he had been averse to what is called "society;" hadeschewed "acquaintances, "--and--but most men might easily count upontheir fingers the number of those who, during a life-time, are foundworthy of the sacred name of "friend. " Consequently, our circle ofassociations was far more limited than that of many families holding anequal position with us--on which circumstance our neighbours commenteda good deal. But little we cared; no more than we had cared for thechit-chat of Norton Bury. Our whole hearts were bound up within ourown 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 elderswent out again to the walnut-tree bench. "Certainly, prettier thanever;" and his eye wandered over the quaint, low house, all odds andends--for nearly every year something had been built, or somethingpulled down; then crossing the smooth bit of lawn, Jem Watkins'sspecial pride, it rested on the sloping field, yellow with tallbuttercups, wavy with growing grass. "Let me see--how long have welived here? Phineas, you are the one for remembering dates. What yearwas 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 ourdays here. Do not you, John?"

He paused a little before answering. "Yes, I wish it; but I am notsure how far it would be right to do it. "

"We will not open that subject again, " said the mother, uneasily. "Ithought we had all made up our minds that little Longfield was athousand times pleasanter than Beechwood, grand as it is. But Johnthinks 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 LeckingtonHill--"sometimes I fancy my life is too easy--that I am not a wisesteward of the riches that have multiplied so fast. By fifty, a man soblest as I have been, ought to have done really something of use in theworld--and I am forty-five. Once, I hoped to have done wonderfulthings ere I was forty-five. But somehow the desire faded. "

His wife and I were silent. We both knew the truth; that calm as hadflowed his outer existence, in which was omitted not one actual duty, still, for these twelve years, all the high aims which make the gloryand charm of life as duties make its strength, all the active energiesand noble ambitions which especially belong to the prime of manhood, inhim had been, not dead perhaps, but sleeping. Sleeping, beyond thepower of any human voice to waken them, under the daisies of a child'sgrave at Enderley. 

I know not if this was right--but it was scarcely unnatural. In thatheart, which loved as few men love, and remembered as few men remember, so deep a wound could never be thoroughly healed. A certain somethingin him seemed different ever after, as if a portion of the father's ownlife had been taken away with Muriel, and lay buried in the little deadbosom of his first-born, his dearest child. 

"You forget, " said Mrs. Halifax, tenderly--"you forget, John, how muchyou have been doing, and intend to do. What with your improvements atEnderley, and your Catholic Emancipation--your Abolition of Slavery andyour 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--ourhousehold Solomon. "

"Thank you, Ursula, " said I, submitting to the not rare fortune ofbeing 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 ownpainfully-gained and limited acquirements. Yet this feeling had madehim doubly careful to give his boys every possible advantage of study, short of sending them from home, to which he had an invincibleobjection. And three finer lads, or better educated, there could notbe found in the whole country. 

"I think, John, Guy has quite got over his fancy of going to Cambridgewith Ralph Oldtower. "

"Yes; college life would not have done for Guy, " said the fatherthoughtfully. 

"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 theirhome-taught, loving simplicity, they would neither have been ashamednor annoyed at the epithet--these two tall lads, who in the dusk lookedas man-like as their father. 

"Where is your sister, boys?"

"Maud stopped at the stream with Edwin, " answered Guy, rathercarelessly. His heart had kept its childish faith; the youngest, petas she was, was never anything to him but "little Maud. " One--whom theboys still talked of, softly and tenderly, in fireside evening talks, when the winter winds came and the snow was falling--one only was everspoken of by Guy as "sister. "

Maud, or Miss Halifax, as from the first she was naturally called--asnaturally as our lost darling was never called anything else thanMuriel--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 herchildish stature, and because she was more especially "Edwin's girl, "and had been so always. She had grown out of the likeness that welonged for in her cradle days, or else we had grown out of theperception of it; for though the external resemblance in hair andcomplexion still remained, nothing could be more unlike in spirit thanthis sprightly elf, at once the plague and pet of the family--to ourMuriel. 

"Edwin's girl" stole away with him, merrily chattering. Guy sat downbeside his mother, and slipped his arm round her waist. They stillfondled her with a child-like simplicity--these her almost grown-upsons; who had never been sent to school for a day, and had neverlearned from other sons of far different mothers, that a young man'schief manliness ought to consist in despising the tender charities ofhome. 

"Guy, you foolish boy!" as she took his cap off and pushed back hishair, trying not to look proud of his handsome face, "what have youbeen doing all day?"

"Making myself agreeable, of course, mother. "

"That he has, " corroborated Walter, whose great object of hero-worshipwas his eldest brother. "He talked with Lady Oldtower, and he sangwith Miss Oldtower and Miss Grace. Never was there such a fellow asour Guy. "

"Nonsense!" said his mother, while Guy only laughed, too accustomed tothis 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 theGreeks. Father, do you know everybody is joining the Greeks? EvenLord 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 athome?--Better than growing up to be our eldest son, our comfort and ourhope?--I think not, Guy. "

"You are right, father, " was the answer, with an uneasy look. For thisdescription 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 thegrave Edwin, who was already a thorough man of business, and ploddedbetween Enderley mills and a smaller one which had taken the place ofthe flour mill at Norton Bury, with indomitable perseverance. 

Guy fell into a brown study, not unnoticed by those anxious eyes, whichlingered 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; themother sitting at her little table, where the tall silver candlestickshed a subdued light on her work-basket, that never was empty, and herbusy fingers, that never were still. The father sat beside her; hekept his old habit of liking to have her close to him; ay, even thoughhe was falling into the middle-aged comforts of an arm-chair andnewspaper. There he sat, sometimes reading aloud, or talking;sometimes lazily watching her, with silent, loving eyes, that sawbeauty in his old wife still. 

The young folk scattered themselves about the room. Guy and Walter atthe unshuttered window--we had a habit of never hiding ourhome-light--were looking at the moon, and laying bets, sotto voce, uponhow many minutes she would be in climbing over the oak on the top ofOne-tree Hill. Edwin sat, reading hard--his shoulders up to his ears, and his fingers stuck through his hair, developing the whole of hisbroad, knobbed, knotted forehead, where, Maud declared, the wrinkleshad already begun to show. For Mistress Maud herself, she flittedabout in all directions, interrupting everything, and doing nothing. 

"Maud, " said her father, at last, "I am afraid you give a great deal oftrouble to Uncle Phineas. "

Uncle Phineas tried to soften the fact, but the little lady wascertainly the most trying of his pupils. Her mother she had longescaped from, for the advantage of both. For, to tell the truth, whilein the invisible atmosphere of moral training the mother's influencewas invaluable, in the minor branch of lesson-learning there might havebeen found many a better teacher than Ursula Halifax. So thechildren's education was chiefly left to me; other tutors succeeding aswas necessary; and it had just begun to be considered whether a ladygoverness ought not to "finish" the education of Miss Halifax. Butalways at home. Not for all the knowledge and all the accomplishmentsin the world would these parents have suffered either son ordaughter--living souls intrusted them by the Divine Father--to bebrought up anywhere out of their own sight, out of the shelter andsafeguard 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 andheir turning the old dining-room into a "County Bank--open from tentill four. ")

"While waiting there I heard of a lady who struck me as likely to be anexcellent governess for Maud. "

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Halifax, not over-enthusiastically. Maud becameeager 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 sheis, Jessop gave me first-rate evidence--a good daughter, who teaches inNorton Bury anybody's children for any sort of pay, in order tomaintain an ailing mother. Ursula, you would let her teach our Maud, Iknow?"

"Is she an Englishwoman?"--For Mrs. Halifax, prejudiced by a certainFrench lady who had for a few months completely upset the peace of themanor-house, and even slightly tainted her own favourite, pretty GraceOldtower, 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 hardlyhold 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 beenmooted, 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 totell their children. 

"Leave Longfield!" repeated Mrs. Halifax; "surely--surely--" Butglancing 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. Ittroubles you, John. Put it off till to-morrow. "

No, that was never his habit. He was one of the very few who, a thingbeing to be done, will not trust it to uncertain "to-morrows. " His wifesaw that he wanted to talk to her, and listened. 

"Yes, the question does trouble me a good deal. Whether, now that ourchildren are growing up, and our income is doubling and trebling yearby year, we ought to widen our circle of usefulness, or close it uppermanently within the quiet bound of little Longfield. Love, whichsay 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 lookingdown on her with that peculiar look which he always had when tellingher things that he knew were sore to hear. I never saw that look onany living face save John's; but I have seen it once in a picture--oftwo Huguenot lovers. The woman is trying to fasten round the man'sneck the white badge that will save him from the massacre (of St. Bartholomew)--he, clasping her the while, gently puts it aside--notstern, but smiling. That quiet, tender smile, firmer than any frown, will, you feel sure, soon control the woman's anguish, so that she willsob out--any faithful woman would--"Go, die! Dearer to me than eventhyself are thy honour and thy duty!"

When I saw this noble picture, it touched to the core this old heart ofmine--for the painter, in that rare expression, might have caughtJohn's. Just as in a few crises of his life I have seen it, andespecially in this one, when he first told to his wife thatdetermination which he had slowly come to--that it was both right andexpedient for us to quit Longfield, our happy home for so many years, of which the mother loved every flower in the garden, every nook andstone in the walls. 

"Leave Longfield!" she repeated again, with a bitter sigh. 

"Leave Longfield!" echoed the children, first the youngest, then theeldest, but rather in curiosity than regret. Edwin's keen, bright eyeswere just lifted from his book, and fell again; he was not a lad ofmuch 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 withentire freedom, they looked towards their father--these, the sons ofhis youth, to whom he had been from their birth, not only parent andhead, but companion, guide, and familiar friend. They honoured him, they trusted him, they loved him; not, perhaps, in the exact way thatthey loved their mother; for it often seems Nature's own ordinance, that a mother's influence should be strongest over her sons, while thefather's is greatest over his daughters. But even a stranger could notglance from each to each of those attentive faces, so different, yetwith a curious "family look" running through them all, without seeingin what deep, reverent affection, such as naturally takes the place ofchildish fondness, these youths held their father. 

"Yes, I am afraid, after much serious thought on the matter, and muchconsultation with your mother here, --that we ought to leave Longfield. "

"So I think, " said Mistress Maud, from her footstool; which puttingforward of her important opinion shook us all from gravity tomerriment, that compelled even Mrs. Halifax to join. Then, layingaside her work, and with it the saddened air with which she had bentover it, she drew her chair closer to her husband, slipping her hand inhis, and leaning against his shoulder. Upon which Guy, who had atfirst watched his mother anxiously, doubtful whether or no his father'splan had her approval, and therefore ought to be assented to, --relapsedinto 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 thehill, below Rose Cottage. The beech-wood itself was part of itspleasure ground, and from its gardens honest James Tod, who had them inkeeping, had brought many a pocketful of pears for the boys, many asweet-scented nosegay for Muriel. 

"Beechwood has been empty a great many years, father? Would it be asafe 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 thenotion of "lots of shooting and fishing" about Enderley, especially atLuxmore; and Maud counted on the numerous visitors that would come toJohn Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood Hall. 

"Neither of which excellent reasons happen to be your father's, " saidMrs. Halifax, shortly. But John, often tenderer over youthfulfrivolities 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 seenher, I had strongly impressed on my mind the wish to gain influence inthe world--riches if I could--but at all events, influence. I thoughtI could use it well, better than most men; those can best help the poorwho understand the poor. And I can; since, you know, when UnclePhineas found me, I was--"

"Father, " said Guy, flushing scarlet, "we may as well pass over thatfact. We are gentlefolks now. "

"We always were, my son. "

The rebuke, out of its very mildness, cut the youth to the heart. Hedropped 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 ownthoughts as aloud to his children--"now, twenty-five years of labourhave won for me the position I desired. That is, I might have it forthe claiming. I might take my place among the men who have latelyrisen 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 everintended it. He said there was nothing you might not attain to if youwould give yourself up entirely to politics. "

"No, Guy, no. Wisdom, like charity, begins at home. Let me learn torule in my own valley, among my own people, before I attempt to guidethe state. And that brings me back again to the pros and cons aboutBeechwood Hall. "

"Tell them, John; tell all out plainly to the children. "

The reasons were--first, the advantage of the boys themselves; for JohnHalifax was not one of those philanthropists who would benefit all theworld except their own household and their own kin. He wished--sincethe higher a man rises, the wider and nobler grows his sphere ofusefulness--not only to lift himself, but his sons after him; lift themhigh enough to help on the ever-advancing tide of human improvement, among their own people first, and thence extending outward in the worldwhithersoever their talents or circumstances might call them. 

"I understand, " cried the eldest son, his eyes sparkling; "you want tofound a family. And so it shall be--we will settle at Beechwood Hall;all coming generations shall live to the honour and glory of yourname--our name--"

"My boy, there is only one Name to whose honour we should all live. OneName 'in whom all the generations of the earth are blessed. ' In thusfar only do I wish to 'found a family, ' as you call it, that our lightmay shine before men--that we may be a city set on a hill--that we maysay plainly unto all that ask us, 'For me and my house, we will servethe Lord. '"

It was not often that John Halifax spoke thus; adopting solemnly theliteral language of the Book--his and our life's guide, no word ofwhich was ever used lightly in our family. We all listened, as in hisearnestness he rose, and, standing upright in the firelight, spoke on. 

"I believe, with His blessing, that one may 'serve the Lord' as well inwealth as in poverty, in a great house as in a cottage like this. I amnot doubtful, even though my possessions are increased. I am notafraid of being a rich man. Nor a great man neither, if I were calledto 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 highas any lady in the land, --in fortune I then meant, thinking it wouldmake her happier; but she and I are wiser now. We know that we nevercan be happier than we were in the old house at Norton Bury, or in thislittle Longfield. By making her lady of Beechwood I should double herresponsibilities and treble her cares; give her an infinitude of newduties, 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 themshone all the steadfastness of faithful love. "Thank you, John. Ihave decided. If you wish it, if you think it right, we will leaveLongfield 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 asacrifice; but I question whether the greater sacrifice were not hiswho took rather than hers who gave. 

So all was settled--we were to leave beloved Longfield. It was to belet, not sold; let to a person we knew, who would take jealous care ofall that was ours, and we might come back and see it continually; butit would be ours--our own home--no more. 

Very sad--sadder even than I had thought--was the leaving all thefamiliar things; the orchard and the flower-garden, the meadow and thestream, the woody hills beyond, every line and wave of which waspleasant and dear almost as our children's faces. Ay, almost as thatface which for a year--one little year, had lived in sight of, butnever beheld, their beauty; the child who one spring day had gone awaymerrily out of the white gate with her three brothers, and never cameback to Longfield any more. 

Perhaps this circumstance, that her fading away and her departurehappened away from home, was the cause why her memory--the memory ofour living Muriel, in her human childhood--afterwards clung moreespecially about the house at Longfield. The other children altered, imperceptibly, yet so swiftly, that from year to year we half forgottheir old likenesses. But Muriel's never changed. Her image, only ashade, yet often more real than any of these living children, seemedperpetually among us. It crept through the house at dusk; in winterfire-light it sat smiling in dim corners; in spring mornings it movedabout the garden borders, with tiny soft footsteps neither seen norheard. The others grew up--would be men and women shortly--but the onechild that "was not, " remained to us always a child. 

I thought, even the last evening--the very last evening that Johnreturned from Enderley, and his wife went down to the stream to meethim, 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 spotwhere a little pale figure used to sit on the door-sill, listening andwaiting 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 herselfthat there would be at least no possibility of accomplishing theflitting to-morrow--the last night, when John went as usual to fastenthe house-door, he stood a long time outside, looking down the valley. 

"How quiet everything is. You can almost hear the tinkle of thestream. Poor old Longfield!" And I sighed, thinking we should neveragain have such another home. 

John did not answer. He had been mechanically bending aside andtraining 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 tinyroot; it covered the whole front of the house now. Then he came andleaned beside me over the wicket-gate, looking fixedly up into themoon-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 downthe gravel walk--(alas! the pretty field-path belonged to days thatwere!)--up and down the broad, sunshiny walk, in front of thebreakfast-room windows of Beechwood Hall. 

It was early--little past eight o'clock; but we kept Longfield hoursand Longfield ways still. And besides, this was a grand day--the dayof Guy's coming of age. Curious it seemed to watch him, as he walkedalong by his father, looking every inch "the young heir;" and perhapsnot unconscious that he did so;--curious enough, remembering how meeklythe 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, aswe gathered round the cosy breakfast-table. There, as heretofore, itwas the mother's pride and the father's pleasure that not one faceshould be missing--that, summer and winter, all should assemble for anhour 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 tokeep unclouded this little bit of early sunshine, before the father andbrothers went away. No sour or dreary looks, no painful topics, wereever brought to the breakfast-table. 

Thus it was against all custom when Mr. Halifax, laying down his paperwith 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 ourhousehold, that these two lads, excellent lads both, as they grew intomanhood did not exactly "pull together. "

"Edwin is scarcely wrong in thinking of 'us, ' since upon us depend somany, " observed the father, in that quiet tone with which, when he didhappen to interfere between his sons, he generally smoothed mattersdown and kept the balance even. "Yet though we are ourselves secure, Itrust the losses everywhere around us make it the more necessary thatwe should not parade our good fortune by launching out into any ofGuy's magnificences--eh, my boy?"

The youth looked down. It was well known in the family that since wecame to Beechwood his pleasure-loving temperament had wanted all sortsof improvements on our style of living--fox-hounds, dinner-parties, balls; that the father's ways, which, though extended to liberalhospitalities, forbade outward show, and made our life a thoroughfamily life still--were somewhat distasteful to that most fascinatingyoung gentleman, Guy Halifax, Esquire, heir of Beechwood Hall. 

"You may call it 'magnificence, ' or what you choose; but I know Ishould like to live a little more as our neighbours do. And I think weought too--we that are known to be the wealthiest family--"

He stopped abruptly--for the door opened; and Guy had too much goodtaste and good feeling to discuss our riches before Maud's poorgoverness--the tall, grave, sad-looking, sad-clothed Miss Silver; thesame whom John had seen at Mr. Jessop's bank; and who had been with usfour months--ever since we came to Beechwood. 

One of the boys rose and offered her a chair; for the parents set theexample of treating her with entire respect--nay, would gladly havemade her altogether one of the family, had she not been so veryreserved. 

Miss Silver came forward with the daily nosegay which Mrs. Halifax hadconfided to her superintendence. 

"They are the best I can find, madam--I believe Watkins keeps all hisgreenhouse flowers for to-night. "

"Thank you, my dear. These will do very well. --Yes, Guy, persuade MissSilver to take your place by the fire. She looks so cold. "

But Miss Silver, declining the kindness, passed on to her own seatopposite. 

Ursula busied herself over the breakfast equipage rather nervously. Though an admirable person, Miss Silver in her extreme and all butrepellant quietness was one whom the mother found it difficult to geton with. She was scrupulously kind to her; and the governess was asscrupulously exact in all courtesy and attention; still thatimpassible, self-contained demeanour, that great reticence--it might beshyness, it might be pride--sometimes, Ursula privately admitted, "fidgeted" her. 

To-day was to be a general holiday for both masters and servants; adinner at the mills; and in the evening something which, though we callit 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 youngpeople's wishes, and half the neighbourhood had been invited, by theuniversally-popular Mr. Guy Halifax to celebrate his coming of age. 

"Only once in a way, " said the mother, half ashamed of herself for thusindulging 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, Edwinvanishing with his sister, to whom he was giving daily Latin lessons inthe 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 lethim 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 bornwithin a year and three days of each other; but she never hinted--itnever 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 morewholesomely than to her husband: either because men, the very best ofmen, can only suffer, while women can endure; or because in themysterious ordinance of nature Maud's baby lips had sucked away thebitterness of the pang from the bereaved mother, while her loss was yetnew. It had never been left to rankle in that warm heart, which hadroom for every living child, while it cherished, in tenderness aboveall sorrow, the child that was no more. 

John and I, in our walk, stood a moment by the low churchyard wall, andlooked over at that plain white stone, where was inscribed her name, "Muriel Joy Halifax, "--a line out of that New Testament miracle-storyshe delighted in, "WHEREAS I WAS BLIND, NOW I SEE, "--and the date whenSHE SAW. Nothing more: it was not needed. 

"December 5, 1813, " said the father, reading the date. "She would havebeen quite a woman now. How strange! My little Muriel!"

And he walked thoughtfully along, almost in the same footprints wherehe had been used to carry his darling up the hillside to the brow ofEnderley Flat. He seemed in fancy to bear her in his arms still--thislittle one, whom, as I have before said, Heaven in its compensatingmercy, year by year, through all changes, had made the one treasurethat 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 wherewe used to sit with her for hours together, the father's heart tookthis consolation so closely and surely into itself that memoryaltogether ceased to be pain. He began talking about the otherchildren--especially Maud--and then of Miss Silver, her governess. 

"I wish she were more likeable, John. It vexes me sometimes to see howcoldly she returns the mother's kindness. "

"Poor thing!--she has evidently not been used to kindness. You shouldhave seen how amazed she looked yesterday when we paid her a littlemore than her salary, and my wife gave her a pretty silk dress to wearto-night. I hardly knew whether she would refuse it, or burst outcrying--in girlish fashion. "

"Is she a girl? Why, the boys say she looks thirty at least. Guy andWalter laugh amazingly at her dowdy dress and her solemn, haughty ways. "

"That will not do, Phineas. I must speak to them. They ought to makeallowance 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, shewould not be here. I think people should be as particular overchoosing their daughter's governess as their son's wife; and havingchosen, should show her almost equal honour. "

"You'll have your sons choosing themselves wives soon, John. I fancyGuy has a soft place in his heart for that pretty Grace Oldtower. "

But the father made no answer. He was always tenacious over theslightest approach to such jests as these. And besides, just at thismoment Mr. Brown, Lord Luxmore's steward, passed--riding solemnlyalong. He barely touched his hat to Mr. Halifax. 

"Poor Mr. Brown! He has a grudge against me for those Mexicanspeculations I refused to embark in; he did, and lost everything butwhat he gets from Lord Luxmore. I do think, Phineas, the country hasbeen running mad this year after speculation. There is sure to come apanic afterwards, and indeed it seems already beginning. "

"But you are secure? You have not joined in the mania, the crashcannot harm you? Did I not hear you say that you were not afraid oflosing 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 onall sides is a most trying position. Misfortune makes people unjust. The other day at the sessions I got cold looks enough from my brothermagistrates--looks that would have set my blood boiling twenty yearsago. And--you saw in the Norton Bury Mercury that article about'grasping plebeian millionaires'--'wool-spinners, spinning out of theircountry's vitals. ' That's meant for me, Phineas. Don't lookincredulous. Yes--for me. "

"How disgraceful!"

"Perhaps so--but to them more than to me. I feel sorry, because of theharm it may do me--especially among working people, who know nothingbut what they hear, and believe everything that is told them. They seeI thrive and others fail--that my mills are the only cloth mills infull work, and I have more hands than I can employ. Every week I amobliged to send new-comers away. Then they raise the old cry--that mymachinery has ruined labour. So, you see, for all that Guy says aboutour 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. Itwill die out most likely; meantime, we will mind it as little as wecan. "

"But are you safe?--your life--" For a sudden fear crossed me--a fearnot 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--ifI have work to do. Still, for others' sake, I have carried this monthpast whenever I go to and from the Coltham bank, besides mycash-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 extremitywould force me to use it: also that my carrying it, and its beingnoised about that I do so, may prevent my ever having occasion to useit. God grant I never may! Don't let us talk about this. "

He stopped, gazing with a sad abstraction down the sunshinyvalley--most part of which was already his own property. For whatevercapital he could spare from his business he never sunk in speculation, but took a patriarchal pleasure in investing it in land, chiefly forthe benefit of his mills and those concerned therein. 

"My poor people--they might have known me better! But I suppose onenever attains one's desire without its being leavened with somebitterness. If there was one point I was anxious over in my youth, itwas to keep up through life a name like the Chevalier Bayard--how folkwould smile to hear of a tradesman emulating Bayard--'sans peur et sansreproche!' And so things might be--ought to be. So perhaps they shallbe 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 ofthe hill-tops met the steel-blue, steadfast sky. Yes, I felt sure heWOULD 'live it down. '

We dismissed the subject, and spent an hour more in pleasant chat, about many things. Passing homeward through the beech-wood, wherethrough the bare tree-tops a light snow was beginning to fall, Johnsaid, musingly:

"It will be a hard winter--we shall have to help our poor people agreat deal. Christmas dinners will be much in request. "

"There's a saying, that the way to an Englishman's heart is through hisstomach. 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 mustbe patient. 'IN YOUR PATIENCE POSSESS YE YOUR SOULS. '"

He said this, more to himself than aloud, as if carrying out the threadof his own thought. Mine following it, and observing him, involuntarily turned to another passage in our Book of books, about theblessedness 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 ofthe mill-yard dinner--which reminded me forcibly of that feast at whichguests were gathered out of the highways and hedges--guests such asJohn Halifax liked to have--guests who could not, by any possibility, "recompense"' him. Yet it did one's heart good to hear the cheer thatgreeted the master, ay, and the young master too, who was to-day forthe 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 theevening he stood in the midst of his children waiting for "Guy'svisitors, " as he pertinaciously declared them to be--these fine people, for whose entertainment our house had been these three days turnedupside down; the sober old dining-room converted into a glitteringball-room, and the entrance-hall a very "bower of bliss"--all greenboughs and Chinese lanterns. John protested he should not have knownhis own study again; and that, if these festive transformations were tohappen frequently he should soon not even know himself!

Yet for all that, and in spite of the comical horror he testified atthis first bouleversement of our quiet home ways, I think he had a realpleasure in his children's delight; in wandering with them through thedecorated rooms, tapestried with ivy and laurel, and arbor vitae; inmaking them all pass in review before him, and admiring their handiworkand 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 bloomedout in a ball dress, all white muslin and camellias, and appeared everyinch "Miss Halifax. " Walter, too, had lately eschewed jackets, andbegan to borrow razors; while Edwin, though still small, had a keen, old-man-like look, which made him seem--as he was, indeed, incharacter--the eldest of the three. Altogether, they were "a finefamily, " 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 qualityfor 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 apostolicgrace over the high, half-bald crown, and touching with a softened greythe still curly locks behind. But these were mere accidents; the truedignity lay in himself and his own personal character, independent ofany exterior. 

It was pleasant to watch him, and note how advancing years had givenrather than taken away from his outward mien. As ever, he wasdistinguishable from other men, even to his dress--which had somethingof the Quaker about it still, in its sober colour, its rarely-changedfashion, and its exceeding neatness. Mrs. Halifax used now and then tolaugh at him for being so particular over his daintiest of cambric andfinest of lawn--but secretly she took the greatest pride in hisappearance. 

"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 quietgaze that she knew--what John had told me she knew, this morning. Butthese two in their perfect union had a wonderful strength--a wonderfulfearlessness. And she had learned from him--what perhaps originallywas foreign to her impressible and somewhat anxious mind--thatsteadfast faith, which, while ready to meet every ill when the timecomes, until the time waits cheerfully, and will not disquiet itself invain. 

Thus, for all their cares, her face as well as his, was calm andbright. Bright, even with the prettiest girlish blush, when John cameup to his wife and admired her--as indeed was not surprising. 

She laughed at him, and declared she always intended to grow lovely inher old age. "I thought I ought to dress myself grandly, too, on Guy'sbirthday. Do you like me, John?"

"Very much: I like that black velvet gown, substantial, soft, andrich, without any show. And that lace frill round your throat--whatsort of lace is it?"

"Valenciennes. When I was a girl, if I had a weakness it was for blackvelvet 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 priceis 'far above rubies'--or diamonds either. No, Mrs. Halifax, be notafraid; I shall give you no more jewels. "

She did not need them. She stood amidst her three sons with the smileof a Cornelia. She felt her husband's eyes rest on her, with thatquiet 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 ashost. 

No easy duty, as I soon perceived; for times were hard, and men's mindstroubled. Every one, except the light-heeled, light-heartedyoungsters, looked grave. 

Many yet alive remember this year--1825--the panic year. War havingceased, commerce, in its worst form, started into sudden and unhealthyovergrowth. Speculations of all kinds sprung up like fungi, out ofdead wood, flourished a little, and dropped away. Then came ruin, notof hundreds, but thousands, of all ranks and classes. This year, andthis 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 ourfriendly guests this night, both gentle and simple--and there was amixture of both, as only a man in Mr. Halifax's position could mix suchheterogeneous elements--towns-people and country-people, dissenters andchurch-folk, professional men and men of business. John dared to doit--and did it. But though through his own personal influence many ofdifferent ranks whom he liked and respected, meeting in his own house, learned to like and respect one another, still, even to-night, he couldnot remove the cloud which seemed to hang over all--a cloud so heavythat none present liked referring to it. They hit upon all sorts ofextraneous subjects, keeping far aloof from the one which evidentlypressed upon all minds--the universal distress abroad, the fear thatwas knocking at almost every man's door but ours. 

Of course the talk fell on our neighbours--country talk always does. Isat still, listening to Sir Herbert Oldtower, who was wondering thatLord Luxmore suffered the Hall to drop into disgraceful decay, and hadbegun 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 Iunderstand anybody may do anything with Lord Ravenel--a mere selfish, cynical, idle voluptuary!"

"Indeed you are mistaken, Sir Herbert!" cried Mr. Jessop of NortonBury--a very honest fellow was Josiah Jessop. "He banks with me--thatis, there are some poor Catholics in this neighbourhood whom I pay--butbless 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 theleast 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 namebrought back thoughts of the last day we had seen him--a day which, itssadness having gone by, still kept its unspoken sacredness, distinctfrom all other days--John moved away and went and talked to a girl whomboth 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 veryreason, I delighted to see dancing. Dancing, such as it was then, whenyoung folk moved breezily and lightly, as if they loved it; skimminglike swallows down the long lines of the Triumph--gracefully winding inand out through the graceful country dance--lively always, but alwaysdecorous. In those days people did not think it necessary to thepleasures of dancing that any stranger should have liberty to snatch ashy, innocent girl round the waist, and whirl her about in mad waltz orawkward polka, till she stops, giddy and breathless, with burning cheekand tossed hair, looking, --as I would not have liked to see our prettyMaud look. 

No; though while watching the little lady to-night, I was inclined tosay 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 haveresponded to the wish. 

We did not see Guy among the dancers, who were now forming in asomewhat confused square, in order to execute a new dance calledquadrilles, of which Miss Grace Oldtower was to be the instructress. 

"Where is Guy?" said the mother, who would have missed him among a roomfull 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--statelierthan usual. Her silk gown, of some rich soft colour, fashioned afterMrs. Halifax's taste, and the chaplet of bay-leaves, which Maud hadinsisted upon putting in her dark hair, made an astonishing change inMiss Silver. I could not help noticing it to Mrs. Halifax. 

"Yes, indeed, she looks well. John says her features are fine; but formy part, I don't care for your statuesque faces; I likecolour--expression. See that bright little Grace Oldtower!--athoroughly English rose;--I like HER. Poor Miss Silver! I wish--"

What, out of compunction for a certain sharpness with which she hadspoken, Mrs. Halifax was about to wish, remained undeclared. For, justthis minute, Guy entered, and leaning his handsome head and his tenderpetits soins over the "English rose, " as his mother called her, led herout 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 Maudand 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 whenhis 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 worthychoice--if only he brings me a daughter whom I can love. "

And I fancied there was love--motherly love--in the eyes that followedthrough the graceful mazes of her dancing, the bonny English rose. 

Guy and his partner sat down beside us. His mother noticed that he hadturned very pale again, and the lad owned to be in some pain: he hadtwisted his foot that morning, in helping Maud and Miss Silver acrossthe 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 oldplay-fellow. Then Sir Herbert appeared to lead Mrs. Halifax in tosupper, Guy limped along with pretty Grace on his arm, and all theguests, just enough to fill our longest table in John's study, camethronging round in a buzz of mirthfulness. 

Either the warm, hospitable atmosphere, or the sight of the merryyoungsters, or the general influence of social pleasantness, had forthe time being dispelled the cloud. But certainly it was dispelled. The master of the feast looked down two long lines of happy faces--hisown as bright as theirs--down to where, at the foot of the table, themother and mistress sat. She had been slightly nervous at times duringthe evening, but now she appeared thoroughly at ease and glad--glad tosee 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 andbeloved. It seemed a good omen--an omen that the bitter things outsidewould pass away. 

How bitter they had been, and how sore the wife's heart still felt, Icould see from the jealous way in which, smiling and cheerful as herdemeanour was, she caught every look, every word of those around herwhich might chance to bear reference to her husband; in her quickavoidance of every topic connected with these disastrous times, and, above all, in her hurried grasp of a newspaper that some carelessservant brought in fresh from the night-mail, wet with sleet and snow. 

"Do you get your country paper regularly?" asked some one at table. Andthen some others appeared to recollect the Norton Bury Mercury, and itsvirulent attacks on their host--for there ensued an awkward pause, during which I saw Ursula's face beginning to burn. But she conqueredher wrath. 

"There is often much interest in our provincial papers, Sir Herbert. Myhusband makes a point of taking them all in--bad and good--of everyshade of politics. He believes it is only by hearing all sides thatyou can truly judge of the state of the country. "

"Just as a physician must hear all symptoms before he decides on thepatient's case. At least, so our good old friend Doctor Jessop used tosay. "

"Eh?" said Mr. Jessop the banker, catching his own name, and waking upfrom a brown study, in which he had seemed to see nothing--except, perhaps, the newspaper, which, in its printed cover, lay betweenhimself and Mrs. Halifax. "Eh? did any one--Oh, I beg pardon--begpardon--Sir Herbert, " hastily added the old man; who was a very meekand worthy soul, and had been perhaps more subdued than usual thisevening. 

"I was referring, " said Sir Herbert, with his usual ponderous civility, "to your excellent brother, who was so much respected among us, --forwhich respect, allow me to say, he did not leave us without aninheritor. "

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 oldestfriend of our family, tried to obtain silence for the customary speech, prefatory to the customary toast of "Health and prosperity to the heirof Beechwood. "

There was great applause and filling of glasses; great smiling andwhispering; everybody glancing at poor Guy, who turned red and white, and evidently wished himself a hundred miles off. In the confusion Ifelt my sleeve touched, and saw leaning towards me, hidden by Maud'slaughing happy face, the old banker. He held in his hand the newspaperwhich seemed to have so fascinated him. 

"It's the London Gazette. Mr. Halifax gets it three hours before anyof us. I may open it? It is important to me. Mrs. Halifax wouldexcuse, eh?"

Of course she would. Especially if she had seen the old man's look, ashis trembling fingers vainly tried to unfold the sheet without a singlerustle'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 afather whom--whom I will not refer to here, except to say that his goodheart would have rejoiced to see this day. The high esteem in whichSir 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. Hiseyes were staring blankly, his cheek was the colour of ashes. But whenhe saw every one looking at him he tried desperately to recover himself. 

"'Tis nothing. Nothing of the slightest moment. Eh?" clutchingtightly at the paper which Mrs. Halifax was kindly removing out of hishand. "There's no news in it--none, I assure you. "

But from his agitation--from the pitiful effort he made to disguiseit--it was plain enough that there was news. Plain also, as in thesedangerous and critical times men were only too quick to divine, in whatthat news consisted. Tidings, which now made every newspaper a sightof fear, --especially this--the London Gazette. 

Edwin caught and read the fatal page--the fatal column--known only toowell. 

"W----'s have stopped payment. "

W----'s was a great London house, the favourite banking-house in ourcountry, 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 passedhurriedly from hand to hand; and then our guests, one and all, satlooking at one another in breathless fear, suspicion, or assureddismay. For, as every one was aware (we knew our neighbours' affairsso well about innocent Enderley), there was not a single household ofthat merry little company upon whom, near or remote, the blow would notfall--except ours. 

No polite disguise could gloss over the general consternation. Fewthought of Jessop--only of themselves. Many a father turned pale; manya mother melted into smothered tears. More than one honest countenancethat five minutes before had beamed like the rising sun, allfriendliness and jocularity, I saw shrink into a wizened, worldly facewith greedy selfishness peering out of the corners of its eyes, eagerto conceal its own alarms and dive as far as possible into the terrorsof its neighbours. 

"There will be a run on Jessop's bank to-morrow, " I heard one personsaying; 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 deviltake the hindmost. "

"What say you to all this, Mr. Halifax?"

John still kept his place. He sat perfectly quiet, and had neverspoken a syllable. 

When Sir Herbert, who was the first to recover from the shock of theseill-tidings, called him by his name, Mr. Halifax looked quickly up. Itwas to see, instead of those two lines of happy faces, faces alreadygathering in troubled groups, faces angry, sullen, or miserable, all ofwhich, with a vague distrust, seemed instinctively turned upon him. 

"Mr. Halifax, " said the baronet, and one could see how, in spite of hissteadfast politeness, he too was not without his anxieties--"this is anunpleasant breaking-in upon your kindly hospitalities. I suppose, through this unpropitious event, each of us must make up our minds tosome loss. Let me hope yours will be trifling. "

John made no answer. 

"Or, perhaps--though I can hardly hope anything so fortunate--perhapsthis failure will not affect you at all?"

He waited--as did many others, for Mr. Halifax's reply; which was longin coming. However, since all seemed to expect it, it did come atlast; but grave and sad as if it were the announcement of some greatmisfortune. 

"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 troubledmurmur of talking, in which the master of the house was forgotten;until the baronet said, "My friends, I think we are forgetting ourcourtesy. Allow me to give you without more delay--the toast I wasabout to propose, --'Health, long life, and happiness to Mr. GuyHalifax. '"

And so poor Guy's birthday toast was drunk; almost in silence; and thefew words he said in acknowledgment were just listened to, scarcelyheard. 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 allshrunk away from us, as if in the universal trouble we, who had nothingto fear, had no part nor lot. Formal congratulations, given with palelips and wandering eyes; brusque adieux, as some of the more honest orless courteous showed but too obviously how cruelly, even resentfully, they felt the inequalities of fortune; hasty departures, full of adismay that rejected angrily every shadow of consolation;--all thesethings John had to meet and to bear. 

He met them with composure; scarcely speaking a word, as indeed whatwas there to say? To all the friendly speeches, real or pretended, helistened with a kind of sad gravity: of all harsher words thanthese--and there were not a few--he took not the least notice, but heldhis place as master of the house; generously deaf and blind toeverything that it were as well the master of the house should neitherhear 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 leaningwith both his arms against the fireplace, motionless and silent. Heleant 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 ofours? Don't! They are not worth a single thought. "

"Not an angry thought, certainly. " And he smiled at my wrath--a sadsmile. 

"Ah, Phineas! now I begin to understand what is meant by the curse ofprosperity. "

CHAPTER XXXI

A great, eager, but doggedly-quiet crowd, of which each had his orher--for it was half women--individual terror to hide, his or herindividual interest to fight for, and cared not a straw for that of anyone else. 

It was market-day, and this crowd was collected and collecting everyminute, before the bank at Norton Bury. It included all classes, fromthe stout farmer's wife or market-woman, to the pale, frightened ladyof "limited income, " who had never been in such a throng before; fromthe aproned mechanic to the gentleman who sat in his carriage at thestreet corner, confident that whatever poor chance there was, his wouldbe the best. 

Everybody was, as I have said, extremely quiet. You heard none of thejokes that always rise in and circulate through a crowd; none of theloud outcries of a mob. All were intent on themselves and their ownbusiness; on that fast-bolted red-baize door, and on the green blind ofthe windows, which informed them that it was "open from ten till four. "

The Abbey clock struck three quarters. Then there was a slightstirring, a rustling here and there of paper, as some one drew out andexamined his bank notes; openly, with small fear of theft--they werenot worth stealing. 

John and I, a little way off, stood looking on, where we had oncewatched a far different crowd; for Mr. Jessop owned the doctor's formerhouse, and in sight of the green bank blinds were my dear old father'sknown windows. 

Guy's birthday had fallen on a Saturday. This was Monday morning. Wehad 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. Notdifficult to perceive how strongly he was interested, even affected--asany man, knowing all the circumstances, could not but be affected--bythe 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 ofsmall depositors and issues so many small notes. He cannot cash abovehalf of them without some notice. If there comes a run, he may have tostop payment this very day; and then, how wide the misery would spreadamong the poor, God knows. "

His eye wandered pitifully over the heaving mass of anxious faces bluewith cold, and growing more and more despondent as every minute theyturned with a common impulse from the closed bank door to the Abbeyclock, glittering far up in the sunshiny atmosphere of morning. 

Its finger touched the one heel of the great striding X--glided on tothe other--the ten strokes fell leisurely and regularly upon the clearfrosty air; then the chimes--Norton Bury was proud of its Abbeychimes--burst out in the tune of "Life let us Cherish. "

The bells went through all the tune, to the very last note--then ensuedsilence. The crowd were silent too--almost breathless with intentlistening--but, alas! not to the merry Abbey chimes. 

The bank door remained closed--not a rattle at the bolts, not a clerk'sface peering out above the blind. The house was as shut-up anddesolate as if it were entirely empty. 

Five whole minutes--by the Abbey clock--did that poor, patient crowdwait on the pavement. Then a murmur arose. One or two men hammered atthe 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 usboth in those brief "courting days, " when we came to tea of evenings, and found Mrs. Jessop and Ursula March in the garden watering theplants and tying up the roses. Nay, we passed out of it into the samesummer 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 acertain momentous event in Ursula's life and mine. Entering by theFrench window, there rose up to my mental vision, in vivid contrast toall present scenes, the picture of a young girl I had once seen sittingthere, with head drooped, knitting. Could that day be twenty-fiveyears ago?

No summer parlour now--its atmosphere was totally changed. It was adull, dusty room, of which the only lively object was a large fire, theunder half of which had burnt itself away unstirred into black dingycaverns. Before it, with breakfast untasted, sat Josiah Jessop--hisfeet 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'thold any notes of mine, do you?"

John put his hand on the old man's shoulder, and repeated that he onlycame as a friend. 

"Not the first 'friend' I have received this morning. I knew I shouldbe early honoured with visitors;" and the banker attempted a drearysmile. "Sir Herbert and half-a-dozen more are waiting for meup-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 honestman--always. If only they would give me time--hark--just hark! Heavenhelp 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. "Tellme, if you have no objection to give me this confidence, exactly howyour affairs stand. "

With a gasp of helpless thankfulness, looking up in John's face, whilehis own quivered like a frightened child's--the banker obeyed. Itseemed that great as was his loss by W----'s failure, it was notabsolute ruin to him. In effect, he was at this moment perfectlysolvent, and by calling in mortgages, etc. , could meet both theaccounts of the gentry who banked with him, together with all his ownnotes now afloat in the country, principally among the humbler ranks, petty tradespeople, and such like, if only both classes of customerswould give him time to pay them. 

"But they will not. There will be a run upon the bank and then all'sover with me. It's a hard case--solvent as I am--ready and able to payevery farthing--if only I had a week's time. As it is I must stoppayment to-day. Hark! they are at the door again! Mr. Halifax, forGod's sake quiet them!"

"I will; only tell me first what sum, added to the cash you haveavailable, would keep the bank open--just for a day or two. "

At once guided and calmed, the old man's business faculties seemed toreturn. He began to calculate, and soon stated the sum he needed; Ithink it was three or four thousand pounds. 

"Very well; I have thought of a plan. But first--those poor fellowsoutside. 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 meof his sitting down and writing at my father's table, after the breadriot--years and years ago. Soon a notice, signed by Josiah Jessop, andafterwards by himself, to the effect that the bank would open, "withoutfail, " at one o'clock this day, --was given by John to the astonishedclerk, to be posted in the window. 

A responsive cheer outside showed how readily those outside had caughtat even this gleam of hope. Also--how implicitly they trusted in themere name of a gentleman who all over the country was known for "hisword being as good as his bond, "--John Halifax. 

The banker breathed freer; but his respite was short: an imperativemessage 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 thebest of my power?"

The banker overwhelmed him with gratitude. 

"Nay, that ought to be my word, standing in this house, andremembering"--His eyes turned to the two portraits--grimly-coloureddaubs, yet with a certain apology of likeness too, which broadly smiledat one another from opposite walls--the only memorials now remaining ofthe 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 aduty. "

The old man melted into senile tears. 

I do not know how John managed the provincial magnates, who weresitting in council considering how best to save, first themselves, thenthe bank, lastly--If the poor public outside had been made acquaintedwith that ominous "lastly!" Or if to the respectable conclaveabove-stairs, who would have recoiled indignantly at the vulgar word"jobbing, " had been hinted a phrase--which ran oddly in and out of thenooks of my brain, keeping time to the murmur in the street, "Voxpopuli, vox Dei"--truly, I should have got little credit for myLatinity. 

John came out in about half an hour, with a cheerful countenance; toldme he was going over to Coltham for an hour or two--would I wait hisreturn?

"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 thoughtthe best I could do was to pass the time in wandering up and down thefamiliar garden, idly watching the hoar-frost on the arbutus leaves, and on the dry stems of what had been dear little Mrs. Jessop'sfavourite roses--the same roses I had seen her among on that momentousevening--the evening when Ursula's bent neck flushed more crimson thanthe sunset itself, as I told her John Halifax was "too noble to die forany woman's love. "

No--he had lived for it--earned it--won it. And musing over theselong-ago times, my heart melted--foolish old heart that it was! with atrembling joy, to think that Providence had, in some way, used my pooruseless hand to give to him this blessing, a man's chiefest blessing ofa virtuous and loving wife--which had crowned his life for all thesewonderful years. 

As it neared one o'clock, I could see my ancient friend the Abbey clockwith not a wrinkle in his old face, staring at me through the bareAbbey trees. I began to feel rather anxious. I went into the desertedoffice; and thence, none forbidding, ensconced myself behind thesheltering bank blinds. 

The crowd had scarcely moved; a very honest, patient, weary crowd densein the centre, thinning towards the edges. On its extremest verge, waiting in a curricle, was a gentleman, who seemed observing it with alazy curiosity. I, having like himself apparently nothing better todo, observed this gentleman. 

He was dressed in the height of the mode, combined with a novel andeccentric fashion, which had been lately set by that extraordinaryyoung nobleman whom everybody talked about--my Lord Byron. Hisneckcloth was loose, his throat bare, and his hair fell long anduntidy. His face, that of a man about thirty--I fancied I had seen itbefore, but could not recall where, --was delicate, thin, with anexpression at once cynical and melancholy. He sat in his carriage, wrapped in furs, or looked carelessly out on the scene before him, asif he had no interest therein--as if there was nothing in life worthliving for. 

"Poor fellow!" said I to myself, recalling the bright, busy, laughingfaces of our growing up lads, recalling especially their father's--fullof all that active energy and wise cheerfulness which gives zest toexistence; God forbid any man should die till he has lived to learnit!--"poor fellow! I wish his moodiness could take a lesson from us athome!"

But the gentleman soon retired from my observation under his furs; forthe sky had gloomed over, and snow began to fall. Those on thepavement shook it drearily off, and kept turning every minute to theAbbey clock--I feared it would take the patience of Job to enable themto hold out another quarter of an hour. 

At length some determined hand again battered at the door. I fancied Iheard a clerk speaking out of the first-floor window. 

"Gentlemen"--how tremblingly polite the voice was!--"Gentlemen, in fiveminutes--positively five minutes--the bank will--"

The rest of the speech was drowned and lost. Dashing round the streetcorner, 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 hecarried 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 twoinstances, 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; butwhen John called out to them, "Good people, pray let me pass!" theyyielded 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, fullof gold--but nevertheless waiting in mortal fear, and as white as hisown neck-cloth--the old banker stood. 

"Mr. Jessop, " John said, in a loud, distinct voice, that all might hearhim, "I have the pleasure to open an account with you. I feelsatisfied that in these dangerous times no credit is more safe thanyours. 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 smallprovincial bank, such a sum seemed unlimited. It gave universalconfidence. Many who had been scrambling, swearing, almost fighting, to reach the counter and receive gold for their notes, put them againinto their pockets, uncashed. Others, chiefly women, got them cashedwith a trembling hand--nay, with tears of joy. A few who had come toclose accounts, changed their minds, and even paid money in. All weresatisfied--the run upon the bank ceased. 

Mr. Halifax stood aside, looking on. After the first murmur ofsurprise and pleasure no one seemed to take any notice of him, or ofwhat he had done. Only one old widow woman, as she slipped threebright guineas under the lid of her market-basket, dropped him acurtsey 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 isindeed your doing, and an act of benevolence which I believe no manalive would have done, except Mr. Halifax. "

And the gentleman who spoke--the same I had seen outside in hiscurricle--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 suddenmeeting had brought back, with a cruel tide of memory, the last timethey met--by the small nursery bed, in that upper chamber at Enderley. 

However, this feeling shortly passed away, as must needs be; and we allthree began to converse together. 

While he talked, something of the old "Anselmo" came back into LordRavenel's face: especially when John asked him if he would drive overwith us to Enderley. 

"Enderley--how strange the word sounds!--yet I should like to see theplace again. Poor old Enderley!"

Irresolutely--all his gestures seemed dreamy and irresolute--he drewhis hand across his eyes--the same white long-fingered, womanish handwhich had used to guide Muriel's over the organ keys. 

"Yes--I think I will go back with you to Enderley. But first I mustspeak 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 aboutoneself. 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 aUniversalist. I believe everything--and nothing. Let us change thesubject. " The contemptuous scepticism of his manner altered, as heinquired 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. Isshe at all like--like--"

"No. "

Neither said more than this; but it seemed as if their hearts warmed toone 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 inhis horses at the turnpike gate. "This will be a hard Christmas formany. "

"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'slonely--" 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--alongroads so deserted, that our carriage-wheels made the only soundaudible, and that might have been heard distinctly for miles. 

All of a sudden, the horses were pulled up. Three or four ill-lookingfigures 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 onceour position--miles away from any house--on this desolate moor; showedplainly our danger--John's danger. 

He himself did not seem to recognize it. He stood upright on the boxseat, 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 tothe neck of the plunging mare--then was dashed to the ground betweenher feet. The poor wretch uttered one groan and no more. John sprangout of his carriage, caught the mare's head, and backed her. 

"Hold off!--the poor fellow is killed, or may be in a minute. Holdoff, I say. "

If ever these men, planning perhaps their first ill deed, were struckdumb with astonishment, it was to see the gentleman they were intendingto rob take up their comrade in his arms, drag him towards thecarriage-lamps, rub snow on his face, and chafe his heavy hands. Butall in vain. The blood trickled down from a wound in the temples--thehead, 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 stillknelt, with the dead man's head leaning against him, mournfullyregarding 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 atonce obeyed. "Now carry him home. I will follow presently. "

"Surely not, " expostulated Lord Ravenel, who had got out of thecarriage 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 LordRavenel on to Beechwood?"

"Excuse me--certainly not, " said Lord Ravenel, with dignity. "We willstay to see the result of the affair. What a singular man Mr. Halifaxis, and always was, " he added, thoughtfully, as he muffled himself upagain in his furs, and relapsed into silence. 

Soon, following the track of those black figures across the snow, wecame to a cluster of peat huts, alongside of the moorland road. Johntook one of the carriage-lamps in his hand, and went in, without sayinga word. To my surprise Lord Ravenel presently dismounted and followedhim. I was left with the reins in my hand, and two or three of thoseill-visaged men hovered about the carriage; but no one attempted to dome 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 anyEnderley 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 andchildren, as--as that poor fellow's to his. " John stopped. "God helpus, my men! it's a hard world for us all sometimes. Why did you notknow me better? Why not come to my house and ask honestly for a dinnerand 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. Youwon'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 tookhis place with a subdued and thoughtful air: then mounting thebox-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. Nothingearthly is ever reproduced in the same form. I suppose Heaven meant itto be so; that in the perpetual progression of our existence we shouldbe reconciled to loss, and taught that change itself is but anotherform for aspiration. Aspiration which never can rest, or ought torest, in anything short of the One absolute Perfection--the Oneall-satisfying Good "IN WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER SHADOW OFTURNING. "

I say this, to excuse myself for thoughts, which at times made megrave--even in the happy home-light of John's study; where, for severalweeks after the last incident I have recorded, the family were in thehabit of gathering every evening. For poor Guy was a captive. The"mere trifle" had turned out to be a sprained foot, which happening toa tall and strong young man became serious. He bore his imprisonmentrestlessly enough at first, but afterwards grew more reconciled--tookto reading, drawing, and society--and even began to interest himself inthe pursuits of his sister Maud, who every morning had her lessons inthe study. 

Miss Silver first proposed this. She had evinced more feeling than wasusual to her, since Guy's accident; showed him many little femininekindnesses--out of compunction, it seemed; and altogether was muchimproved. Of evenings, as now, she always made one of the "youngpeople, " 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 sittalking to one another in an under-tone, or silently and smilinglywatch the humours of their children. 

For me, I generally took to my nook in the chimney-corner--it was avery ancient fire-place, with settles on each side, and dogs instead ofa grate, upon which many a faggot hissed and crackled its merry brieflife away. Nothing could be more cheery and comfortable than thisold-fashioned, low-roofed room, three sides of which were peopled withbooks--all the books which John had gathered up during the course ofhis life. Perhaps it was their long-familiar, friendly faces whichmade this his favourite room, his own especial domain. But he did notkeep it tabooed from his family; he liked to have them about him, evenin his studious hours. 

So, of evenings, we all sat together as now, each busy, and noneinterrupting the rest. At intervals, flashes of talk or laughter brokeout, chiefly from Guy, Walter, or Maud, when Edwin would look up fromhis everlasting book, and even the grave governess relax into a smile. Since she had learnt to smile, it became more and more apparent howvery handsome Miss Silver was. "Handsome" is, I think, the fittestword for her; that correctness of form and colour which attracts theeye chiefly, and perhaps the eye of men rather than of women;--atleast, Mrs. Halifax could never be brought to see it. But then herpeculiar 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 beganto pay a little more attention to her dress and her looks, we found outthat 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 hisillness. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, I found the two of them--and even Miss Silver--as merry aspossible, when I came into the study this morning. "

"Did you?" said the mother, with an involuntary glance at the groupopposite. 

There was nothing particular to observe. They all sat in most harmlessquietude, Edwin reading, Maud at his feet, playing with the cat, MissSilver busy at a piece of that delicate muslin-work with which youngwomen then used to ornament their gowns. Guy had been drawing apattern from it, and now leant back upon his sofa, shading off the firewith his hand, and from behind it gazing, as I had often seen him gazelately, with a curious intentness--at the young governess. 

"Guy, " said his mother (and Guy started), "what were you thinkingabout?"

"Oh, nothing; that is--" here, by some accident, Miss Silver quittedthe room. "Mother, come over here, I want your opinion. There, sitdown--though it's nothing of the least importance. "

Nevertheless, it was with some hesitation that he brought out themighty 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 apresent. 

"And I was considering this large Flora I ordered from London, --shewould like it extremely: she is so fond of botany. "

"What do you know about botany?" said Edwin, sharply and ratherirrelevantly as it seemed, till I remembered how he plumed himself uponhis knowledge of this science, and how he had persisted in taking Maud, and her governess also, long wintry walks across the country, "in orderto study the cryptogamia. "

Guy vouchsafed no answer to his brother; he was too much absorbed inturning over the pages of the beautiful Flora on his knee. 

"What do you say, all of you? Father, don't you think she would likeit? 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 somuch of discussion as was implied by Guy's eager words and his mother'ssilence, 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, MissSilver. My son hopes you will accept this book from him, and from usall, with all kind birthday wishes. "

And rising, with a little more gravity than was her wont, Mrs. Halifaxtouched the girl's forehead with her lips, and gave her the present. 

Miss Silver coloured, and drew back. "You are very good, but indeed Iwould 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 withan air of hearty kindness, "pray take the book. Do let us show howmuch 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 younglady, " said Mr. Halifax, good-humouredly. 

"Mr. Guy ordered the Flora for himself. I must not allow him torenounce his pleasure for me. "

"It would not be renouncing it if YOU had it, " returned the lad, in alow tone, at which once more his younger brother looked up, angrily. 

"What folly about nothing! how can one read with such a clatter goingon?"

"You old book-worm! you care for nothing and nobody but yourself, " Guyanswered, laughing. But Edwin, really incensed, rose and settledhimself in the far corner of the room. 

"Edwin is right, " said the father, in a tone which indicated hisdetermination to end the discussion, a tone which even Miss Silverobeyed. "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 mothercame and looked over his shoulder. 

"Louisa Eugenie--how did you know that, Guy? Louisa Eugenie Sil--isthat your name, my dear?"

The question, simple as it was, seemed to throw the governess into muchconfusion, even agitation. At last, she drew herself up with the oldrepulsive gesture, which of late had been slowly wearing off. 

"No--I will not deceive you any longer. My right name is LouiseEugenie 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 noFrenchwoman should educate your daughter. And I washomeless--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 toMrs. Halifax. Why did you renounce your father's name?"

"Because English people would have scouted my father's daughter. Youknew him--everybody knew him--he was D'Argent the Jacobin--D'Argent theBonnet Rouge. "

She threw out these words defiantly, and quitted the room. 

"This is a dreadful discovery. Edwin, you have seen most of her--didyou ever imagine--"

"I knew it, mother, " said Edwin, without lifting his eyes from hisbook. "After all, French or English, it makes no difference. "

"I should think not, indeed!" cried Guy, angrily. "Whatever her fatheris, 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, hadbeen listening to all these revelations about her governess. 

But Maud's tears were soon stopped, as well as this painfulconversation, by the entrance of our daily, or rather nightly, visitorfor these six weeks past, Lord Ravenel. His presence, always welcome, was a great relief now. We never discussed family affairs beforepeople. The boys began to talk to Lord Ravenel: and Maud took herprivileged place on a footstool beside him. From the first sight shehad 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 wassomething in Maud's buoyant youth--just between childhood and girlhood, having the charms of one and the immunities of the other--which wasespecially attractive to this man, who, at three-and-thirty, found lifea weariness and a burthen--at least, he said so. 

Life was never either weary or burthensome in our house--not evento-night, though our friend found us less lively than usual--thoughJohn maintained more than his usual silence, and Mrs. Halifax fell intotroubled reveries. Guy and Edwin, both considerably excited, arguedand contradicted one another more warmly than even the Beechwoodliberty of speech allowed. For Miss Silver, she did not appear again. 

Lord Ravenel seemed to take these slight desagremens very calmly. Hestayed his customary time, smiling languidly as ever at the boys'controversies, or listening with a half-pleased, half-melancholylaziness to Maud's gay prattle, his eye following her about the roomwith the privileged tenderness that twenty years' seniority allows aman to feel and show towards a child. At his wonted hour he rode away, sighingly contrasting pleasant Beechwood with dreary and solitaryLuxmore. 

After his departure we did not again close round the fire. Maudvanished; the younger boys also; Guy settled himself on his sofa, having first taken the pains to limp across the room and fetch theFlora, which Edwin had carefully stowed away in the book-case. Thenmaking himself comfortable, as the pleasure-loving lad liked wellenough to do, he lay dreamily gazing at the title-page, where waswritten 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 closedthe book. 

She looked hurt; but, saying nothing more, began moving about the room, putting things in order before retiring. John sat in thearm-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 'blatantbeasts' 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 ourinnocent child!"

Alarm and disgust were written on every feature of the mother's face. It was scarcely surprising. Now that the ferment which had convulsedsociety in our younger days was settling down, --though still we werefar from that ultimate calm which enables posterity to judge fully andfairly such a remarkable historical crisis as the FrenchRevolution, --most English people looked back with horror on the extremeopinions of that time. If Mrs. Halifax had a weak point, it was herprejudice against anything French or Jacobinical. Partly, from thattendency to moral conservatism which in most persons, especially women, strengthens as old age advances; partly, I believe, from the terriblewarning given by the fate of one--of whom for years we had neverheard--whose very name was either unknown to, or forgotten by, ourchildren. 

"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 havehad good opportunity of knowing. A girl, who, whatever may have beenher antecedents, has lived for six months blamelessly in our house. "

"Would to Heaven she had never entered it! But it is not too late. Shemay leave--she shall leave, immediately. "

"Mother!" burst out Guy. Never since she bore him had his mother heardher name uttered in such a tone. 

She stood petrified. 

"Mother, you are unjust, heartless, cruel. She shall NOT leave; sheshall 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 inserious displeasure, laid a heavy hand on the lad's shoulder. Fatherand son exchanged fiery glances. The mother, terrified, rushed betweenthem. 

"Don't, John! Don't be angry with him. He could not help it, --my poorboy!"

At her piteous look Guy and his father both drew back. John put hisarm round his wife, and made her sit down. She was tremblingexceedingly. 

"You see, Guy, how wrong you have been. How could you wound yourmother so?"

"I did not mean to wound her, " the lad answered. "I only wished toprevent her from being unjust and unkind to one to whom she must showall 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 fromthe usual impetuosity of his character. It was easy to perceive that agreat change had come over him; that in this passion, the silent growthof which no one had suspected, he was most thoroughly in earnest. Fromthe 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 wasthe 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 answeredmore 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 youhave acted as an honourable lover should towards her; as a dutiful sonshould act towards his parents. "

Guy looked pleased. He stole his hand nearer his mother's, but sheneither took it nor repelled it; she seemed quite stunned. 

At this point I noticed that Maud had crept into the room;--I sent herout again as quickly as I could. Alas! this was the first secret thatneeded 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 ordaughter, necessarily makes a great change. Greater if the former thanthe latter. There is often a pitiful truth--I know not why it shouldbe so, but so it is--in the foolish rhyme which the mother hadlaughingly 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 fathermay not wholly approve, whom his mother does not heartily love, surelythe pain is deepened tenfold. 

Those who in the dazzled vision of youth see only the beauty andsplendour 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 nowam 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 thethree, I counted up in all its bearings and consequences, near andremote, this attachment of poor Guy's. 

"Well, father, " he said at last, guessing by intuition that thefather'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 excitedcountenance. "Do not suppose I cannot feel with you. Still, I wishyou 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 beentried--by trouble which we shared together, by absence, by many andvarious cares. We chose one another, not hastily or blindly, but withfree will and open eyes. No, Guy, " he added, speaking earnestly andsoftly, "mine was no sudden fancy, no frantic passion. I honoured yourmother 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, onlysadly. 

All this while the mother had sat motionless, never uttering a sound. Suddenly, hearing a footstep and a light knock at the door, she dartedforward and locked it, crying, in a voice that one could hardly haverecognized as hers--

"No admittance! Go away. "

A note was pushed in under the door. Mrs. Halifax picked it up--openedit, read it mechanically, and sat down again; taking no notice, evenwhen Guy, catching sight of the hand-writing, eagerly seized the paper. 

It was merely a line, stating Miss Silver's wish to leave Beechwoodimmediately; signed, with her full name--her right name--"LouiseEugenie D'Argent. "

A postscript added: "Your silence I shall take as permission todepart; and shall be gone early to-morrow. "

"To-morrow! Gone to-morrow! And she does not even know that--that Ilove her. Mother, you have ruined my happiness. I will never forgiveyou--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 theworld--the love of a woman for her firstborn son, all these twenty-oneyears!

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 claspcould not remove the look of heart-broken, speechless suffering whichsettled stonily down in Ursula's face, as she watched her boy--stormingabout, 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 touchedhis arm. 

"You must keep quiet, or you will be ill. I cannot have my sonill--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 himagain. 

"O mother, mother, forgive me! I am so miserable--so miserable. "

He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed and clasped himclose--her boy who never could be wholly hers again, who had learned tolove some one else dearer than his mother. 

After a while she said, "Father, shake hands with Guy. Tell him thatwe forgive his being angry with us; that perhaps, some day--"

She stopped, uncertain as to the father's mind, or seeking strength forher own. 

"Some day, " John continued, "Guy will find out that we can have nothingin the world--except our children's good--so dear to us as theirhappiness. "

Guy looked up, beaming with hope and joy. "O father! O mother! willyou, 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 wasanything I wanted before she retired for the night?--(Ursula was asgood to me as any sister)--then stood by my easy-chair. I would notmeet 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 onceto the point--"Phineas, you are always up first in the morning. Willyou--John thinks it had better be you--will you give a message from usto--Maud's governess?"

"Yes. What shall I say?"

"Merely, that we request she will not leave Beechwood until we haveseen her. "

If Miss Silver had overheard the manner and tone of that "request, " Idoubt 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 verylate 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 itwould be better. "

"And is all settled?"

"Yes. "

Having told me this, and having as it were by such a conclusionconfessed it was right the question should be thus "settled, " Guy'smother seemed more herself. 

"Yes, " she repeated; "John thinks it ought to be. At least, that sheshould know Guy's--the feeling with which Guy regards her. If, afterthe probation of a year, it still remains, and he is content to beginlife on a small income, we have given our consent to our son'smarriage. "

It struck me how the mother's mind entirely dwelt on the one party inthis matter--"Guy's feelings"--"Our son's marriage"--and so on. Theother side of the question, or the possibility of any hindrance there, never seemed to enter her imagination. Perhaps it would not, even intomine, for I shared the family faith in its best-beloved Guy; but forMrs. Halifax's so entirely ignoring the idea that any consent excepther son's and his parents' was necessary to this marriage. 

"It will not part him from us so very much, you see, Phineas, " shesaid, evidently trying to view the bright side--"and she has norelatives living--not one. For income--Guy will have the entire profitof the Norton Bury mills; and they might begin, as we did, in the oldNorton 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 andjustice that Nature's holy law should be fulfilled--that children, intheir 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 atfirst. No matter: John esteems her--John likes her. For me--oh, Ishall make a capital--what is it?--a capital MOTHER-IN-LAW--in time!"

With that smile, which was almost cheerful, she bade megood-night--rather hastily, perhaps, as if she wished to leave me whileher cheerfulness lasted. Then I heard her step along the passage, pausing once--most likely at Guy's room door; her own closed, and thehouse was in silence. 

I rose early in the morning;--not one whit too early, for I met MissSilver in the hall, bonneted and shawled, carrying down with her ownhands a portion of her chattels. She evidently contemplated animmediate departure. It was with the greatest difficulty that, withoutbetraying my reasons, which, of course, was impossible, I couldpersuade her to change her determination. 

Poor girl! last night's events had apparently shaken her from thatindifference which she seemed to think the best armour of a helpless, proud governess against the world. She would scarcely listen to aword. She was in extreme agitation; half-a-dozen times she insisted onleaving, and then sat down again. 

I had not given her credit for so much wholesome irresolution--so muchgenuine feeling. Her manner almost convinced me of a fact which everyone else seemed to hold as certain, but which I myself should haveliked to see proved; namely, that Guy, in asking her love, wouldhave--what in every right and happy marriage a man ought to have--theknowledge that the love was his before he asked for it. 

Seeing this, my heart warmed to the girl. I respected her bravedeparture--I rejoiced that it was needless. Willingly I would havequieted her distress with some hopeful, ambiguous word, but that wouldhave been trenching, as no one ever ought to trench, on the lover'ssole right. So I held my tongue, watching with an amused pleasure thecolour hovering to and fro over that usually impassive face. At last, at the opening of the study-door--we stood in the hall still--thoseblushes rose up to her forehead in one involuntary tide. 

But it was only Edwin, who had lately taken to a habit of getting upvery early, --to study mathematics. He looked surprised at seeing mewith 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, greatinfluence, and no little penetration. I felt inclined to believe thatthough as yet he had not been let into the secret of last night, heguessed it pretty well already. 

He might have done, by the peculiar manner in which he went up to thegoverness 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 thegarden, till breakfast-time. 

A strange and painful breakfast it was, even though the most importantelement in its painfulness, Guy, was happily absent. The rest of uskept up a fragmentary, awkward conversation, every one round the tablelooking as indeed one might have expected they would look--with oneexception. 

Miss Silver, who, from her behaviour last night, and her demeanour tome this morning, I had supposed would now have gathered up all herhaughtiness to resist Guy's parents--as, ignorant both of his feelingsand their intentions towards her, a young lady of her proud spiritmight well resist--was, to my astonishment, as mild and meek as thissoft spring morning. Nay, like it, seemed often on the very verge ofthe melting mood. More than once her drooping eyelashes were gemmedwith tears. And when, the breakfast-table being quicklydeserted--Edwin, indeed, had left it almost immediately--she, sittingabsently in her place, was gently touched by Mrs. Halifax, she startedup, with the same vivid rush of colour that I had before noticed. Itcompletely altered the expression of her face; made her look ten yearsyounger--ten years happier, and, being happier, ten times more amiable. 

This expression--I was not the only one to notice it--was, by someintuition, reflected on the mother's. It made softer than any speechof 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 followedMrs. Halifax. 

Poor Guy!--confused young lover!--meeting for the first time after hisconfession the acknowledged object of his preference--I really feltsorry for him! And, except that women have generally twice as muchself-control in such cases as men--and Miss Silver proved it--I mighteven have been sorry for her. But then her uncertainties would soon beover. She had not to make--all her family being aware she was then andthere making it--that terrible "offer of marriage, " which, I am givento understand, is, even under the most favourable circumstances, asformidable as going up to the cannon's mouth. 

I speak of it jestingly, as we all jested uneasily that morning, saveMrs. 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 totake 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'ssake this must be got over--the quicker the better. His mother rose. 

"My son, my dear boy!" She leant over him, whispering--I think shekissed him--then slowly, quietly, she walked out of the study. Ifollowed. Outside the door we parted, and I heard her go up-stairs toher own room. 

It might have been half an hour afterwards, when Maud and I, coming infrom 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 lifeof 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 showthem 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'spresence was intolerable to her mother. That poor mother, whosesuspense was growing into positive agony. 

She waited--standing at the dining-room window--listening--going in andout of the hall, --for another ten minutes. 

"It is very strange--very strange indeed. He promised to come and tellme; surely at least he ought to come and tell me first--me, hismother--"

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 loverentered--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 hismother. 

Another hour passed of this strange, strange day. The house seemedpainfully quiet. Maud, disconsolate and cross, had taken herself awayto the beech-wood with Walter; the father and Edwin were busy at themills, and had sent word that neither would return to dinner. Iwandered 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 towalk without assistance. I heard the poor lad's fretful tones, and thesoothing, cheerful voice that answered them. "Verily, " thought I, "if, since he must fall in love, Guy had only fixed his ideal standard ofwomanhood a little nearer home--if he had only chosen for his wife awoman a little more like his mother!" But I suppose that would havebeen expecting impossibilities. 

Well, he had been refused!--our Guy, whom we all would have imaginedirresistible--our Guy, "whom to look on was to love. " Some harsh folkmight 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 lifea rejection like this, which either ignorance or heedlessness on thewoman's part had made totally unexpected, ever is the better for it:perhaps, for many years, cruelly the worse. For, most women beingquick-sighted about love, and most men--especially young men--blindenough in its betrayal, --any woman who wilfully allows an offer only torefuse it, lowers not only herself but her whole sex, for a long, longtime after, in the lover's eyes. At least, I think so;--as I wasthinking, in the way old bachelors are prone to moralize over suchthings, when, coming out of Guy's room, I met Mrs. Halifax. 

She crossed the passage, hastily but noiselessly, to a small ante-roomwhich Miss Silver had for her own private study--out of whichhalf-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 mannerbetrayed 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 themknow--don't let anybody know--about Guy. "

"Of course not. "

"There is some mistake--there MUST be some mistake. Perhaps she is notsure of our consent--his father's and mine; very right of her--veryright! I honour her for her indecision. But she must be assured tothe 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 MissSilver opening the door--Miss Silver, with hair all falling downdishevelled, and features swollen with crying, --I went away completelyat 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 partiesunderstanding 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 thegoverness came in together. Something in their manner struck me--onebeing subdued and gentle, the other tender and kind. Both, however, were exceedingly grave--nay, sad, but it appeared to be that sadnesswhich is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from eitheranger or resentment. 

Neither Guy nor Edwin, nor the father were present. When John's voicewas 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 herkindly, and let her go. 

When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked remarkablygrave--as grave as if they had known by intuition all the trouble inthe house. Of course, no one referred to it. The mother merelynoticed how late they were, and how tired they both looked. Supperpassed 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 youngerboys had closed the door behind them. "What did you wish him toremember?"

Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with that peculiarlytender gaze, which she knew well to be the forewarning of trouble;trouble he could not save her from--could only help her to bear. Ursulalaid 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 lookfor happiness to others and not to us? My own poor boy! To think thathis 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, butturning a little from her, bade her tell him all that had happenedto-day. A few words explained the history of Guy's rejection and itscause. 

"She loves some one else. When I--as his mother--went and asked herthe 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 didfreely, and hoped she would be happy. "

"That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell you who he--thislover, was?"

"No. She said she could not, until he gave her permission. Thatwhether 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 whohad ever cared for her. "

"Poor girl!"

"John, "--startled by his manner--"you have something to tell me? Youknow who this is--this man who has stood between my son and hishappiness?"

"Yes, I do know. "

I cannot say how far the mother saw--what, as if by a flash oflightning, _I_ did; but she looked up in her husband's face, with asudden speechless dread. 

"Love, it is a great misfortune, but it is no one's blame--neitherours, nor theirs--they never thought of Guy's loving her. He saysso--Edwin himself. "

"Is it Edwin?"--in a cry as if her heart was breaking. "His ownbrother--his very own brother! Oh, my poor Guy!"

Well might the mother mourn! Well might the father look as if years ofcare had been added to his life that day! For a disaster like thishappening in any household--especially a household where love isrecognized as a tangible truth, neither to be laughed at, passedcarelessly over, nor lectured down--makes the family cease to be afamily, in many things, from henceforward. The two strongest feelingsof life clash; the bond of brotherly unity, in its perfectness, isbroken for ever. 

For some minutes we sat, bewildered as it were, thinking of the tale asif it had been told of some other family than ours. Mechanically themother raised her eyes; the first object they chanced to meet was arude water-colour drawing, kept, coarse daub as it was, because it wasthe only reminder we had of what never could be recalled--onered-cheeked child with a hoop, staring at another red-cheeked childwith a nosegay--supposed to represent little Edwin and little Guy. 

"Guy taught Edwin to walk. Edwin made Guy learn his letters. How fondthey were of one another--those two boys. Now--brother will be setagainst 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 thinkof. Both my boys--both my two noble boys! to be made miserable forthat girl's sake. Oh! that she had never darkened our doors. Oh! thatshe had never been born. "

"Nay, you must not speak thus. Remember--Edwin loves her--she will beEdwin's wife. "

"Never!" cried the mother, desperately; "I will not allow it. Guy isthe eldest. His brother has acted meanly. So has she. No, John, Iwill NOT allow it. "

"You will not allow what has already happened--what Providence haspermitted to happen? Ursula, you forget--they love one another. "

This one fact--this solemn upholding of the pre-eminent right and lawof love, --which law John believed in, they both believed in, sosacredly 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 thatcaress himself all but giving way--"Alas! that I should have broughtthee into such a sea of trouble. "

Perhaps he referred to the circumstance of his bringing Miss Silverinto our house; perhaps to his own blindness, or want of parentalcaution, in throwing the young people continually together. However, John was not one to lament over things inevitable; or by overweeningblame of his own want of foresight, to imply a doubt of the foreseeingof Providence. 

"Love, " he said, "I fear we have been too anxious to play Deus exmachina with our children, forgetting in whose Hands are marrying andgiving in marriage--life's crosses and life's crowns. Trouble has comewhen we looked not for it. We can but try to see the right course, andseeing it, to act upon it. "

Ursula assented--with a bursting heart it seemed--but still sheassented, believing, even as in her young days, that her husband's willwas wisest, best. 

He told her, in few words, all that Edwin had that day confessed to hisfather; how these two, being much together, had become attached to oneanother, as young folks will--couples whom no one would ever thinksuited each for each, except Nature, and the instinct of their ownhearts. Absorbed in this love--which, Edwin solemnly declared, wasnever openly declared till this morning--they neither of them thoughtof Guy. And thus things had befallen--things which no earthly powercould 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 borneconfirmation--the firm faith that evil itself is to the simple andGod-fearing but the disguised messenger of good. 

Something like this John said, talking as his wife loved to hear himtalk--every quiet, low word dropping like balm upon her grieved heart;not trying to deceive her into the notion that pain is not pain, butshowing her how best to bear it. At length she looked up, as if withGod's help--and her husband's comforting--she could bear it. 

"Only one thing--Guy does not know. He need not know just yet--nottill he is stronger. Surely, Edwin will not tell him?"

"No; he promised me he would not. Do not start so. Indeed, there isno fear. "

But that very assurance seemed to rouse it. She began straining herears 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 overEdwin'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 suspectsomething. No, indeed I am not afraid. They were always fond of oneanother--my boys. "

She sat down, violently forcing herself not to listen, not to fear. Butthe 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 aretalking 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 ourboast that from babyhood they had never been known to lift a handagainst each other--now struggling together like Cain and Abel. Andfrom the fury in their faces, the quarrel might have had a similarending. 

"Guy!--Edwin!" But the mother might as well have shrieked to the winds. 

The father came and parted them. "Boys, are you gone mad? fightinglike 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 thatlook of white passion in him so rarely seen--perhaps not thrice sincehis 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, YOUwould 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 hersleeve, 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 onespoke, no one contradicted him. 

Edwin, his passion quite gone, stooped in a sorrowful and humble way topick up his betrothed's letter. Then Guy flew at him, and caught himby 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 hadused 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 sorrowwhich we could not meet and bear, as a family. Alas! darker and darkerhad the bitter truth forced itself upon us, that neither joy noraffliction would ever find us as a family again. 

I think all parents must feel cruelly a pang like this--the firsttrouble in which they cannot help their children--the first time whenthose children must learn to stand alone, each for himself, compelledto carry his own burthen and work out, well or ill, his individuallife. When the utmost the wisest or tenderest father can do, is tokeep near with outstretched hand that the child may cling to, assuredof finding sympathy, counsel, and love. 

If this father had stood aloof all his life, on some pinnacle ofpaternal "pride, " paternal "dignity"--if he had not made himself hisboys' companion, counsellor, and friend, how great would have been histerrors now!

For, as we both knew well--too well to trust ourselves to say it--ifthere was one thing in the world that ruins a lad, drives him todesperation, shuts the door of home upon him, and opens many anotherdoor, of which the entrance is the very gate of hell--it is such adisappointment as this which had happened to our Guy. 

His father saw it all. Saw it clearer, crueller, than even his mothercould see. Yet when, very late, almost at dawn, she came in, with thetidings that Guy was himself again now--sleeping as quietly as achild--her husband was able to join in her deep thankfulness, and giveher hope for the days to come. 

"But what is to be done with Guy?"

"God knows, " John answered. But his tone expressed a meaning differentfrom that generally conveyed in the words: a meaning which the mothercaught at once, and rested on. 

"Ay--you are right. He knows!"--And so they went away together, almostcontent. 

Next morning, I woke late; the sunshine falling across my bed, and thesparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had been dreaming, with acurious pertinacity, of the old days at Rose Cottage, the days whenJohn 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 settledanguish on his mouth--that merry, handsome mouth--the only reallyhandsome 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 togo 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, hebegan to whistle; but the lips fell--the frank brow grew knotted withpain. The lad broke into a passion of misery. 

The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived. Unwittingly, wewell believed--but still deceived. Many little things he toldme--Guy's was a nature that at once spent and soothed itself bytalking--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'sbrother. "

Ay, there was the sting, which never could be removed; which mightrankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not only lost his love, butwhat is more precious than love--faith in womankind. He began to makelight 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 ofmockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to--light songs writtenby an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, about girls and wine, and being "farfrom the lips we love, " but always ready enough "to make love to thelips we are near. " Then, laughing at me, he threw up the window andlooked out. 

I think it was wrong of those two, wrong and selfish, as all loversare--young lovers in the flush of their happiness; I think it was cruelof Edwin and Louise to walk up and down there in the elder brother'svery eyes. 

For a moment he struggled against his passion. 

"Uncle Phineas, just look here. How charming! Ha, ha! Did you eversee such a couple of fools?"

Fools, maybe, but happy; happy to the very core--thoroughly engrossedin their happiness. The elder brother was almost maddened by it. 

"He must mind what he does--tell him so, Uncle Phineas--it would besafer. He MUST mind, or I will not answer for myself. I was fond ofEdwin--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 inthe world except my brother!"

And in that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again; it was such atender 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--andEdwin, who had placed himself by her side with an air of right. Theselovers, however deeply grieved they looked--and, to do justice, it wasreally so--needed not to be grieved over by any of us. 

Nor, looking at the father and mother, would we have dared to grieveover THEM. In the silent watches of the night, heart to heart, husbandand wife had taken council together; together had carried their sorrowto the only Lightener of burthens. It seemed that theirs waslightened; that even in this strange entanglement of fate they wereable to wait patiently--trusting unto the Almighty Mercy not onlythemselves but the children He had given them. 

When, breakfast being over, John according to his custom read thechapter and the prayer--no one rose up or went out; no one refused, even in this anguish of strife, jealousy, and disunion--to repeat afterhim the "Our Father" of their childhood. 

I believe every one of us remembered for years, with an awe that wasnot 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, uncertainwhat 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 asusual; but he declined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about"lessons, " which Edwin jealously negatived immediately, and proposedthat she and Maud should take a drive somewhere. 

Mrs. Halifax eagerly assented. "Lady Oldtower has been wanting themboth for some time. You would like to go, would you not, for a day ortwo?" 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 intoher 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 terriblein itself--more terrible in its warning of days to come. No wonder themother shuddered--no wonder the young betrothed, pale and alarmed, slipped out of the room. Edwin followed her. Then Guy, snatching uphis sister, lifted her roughly on his knee. 

"Come along, Maud. You'll be my girl now. Nobody else wants you. Kissme, child. "

But the little lady drew back. 

"So, you hate me too? Edwin has been teaching you? Very well. Getaway, you cheat!"

He pushed her violently aside. Maud began to cry. 

Her father looked up from his book--the book he had not beenreading--though he had seemingly thought it best to take no notice ofwhat was passing around him. 

"Come here, Maud, my child. Guy, you should not be unkind to yourlittle sister. Try and command yourself, my dear boy!"

The words, though spoken gently, almost in a whisper, were more thanthe 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 roseup to follow him--then sat down again. The eyes that she lifted to herhusband were deprecating, beseeching, heavy with a speechless pain. 

For John--he said nothing. Not though, as was plain to see, this, thefirst angry or disrespectful word he had ever received from any one ofhis children, struck him like an arrow; for a moment stirred him evento wrath--holy wrath--the just displeasure of a father who feels thatthe least portion of his child's sin is the sin against him. Perhapsthis very feeling, distinct from, and far beyond, all personalindignation, all sense of offended dignity, made the anger strangelybrief--so brief, that when the other children, awed and startled, looked for some ebullition of it--lo! it was all gone. In its steadwas something at which the children, more awed still, crept out of theroom. 

Ursula even, alarmed, looked in his face as if for the first time shecould 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 toyou. "

"But what if I have failed in mine to him?--What if--you used to say Icould 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 pitiesus, even as we pity our children. "

Thus she spoke, and more to the same purport; but it was a long timebefore her words brought any consolation. Then the parents talkedtogether, trying to arrange some plan whereby Guy's mind might beoccupied and soothed, or else Edwin removed out of his sight for alittle 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 aforeboding of perpetual exile. 

"No, no; anything but that. Beside, Guy would not wish it. He hasnever left me in his life. His going would seem like the generalbreaking 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 haveeffected. 

One thing more we had to consider--a thing at once natural and right inany family, namely, how to hide its wounds from the chattering, scandalous world. And so, when by a happy chance there came over thatmorning our good friend Lady Oldtower and her carriage full ofdaughters, Mrs. Halifax communicated, with a simple dignity thatquelled all comment, the fact of "my son Edwin's engagement, " andaccepted the invitation for Maud and Miss Silver, which was willinglyrepeated and pressed. 

One thing I noticed, that in speaking of or to the girl who in a singleday from merely the governess had become, and was sedulously treatedas, our own, Mrs. Halifax invariably called her, as heretofore, "MissSilver, " or "my dear;" never by any chance "Louise, " or "MademoiselleD'Argent. "

Before she left Beechwood, Edwin came in and hurriedly spoke to hismother. What he said was evidently painful to both. 

"I am not aware of it, Edwin; I had not the slightest intention ofoffending her. Is she already made your judge and referee as to theactions of your mother?"

Edwin was a good lad, though perhaps a little less loving than the restof the boys. His self-restraint, his exceeding patience, lulled thethreatened 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'sbetrothed. Their other meeting had been in public, when, with asedulous dread, both had behaved exactly as usual, and no word ormanner had betrayed their altered relations. Now, when for the firsttime it was needful for Miss Silver to be received as a daughter elect, with all the natural sympathy due from one woman to another undersimilar circumstances, all the warmth of kindness due from a mother toher son's chosen wife--then the want, the mournful want, made itselffelt. 

Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying vainly to regainself-control. 

"If I could only love her! If only she had made me love her!" shemuttered, over and over again. 

I hoped, from the bottom of my soul, that Edwin had not heard her--hadnot seen her involuntarily recoil, as he led to his mother his handsomegirl that he seemed so proud of, his happy, affianced wife. Happinessmelts some natures, like spring and sunshine. Louise looked up withswimming 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 satdown, still keeping the girl's hand, and busying herself with variouslittle kindnesses about her. 

"Are you sure you are well wrapped up? Edwin, see that she has my furcloak in the carriage. What cold fingers! Have some wine before youstart, my dear. "

Miss Silver altogether melted; sobbing, she murmured something aboutforgiveness. 

"Nay, did I say a word about forgiveness? Then, do not you. Let us bepatient--we shall all be happy in time. "

"And--Guy?"

"Guy will be himself soon, " returned the mother, rather proudly. "Wewill not mention him, if you please, my dear. "

At this moment, Guy must have heard the carriage-wheels and guessedMiss Silver was going, for he appeared at the parlour door. He foundhis mother toying with Miss Silver's hand; Edwin standing by, proud andglad, with his arm clasped round Louise. 

He did not remove it. In his brother's very face--perhaps because ofthe 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, Guysnatched and held fast. 

"Let her pass, " cried Edwin, angrily. 

"Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. Good-bye! Apleasant journey!" And, still keeping her hand, he gazed with burningeyes on the features he had so loved--as boys do love--with a wildimaginative passion, kindled by beauty alone. "I shall claim myright--just for once--may I, sister Louise?"

With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's betrothedround 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 hurriedLouise away, the look that passed between the two young men was enoughto blot out henceforward all friendship, all brotherhood. That insultwould never be forgotten. 

She was gone--the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was leftalone with me and his mother. 

Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings andgoings--his restless starts--his fits of dark musing, when his facegrew like the face of some stranger, some one whom he would have shrunkfrom--any one but our own merry Guy. 

"Mother, "--the voice startled me, such irritable, intolerablebitterness 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 beenuseless--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 makesme 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 witha piteous gaze--"mother, you need not look so wretched. I wouldn'tharm Edwin--would not take from him his happiness; but to live in sightof it day after day, hour after hour--I can't do it! Do not ask me--letme get away. "

"But where?"

"Anywhere, as I said; only let me go far away from them, where nopossible 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 onearth, while SHE lived. 

But she saw that Guy was right. To expect him to remain at home wascruelty. As he had said, he could not bear it--few could. Few evenamong 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-controlsmall? No; Nature herself, in that universal desire to escape, whichcomes with such a trial, hints at the unnaturalness of the ordeal; inwhich, soon or late, the weak become paralysed or callous; thestrong--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 hadthought, bound up in him as she was, accustomed to his daily sight, hisdaily fondness--for he was more with her, and "petted" her more thanany other of the children--I had thought to have seen some reluctance, some grieved entreaty--but no! Not even when, gaining her consent, theboy looked up as if her allowing him to quit her was the greatestkindness 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 therenunciation seemed to burst upon her. Her fingers, which had beensmoothing 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 itwere impossible to part with him. 

"Guy--oh, Guy, my heart is breaking! Promise that you will try to beyourself again--that you will never be anything other than my own goodboy, if I agree to let you go?" What he answered, or what furtherpassed between them, was not for me either to hear or to know. I leftthe room immediately. 

When, some time after John's hour for returning from the mills, I alsoreturned to the house, I found that everything was settled for Guy'simmediate departure. 

There was some business in Spain--something about Andalusianwool--which his father made the ostensible reason for the journey. Itwould occupy him and distract his mind, besides giving him constantnecessity of change. And, they say, travel is the best cure for theheart-ache. We hoped it might prove so. 

Perhaps the sorest point, and one that had been left undecided tillboth 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'sacross the country to the nearest point where one of those new anddangerous things called railways tempted travellers to theirdestruction. But Guy would go by it--the maddest and strangest way oflocomotion pleased him best. So it was settled he should go, as hepleaded, this very day. 

A strange day it seemed--long and yet how short! Mrs. Halifax wasincessantly busy. I caught sight of her now and then, flitting fromroom to room, with Guy's books in her hand--Guy's linen thrown acrossher arm. Sometimes she stood a few minutes by the window, doing a fewstitches of necessary work, which, when even nurse Watkins offered todo--Jenny, who had been a rosy lass when Guy was born--she refusedabruptly, and went stitching on. 

There were no regular meals that day; better not, perhaps. I saw Johncome up to his wife as she stood sewing, and bring her a piece of breadand a glass of wine--but she could not touch either. 

"Mother, try, " whispered Guy, mournfully. "What will become of me if Ihave made you ill?"

"Oh, no fear, no fear!" She smiled, took the wine and swallowedit--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 rememberthem. I can only call to mind seeing Guy and his mother everywhereside by side, doing everything together, as if grudging each instantremaining till the final instant came. I have also a vivid impressionof her astonishing composure, of her calm voice when talking to Guyabout indefinite trifles, or, though that was seldom, to any other ofus. It never faltered--never lost its rich, round, cheerfulness oftone; as if she wished him to carry it as such, and no other--thefamiliar 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 thatany one, save ourselves, ever knew--that sudden business had called himaway on a long and anxious journey. They lingered about him, respectfully, with eager, honest blessings, such as it was good the ladshould have--good that he should bear away with him from England andfrom home. 

Finally, Guy, his father, and his mother went into the study bythemselves. Soon even his father came out and shut the door, thatthere should be not a single witness to the last few words betweenmother and son. These being over, they both came into the halltogether, brave and calm--which calmness was maintained even to thelast good-bye. 

Thus we sent our Guy away, cheerfully and with blessings--away into thewide, dangerous world; alone, with no guard or restraint, except (andin that EXCEPT lay the whole mystery of our cheerfulness)--the fear ofGod, his father's counsels, and his mother's prayers. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Two years rolled over Beechwood--two uneventful years. The last of thechildren ceased to be a child; and we prepared for that great era inall household history, the first marriage in the family. It was to becelebrated very quietly, as Edwin and Louise both desired. Time hadhealed over many a pang, and taught many a soothing lesson; still itcould not be supposed that this marriage was without its painfulness. 

Guy still remained abroad; his going had produced the happy resultintended. Month after month his letters came, each more hopeful thanthe last, each bringing balm to the mother's heart. Then he wrote toothers beside his mother: Maud and Walter replied to him in longhome-histories; and began to talk without hesitation--nay, with greatpride 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 thenshe had never been told the whole of past circumstances; and, besides, she was still too young to understand love matters. Yet so mercifullyhad time smoothed down all things, that it sometimes appeared even tous elders as if those three days of bitterness were a mere dream--as ifthe year we dreaded had passed as calmly as any other year. Save thatin this interval Ursula's hair had begun to turn from brown to grey;and John first mentioned, so cursorily that I cannot even now rememberwhen or where, that slight pain, almost too slight to complain of, which he said warned him in climbing Enderley Hill that he could notclimb so fast as when he was young. And I returned his smile, tellinghim we were evidently growing old men; and must soon set our faces todescend the hill of life. Easy enough I was in saying this, thinking, as I often did, with great content, that there was not the faintestdoubt which of us would reach the bottom first. 

Yet I was glad to have safely passed my half century of life--glad tohave seen many of John's cares laid to rest, more especially thoseexternal 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 neartravelled the story of the day when Jessop's bank was near breaking;far and near, though secretly--for we found it out chiefly by itsresults--poor people whispered the tale of a gentleman who had beenattacked on the high roads, and whose only attempt at bringing therobbers to justice was to help the widow of one and send the otherssafe out of the country, at his own expense, not Government's. None ofthese were notable or showy deeds--scarcely one of them got, even underthe disguise of asterisks, into the newspaper; the Norton Bury Mercury, for its last dying sting, still complained (and very justly) that therewas not a gentleman in the county whose name so seldom headed a charitysubscription as that of John Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood. But theright made its way, as, soon or late, the right always does; hebelieved his good name was able to defend itself, and it did defenditself; he had faith in the only victory worth having--the universalvictory of Truth; and Truth conquered at last. 

To drive with him across the country--he never carried pistols now, --orto walk with him, as one day before Edwin's wedding we walked, a goodlyprocession, through the familiar streets of Norton Bury, was aperpetual pleasure to the rest of the family. Everybody knew him, everybody greeted him, everybody smiled as he passed--as though hispresence and his recognition were good things to have and to win. Hiswife often laughed, and said she doubted whether even Mr. O'Connell ofDerrynane, who was just now making a commotion in Ireland, lighting thefire of religious and political discord from one end to the other ofCounty Clare;--she doubted if even Daniel O'Connell had more popularityamong his own people than John Halifax had in the primitiveneighbourhood where he had lived so long. 

Mrs. Halifax herself was remarkably gay this morning. She had hadletters from Guy; together with a lovely present, for which he said hehad ransacked all the magazins des modes in Paris--a white embroideredChina shawl. It had arrived this morning--Lord Ravenel being thebearer. This was not the first time by many that he had brought usnews of our Guy, and thereby made himself welcome at Beechwood. Morewelcome than he might have been otherwise; for his manner of life wasso different from ours. Not that Lord Ravenel could be accused of anylikeness to his father; but blood is blood, and education and habitsare not to be easily overcome. The boys laughed at him for hisaristocratic, languid ways; Maud teased him for his mild cynicism andthe little interest he seemed to take in anything; while the motherherself was somewhat restless about his coming, wondering what possiblegood his acquaintance could do to us, or ours to him, seeing we movedin totally different spheres. But John himself was invariably kind, nay, tender over him--we all guessed why. And perhaps even had not theyoung man had so many good points, while his faults were more negationsthan positive ill qualities, we likewise should have been tender overhim--for Muriel's sake. 

He had arrived at Beechwood this morning, and falling as usual into ourfamily routine, had come with us to Norton Bury. He looked up withmore interest than usual in his pensive eyes, as he crossed thethreshold of our old house, and told Maud how he had come there manyyears ago with his father. 

"That was the first time I ever met your father, " I overheard him sayto Maud--not without feeling; as if he thought he owed fate somegratitude for the meeting. 

Mrs. Halifax, in the casual civil inquiry which was all the old earlever won in our house, asked after the health of Lord Luxmore. 

"He is still at Compiegne. Does not Guy mention him? Lord Luxmoretakes the greatest pleasure in Guy's society. "

By her start, this was evidently new and not welcome tidings to Guy'smother. No wonder. Any mother in England would have shrank from thethought that her best-beloved son--especially a young man of Guy'stemperament, and under Guy's present circumstances--was thrown into thesociety which now surrounded the debauched dotage of the too-notoriousEarl of Luxmore. 

"My son did not mention it. He has been too much occupied in businessmatters to write home frequently, since he reached Paris. However hisstay there is limited;" and this seemed to relieve her. "I doubt if hewill have much time left to visit Compiegne. "

She said no more than this, of course, to Lord Luxmore's son; but herdisquiet was sufficiently apparent. 

"It was I who brought your son to Compiegne--where he is a universalfavourite, from his wit and liveliness. I know no one who is a morepleasant companion than Guy. "

Guy's mother bowed--but coldly. 

"I think, Mrs. Halifax, you are aware that the earl's tastes and minediffer widely--have always differed. But he is an old man, and I amhis only son. He likes to see me sometimes, and I go:--though, I mustconfess, 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 CharlesDix can afford none more amusing. For the rest, what matters? Onelearns 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, asshe ceased the conversation. But ever and anon it seemed to recur toher mind--ay, through all the mirth of the young people, all the graverpleasure which the father took in the happiness of his son Edwin; hisgood son, who had never given him a single care. He declared thissettling of Edwin had been to him almost like the days when he himselfused to come of evenings, hammer in hand, to put up shelves in thehouse, or nail the currant-bushes against the wall, doing everythingcon amore, and with the utmost care, knowing it would come under thequick observant eyes of Ursula March. 

"That is, of Ursula Halifax--for I don't think I let her see a singleone of my wonderful doings until she was Ursula Halifax. Do youremember, Phineas, when you came to visit us the first time, and foundus gardening?"

"And she had on a white gown and a straw hat with blue ribbons. What ayoung 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 musicalcadence of his boyish readings of poetry--a line or two from the sweetold 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 hercountenance. Her husband had happily not noticed it: and apparently, she did not wish to tell him her trouble. She let him spend a happyday, even grew happy herself in response to his care to make her so, bythe resolute putting away of all painful present thoughts, and callingback of sweet and soothing memories belonging to this their old marriedhome. John seemed determined that, if possible, the marriage that wasto 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 LordRavenel had left us, --longing apparently to be asked to stay for thewedding, but John did not ask him, --I remembered what he had said aboutGuy's association with Lord Luxmore's set. It was recalled to me bythe 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, orbe 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, againlingering over it, to be certain that all was correct--the addressbeing somewhat illegible for that free, firm hand of hers. "My boy iscoming home. "

"Guy coming home! To the marriage?"

"No; but immediately after. He is quite himself now. He longs to comehome. "

"And his mother?"

His mother could not speak. Like light to her eyes, like life to herheart, was the thought of Guy's coming home. All that week she lookedten years younger. With a step buoyant as any girl's she went aboutthe marriage preparations; together with other preparations, perhapsdearer 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 someanxiety--anxiety which he always put aside in his wife'spresence--seemed eager to have his son at home. 

"He is the eldest son, " he repeated more than once, when talking to meof his hope that Guy would now settle permanently at Beechwood. "Aftermyself, the head of the family. "

After John! It was almost ridiculous to peer so far into the future asthat. 

Of all the happy faces I saw the day before the marriage, I think thehappiest 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 hismother 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 inorder; the book-shelves arranged, and even the fowling-piece andfishing-rod put in the right places. 

The room looked very neat, I said, with an amused doubt as to how longit was to remain so. 

"That is true, indeed. How he used to throw his things about! A saduntidy boy!" And his mother laughed; but I saw all her features weretrembling with emotion. 

"He will not be exactly a boy now. I wonder if we shall find him muchchanged. "

"Very likely. Brown, with a great beard; he said so in one of hisletters. I shall hardly know my boy again. "--With a lighting-up of theeye 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 andpick a bunch as he rode past. She hopes she shall see him ride past onSunday next. Guy must pay her one of his very first visits; the goodold soul!"

I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over the country, tojudge by the number of invitations I had heard of. 

"Yes. Everybody wants to steal my boy. Everybody has a welcome forhim. --How bright old Watkins has polished that gun!--Sir Herbert says, Guy must come over to the shooting next week. He used to beexceedingly fond of going to the manor-house. "

I smiled to see the innocent smile of this good mother, who would haverecoiled at the accusation of match-making. Yet I knew she wasthinking of her great favourite, pretty Grace Oldtower; who was GraceOldtower still, and had refused, gossip said, half the brilliantmatches in the county, to the amazement and strong disapprobation ofall 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 intothe unknown future. "His room is quite ready now, whatever time theboy 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 familyfaces, --for no other guests had been invited, and we had kept the dayas secret as we could; there was nothing John disliked more than ashow-wedding. Therefore it was with some surprise that while they wereall up-stairs adorning themselves for church, Maud and I, standing atthe hall-door, saw Lord Ravenel's travelling carriage drive up to it, and Lord Ravenel himself, with a quicker and more decided gesture thanwas natural to him, spring out. 

Maud ran into the porch; startling him much, apparently; for indeed shewas a sweet vision of youth, happiness, and grace, in her prettybridesmaid's dress. 

"Is this the wedding-morning? I did not know--I will come againto-morrow;" and he seemed eager to escape back to his carriage. 

This action relieved me from a vague apprehension of ill tidings, andmade less painful the first question which rose to my lips, "Had heseen Guy?"

"No. "

"We thought for the moment it might be Guy come home, " Maud cried. "Weare expecting him. Have you heard of him since we saw you? Is hequite well?"

"I believe so. "

I thought the answer brief; but then he was looking intently upon Guy'ssister, who held his hands in her childish, affectionate way; she hadnot yet relinquished her privilege of being Lord Ravenel's "pet. "When, hesitatingly, he proposed returning to Luxmore, unwilling tointrude upon the marriage, the little lady would not hear of it for amoment. She took the unexpected guest to the study, left him therewith her father, explained to her mother all about his arrival and hishaving missed seeing Guy--appearing entirely delighted. 

I came into the drawing-room, and sat watching the sun shining onmarriage-garments and marriage-faces, all as bright as bright couldbe, --including the mother's. It had clouded over for a few momentswhen the postman's ring was heard; but she said at once that it wasmost unlikely Guy would write--she had told him there was no need towrite. So she stood content, smoothing down the soft folds of herbeautiful shawl, which Guy meant her to wear to-day. This, togetherwith his fond remembrance of her, seemed almost as comfortable as thevisible 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! Heknows we are glad to see him. Shall we make him one of our own familyfor 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 toarrive to-day; but we fully expect him tomorrow. "

Lord Ravenel bowed again. Mrs. Halifax said something about thisunexpected arrival of his. 

"He came on business, " John answered quickly, and Ursula made no moreinquiries. 

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 thatrich silk dress, of her favourite silver-grey; a picture of matronlygrace and calm content, as charming as even the handsome, happy bride. 

I was still looking at her, when John called me aside. I followed himto 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, orboth--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 backinto 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 Iwill 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 herhusband held the other handle fast. He then went on, breathlessly, "You understand, Phineas? And you will be careful, very careful? SHEMUST 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 mightbe--this ill news which had struck me with apprehension the moment Isaw Lord Ravenel--it was still endurable. I could not conjure up anygrief so bitter as the boy's dying. 

Therefore, with a quietness that came naturally under the compulsion ofsuch a necessity as the present, I rejoined the rest, made my excuses, and answered all objections. I watched the marriage-party leave thehouse. A simple procession--the mother first, leaning on Edwin; thenMaud, Walter, and Lord Ravenel; John walked last, with Louise upon hisarm. 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 intothe study. Knowing nothing--able to guess nothing--a dull patiencecame over me, the patience with which we often wait for unknown, inevitable misfortunes. Sometimes I almost forgot Guy in my startledremembrance of his father's look as he called me away, and sat down--orrather dropped down--into his chair. Was it illness? yet he had notcomplained; he hardly ever complained, and scarcely had a day'ssickness from year to year. And as I watched him and Louise up thegarden, I had noticed his free, firm gait, without the least sign ofunsteadiness or weakness. Besides, he was not one to keep any but anecessary secret from those who loved him. He could not be seriouslyill, or we should have known it. 

Thus I pondered, until I heard the church bells ring out merrily. Themarriage was over. 

I was just in time to meet them at the front gates, which theyentered--our Edwin and his wife--through a living line of smilingfaces, treading upon a carpet of strewn flowers. Enderley would not bedefrauded of its welcome--all the village escorted the young couple intriumph home. I have a misty recollection of how happy everybodylooked, how the sun was shining, and the bells ringing, and the peoplecheering--a mingled phantasmagoria of sights and sounds, in which Ionly saw one person distinctly, --John. 

He waited while the young folk passed in--stood on the hall-steps--in afew words thanked his people, and bade them to the general rejoicing. They, uproarious, answered in loud hurrahs, and one energetic voicecried 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 himselfto-morrow. "

The master thanked them, but either he did not explain--or the honestrude voices drowned all mention of the latter fact--that Guy would behome to-morrow. 

All this while, and at the marriage-breakfast likewise, Mr. Halifaxkept the same calm demeanour. Once only, when the rest were allgathered 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 safeface 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 disguisingthemselves 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 washis principle, that nothing but the strongest motive should make a manstoop to even the smallest hypocrisy. 

Therefore, hearing him thus speak to his wife, I was struck with greatalarm. 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 importantto be done--anything that I ought to know at once, you would not keepme 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 rightlywished to keep concealed, for a few hours at least, from his otherchildren, so as not to mar the happiness of this day, of which therecould be no second, this crowning day of their lives--this wedding-dayof Edwin and Louise. 

So, he sat at the marriage-table; he drank the marriage-health; he gavethem both a marriage-blessing. Finally, he sent them away, smiling andsorrowful--as is the bounden duty of young married couples todepart--Edwin pausing even on the carriage-step to embrace his motherwith especial tenderness, and whisper her to "give his love to Guy. "

"It reminds one of Guy's leaving, " said the mother, hastily brushingback the tears that would spring and roll down her smiling face. Shehad 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 hasbeen to Paris and back since then. But--" turning full upon the youngnobleman--"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, theyoung 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 follyperhaps--you could see by the sudden flushing of her cheek, and herquick, distrustful glance at Lord Ravenel, what she imagined itwas--that the boy had confessed to his father. With an instinct ofconcealment--the mother's instinct--for the moment she asked noquestions. 

We were all still standing at the hall-door. Unresisting, she sufferedher 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 yourfather. The letter, John?"

Her hand, which she held out, shook much. She tried to unfold thepaper--stopped, and looked up piteously. 

"It is not to tell me he is not coming home? I can bear anything, youknow--but he MUST come. "

John only answered, "Read, "--and took firm hold of her hand while sheread--as we hold the hand of one undergoing great torture, --which mustbe undergone, and which no human love can either prepare for, orremove, 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 maninsulted me--it was about my father--but you will hear--all the worldwill 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. Godbless you all. 

"GUY HALIFAX. 

"P. S. I got my mother's letter to-day. Mother--I was not in my rightsenses, 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 thesefive words. 

Nature refused to bear it; or rather, Nature mercifully helped her tobear it. When John took his wife in his arms she was insensible; andremained 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 offimmediately, for fear of justice: but he had written from shipboard toLord Ravenel, begging him himself to take the letter and break the newsto us at Beechwood. 

The man he had struck was not one of Lord Luxmore's set--though it wasthrough some of his "noble" friends Guy had fallen into his company. He was an Englishman, lately succeeded to a baronetcy and estate; hisname--how we started to hear it, though by Lord Ravenel and by us, forhis sake, it was both pronounced and listened to, as if none of us hadever heard it before--Sir Gerard Vermilye. 

As soon as Ursula recovered, Mr. Halifax and Lord Ravenel went to Paristogether. This was necessary, not only to meet justice, but to trackthe boy--to whose destination we had no clue but the wide world, America. Guy's mother hurried them away--his mother, who rose from herbed, and moved about the house like a ghost--up-stairs anddown-stairs--everywhere--excepting in that room, which was now oncemore locked, and the outer blind drawn down, as if Death himself hadtaken 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 torpidgloom--days or weeks, I hardly remember--during which we, living shutup at Beechwood, knew that our name--John's stainless, honourablename--was in everybody's mouth--parrotted abroad in everysociety--canvassed in every newspaper. We tried, Walter and I, to stopthem at first, dreading lest the mother might read in some foul printor other scurrilous tales about her boy; or, as long remained doubtful, learn that he was proclaimed through France and England as ahomicide--an assassin. But concealments were idle--she would readeverything--hear everything--meet everything--even those neighbours whoout of curiosity or sympathy called at Beechwood. Not many times, though; they said they could not understand Mrs. Halifax. So, after awhile, they all left her alone, except good little Grace Oldtower. 

"Come often, " I heard her say to this girl, whom she was fond of: theyhad sat talking a whole morning--idly and pensively; of little thingsaround them, never once referring to things outside. "Come often, though the house is dull. Does it not feel strange, with Mr. Halifaxaway?"

Ay, this was the change--stranger at first than what had befallenGuy--for that long seemed a thing we could not realise; like a storytold of some other family than ours. The present tangible blank wasthe house with its head and master away. 

Curiously enough, but from his domestic habits easily accountable, hehad scarcely ever been more than a few days absent from home before. Wemissed him continually; in his place at the head of the table; in hischair by the fire; his quick ring at the hall bell, when he came upfrom the mills--his step--his voice--his laugh. The life and soul ofthe house seemed to have gone out of it from the hour the father wentaway. 

I think in the wonderful workings of things--as we know all things dowork together for good--this fact was good for Ursula. It taught herthat, in losing Guy, she had not lost all her blessings. It showed herwhat in the passion of her mother-love she might have been tempted toforget--many mothers do--that beyond all maternal duty, is the dutythat a woman owes to her husband: beyond all loves, is the love thatwas hers before any of them were born. 

So, gradually, as every day John's letters came, --and she used to watchfor them and seize them as if they had been love-letters; as every dayshe seemed to miss him more, and count more upon his return; referringall decisions, and all little pleasures planned for her, to the time"when your father comes home;"--hope and comfort began to dawn in theheart of the mourning mother. 

And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back, I saw Ursulatying up the small bundle of his letters--his letters, of which in allher happy life she had had so few--his tender, comforting, comfortableletters. 

"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, asif she must accustom it to look bright again in time for her husband'scoming. 

And when the day arrived, she put all the house in trim order, dressedherself in her prettiest gown, sat patient while Maud brushed andcurled 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 herlover--for the sound of carriage-wheels. 

All that had to be told about Guy--and it was better news than any oneof us had hoped for--John had already told in his letters. When hecame back, therefore, he was burthened with no troubleundisclosed--greeted with no anguish of fear or bitter remembrance. Ashe sprang out of the post-chaise, it was to find his wife standing atthe door, and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome. Noblessing 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 therestlessness of keen anxiety. The first shock of this heavy misfortunewas over. He had paid all his son's debts; he had, as far as waspossible, saved his good name; he had made a safe home for the lad, andheard of his safely reaching it, in the New World. Nothing more wasleft but to cover over the inevitable grief, and hope that time wouldblot out the intolerable shame. That since Guy's hand was clear ofblood--and, since his recovery, Sir Gerard Vermilye had risen into apositive hero of society--men's minds would gradually lose theimpression of a deed committed in heat of youth, and repented of withsuch bitter atonement. 

So the father took his old place, and looked round on the remnant ofhis children, grave indeed, but not weighed down by incurablesuffering. Something, deeper even than the hard time he had recentlypassed through, seemed to have made his home more than ever dear tohim. He sat in his arm-chair, never weary of noticing everythingpleasant about him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked, and howdelicious it was to be at home. And perpetually, if any chanceunlinked it, his hand would return to its clasp of Ursula's; theminute she left her place by his side, his restless "Love, where areyou going?" would call her back again. And once, when the childrenwere out of the room, and I, sitting in a dark corner, was probablythought absent likewise, I saw John take his wife's face between histwo hands, and look in it--the fondest, most lingering, saddestlook!--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 hislove 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, beforebreakfast, came Edwin and Louise. And after breakfast, the father andmother and I walked up and down the garden for an hour, talking overthe prospects of the young couple. Then the post came--but we had noneed 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 readthese letters--which for the last year or so had come often enough--theboys usually quizzing, and Mistress Maud vehemently defending, thedelicate small hand-writing, the exquisite paper, the coronetted seal, and the frank in the corner. John liked to have them, and his wifealso--she being not indifferent to the fact, confirmed by many otherfacts, that if there was one man in the world whom Lord Ravenelhonoured and admired, it was John Halifax of Beechwood. But this timeher pleasure was apparently damped; and when Maud, claiming the letteras usual, spread abroad, delightedly, the news that "her" Lord Ravenelwas coming shortly, I imagined this visit was not so welcome as usualto 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 allpublic allusion to his doings at Paris was avoided in the family--"didyou, 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 almostan old woman now, or perhaps she is dead. Poor Caroline!"

It was the first time for years and years that this name had beenbreathed in our household. Involuntarily it carried me back--perhapsothers besides me--to the day at Longfield when little Guy had devotedhimself to his "pretty lady;" when we first heard that other name, which by a curious conjuncture of circumstances had since become sofatally familiar, and which would henceforward be like the sound of adeath-bell in our family--Gerard Vermilye. 

On Lord Ravenel's re-appearance at Beechwood--and he seemed eager andglad to come--I was tempted to wish him away. He never crossed thethreshold 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 sofond of abiding. 

He wanted to take Maud and Walter over there one day, to see somemagnificent firs that were being cut down in a wholesale massacre, leaving the grand old Hall as bare as a workhouse front. But thefather objected; he was clearly determined that all the hospitalitiesbetween Luxmore and Beechwood should be on the Beechwood side. 

Lord Ravenel apparently perceived this. "Luxmore is not Compiegne, " hesaid 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'swhite dress flit about under the trees, I saw, or fancied I saw, something different to any former expression that had ever lighted upthe 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 delicateringed hands--which many a time our boys had laughed at, saying theywere mere lady's hands, fit for no work at all. 

Perhaps Lord Ravenel felt the cloud that had come over our intercoursewith him; a cloud which, considering late events, was scarcelyunnatural: 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--herepeated many times how glad he should be to see Beechwood again; howall the world was to him "flat, stale, and unprofitable, " exceptBeechwood. 

John made no special answer; except that frank smile not without acertain kindly satire, under which the young nobleman's Byronicaffectations generally melted away like mists in the morning. Hekindled up into warmth and manliness. 

"I thank you, Mr. Halifax--I thank you heartily for all you and yourhousehold have been to me. I trust I shall enjoy your friendship formany years. And if, in any way, I might offer mine, or any smallinfluence in the world--"

"Your influence is not small, " John returned earnestly. "I have oftentold 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 lifetimebefore you. "

"Have I?" And for the moment one would hardly have recognized thesallow, spiritless face, that with all the delicacy of boyhood still, at times looked so exceedingly old. "No, no, Mr. Halifax, who everheard 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 meafterwards, and does now with renewed surprise--how strange it was thatthe mother never noticed or took into account certain possibilitiesthat would have occurred naturally to any worldly mother. I can onlyexplain it by remembering the unworldliness of our lives at Beechwood, the heavy cares which now pressed upon us from without, and the notablefact--which our own family experience ought to have taught us, yet didnot--that in cases like this, often those whom one would have expectedto be most quick-sighted, are the most strangely, irretrievably, mournfully blind. 

When, the very next day, Lord Ravenel, not on horse-back but in hisrarely-used luxurious coronetted carriage, drove up to Beechwood, everyone in the house except myself was inconceivably astonished to see himback again. 

He said that he had delayed his journey to Paris, and gave noexplanation of that delay. He joined as usual in our midday dinner;and after dinner, still as usual, took a walk with me and Maud. Ithappened to be through the beech-wood, almost the identical path that Iremembered taking, years and years ago, with John and Ursula. I wassurprised to hear Lord Ravenel allude to the fact, a well-known fact inour family; for I think all fathers and mothers like to relate, and allchildren 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 faceupon us. 

"No, scarcely likely. " And he smiled. "Oh, yes--it might have been--Iforget, I am not a young man now. How old were Mr. And Mrs. Halifaxwhen they married?"

"Father was twenty-one and mother was eighteen--only a year older thanI. " And Maud, half ashamed of this suggestive remark, ran away. Hergay candour proved to me--perhaps to others besides me--the girl'sentire free-heartedness. The frank innocence of childhood was stillhers. 

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 besorry for having, when questioned, given one's honest opinion)--I toldhim that I thought those happiest who found their happiness early, butthat I did not see why happiness should be rejected because it was thewill 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 nevermarried?

"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 whocould be believed in. "

We had come out of the beech-wood and were standing by the lowchurchyard wall; the sun glittered on the white marble head-stone onwhich was inscribed, "Muriel Joy Halifax. "

Lord Ravenel leaned over the wall, his eyes fixed upon that littlegrave. After a while, he said, sighing:

"Do you know, I have thought sometimes that, had she lived, I couldhave loved--I might have married--that child!"

Here Maud sprang towards us. In her playful tyranny, which she lovedto exercise and he to submit to, she insisted on knowing what LordRavenel was talking about. 

"I was saying, " he answered, taking both her hands and looking downinto her bright, unshrinking eyes, "I was saying, how dearly I lovedyour sister Muriel. "

"I know that, " and Maud became grave at once. "I know you care for mebecause 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 suspectingnothing. For me, I began to be seriously uneasy about her and LordRavenel. 

Of all kinds of love, there is one which common sense and romance haveoften combined to hold obnoxious, improbable, or ridiculous, but whichhas always seemed to me the most real and pathetic form that thepassion 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 thatwould make it far less ludicrous and pitiful; and there are few thingsto me more touching, more full of sad earnest, than to see an old manin love with a young girl. 

Lord Ravenel's case would hardly come under this category; yet thedifference between seventeen and thirty-seven was sufficient to warrantin him a trembling uncertainty, and eager catching at the skirts ofthat vanishing youth whose preciousness he never seemed to haverecognized till now. It was with a mournful interest that all day Iwatched him follow the child about, gather her posies, help her towater 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 summonedaway to bed, "to keep up her roses, " he looked half resentful of themother'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. Youmust--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 attemptingto kiss it, as in all his former farewells he had invariably done. 

"Maud, remember me! However or whenever I come back, dearest child, befaithful, and remember me!"

Maud fled away with a sob of childish pain--partly anger, the motherthought--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 whaton earth they were talking about. I held my peace. At last the fathercame 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, rolledand unrolled it. She saw at once that something had grieved andperplexed him exceedingly. Her heart shrunk back--that still soreheart!--recoiled with a not unnatural fear. 

"Oh, husband, is it any new misfortune?"

"No, love, " cheering her with a smile; "nothing that fathers andmothers in general would consider as such. He has asked me for ourMaud. "

"What for?" was the mother's first exceedingly simple question--andthen she guessed its answer. "Impossible! Ridiculous--absolutelyridiculous! 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 wasable to entertain it as a reality. When she did, the first impressionit made upon her mind was altogether pain. 

"Oh, John! I hoped we had done with these sort of things; I thought weshould have been left in peace with the rest of our children. "

John smiled again; for, indeed, there was a comical side to her view ofthe subject; but its serious phase soon returned; doubly so, when, looking up, they both saw Lord Ravenel standing before them. Firm hisattitude was, firmer than usual; and it was with something of hisfather'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 whatit would be. Besides, it was only the prior question of parentalconsent, not the vital point of Maud's preference. And, with all hisnatural humility, Lord Ravenel might be forgiven if, brought up in theworld, he was aware of his position therein--nor quite unconscious thatit was not merely William Ravenel, but the only son and heir of theEarl of Luxmore, who came a-wooing. 

Not till after a long pause, and even a whispered word or two betweenthe husband and wife, who knew each other's minds so well that no moreconsultation 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 noidea of your feelings. The extreme suddenness--"

"Pardon me; my intention has not been sudden. It is the growth of manymonths--years, I might almost say. "

"We are the more grieved. "

"Grieved?"

Lord Ravenel's extreme surprise startled him from the mere suitor intothe lover; he glanced from one to the other in undisguised alarm. Johnhesitated: the mother said something about the "great differencebetween them. "

"In age, do you mean? I am aware of that, " he answered, with somesadness. "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 beassured how lightly he would hold such a disparity--if you allude tothat supposed to exist between the son of the Earl of Luxmore and thedaughter of John Halifax. "

The young nobleman coloured, as if with ingenuous shame at what he hadbeen implying. "I am glad of it. Let me assure you there will be noimpediments on the side of my family. The earl has long wished me tomarry. He knows well enough that I can marry whom I please--and shallmarry 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 haveclearly explained myself. Let me repeat, Mr. Halifax, that I ask yourpermission to win your daughter's affection, and, in due time, herhand. "

"I would that you had asked of me anything that it could be lessimpossible to give you. "

"Impossible! What do you mean?--Mrs. Halifax--" He turnedinstinctively to the woman--the mother. 

Ursula's eyes were full of a sad kindness--the kindness any mother mustfeel towards one who worthily woos her daughter--but she replieddistinctly--

"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 givethem with the deepest pain. Lord Ravenel, do you not yourself see thatour Maud--"

"Wait one moment, " he interrupted. "There is not, there cannot be, anyprevious 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. "Beit so. I will wait, though my youth, alas! is slipping from me; but Iwill wait--two years, three--any time you choose to name. "

John needed not to reply. The very sorrow of his decision showed howinevitable 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 herViscountess Ravenel, and in course of time Countess of Luxmore?"

"I believe it would. Her mother and I would rather see our little Maudlying beside her sister Muriel than see her Countess of Luxmore. "

These words, hard as they were, John uttered so softly and with suchinfinite grief and pain, that they struck the young man, not withanger, but with an indefinite awe, as if a ghost from his youth--hiswasted youth--had risen up to point out that truth, and show him thatwhat 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 thatthe distance between us and you is wide as the poles? Not in worldlythings, but in things far deeper;--personal things, which strike at theroot 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--thehonour of our house?"

Saying this he stopped--recoiled--as if suddenly made aware by the verywords himself had uttered, what--contrasted with the unsullied dignityof the tradesman's life, the spotless innocence of the tradesman'sdaughter--what a foul tattered rag, fit to be torn down by an honestgust, was that flaunting emblazonment, the so-called "honour" ofLuxmore!

"I understand you now. 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited uponthe children, ' as your Bible says--your Bible, that I had half begun tobelieve 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 anyerrors, 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. "Iknow nothing of you that the world would condemn, much that it wouldeven 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 lastinghappiness, and it would be thrusting my child, my own flesh and blood, to the brink of that whirlpool where, soon or late, every miserablelife must go down. "

Lord Ravenel made no answer. His new-born energy, his pride, hissarcasm, had successively vanished; dead, passive melancholy resumedits empire over him. Mr. Halifax regarded him with mournful compassion. 

"Oh, that I had foreseen this! I would have placed the breadth of allEngland between you and my child. "

"Would you?"

"Understand me. Not because you do not possess our warm interest, ourfriendship: both will always be yours. But these are external ties, which may exist through many differences. In marriage there must beperfect unity; one aim, one faith, one love, or the marriage isincomplete, unholy--a mere civil contract and no more. "

Lord Ravenel looked up amazed at this doctrine, then sat awhilepondering 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 gulffixed;'--what did the old fable say? I forget. --Che sara sara! I ambut 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 agentleman; not only a gentleman, but a man--man, made in the image ofGod. 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; worldlygifts, such as rank, riches, influence, things which others have tospend half an existence in earning; life in its best prime, with muchof youth yet remaining--with grief endured, wisdom learnt, experiencewon. Would to Heaven, that by any poor word of mine I could make youfeel all that you are--all that you might be!"

A gleam, bright as a boy's hope, wild as a boy's daring, flashed fromthose 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 inthe universe. What! shall we, whose atom of time is but a fragment outof an ever-present eternity--shall we, so long as we live, or even atour life's ending, dare to cry out to the Eternal One, 'It is toolate!'"

As John spoke, in much more excitement than was usual to him, a suddenflush or rather spasm of colour flushed his face, then faded away, leaving him pallid to the very lips. He sat down hastily, in hisfrequent attitude, with the left arm passed across his breast. 

"Lord Ravenel. " His voice was faint, as though speech was painful tohim. 

The other looked up, the old look of reverent attention, which Iremembered in the boy-lord who came to see us at Norton Bury; in theyoung "Anselmo, " whose enthusiastic hero-worship had fixed itself, withan almost unreasoning trust, on Muriel's father. 

"Lord Ravenel, forgive anything I have said that may have hurt you. Itwould grieve me inexpressibly if we did not part as friends. "

"Part?"

"For a time, we must. I dare not risk further either your happiness ormy child's. "

"No, not hers. Guard it. I blame you not. The lovely, innocentchild! God forbid she should ever have a life like mine!"

He sat silent, his clasped hands listlessly dropping, his countenancedreamy; yet, it seemed to me, less hopelessly sad: then with a suddeneffort he rose. 

"I must go now. "

Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her, with much emotion, forall her kindness. 

"For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as perhaps I may provesome 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 lesstenderness than if things had ended as he desired, and, instead of thisfarewell, sad and indefinite beyond most farewells, they were givingthe parental welcome to a newly-chosen son. 

Ere finally quitting us, Lord Ravenel turned back to speak to John oncemore, hesitatingly and mournfully. 

"If she--if the child should ask or wonder about my absence--she likesme in her innocent way you know--you will tell her--What shall you tellher?"

"Nothing. It is best not. "

"Ay, it is, it is. "

He shook hands with us all three, without saying anything else; thenthe 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 nearescape our little Maud had had of becoming Viscountess Ravenel--futureCountess of Luxmore. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

It was not many weeks after this departure of Lord Ravenel's--the painof which was almost forgotten in the comfort of Guy's first long homeletter, which came about this time--that John one morning, suddenlydropping his newspaper, exclaimed:

"Lord Luxmore is dead. "

Yes, he had returned to his dust, this old bad man; so old, that peoplehad begun to think he would never die. He was gone; the man who, if weowned 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, removeshim to another tribunal than this petty justice of ours, and laying asolemn finger on our mouths, forbids us either to think or utter a wordof hatred against that which is now--what?--a disembodied spirit--ahandful of corrupting clay. 

Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account; it was not ours tojudge him. We never knew--I believe no one except his son ever fullyknew--the history of his death-bed. 

John sat in silence, the paper before him, long after we had passed thenews and discussed it, not without awe, all round the breakfast-table. 

Maud stole up--hesitatingly, and asked to see the announcement of theearl'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 firstheard 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 readamong the fashionable marriages:

"AT THE BRITISH EMBASSY, PARIS, SIR GERARD VERMILYE, BART. , TO THEYOUTHFUL 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 notmarried Lady Caroline. 

This morning's intelligence brought the Luxmore family so much to ourthoughts, that driving out after breakfast, John and I involuntarilyrecurred to the subject. Nay, talking on, in the solitude of our frontseat--for Mrs. Halifax, Miss Halifax, and Mrs. Edwin Halifax, in thecarriage behind, were deep in some other subject--we fell upon a topicwhich by tacit consent had been laid aside, as in our household we heldit good to lay aside any inevitable regret. 

"Poor Maud! how eager she was to hear the news to-day. She littlethinks 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 unwittingindication of some crotchets of mine, which had often come into my mindlately. Crotchets, perhaps peculiar to one, who, never having known acertain possession, found himself rather prone to over-rate its value. But it sometimes struck me as hard, considering how little honest andsincere love there is in the world, that Maud should never have knownof Lord Ravenel's. 

Possibly, against my will, my answer implied something of this; forJohn was a long time silent. Then he began to talk of various matters;telling me of many improvements he was planning and executing, on hisproperty, and among his people. In all his plans, and in the carryingout of them, I noticed one peculiarity, strong in him throughout hislife, but latterly grown stronger than ever--namely, that whatever hefound to do, he did immediately. Procrastination had never been one ofhis faults; now, he seemed to have a horror of putting anything offeven for a single hour. Nothing that could be done did he lay asideuntil it was done; his business affairs were kept in perfect order, each day's work being completed with the day. And in thethousand-and-one little things that were constantly arising, from hisposition as magistrate and land-owner, and his general interest in themovements of the time, the same system was invariably pursued. In hisrelations with the world outside, as in his own little valley, heseemed determined to "work while it was day. " If he could possiblyavoid it, no application was ever unattended to; no duty leftunfinished; no good unacknowledged; no evil unremedied, or at leastunforgiven. 

"John, " I said, as to-day this peculiarity of his struck me more thanusual, "thou art certainly one of the faithful servants whom the Masterwhen 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 asfather, master, owner of large wealth. How could I know--how could Iguess--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 thatextreme tenacity of attachment which was a part of his nature--refusingto put any one love in another love's place--his second daughter hadnever been to him like the first. Now, however, I had noticed that hetook 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 aboutLord Ravenel?"

"No--not once. It cost me so much, that I know it was right to bedone. "

"But if things had been otherwise--if you had not been so sure ofMaud's feelings--"

He started, painfully; then answered--"I think I should have done itstill. "

I was silent. The paramount right, the high prerogative of love, whichhe 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 tothe cold-blooded ranks of harsh parental prudence, despotic paternalrule; as if Ursula March's lover and Maud's father were two distinctbeings. One finds it so, often enough, with men. 

"John, " I said, "could you have done it? could you have broken thechild's heart?"

"Yes, if it was to save her peace, perhaps her soul, I could havebroken my child's heart. "

He spoke solemnly, with an accent of inexpressible pain, as if thiswere not the first time by many that he had pondered over such apossibility. 

"I wish, Phineas, to make clear to you, in case of--of any futuremisconceptions--my mind on this matter. One right alone I holdsuperior to the right of love, --duty. It is a father's duty, at allrisks, at all costs, to save his child from anything which he believeswould peril her duty--so long as she is too young to understand fullyhow beyond the claim of any human being, be it father or lover, isGod's claim to herself and her immortal soul. Anything which wouldendanger that should be cut off--though it be the right hand--the righteye. 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 heis, and for as long as he remains so, he must not be trusted with mylittle Maud. I must take care of her while I live: afterwards--"

His smile faded, or rather was transmuted into that gravethoughtfulness which I had lately noticed in him, when, as now, he fellinto one of his long silences. There was nothing sad about it; rathera serenity which reminded me of that sweet look of his boyhood, whichhad vanished during the manifold cares of his middle life. Theexpression of the mouth, as I saw it in profile--close and calm--almostinclined me to go back to the fanciful follies of our youth, and callhim "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'seyes turned fondly to his old home. 

"Ay, just the same. Do you know your wife was saying to me thismorning, 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 upBeechwood. She said, she hopes you and she will end your days togetherat 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 liketo fancy you both two old people, sitting on either side the fire--oron the same side if you like it best; very cheerful--you will make sucha merry old man, John, with all your children round you, and indefinitegrandchildren about the house continually. Or else you two will sitalone together, just as in your early married days--you and your oldwife--the dearest and handsomest old lady that ever was seen. "

"Phineas--don't--don't. " I was startled by the tone in which heanswered the lightness of mine. "I mean--don't be planning out thefuture. It is foolish--it is almost wrong. God's will is not as ourwill; and He knows best. "

I would have spoken; but just then we reached the manor-house gate, andplunged at once into present life, and into the hospitable circle ofthe Oldtowers. 

They were all in the excitement of a wonderful piece of gossip; gossipso strange, sudden, and unprecedented, that it absorbed all lessermatters. 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 wistfullyon Lady Oldtower. 

"About the earl's death. Yes, we saw it in the newspaper. " And Johnpassed on to some other point of conversation. In vain. 

"This news relates to the present earl. I never heard of such athing--never. In fact, if true, his conduct is something which in itsself-denial approaches absolute insanity. Is it possible that, beingso great a friend of your family, he has not informed you of thecircumstances?"

These circumstances, with some patience, we extracted from the volubleLady Oldtower. She had learnt them--I forget how: but news neverwants a tongue to carry it. 

It seemed that on the earl's death it was discovered, what had alreadybeen long suspected, that his liabilities, like his extravagances, wereenormous. That he was obliged to live abroad to escape in some degreethe clamorous haunting of the hundreds he had ruined: poortradespeople, who knew that their only chance of payment was during theold 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 indegree imitated his father's, rumour did not say, nor indeed was it ofmuch consequence. The facts subsequently becoming known immediatelyafter Lord Luxmore's death, made all former conjectures unnecessary. 

Not a week before he died, the late earl and his son--chiefly it wasbelieved on the latter's instigation--had cut off the entail, therebymaking the whole property saleable, and available for the payment ofcreditors. Thus by his own act, and--as some one had told somebodythat somebody else had heard Lord Ravenel say: "for the honour of thefamily, " 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 asbeggary--a paltry two hundred a year or so--which he has reserved, theysay, just to keep him from destitution. Ah--here comes Mr. Jessop; Ithought 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 houselast night. "

"Last night!" I do not think anybody caught the child's exclamationbut me; I could not help watching little Maud, noticing what strongemotion, 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 itopenly 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 overmy shoulder. )

"I write this merely to say, what I feel sure you will alreadyhave believed--that anything which you may learn concerning hisaffairs, I was myself unaware of, except in a very slight degree, whenI last visited Beechwood. 

"Will you likewise believe that in all I have done, or intenddoing, your interests as my tenant--which I hope you will remain--havebeen, 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 aword 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 astrayin my head. He wished me to explain to you that he has reserved oneportion of the Luxmore property intact--Enderley Mills. The rent youpay will, he says, be a sufficient income for him; and then while yourlease lasts no other landlord can injure you. Very thoughtful ofhim--very thoughtful indeed, Mr. Halifax. "

John made no answer. 

"I never saw a man so altered. He went over some matters withme--private charities, in which I have been his agent, you know--grave, clear-headed, business-like; my clerk himself could not have donebetter. Afterwards we sat and talked, and I tried--foolishly enough, when the thing was done!--to show him what a frantic act it was bothtowards himself and his heirs. But he could not see it. He saidcutting off the entail would harm nobody--for that he did not intendever 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 megood-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 determinedto put aside the melancholy subject, and dilated on the earl and hisaffairs no more. 

Nor did any one. Something in this young nobleman's noble act--it hassince been not without a parallel among our aristocracy--silenced thetongue of gossip itself. The deed was so new--so unlike anything thathad been conceived possible, especially in a man like Lord Ravenel, whohad always borne the character of a harmless, idle misanthropicnonentity--that society was really nonplussed concerning it. Of themany loquacious visitors who came that morning to pour upon LadyOldtower all the curiosity of Coltham--fashionable Coltham, famous forall the scandal of haut ton--there was none who did not speak of LordLuxmore and his affairs with an uncomfortable, wondering awe. Somesuggested he was going mad--others, raking up stories current of hisearly youth, thought he had turned Catholic again, and was about toenter a monastery. One or two honest hearts protested that he was anoble fellow, and it was a pity he had determined to be the last of theLuxmores. 

For ourselves--Mr. And Mrs. Halifax, Maud and I--we never spoke to oneanother on the subject all the morning. Not until after luncheon, whenJohn and I had somehow stolen out of the way of the visitors, and werewalking 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 somestrawberries--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 thebroad walk--but without diverging to the strawberry-beds. She wasgrave, and paler than ordinary. Her father asked if she were tired?

"No, but my head aches. Those Coltham people do talk so. Father, Iwant you to explain to me, for I can't well understand all this thatthey 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 quitepoor--poorer than any of us? And he has made himself poor in order topay his own and his father's debts, and keep other people fromsuffering 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 tellhim so. When is he coming to Beechwood?"

Maud spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, in the impetuous manner sheinherited from her mother. Her question not being immediatelyanswered, 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 toMr. Jessop. 

"He ought to have come to us instead of to Mr. Jessop. Write and tellhim so, father. Tell him how glad we shall be to see him. And perhapsyou can help him: you who help everybody. He always said you were hisbest 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 sopersuasively, then looked sorrowfully away. 

"My child--I cannot. "

"What, not write to him? When he is poor and in trouble? That is notlike you, father, " and Maud half-loosed her arm. 

Her father quietly put the little rebellious hand back again to itsplace. He was evidently debating within himself whether he should tellher 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 hadhitherto been open as daylight. He held that to prevaricate, orwilfully to give the impression of a falsehood, is almost as mean as adirect lie. When anything occurred that he could not tell hischildren, he always said plainly, "I cannot tell you, " and they askedno more. 

I wondered exceedingly how he would deal with Maud. 

She walked with him, submissive yet not satisfied, glancing at him fromtime to time, waiting for him to speak. At last she could wait nolonger. 

"I am sure there is something wrong. You do not care for Lord Ravenelas much as you used to do. "

"More, if possible. "

"Then write to him. Say, we want to see him--I want to see him. Askhim to come and stay a long while at Beechwood. "

"I cannot, Maud. It would be impossible for him to come. I do notthink 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 withhim any longer. And he is poor--in trouble--oh, father!"

She snatched her hand away, and flashed upon him reproachful eyes. Johntook her gently by the arm, and made her sit down upon the wall of alittle 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, gaveconsolation 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. Tellme what has happened, please, father?"

"I will tell you--so far as I can. Lord Ravenel and myself had someconversation, of a very painful kind, the last night he was with us. After it, we both considered it advisable he should not visit us againfor the present. "

"Why not? Had you quarrelled? or if you had, I thought my father wasalways 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 tellme--me, his pet--me, that cared for him more than any of you did. Ithink 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 elseknow?"

"Your mother, and your uncle Phineas, who happened to be present at thetime. No one else: and no one else shall know. "

John spoke with that slight quivering and blueness of the lips whichany mental excitement usually produced in him. He sat down by hisdaughter's side and took her hand. 

"I knew this would grieve you, and I kept it from you as long as Icould. Now you must only be patient, and like a good child trust yourfather. "

Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed and said, "shecould not understand it. "

"Neither can I--often times, my poor little Maud. There are so manysad things in life that we have to take upon trust, and bear, and bepatient with--yet never understand. I suppose we shall some day. "

His eyes wandered upward to the wide-arched blue sky, which in its calmbeauty makes us fancy that Paradise is there, even though we know that"THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS WITHIN US, " and that the kingdom of spiritsmay 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. ButI liked Lord Ravenel so much--and he was so fond of me. "

"Child"--and her father himself could not help smiling at thesimplicity of her speech--"it is often easiest to lose those we arefond of and who are fond of us, because, in one sense, we never canreally 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 inits relation to her, else he would not have said it. And he wouldsurely have noticed, as I did, that the word "love, " which had not beenmentioned before--it was "liking, " "fond of, " "care for, " or some suchround-about, childish phrase--the word "love" made Maud start. Shedarted from one to the other of us a keen glance of inquiry, and thenturned the colour of a July rose. 

Her attitude, her blushes, the shy tremble about her mouth, reminded mevividly, 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 almosthave broken his heart. 

So, begging her to "kiss and make friends, " which Maud did, timidly, and without attempting further questions, I hurried the father anddaughter into the house; deferring for mature consideration, thequestion whether or not I should trouble John with any too-anxiousdoubts of mine concerning her. 

As we drove back through Norton Bury, I saw that while her mother andLady Oldtower conversed, Maud sat opposite rather more silent than herwont; but when the ladies dismounted for shopping, she was again thelively 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 stoodwith me at the shop-door, amusing herself with commenting on thepassers-by. 

These were not so plentiful as I once remembered, though still the oldtown wore its old face--appearing fairer than ever, as I myself grewolder. The same Coltham coach stopped at the Lamb Inn, and the samegroup of idle loungers took an interest in its disemboguing of itscontents. But railways had done an ill turn to the coach and to poorNorton Bury: where there used to be six inside passengers, to-day wasturned out only one. 

"What a queer-looking little woman! Uncle Phineas, people shouldn'tdress 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, thefluttering bonnet, the abundance of flaunting curls--no wonder that thestranger attracted considerable notice in quiet Norton Bury. As shetripped mincingly along, in her silk stockings and light shoes, asmothered jeer arose. 

"People should not laugh at an old woman, however conceited she maybe, " said Maud, indignantly. 

"Is she old?"

"Just look. "

And surely when, as she turned from side to side, I caught her fullface--what a face it was! withered, thin, sallow almost to deathliness, with a bright rouge-spot on each cheek, a broad smile on the ghastlymouth. 

"Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas?"

"Possibly. Do not look at her. " For I was sure this must be the wreckof such a life as womanhood does sometimes sink to--a life, the mereknowledge of which had never yet entered our Maud's pure world. 

She seemed surprised, but obeyed me and went in. I stood at theshop-door, watching the increasing crowd, and pitying, with that pitymixed with shame that every honest man must feel towards a degradedwoman, the wretched object of their jeers. Half-frightened, she stillkept up that set smile, skipping daintily from side to side of thepavement, darting at and peering into every carriage that passed. Miserable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and ease inher movements, as if she had fallen from some far higher estate. 

At that moment, the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood in it, dozinghis daily drive away, his gouty foot propped up before him--slowlylumbered 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 willgo home. "

Through its coarse discordance, its insane rage, I thought I knew thevoice. Especially when, assuming a tone of command, she addressed theold coachman:

"Draw up, Peter; you are very late. People, give way! Don't you seemy carriage?"

There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. Brithwood openedhis dull, drunken eyes and stared about him. 

"Canaille!"--the scream was more of terror than anger, as she almostflung herself under the horses' heads in her eagerness to escape fromthe mob. "Let me go! My carriage is waiting. I am Lady CarolineBrithwood!"

The 'squire heard her. For a single instant they gazed at oneanother--besotted husband, dishonoured, divorced wife--gazed withhorror and fear, as two sinners who had been each other's undoing, might meet in the poetic torments of Dante's "Inferno, " or the tangiblefire and brimstone of many a blind but honest Christian's hell. Onesingle 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 horsesright over "my lady. " He even looked down on her with a sort ofcompassion--I remembered having heard say that she was always kind andaffable to her servants. 

"Drive on, you fool! Here"--and Mr. Brithwood threw some coin amongstthe mob--"Fetch the constable--some of you; take the woman to thewatch-house!"

And the carriage rolled on, leaving her there, crouched on thekerbstone, gazing after it with something between a laugh and a moan. 

Nobody touched her. Perhaps some had heard of her; a few might evenhave seen her--driving through Norton Bury in her pristine state, asthe young 'squire's handsome wife--the charming Lady Caroline. 

I was so absorbed in the sickening sight, that I did not perceive howJohn and Ursula, standing behind me, had seen it likewise--evidentlyseen 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 ofwhat the disturbance was, shocked and scandalised, retired into theshop again. 

John looked earnestly at his wife, but for once she did not or wouldnot 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 ofMaud. 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 streetthis day? If we take care of aught of His, will He not take care of usand of our children?"

Mrs. Halifax paused, thought a moment, hesitated--yielded. 

"John, you are right; you are always right. I will do anything youplease. "

And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, in face of scores ofwindow-gazers, all of whom knew them, and a great number of whom theyalso knew, Mr. Halifax and his wife walk up to where the miserablewoman 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 thattone. It seemed to startle back her shattered wits. She rose to herfeet, smiling airily. 

"Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeingyou somewhere. Your name is--"

"Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?"--speaking gently as she would havedone 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, oldwoman's hand, --but John stopped her. 

"My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to comehome 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. Halifaxsupported her on the other side. Without more ado, they put her in thecarriage and drove home, leaving Maud in my charge, and leavingastounded Norton Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house--if thatmiserable existence of hers could be called living--bedridden, falleninto second childhood:

 "Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;"

oblivious to both past and present, recognising none of us, and takingno 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 anine days' wonder of the "very extraordinary conduct" of Mr. And Mrs. Halifax. That even good Lady Oldtower hesitated a little before shesuffered her tribe of fair daughters to visit under the same roof wherelay, quite out of the way, that poor wreck of womanhood, which wouldhardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time the gossipceased of itself; and when, one summer day, a small decent funeralmoved out of our garden gate to Enderley churchyard, all the commentwas:

"Oh! is she dead?--What a relief it must be! How very kind of Mr. AndMrs. 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 lighteningbefore death, which Maud declared she saw in her--Maud, who had tendedher 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 wascertain that a few minutes before the last minute, she saw a gleam ofsense in the filmy eyes, and stooping down, had caught some feeblemurmur about "William--poor William!"

She did not tell me this; she spoke of it to no one but her mother, andto her briefly. So the wretched life, once beautiful and loveful, wasnow ended, or perhaps born in some new sphere to begin again itsstruggle after the highest beauty, the only perfect love. What are wethat we should place limits to the infinite mercy of the Lord and Giverof 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, therewas no one unto whom we could appeal. Lord Luxmore, immediately afterhis father's funeral, had disappeared, whither, no one knew except hissolicitor; who treated with and entirely satisfied the host ofcreditors, and into whose hands the sole debtor, John Halifax, paid hisyearly rent. Therewith, he wrote several times to Lord Luxmore; butthe letters were simply acknowledged through the lawyer: neveranswered. Whether in any of them John alluded to Lady Caroline I donot know; but I rather think not, as it would have served no purposeand only inflicted pain. No doubt, her brother had long since believedher dead, as we and the world had done. 

In that same world one man, even a nobleman, is of little account. LordRavenel 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. Hewas soon forgotten--everywhere except at Beechwood; and sometimes itseemed as if he were even forgotten there. Save that in our family wefound it hard to learn this easy, convenient habit--to forget. 

Hard, though seven years had passed since we saw Guy's merry face, toavoid missing it keenly still. The mother, as her years crept on, oftentimes wearied for him with a yearning that could not be told. Thefather, as Edwin became engrossed in his own affairs, and Walter'sundecided temperament kept him a boy long after boyhood, often seemedto 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 allthan came against his will, or came to meet the least pain, the shadowof disgrace. And he was contented and prosperous in the western world, leading an active and useful life, earning an honourable name. He hadtaken a partner, he told us; there was real friendship between them, and they were doing well; perhaps might make, in a few years, one ofthose 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 merebusiness; entered warmly into his father's sympathy about manypolitical measures now occupying men's minds. A great number ofcomparative facts concerning the factory children in England andAmerica; a mass of evidence used by Mr. Fowell Buxton in his argumentsfor the abolition of slavery; and many other things, originated in theimpulsive activity, now settled into mature manly energy, of Mr. GuyHalifax, of Boston, U. S. --"our Guy. "

"The lad is making a stir in the world, " said his father one day, whenwe had read his last letter. "I shall not wonder if when he comes homea deputation from his native Norton Bury were to appear, requesting himto accept the honour of representing them in Parliament. He would suitthem--at least, as regards the canvassing and the ladies--a great dealbetter than his old father--eh, love?"

Mrs. Halifax smiled, rather unwillingly, for her husband referred to asubject which had cost her some pain at the time. After the ReformBill passed, many of our neighbours, who had long desired that one ofJohn's high character, practical knowledge, and influence in the town, should be its M. P. , and were aware that his sole objection to enteringthe House was the said question of Reform, urged him very earnestly tostand 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 hecould not discharge as he ought, and as he would once have done, dutieswhich he held so sacred and indispensable. His letter, brief andsimple, thanking his "good neighbours, " and wishing them "a younger andworthier" member, might be found in some old file of the Norton BuryHerald still. Even the Norton Bury Mercury, in reprinting it, commented on its touching honesty and brevity, and--concluding hispolitical 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 toenter Parliament had long been his thought, nay, his desire, andperhaps 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; tous and to her he gave no clearer motive for his refusal than to theelectors of Norton Bury. 

"But you are not old, John, " I argued with him one day; "you possess tothe full the mens sana in corpore sano. No man can be more fitted thanyourself 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 sotoo. 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 overthe 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 themother's disappointment, he gave this hint of Guy's taking his placeand entering Parliament in his room. 

For any one--nay, his own son--to take John's place, to stand in John'sroom, was not a pleasant thought, even in jest; we let it pass byunanswered, and John himself did not recur to it. 

Thus time went on, placidly enough; the father and mother changed intograndfather and grandmother, and little Maud into Auntie Maud. She boreher new honours and fulfilled her new duties with great delight andsuccess. She had altered much of late years: at twenty was as old asmany a woman of thirty--in all the advantages of age. She was sensible, active, resolute, and wise; sometimes thoughtful, or troubled with fitsof what in any less wholesome temperament would have been melancholy;but as it was, her humours only betrayed themselves in some slightrestlessness or irritability, easily soothed by a few tender words or arush 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 MissHalifax possessed plenty of attractions, both outwardly and inwardly, to say nothing of her not inconsiderable fortune. But she refused alloffers, and to the best of our knowledge was a free-hearted damselstill. Her father and mother seemed rather glad of this thanotherwise. They would not have denied her any happiness she wishedfor; still it was evidently a relief to them that she was slow inchoosing it; slow in quitting their arms of love to risk a loveuntried. Sometimes, such is the weakness of parental humanity, Iverily believe they looked forward with complacency to the possibilityof her remaining always Miss Halifax. I remember one day, when LadyOldtower was suggesting--half jest, half earnest--"better any marriagethan 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 manhas his right wife, every woman her right husband. If my Maud's comehe shall have her. If not, I shall be well content to see her a happyold maid. "

Thus after many storms, came this lull in our lives; a season of busyyet monotonous calm, --I have heard say that peace itself, to beperfect, ought to be monotonous. We had enough of it to satisfy ourdaily need; we looked forward to more of it in time to come, when Guyshould be at home, when we should see safely secured the futures of allthe 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 heavenlierstill! Soft summer days and autumn afternoons, spent under thebeech-wood, or on the Flat. Quiet winter evenings, all toourselves--Maud and her mother working, Walter drawing. The fathersitting with his back to the lamp--its light making a radiance over hisbrow and white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the curls behind, restoring somewhat of the youthful colour to his fading hair. Nay, theold youthful ring of his voice I caught at times, when he foundsomething funny in his book and read it out loud to us; or laying itdown, sat talking as he liked to talk about things speculative, philosophical, or poetical--things which he had necessarily let slip inthe hurry and press of his business life, in the burthen and heat ofthe day; but which now, as the cool shadows of evening were drawing on, assumed a beauty and a nearness, and were again caught up byhim--precious as the dreams of his youth. 

Happy, happy time--sunshiny summer, peaceful winter--we marked neitheras they passed; but now we hold both--in a sacredness inexpressible--aforetaste 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 hadbeen no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never once in all hiswanderings had missed writing home at Christmas time. When the usualmonthly mail came in, and no word from him--a second month, and yetnothing, we began to wonder about his omission less openly--to ceasescolding him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we stilleagerly brought up instances of the latter--"Guy is such a thoughtlessboy about his correspondence. "

Gradually, as his mother's cheek grew paler, and his father moreanxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up discussingpublicly the many excellent reasons why no letters should come fromGuy. We had written, as usual, by every mail. By the last--by theMarch mail, I saw that in addition to the usual packet for Mr. GuyHalifax--his father, taking another precautionary measure, had writtenin 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 themill-meadows with Louise and her little ones going a-maying--there camein the American mail. 

It brought a large packet--all our letters of this year sent backagain, 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 hismother at first, so that her eye did not catch it, was one thatexplained--most satisfactorily explained, we said--the reason they werethus returned. It was a few lines from Guy himself, stating thatunexpected 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, withthe other steadied herself by the rail of John's desk--I guessed nowwhy he had ordered all the letters to be brought first to hiscounting-house. "When do you think we shall see--Guy?"

At thought of that happy sight, her bravery broke down. She weptheartily and long. 

John sat still, leaning over the front of his desk. By his sigh, deepand glad, one could tell what a load was lifted off the father's heartat the prospect of his son's return. 

"The liners are only a month in sailing; but this is a barque mostlikely, which takes longer time. Love, show me the date of the boy'sletter. "

She looked for it herself. It was in JANUARY!

The sudden fall from certainty to uncertainty--the wild clutch at thatwhich hardly seemed a real joy until seen fading down to a mere hope, achance, a possibility--who has not known all this?

I remember how we all stood, mute and panic-struck, in the dark littlecounting-house. I remember seeing Louise, with her children in thedoor-way, trying to hush their laughing, and whispering to themsomething about "poor Uncle Guy. "

John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread, and show that it wasless than at first appeared. 

"We ought to have had this letter two months ago; this shows how oftendelays occur--we ought not to be surprised or uneasy at anything. Guydoes 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'sand find out everything. Cheer up, mother. Please God, you shall havethat wandering, heedless boy of yours back before long. "

He replaced the letters in their enclosure--held a generalconsultation, into which he threw a passing gleam of faint gaiety, asto whether being ours we had a right to burn them, or whether havingpassed through the post-office they were not the writer's but theowner's property, and Guy could claim them, with all their uselessnews, on his arrival in England. This was finally decided, and themother, with faint smile, declared that nobody should touch them; shewould put them under lock and key "till Guy came home. "

Then she took her husband's arm; and the rest of us followed them asthey 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 shejested over as "the natural weakness of old age;" but there was anevident change. Week by week her long walks shortened; she gave up hervillage school to me; and though she went about the house still andinsisted on keeping the keys, gradually, "just for the sake ofpractice, " the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud. 

An answer arrived from Lloyd's: the "Stars-and-Stripes" was anAmerican vessel, probably of small tonnage and importance, was theunder-writers knew nothing of it. 

More delay--more suspense. The summer days came--but not Guy. No newsof him--not a word--not a line. 

His father wrote to America--pursuing inquiries in all directions. Atlast some tangible clue was caught. The "Stars-and-Stripes" hadsailed, had been spoken with about the Windward Isles--and never heardof afterwards. 

Still, there was a hope. John told the hope first, before he venturedto speak of the missing ship, and even then had to break the newsgently, for the mother had grown frail and weak, and could not bearthings as she used to do. She clung as if they had been words of lifeor death to the ship-owner's postscript--"that they had no recollectionof the name of Halifax; there might have been such a gentleman onboard--they could not say. But it was not probable; for the'Stars-and-Stripes' was a trading vessel, and had not goodaccommodation 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; werose each morning, sure that some hope would come in the course of theday; we went to bed at night, heavily, as if there were no such thingas hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that was the worstconsciousness of all, our life of suspense became perfectly natural;and everything in and about the house went on as usual, just as thoughwe knew quite well--what the Almighty Father alone knew!--where ourpoor lad was, and what had become of him. Or rather, as if we hadsettled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our own lives alonewould bring us, that he had slipped out of life altogether, and therewas no such being as Guy Halifax under this pitiless sun. 

The mother's heart was breaking. She made no moan, but we saw it inher face. One morning--it was the morning after John's birthday, whichwe had made a feint of keeping, with Grace Oldtower, the two littlegrandchildren, Edwin and Louise--she was absent at breakfast anddinner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many daysfollowing it happened the same; with the same faint excuse, or with noexcuse at all. How we missed her about the house!--ay, changed as shehad been. How her husband wandered about, ghost-like, from room toroom!--could not rest anywhere, or do anything. Finally, he left ourcompany altogether, and during the hours that he was at home rarelyquitted for more than a few minutes the quiet bed-chamber, where, everytime his foot entered it, the poor pale face looked up and smiled. 

Ay, smiled; for I noticed, as many another may have done in similarcases, that when her physical health definitely gave way, her mentalhealth returned. The heavy burthen was lighter; she grew morecheerful, more patient; seemed to submit herself to the Almighty will, whatever it might be. As she lay on her sofa in the study, where oneor two evenings John carried her down, almost as easily as he used tocarry little Muriel, his wife would rest content with her hand in his, listening to his reading, or quietly looking at him, as though her lostson's face, which a few weeks since she said haunted her continually, were now forgotten in his father's. Perhaps she thought the one sheshould soon see--while the other--

"Phineas, " she whispered one day, when I was putting a shawl over herfeet, or doing some other trifle that she thanked me for, --"Phineas, ifanything happens to me, you will comfort John!"

Then first I began seriously to contemplate a possibility, hitherto asimpossible and undreamed of as that the moon should drop out of theheight of heaven--What would the house be without the mother?

Her children never suspected this, I saw; but they were young. For herhusband--

I could not understand John. He, so quick-sighted; he who meeting anysorrow looked steadily up at the Hand that smote him, knowing neitherthe coward's dread nor the unbeliever's disguise of pain--surely hemust 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 twowho 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, makesparting easy. Could it be that this love of his, which had clasped hiswife so firmly, faithfully, and long, fearlessly clasped her still, byits own perfectness assured of its immortality?

But all the while his human love clung about her, showing itself in athousand forms of watchful tenderness. And hers clung to him, closely, dependently; she let herself be taken care of, ruled and guided, as ifwith him she found helplessness restful and submission sweet. Many alittle outward fondness, that when people have been long marriednaturally drops into disuse, was revived again; he would bring herflowers 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 thefaded hand, where the wedding-ring hung so loosely;--his own for somany years, his own till the dust claimed it, that well-beloved hand!

Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself, are powerless in thepresence 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--neverasked now, "Is there any news of Mr. Guy?" Even pretty GraceOldtower--pretty still, but youthful no longer--only lifted her eyesinquiringly as she crossed our doorway, and dropped them again with ahopeless sigh. She had loved us all, faithfully and well, for a greatmany years. 

One night, when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after staying with usthe whole day--Maud and I sat in the study by ourselves, where wegenerally sat now. The father spent all his evenings up-stairs. Wecould hear his step overhead as he crossed the room or opened thewindow, then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife'sbedside. Sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading or talk; thenlong 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 youthafter all--they may have diverged widely. Hers were deep, absorbedthoughts, at any rate, travelling fast--fast as her needle travelled;for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways and hermother's work. 

We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open; and through thesultry summer night we could hear the trickle of the stream and therustle of the leaves in the beech-wood. We sat very still, waiting fornothing, expecting nothing; in the dull patience which always fell uponus about this hour--the hour before bed-time, when nothing more was tobe 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 itdisturbed my mother. "

Again silence. So deep that the maid's opening the door made us bothstart. 

"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 justglanced at him, then rose, bending stiffly, after the manner of MissHalifax 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 herdressing-room; he sat on a stool beside her, so that her arm could reston his neck and she could now and then turn his face towards her andlook at it--oh, what a look!

She had had him with her for two whole days--two days to be set againsteight years! Yet the eight years seemed already to have collapsed intoa span of time, and the two days to have risen up a great mountain ofhappiness, making a barrier complete against the woeful past, ashappiness can do--thanks to the All-merciful for His mercies. Mostespecially for that mercy--true as His truth to the experience of allpure hearts--that one bright, brief season of joy can outweigh, inreality and even in remembrance, whole years of apparently interminablepain. 

Two days only since the night Guy came home, and yet it seemed monthsago! Already we had grown familiar to the tall, bearded figure; thestrange step and voice about the house; all except Maud, who was rathershy and reserved still. We had ceased the endeavour to reconcile thisour Guy--this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, looking thirty-five andmore--with Guy, the boy that left us, the boy that in all our lives wenever should find again. Nevertheless, we took him, just as he was, toour hearts, rejoicing in him one and all with inexpressible joy. 

He was much altered, certainly. It was natural, nay, right, that heshould be. He had suffered much; a great deal more than he ever toldus--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--beencast away--picked up by an outward-bound ship--and finally landed inEngland, he and his partner, as penniless as they left it. 

"Was your partner an Englishman, then?" said Maud, who sat at the footof 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 Idon'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 uponher 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 herlooks 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 reverentaffection that must have gladdened the mother's heart to the very core. Resigning his place by her, Guy took Maud's, facing them; and fatherand son began to talk of various matters concerning their home andbusiness arrangements; taking counsel together, as father and son oughtto do. These eight years of separation seemed to have brought themnearer together; the difference between them--in age, far less thanbetween most fathers and sons, had narrowed into a meeting-point. Never in all his life had Guy been so deferent, so loving, to hisfather. And with a peculiar trust and tenderness, John's heart turnedto his eldest son, the heir of his name, his successor at EnderleyMills. 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 hadbeen started, that the firm of Halifax and Sons should become HalifaxBrothers. Perhaps, ere very long--only the mother said privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not wish this part of the scheme tobe mentioned to Guy just now--perhaps, ere long it would be "GuyHalifax, Esquire, of Beechwood;" and "the old people" at happy littleLongfield. 

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 hispublic appearance as a "ship-wrecked mariner, " costume and all, yet itwas easy to perceive that she looked forward not without apprehensionto some meetings which must necessarily soon occur, but to which Guymade not the smallest allusion. He had asked, cursorily and generally, after "all my brothers and sisters, " and been answered in the sametone; but neither he nor we had as yet mentioned the names of Edwin orLouise. 

They knew he was come home; but how and where the first momentousmeeting should take place we left entirely to chance, or, more rightlyspeaking, to Providence. 

So it happened thus. Guy was sitting quietly on the sofa at hismother's feet, and his father and he were planning together in what waycould best be celebrated, by our school-children, tenants, andwork-people, an event which we took a great interest in, though notgreater than in this year was taken by all classes throughout thekingdom--the day fixed for the abolition of Negro Slavery in ourColonies--the 1st of August, 1834. He sat in an attitude that remindedme of his boyish lounging ways; the picture of content; though a streamof sunshine pouring in upon his head, through the closed Venetianblind, showed many a deep line of care on his forehead, and more thanone silver thread among his brown hair. 

In a pause--during which no one exactly liked to ask what we were allthinking about--there came a little tap at the door, and a little voiceoutside. 

"Please, me want to come in. "

Maud jumped up to refuse admission; but Mr. Halifax forbade her, andhimself went and opened the door. A little child stood there--a littlegirl of three years old. 

Apparently guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily, and sat down inhis place again. 

"Come in, little maid, " said the father; "come in, and tell us what youwant. "

"Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy. "

Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took hergrandchild 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. Heturned 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 roundthe 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 childishface, where the inherited beauty was repeated line for line. Butsoftened, spiritualised, as, years after its burial, some ghost of aman's old sorrows may rise up and meet him, the very spirit of peaceshining out of its celestial eyes. 

"Little Louise, you are very like--"

He stopped--and bending down, kissed her. In that kiss vanished forever the last shadow of his boyhood's love. Not that he forgot it--Godforbid that any good man should ever either forget or be ashamed of hisfirst love! But it and all its pain fled far away, back into thesacred eternities of dreamland. 

When, looking up at last, he saw a large, fair, matronly lady sittingby his mother's sofa, Guy neither started nor turned pale. It wasanother, and not his lost Louise. He rose and offered her his hand. 

"You see, your little daughter has made friends with me already. Sheis very like you; only she has Edwin's hair. Where is my brotherEdwin?"

"Here, old fellow. Welcome home. "

The two brothers met warmly, nay, affectionately. Edwin was not givento demonstration; but I saw how his features twitched, and how hebusied himself over the knots in his little girl's pinafore for aminute or more. When he spoke again it was as if nothing had happenedand Guy had never been away. 

For the mother, she lay with her arms folded, looking from one to theother 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 exceedingjoy. 

Soon, Edwin and Louise left us for an hour or two, and Guy went on withthe history of his life in America and his partner who had come homewith him, and, like himself, had lost his all. 

"Harder for him than for me; he is older than I am. He knew nothingwhatever of business when he offered himself as my clerk; since then hehas worked like a slave. In a fever I had he nursed me; he has been tome these three years the best, truest friend. He is the noblestfellow. Father, if you only knew--"

"Well, my son, let me know him. Invite the gentleman to Beechwood; orshall I write and ask him? Maud, fetch me your mother's desk. Nowthen, Guy--you are a very forgetful fellow still; you have never yettold 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 understoodhim as well as I do. You knew him yourself once--but he has wiselydropped his title. Since he came over to me in America he has beenonly Mr. William Ravenel. "

This discovery--natural enough when one began to think over it, butincredible at first, astounded us all. For Maud--well was it that thelittle Louise seated in her lap hid and controlled in some measure theviolent agitation of poor Auntie Maud. 

Ay--Maud loved him. Perhaps she had guessed the secret cause of hisdeparture, and love creates love often times. Then his braverenunciation of rank, fortune, even of herself--women glory in a moralhero--one who has strength to lose even love, and bear its loss, forthe sake of duty or of honour. His absence, too, might have donemuch:--absence which smothers into decay a rootless fancy, but oftennourishes the least seed of a true affection into full-flowering love. Ay--Maud loved him. How, or why, or when, at first no one couldtell--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 couldI guess?"

"No, no--my son. It is very strange--all things just now seem sostrange. Maud, my child, "--and John roused himself out of a longsilence 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 littlecreature clinging round her neck, and she clasping it close, in thesweet motherliness of character which had come to her so early--Ithought--I hoped--

"Maud!" said John, catching her hand as she passed him by--"Maud is notafraid of her father?"

"No, "--in troubled uncertainty--then with a passionate decision, as ifashamed 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 WilliamRavenel; how the latter had come to America, determined to throw hislot for good or ill, to sink or swim, with Maud's brother--chiefly, asGuy had slowly discovered, because he was Maud's brother. At last--inthe open boat, on the Atlantic, with death the great revealer of allthings staring them in the face--the whole secret came out. It madethem 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 nowalso settled into the strong "family" will, was resolute on hisfriend'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, withthe 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 issuesof all things. "

The sort of contrition with which he spoke--thus retracting, as itcosts most men so much to retract, a decision given however justly atthe time, but which fate has afterwards pronounced unjust, affected hisson deeply. 

"Father, your decision was right--William says it was. He says also, that it could not have been otherwise; that whatever he has becomesince, he owes it all to you, and to what passed that day. Though heloves her still, will never love any one else; yet he declares his lossof her has proved his salvation. "

"He is right, " said Mrs. Halifax. "Love is worth nothing that will notstand trial--a fiery trial, if needs be. And as I have heard John saymany and many a time--as he said that very night--in this world thereis not, ought not to be, any such words as 'too late. '"

John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped on his right hand, theother pressed against his bosom--his favourite attitude. Once ortwice, with a deep-drawn, painful breath, he sighed. 

Guy's eagerness could not rest. "Father, I told him I would eitherwrite to or see him to-day. "

"Where is he?"

"At Norton Bury. Nothing could induce him to come here, unless certainthat 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, boldwriting, 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 herpillow, where he rested some minutes, "just to please her, " he said. Then he rose and declared he would himself drive over to Norton Buryfor 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 anhour without a special tender leave-taking--John went away. 

Guy was, he avouched, "as happy as a king. " His old livelinessreturned; he declared that in this matter, which had long weighedheavily on his mind, he had acted like a great diplomatist, or like thegods 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 bemarried immediately. And we'll take William into partnership--that wasa whim of his, mother--we call one another 'Guy' and 'William, ' justlike 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 youall to myself, and be at once a spoiled child, and an uncommonly merryold bachelor. "

Again the mother smiled, without reply. She, too, doubtless thoughtherself a great diplomatist. 

William Ravenel--he was henceforward never anything to us butWilliam--came home with Mr. Halifax. First, the mother saw him; then Iheard the father go to the maiden bower where Maud had shut herself upall day--poor child!--and fetch his daughter down. Lastly, I watchedthe two--Mr. Ravenel and Miss Halifax--walk together down the gardenand into the beech-wood, where the leaves were whispering and thestock-doves cooing; and where, I suppose, they told and listened to theold tale--old as Adam--yet for ever beautiful and new. 

That day was a wonderful day. That night we gathered, as we neverthought we should gather again in this world, round the familytable--Guy, Edwin, Walter, Maud, Louise, and William Ravenel--allchanged, yet not one lost. A true love-feast it was: a renewedcelebration of the family bond, which had lasted through so muchsorrow, now knitted up once more, never to be broken. 

When we came quietly to examine one another and fall into one another'sold ways, there was less than one might have expected even of outwardchange. The table appeared the same; all took instinctively their oldplaces, except that the mother lay on her sofa and Maud presided at theurn. 

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 naturalfeeling, liking to show some one present how mature and sedate shewas--not so very young after all. You could see she felt deeply howmuch he loved her--how her love was to him like the restoring of hisyouth. The responsibility, sweet as it was, made her womanly, made hergrave. She would be to him at once wife and child, plaything andcomforter, sustainer and sustained. Ay, love levels all things. Theywere not ill-matched, in spite of those twenty years. 

And so I left them, and went and sat with John and Ursula--we, thegeneration passing away, or ready to pass, in Heaven's good time, tomake room for these. We talked but little, our hearts were too full. Early, before anybody thought of moving, John carried his wifeup-stairs again, saying that, well as she looked, she must be compelledto 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 toexhaustion; a minute or two afterwards he silently left the room. 

I followed him, and found him leaning against the chimney-piece in hisstudy. 

"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 hadgrieved me; "don't mind. I shall be better presently. I know quitewell what it is--ah, my God--my God!"

Sharp, horrible pain--such as human nature shrinks from--such as makespoor mortal flesh cry out in its agony to its Maker, as if, for thetime being, life itself were worthless at such a price. I know nowwhat 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 Edwinwas married--how, on a sudden, I remembered all!--he tottered forwardand locked, double-locked, the door. 

After a few minutes the worst suffering abated, and he sat down againin his chair. I got some water; he drank, and let me bathe his facewith 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 youhave seen. I wish you had not come to the door. "

He said this, not in any tone that could wound me, but tenderly, as ifhe were very sorry for me. 

"What is it?"

"There is no need for alarm;--no more than that day--you recollect?--inthis room. I had an attack once before then--a few times since. It ishorrible pain while it lasts, you see; I can hardly bear it. But itgoes 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 explanationwould 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 satstill; though often times I caught his eyes fixed on my face with apeculiar earnestness, as if he would fain test my strength--fain findout 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; thensaid: "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--Ishuddered. "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 suddenpassing from life present to life eternal. Phineas, your father's wasthe happiest death I ever knew. "

"It may be--I am not sure. John, " for again something in his look andmanner 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 wouldfain 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 utterimpossibility, of any man's thus settling the manner of his death, orthe time. 

"I know that. I know that I may live ten or twenty years, and die ofanother disease after all. "

"Disease!"

"Nay--it is nothing to be afraid of. You see I am not afraid. I haveguessed it for many years. I have known it for a certainty ever sinceI was in Paris. "

"Were you ill in Paris?--You never said so. "

"No--because--Phineas, do you think you could bear the truth? You knowit makes no real difference. I shall not die an hour sooner for beingaware of it. "

"Aware of--what? Say quickly. "

"Dr. K---- told me--I was determined to be told--that I had the diseaseI suspected; beyond medical power to cure. It is not immediatelyfatal; he said I might live many years, even to old age; and I mightdie, suddenly, at any moment, just as your father died. "

He said this gently and quietly--more quietly than I am writing thewords down now; and I listened--I listened. 

"Phineas!"

I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder--the hand which hadled 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 reproachin the tone; "no one knows this but you. I see I was right tohesitate; 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 wholetruth. It was, as most truths are, less terrible when wholly known. Ithad involved little suffering as yet, the paroxysms being few and rare. They had always occurred when he was alone, or when feeling them comingon he could go away and bear them in solitude. 

"I have always been able to do so until to-night. She has not theleast idea--my wife, I mean. "

His voice failed. 

"It has been terrible to me at times, the thought of my wife. Perhaps Iought to have told her. Often I resolved I would, and then changed mymind. 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 wouldrather of the two that she went away first. She would suffer less, andit would be such a short parting. "

He spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an impending journey. Tohim the great change, the last terror of humanity, was athought--solemn indeed, but long familiar and altogether without fear. And, as we sat there, something of his spirit passed into mine; I felthow narrow is the span between the life mortal and the lifeimmortal--how, in truth, both are one with God. 

"Ay, " he said, "that is exactly what I mean. To me there is alwayssomething 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 Mastershould 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 thanmy last, some one ought to be told. It has been a comfort to me totell 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 mayhave years of life--I hope I shall--many busy years--I am never sure ofa day, and I have to take many precautions. At home I shall be quitesafe now. " He smiled again, with evident relief. "And rarely I goanywhere without having one of my boys with me. Still, for fear--lookhere. "

He showed me his pocket-book; on a card bearing his name and addresswas 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--allyellow and faded--his wife's only "love-letter, "--signed, "Yourssincerely, 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 sohappily settled. Hark! how those children are laughing!"

For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the father's face, thefather to whom all the delights of home had been so dear. But it soonvanished. 

"How merry they are!--how strangely things have come about for us andours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at this moment we have not asingle care. "

I grasped at that, for Dr. K---- had declared that if John had a quietlife--a life without many anxieties--he might, humanly speaking, attaina 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 andcheer--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 hadmerrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time in the emptyparlour, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to stand when we wereboys, talking. 

What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every word. Andhe--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 wereringing, club fraternities walking with bands and banners, school-children having feasts and work-people holidays; how, in townand country, there was spread abroad a general sense of benevolentrejoicing--because honest old England had lifted up her generous voice, nay, had paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, and in all hercolonies the negro was free. 

Many may still find, in some forgotten drawer, the medal bought bythousands and tens of thousands, of all classes, in copper, silver, orgold--distributed in charity-schools, and given by old people to theirgrandchildren. I saw Mrs. Halifax tying one with a piece of blueribbon round little Louise's neck, in remembrance of this day. Thepretty medal, with the slave standing upright, stretching out to Heavenfree hands, from which the fetters are dropping--as I overheard Johnsay to his wife, he could fancy the freeman Paul would stand in theRoman prison, when he answered to those that loved him, "I HAVE FOUGHTTHE GOOD FIGHT. I HAVE FINISHED MY COURSE. I HAVE KEPT THE FAITH. "

Now, with my quickened ears, I often heard John talking quietly to hiswife on this wise. 

He remained by her side the whole forenoon--wheeling her about in hergarden-chair; taking her to see her school-children in their glory onour lawn--to hear the shouts rising up from the people at the mill-yardbelow. For all Enderley, following the master's example, took aninterest, hearty even among hearty hard-working England, in theEmancipation 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 wifeto her chair beside the weeping ash, where she could smell the late hayin the meadow, and hear the ripple of the stream in thebeech-wood--faint, for it was almost dried up now, but pleasant still. Her husband sat on the grass, making her laugh with his quaintsayings--admiring her in her new bonnet, and in the lovely whiteshawl--Guy's shawl--which Mr. Guy himself had really no time foradmiring. He had gone off to the school tea-drinking, escorting hissister and sister-in-law, and another lady, whose eyes brightened withmost "sisterly" joy whenever she glanced at her old playfellow. Guy's"sister" she nevertheless was not, nor was ever likely to be--and Iquestioned whether, in his secret heart, he had not begun already tofeel 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 butyou and me. "

"Never mind, John;" and stooping over him, she gave him one of herquiet, soft kisses, precious now she was an old woman as they had beenin the days of her bloom. "Never mind. Once there were only our twoselves--now there will be only our two selves again. We shall be veryhappy. 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 listenin silence, clear as if yet I heard its sound. This last sight--ofthem sitting under the ash-tree, the sun making still whiter Ursula'swhite shawl, brightening the marriage ring on her bare hand, andthrowing, instead of silver, some of their boyish gold colour into theedges of John's curls--this picture I see with my shut eyes, vivid asyesterday. 

I sat for some time in my room--then John came to fetch me for ourcustomary walk along his favourite "terrace" on the Flat. He rarelyliked to miss it--he said the day hardly seemed complete or perfectunless one had seen the sun set. Thus, almost every evening, we usedto spend an hour or more, pacing up and down, or sitting in that littlehollow under the brow of the Flat, where, as from the topmost seat of anatural amphitheatre, one could see Rose Cottage and the old well-headwhere the cattle drank; our own green garden-gate, the dark mass of thebeech-wood, and far away beyond that Nunneley Hill, where the sun wentdown. 

There, having walked somewhat less time than usual, for the evening waswarm and it had been a fatiguing day, John and I sat down together. Wetalked a little, ramblingly--chiefly of Longfield--how I was to have myold room again--and how a new nursery was to be planned for thegrandchildren. 

"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, allsummer time. But in winter we'll be quiet, and sit by thechimney-corner, and plunge into my dusty desert of books--eh, Phineas?You shall help me to make notes for those lectures I have intendedgiving at Norton Bury, these ten years past. And we'll rub up our oldLatin, and dip into modern poetry--great rubbish, I fear! Nobody likeour old friend Will of Avon, or even your namesake, worthy PhineasFletcher. "

I reminded him of the "Shepherd's life and fate, " which he always likedso 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 ahappy life, thank God; ay, and what few men can say, it has been thevery sort of happiness I myself would have chosen. I think most lives, if, while faithfully doing our little best, day by day, we were contentto leave their thread in wiser hands than ours, would thus weavethemselves out; until, looked back upon as a whole, they would seem asbright a web as mine. "

He sat, talking thus, resting his chin on his hands--his eyes, calm andsweet, looking out westward--where the sun was about an hour from thehorizon. 

"Do you remember how we used to lie on the grass in your father'sgarden, and how we never could catch the sunset except in fragmentsbetween the abbey trees! I wonder if they keep the yew hedge clippedas round as ever. "

I told him Edwin had said to-day that some strange tenants were goingto 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, " headded, after a silence. "Ought we not rather to recognise and submitto the universal law of change? How each in his place is fulfillinghis day, and passing away, just as that sun is passing. Only we knownot whither he passes; while whither we go we know, and the Way weknow--the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. "

Almost before he had done speaking--(God grant that in the Kingdom Imay hear that voice, not a tone altered--I would not wish it alteredeven there)--a whole troop of our young people came out of Mrs. Tod'scottage, and nodded to us from below. 

There was Mrs. Edwin, standing talking to the good old soul, whoadmired her baby-boy very much, but wouldn't allow there could be anychildren like Mrs. Halifax's children. 

There was Edwin, deep in converse with his brother Guy, while besidethem--prettier and younger-looking than ever--Grace Oldtower was makinga posy for little Louise. 

Further down the slope, walking slowly, side by side, evidently seeingnobody but one another, were another couple. 

"I think, sometimes, John, that those two, William and Maud, will bethe happiest of all the children. "

He smiled, looked after them for a minute, and then laid himselfquietly down on his back along the slope, his eyes still directedtowards the sunset. When, brightening as it descended, the sun shonelevel upon the place where we were sitting, I saw John pull his broadstraw hat over his face, and compose himself, with both hands claspedupon his breast, in the attitude of sleep. 

I knew he was very tired, so I spoke no more, but threw my cloak overhim. 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 ormore watching the sun, which sank steadily, slowly, round, and red, without a single cloud. Beautiful, as I had never before seen it; soclear, that one could note the very instant its disc touched thehorizon's grey. 

Maud and Mr. Ravenel were coming up the slope. I beckoned them to comesoftly, not to disturb the father. They and I sat in silence, facingthe west. The sun journeyed down to his setting--lower--lower; therewas a crescent, a line, a dim sparkle of light; then--he was gone. Andstill we sat--grave, but not sad--looking into the brightness he hadleft behind; believing, yea, knowing, we should see his glorious faceagain to-morrow. 

"How cold it has grown, " said Maud. "I think we ought to wake myfather. "

She went up to him, laid her hand upon his, that were folded togetherover the cloak--drew back startled--alarmed. 

"Father!"

I put the child aside. It was I who moved the hat from John'sface--THE face--for John himself was far, far away. Gone from us untoHim whose faithful servant he was. While he was sleeping thus theMaster had called him. 

His two sons carried him down the slope. They laid him in the upperroom 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-likealmost, but calm. It was ten o'clock at night. I left her with allher children watching round her. 

I went out, up to Rose Cottage, to sit an hour by myself alone, lookingat him whom I should not see again for--as he had said--"a littlewhile. "

"A little while--a little while. " I comforted myself with those words. I fancied I could almost hear John saying them, standing near me, withhis hand on my shoulder. John himself, quite distinct from that whichlay so still before me; beautiful as nothing but death can be, youngermuch than he had looked this very morning--younger by twenty years. 

Farewell, John! Farewell, my more than brother! It is but for alittle while. 

As I sat, thinking how peacefully the hands lay, clasped togetherstill, how sweet was the expression of the close mouth, and what astrange 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; someone touched me. It was Mrs. Halifax. 

How she came I do not know; nor how she had managed to steal out fromamong her children. Nor how she, who had not walked for weeks, hadfound 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 andsoft, unbroken by any sob. "He once told me, in case of--this, hewould 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 beenten minutes or more that she and I remained thus, without exchanging aword. 

"I think I hear some one at the door. Brother, will you call in thechildren?"

Guy, altogether overcome, knelt down beside his mother, and besoughther to let him take her home. 

"Presently--presently, my son. You are very good to me; but--yourfather. 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-threeyears. "

Her eyes grew dreamy, as if fancy had led her back all that space oftime; her fingers moved to and fro, mechanically, over her wedding-ring. 

"Children, we were so happy, you cannot tell. He was so good; he lovedme 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 lifebecame happy and complete--how I grew worthier to myself because he hadtaken me for his own! And what HE was--Children, no one but me everknew all his goodness, no one but himself ever knew how dearly I lovedyour father. We were more precious each to each than anything onearth; except His service, who gave us to one another. "

Her voice dropped all but inaudible; but she roused herself, and madeit once more clear and firm, the mother's natural voice. 

"Guy, Edwin, all of you, must never forget your father. You must do ashe wishes, and live as he lived--in all ways. You must love him, andlove one another. Children, you will never do anything that need makeyou ashamed to meet your father. "

As they hung round her she kissed them all--her three sons and herdaughter, one by one; then, her mind being perhaps led astray by theroom we were in, looked feebly round for one morechild--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 favouriteof all her children--and repeated the old phrase:

"Presently, presently! Now go away, all of you; I want to be left fora little, alone with my husband. "

As we went out, I saw her turn toward the bed--"John, John!" The sametone, almost the same words, with which she had crept up to him yearsbefore, the day they were betrothed. Just a low, low murmur, like atired child creeping to fond protecting arms. "John, John!"

We closed the door. We all sat on the stairs outside; it might havebeen for minutes, it might have been for hours. Within or without--noone spoke--nothing stirred. 

At last Guy softly went in. 

She was still in the same place by the bed-side, but half lying on thebed, as I had seen her turn when I was shutting the door. Her arm wasround her husband's neck; her face, pressed inwards to the pillow, wasnestled 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 buthim--his mother--a widow--

No, thank God! she was not a widow now.