Price 
 
 No. 
 
 Private Library 
 
 OF- 
 
 BERT CROINKHITE.

 
 John Halifax, Gentleman 
 
 **********A Novel 
 
 By Miss Mulock * * * 
 
 Chicago and New York *** 
 Rand, McNally & Company
 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, ye idle, lounging, little 
 
 a }> 
 
 "Vagabond," I think the woman (Sally Watkins, once my 
 nurse) was going to say, but she changed her mind. 
 
 My father and I both glanced round, surprised at her un- 
 usual reticence of epithets; but when the lad addressed 
 turned, fixed his eyes on each of us for a moment, and made 
 way for us, we ceased to wonder. Ragged, muddy, and miser 
 able as he was, the poor boy looked anything but a "vaga- 
 bond." 
 
 "Thee need not go into the wet, my lad. Keep close to tlia 
 wall, and there will be shelter enough both for us and thee/' 
 said my father, as he pulled my little hand-carriage into tba 
 alley, under cover, from the pelting rain. The lad, with <i 
 grateful look, put out a hand likewise, and pushed me further 
 in. A strong hand it was roughened and browned wiih 
 labor though he was scarcely as old as I. What would I not 
 have given to have been so stalwart and so tall! 
 
 Sally called from her house-door, "Wouldn't Master Phhi- 
 eas come in and sit by the fire a bit?" But it was always a 
 trouble to me to move or walk; and I liked staying at the 
 mouth of the alley, watching the autumnal shower come 
 sweeping down the street; besides, I wanted to look again at 
 the stranger lad. 
 
 He had scarcely stirred, but remained leaning against the 
 wall either through weariness, or in order to be out of our 
 way. He took little or no notice of us, but kept his eyes fixed 
 on the pavement for we actually boasted pavement in the 
 High Street of our town of Norton Bury watching the edd) - 
 
 2047252
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ing rain-drops, which, each as it fell, threw up a little mist of 
 spray. It was a serious, haggard face for a boy of only four- 
 teen or so. Let me call it up before me 1 can easily, even 
 after more than fifty years. 
 
 Brown eyes, deep-sunken, with strongly-marked brows, a 
 nose like most other Saxon noses, nothing particular; lips 
 well shaped, lying one upon the other, firm and close; a square, 
 sharply outlined, resolute chin, of that type which gives char- 
 acter and determination to the whole physiognomy, and 
 without which, in the fairest features, as in the best disposi- 
 tions, one is always conscious of a certain want. 
 
 As I have stated, in person the lad was tall, and strongly 
 bpilt;andl,poor puny wretch! so reverenced physical strength. 
 Everything in him seemed to indicate that which I had not; 
 his muscular limbs, his square, broad shoulders, his healthy 
 cheek, though it was sharp and thin even to his crisp curls 
 of bright thick hair. 
 
 Thus he stood, principal figure in a picture which is even 
 yet as clear to me as yesterday the narrow, dirty alley lead- 
 ing out of the High Street, yet showing a glimmer of green 
 field at the further end; the open house-doors on either side, 
 through which came the drowsy burr of many a stocking- 
 loom, the prattle of children paddling in the gutter, and sail- 
 ing thereon a fleet of potato parings. In front, the High 
 Street, with the mayor's house opposite, porticoed and grand; 
 and beyond, just where the rain-clouds were breaking, rose up 
 out of a nest of trees the square tower of our ancient abbey 
 Norton Bury's boast and pride. On it, from a break in the ' 
 clouds, came a sudden stream of light. The stranger-lad 
 lifted up his head to look at it. 
 
 "The rain will be over soon," I said, but doubted if he 
 heard me. What could he be thinking of so intently? a 
 poor working lad, whom few would have given credit for 
 thinking at all. 
 
 I do not suppose my father cast a single glance or thought 
 on the boy whom from a sense of common justice he had made 
 tiike shelter beside us. In truth, worthy man, he had no lack 
 of matter to occupy his mind, being sole architect of alongup- 
 hill but now thriving trade. I saw, by the hardening of his 
 features, and the restless way in which he poked his stick into 
 the little waterpools, that he was longing to be in his tan- 
 jswd close by.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 7 
 
 He pulled out his great silver watch the dread of our 
 house, for it was a watch which seemed to have imbibed some- 
 thing of its master's character; remorseless as justice or fate, 
 it never erred a moment. 
 
 "Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my 
 sen, how am I to get thee safe home? unless thee wilt go with 
 me to the tan-yard " 
 
 I shook my head. It was very hard for Abel Fletcher to 
 have for his only child such a sickly creature as I, now, at 
 sixteen, as helpless and useless to him as a baby. 
 
 "Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee." 
 For though my father had got me a sort of carriage, in which, 
 with a little external aid, I could propel myself, so as to be 
 his companion occasionally in his walks between our house, 
 the tan-yard, 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 ear-shot; but I noticed that as the lad near 
 U8 heard my father's words, the color rushed over his face, 
 aud he started forward involuntarily. I had not before per- 
 ceived how wasted and hungry-looking he was. 
 
 "Father!" I whispered. But here the boy had mustered up 
 hie courage and voice. 
 
 "Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?" 
 
 He spoke in tolerably good English different from our 
 
 ('.oarse, broad G shire drawl; and taking off his tattered 
 
 old cap, looked right up into my father's face. The old man 
 scanned him closely. 
 
 "What is thy name, lad?" 
 
 "John Halifax." 
 
 "Where dost thee come from?*' 
 
 "Cornwall." 
 
 "Hast thee any parents living?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 I wished my father would not question thus; but possibly he 
 had his own motives, which were rarely harsh, though his ac- 
 tions often appeared so. 
 
 "How old might thee be, John Halifax?" 
 
 "Fourteen, sir." 
 
 "Thee art used to work?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What sort of work?"
 
 S JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Anything that I can get to do." 
 
 I listened nervously to this catechism, which went on be- 
 hind 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, re- 
 garding him meanwhile with eyes that were the terror of all 
 the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel Fletcher jingled temptingly 
 the silver money in the pockets of his long-flapped brown 
 waistcoat. "I say, art thee a lad to be trusted?" 
 
 John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He 
 seemed to feel that this was a critical moment, and to have 
 gathered all his mental forces into a serried square, to meet 
 the attack. He met it, and conquered in silence. 
 
 "Lad, shall I give thee the groat now?" 
 
 "Not till I've earned it, sir." 
 
 So, drawing his hand back, my father slipped the money 
 into mine, and left us. 
 
 I followed him with my eyes as he went sturdily plashing 
 down the street; his broad, comfortable back, which owned a 
 coat of true Quaker cut, but spotless, warm and fine; h/s 
 ribbed hose and leather gaiters, and the wide-brimmed hat, 
 set over a fringe of gray hairs, that crowned the whole with 
 respectable dignity. He looked precisely what he was an 
 honest, honorable, prosperous tradesman. I watched him 
 down the street my good father, whom I respected perhaps 
 even more than I loved him. The Cornish lad watched him 
 likewise. 
 
 It still rained slightly, so we remained under cover. John 
 Halifax leaned in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. 
 
 Once only, when the draught through the alley made me 
 shiver, he pulled my cloak round me carefully. 
 
 "You are not very strong, I'm afraid?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then he stood idly looking up at the opposite the mayor's 
 house with its steps and portico, and its fourteen windows, 
 one of which was open, and a cluster of little heads visible 
 there. 
 
 The mayor's children I knew them all by sight, though 
 nothing more; for their father was a lawyer, and mine a tan- 
 ner; they belonged to Abbey folk and orthodoxy, I to the So- 
 ciety of Friends the mayor's rosy children seemed greatly
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 9 
 
 amused by watching us shivering shelterers from the rain. 
 Doubtess our position made their own appear all the pleas- 
 anter. For myself, it mattered little; but for this poor, deso- 
 late, homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in sight of their merry 
 nursery window, and hear the clatter of voices, and of not un- 
 welcome dinner sounds, I wondered how he felt it. 
 
 -Just at this moment another head came to the window, a 
 somewhat older child; I had met her with the rest; she was 
 only a visitor. She looked at us, then disappeared. Soon 
 after, we saw the front door half opened, and an evident strug- 
 gle taking place behind it; we even heard loud words across 
 the narrow street. 
 
 "I will I say I will." 
 
 "You sha'n't, Miss Ursula." 
 
 "But I will!" 
 
 And there stood the little girl, with a loaf in one hand, and 
 a carving-knife in the other. She succeeded in cutting off a 
 large slice, and holding it out. 
 
 "Take it, poor boy! you look so hungry. Do take it/' But 
 the servant forced her in, and the door was shut upon a shaijp 
 cry. 
 
 It made John Halifax start and look up at the nursery win* 
 dow, which was likewise closed., We heard nothing more 
 After a minute he crossed the street, and picked up the slice 
 of bread. Now, in those days bread was precious, exceed . 
 ingly. The poor folk rarely got it; they lived on rye or meal. 
 John Halifax had probably not tasted wheaten bread like thLj 
 for months; it appeared not, he eyed it so ravenously; theia 
 glancing toward the shut door, his mind seemed to change. 
 He was a long time before he ate a morsel; when he did so, it 
 was quietly and slowly, looking very thoughtful all the while. 
 
 As soon as the rain ceased, we took our way home down the 
 High Street toward the Abbey church he guiding my car- 
 riage along in silence. I wished he would talk and let me 
 hear again his pleasant Cornish accent. 
 
 "How strong you are!" said I, sighing, when, with a sudden 
 pull, he had saved me from being overturned by a horseman 
 riding past young Mr. Brithwood, of the Mythe House, who 
 never cared where he galloped or whom he hurt "So tall and 
 so strong." 
 
 "Am I? Well, I shall want my strength." 
 
 "How?"
 
 10 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "To earn my living." 
 
 He drew up his broad shoulders, and planted on the pave- 
 ment a firmer foot, as if he knew he had the world before him 
 would meet it single-handed, and without fear. 
 
 "What have you worked at lately?" 
 
 "Anything I could get, for I have never learned a trade." 
 
 "Would you like to learn one?" 
 
 He hesitated a minute, as if weighing his speech. "Once I 
 thought I should like to be what my father was." 
 
 "What was he?" 
 
 "A scholar and a gentleman." 
 
 This was news though it did not much surprise me. My 
 father, tanner as he was, and pertinaciously jealous of the dig- 
 nity of trade, yet held strongly the common-sense doctrine of 
 the advantages of good descent; at least, in degree. For since 
 it is a law of nature, admitting only rare exceptions, that the 
 qualities of the ancestors should be transmitted to the race 
 the fact seems patent enough that, even allowing equal advan- 
 tages, a gentleman's son has more chances of growing up a 
 gentleman than the son of a working man. And though he 
 himself, and his father before him, had both been working- 
 men, still, I think, Abel Fletcher never forgot that we origin- 
 ally came of a good stock, and that it pleased him to call me, 
 his only son, after one of our forefathers, not unknown 
 Phineas Fletcher, who wrote the "Purple Island." 
 
 Thus it seemed to me, and I doubted not it would to my 
 father, much more reasonable and natural that a boy like 
 John Halifax in whom from every word he said I detected a 
 mind and breeding above his outward condition should 
 come of gentle rather than of boorish blood. 
 
 "Then, perhaps," I said, resuming the conversation, "you 
 would not like to follow a tra;Ie?" 
 
 "Yes, I should. What would it matter to me? My father 
 was a gentleman." 
 
 "And your mother?" 
 
 And he turned suddenly round; his cheeks hot, his lips 
 quivering. "She is dead. I do not like to hear strangers 
 speak about my mother." 
 
 I asked his pardon. It was plain he had loved and mourned 
 her; and that circumstances had smothered down his quick 
 boyish feelings into a man's tenacity of betraying where lie
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. ' 11 
 
 had loved and mourned. I, only a few minutes after, said 
 something about wishing we were not "strangers." 
 
 "Do you?" The lad's half -amazed, half -grateful smile 
 went right to my heart. 
 
 "Have you been up and down the country much?" 
 
 "A great deal, these last three years; doing a hand's turn, as 
 best I could, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, harvesting; only 
 this summer I had typhus fever, and could not work." 
 
 "What did you do then?" 
 
 "I lay in a barn till I got well. I am quite well now; you 
 need not be afraid." 
 
 "No, indeed; I never thought of that." 
 
 We soon became quite sociable together. He guided me 
 carefully out of the town into the Abbey walk, flecked with 
 sunshine through overhanging trees. Once he stopped to pick 
 up for me the large brown fan of a horse-chestnut leaf. 
 
 "It's pretty, isn't it only it shows that autumn is come." 
 
 "And how shall you live in the winter, when there is no 
 eut-of-door work to be had?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 The lad's countenance fell, and that hungry, weary look, 
 which had vanished while we talked, returned more painfully 
 than ever. I reproached myself for having, under the in- 
 fluence of his merry talk, temporarily forgotten it. 
 
 "Ah !" I cried eagerly, when we left the shade of the Abbey 
 trees, and crossed the street; "here we are, at home!" 
 
 "Are you?" The homeless lad just glanced at it the flight 
 of spotless stone steps, guarded by ponderous railings, which 
 led to my father's respectable and handsome door. "Good- 
 day, then, which means good-by." 
 
 I started. The word pained me. On my sad, lonely life 
 brief indeed, though ill health seemed to have doubled and 
 trebled my sixteen years into a mournful maturity this lad's 
 face had come like a flash of sunshine; a reflection of the 
 merry boyhood, the youth and strength that never were, never 
 could be mine. To let it go from me was like going back into 
 the dark. 
 
 "Not good-by just yet!" said I, trying painfully to disen- 
 gage myself from my little carriage, and mount the steps. 
 John Halifax came to my aid. 
 
 "Suppose you let me carry you. I could and and it 
 would be great fun, you know."
 
 12 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He tried to turn it into a jest, so as not to hurt me; but the 
 tremble in his voice was as tender as any woman's tenderer 
 than any woman's I ever was used to hear. I put my arris 
 around his neck; he lifted me safely and carefully, and set me 
 at my own door. Then, with another good-by, he again 
 turned to go. 
 
 My heart cried after him with an irrepressible cry. What 
 I said I do not remember, but it caused him to return. 
 
 "Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?" 
 
 "Don't call me 'sir;' I am only a boy like yourself. I want 
 you; don't go yet. Ah! here comes my father!" * 
 
 John Halifax stood aside and touched his cap with a re- 
 spectful deference as the old man passed. 
 
 "So here thee be hast thou taken care of my son? Did 
 he give thee thy groat, my lad?" 
 
 We had neither of us once thought of the money. 
 
 When I acknowledged this, my father laughed, called John 
 an honest lad, and began searching in his pocket for some 
 larger coin. I ventured to draw his ear down, and whispur 
 something but I got no answer; meanwhile, John Halifax, 
 for the third time, was going away. 
 
 "Stop, lad I forgot 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 la- 
 ther's hand. 
 
 "Eh!" said the old man, much astonished, "thee'rt an odd 
 lad; but I can't stay talking with thee. Come in to dinnex, 
 Phineas I say," turning back to John Halifax with a sudden 
 thought, "art thee hungry?" 
 
 "Very hungry." Nature gave way at last, and great tears 
 came into the poor lad's eyes. "Nearly starving." 
 
 "Bless me! then get in and have thy dinner. But first 
 
 " and my inexorable father held him by the shoulder; 
 
 "thee art a decent lad, come of decent parents?" 
 
 "Yes," almost indignantly. 
 
 "Thee works for thy living?" 
 
 "I do whenever I can get it." 
 
 "Thee hast never been in jail?" 
 
 "No!" thundered out the lad, with a furious look. "I don't 
 want your dinner t sir; I would have stayed, because your eoa
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 11 
 
 anked me, and he was civil to me, and I liked him. Now I 
 think I had better go. Good-day, sir." 
 
 There is a verse in a very old Book even in its human 
 histories the most pathetic of all books which runs thus: 
 
 "And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speak- 
 ing unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit unto the 
 soul of David; and Jonathan loved him as his own soul." 
 
 And this day, I, a poorer and more helpless Jonathan, had 
 found my David. 
 
 I caught him by the hand, and would not let him go. 
 
 "There, get in, lads, make no more ado/' said Abel Fletcher, 
 sharply, as he disappeared. 
 
 So, still holding my David fast, I brought him into my fa- 
 ther's house. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Dinner was over; my father and I took ours in the large 
 parlor, where the stiff, high-backed chairs eyed one another in 
 opposite rows across the wide oaken floor, shiny and hard as 
 marble, and slippery as glass. Except the table, the side- 
 board, and the cuckoo clock, there was no other furniture. 
 
 I dared not bring the poor wandering lad into this, my 
 father's especial domain; but as soon as he was away in the 
 tan-yard, I sent for John. 
 
 Jael brought him in; the onty womankind we ever had 
 about us, and who, save to me when I happened to be very ill, 
 certainly gave no indication of her sex in its softness and 
 tenderness. There had evidently been wrath in the kitchen. 
 
 "Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you mustn't keep 
 'un long. I bean't going to let you knock yourself up with 
 looking after a beggar-boy." 
 
 A beggar-boy! the idea seemed so ludicrous that I could not 
 help smiling at it as I regarded him. He had washed his face 
 and combed out his fair curls; though his clothes were thread- 
 bare, all but ragged, they were not unclean; and there was a 
 rosy, healthy freshness in his tanned skin, which showed he 
 loved and delighted in what poor folks generally abominate 
 water. And, now the sickness of hunger had gone from his 
 face, the lad, if not actually what our scriptural Saxon 
 terms "well-favored," was certainly "well-liking." A beg-
 
 14 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 gar-boy, indeed! I hoped he had not heard Jael's remark. 
 But he had. 
 
 "Madam," said lie, with a bow of perfect good-humor, and 
 even some sly drollery, "you mistake; I never begged in 
 my life. I am a person of independent property, which con- 
 sists of my head and my two hands, out of which I hope to 
 realize a large capital some day." 
 
 I laughed; Jael retired, abundantly mystified, and rather 
 cross. John Halifax came to my easy-chair, and in an altered 
 tone asked me how I felt, and if he could do anything for me 
 before he went away. 
 
 "You'll not go away; not till my father comes home, fit 
 least?" for I had been revolving many plans, which had one 
 sole aim and object, to keep near me this lad, whose coin- 
 panionship and help seemed to me, brotherless, sisterless and 
 friendless as I was, the very thing that would give me an ia- 
 terest in life, or at least, make it drag on less wearily. To say 
 that what I projected was done out of charity or pity, would 
 not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfish- 
 ness which makes one leap toward, and cling to a possible 
 strength and good, which I conclude to be the secret of all 
 those sudden likings that spring more from instinct than r<a- 
 son. I do not attempt to account for mine; I know not w)iy 
 "the soul of Jonathan clave to the soul of David." I ouly 
 knew that it was so, and that the first day I beheld the lad 
 John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, "loved him as my o\rn 
 soul." 
 
 Thus my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnt'st 
 that it apparently touched the friendless boy to the core. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning 
 against the fireplace, he drew his hand backward and forward 
 across his face, "you are very kind; Fll stay an hour or so, if 
 you wish it." 
 
 "Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk." 
 
 What this talk was I cannot now recall, save that it ranged 
 over many and wide themes, such as boys delight in chiefly 
 of life and adventure. He knew nothing of my only world 
 books. 
 
 "Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly. 
 
 "I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, 
 being somewhat proud of my erudition. 
 
 "And write?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 15 
 
 "Oh yes; certainly." 
 
 He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't 
 write, and I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish 
 you would put down something in a book for me." 
 
 "That I will." 
 
 He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with aa 
 under one of black silk; within this, again, was a book. He 
 would not let it go out of his hands, but held it so that I 
 could see the leaves. It was a Greek Testament. 
 
 "Look here." 
 
 He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read 
 
 "Guy Halifax, his Book. 
 
 "Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, 
 May 17th, in the year of our Lord 1779. 
 
 "John Halifax, their son, born June 18th, 1780." 
 
 There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female 
 hand: 
 
 "Guy Halifax, died January 4th, 1781." 
 
 "What shall I write, John?" said I, after a minute or so of 
 silence. 
 
 "I'll tell you presently. Can I get you a pen?" 
 
 He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his right 
 never once let go of the precious book. 
 
 "Write 'Muriel Halifax, died January 1st, 1791.' " 
 
 "Nothing more?" 
 
 "Nothing more." 
 
 He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it care- 
 fully by the fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it 
 into his pocket. He said no other word but "Thank you," 
 and I asked him no questions. 
 
 This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage; nor do 
 I believe he knew more himself. He was indebted to no fore- 
 fathers for a family history; the chronicle commenced with 
 himself, and was altogether his own making. No romantic 
 antecedents ever turned up; his lineage remained uninvesti- 
 gated, and his pedigree began and ended with his own honest 
 name John Halifax. 
 
 Jael kept coming in and out of the parlor on divers excuses, 
 eying very suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when 
 she heard me laughing a rare and notable fact for mirth 
 was not the fashion in our house, nor the tendency of my own 
 nature. Now this young lad, hardly as the world had knocked
 
 1* JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 him about even already, had an overflowing spirit of quiet 
 drollery and healthy humor, which was to me an inexpressible 
 relief. It gave me something I did not possess something 
 entirely new. I could not look at the dancing brown eyes, at 
 the quaint dimples of lurking fun that played hide-an '-seek 
 under the firm set mouth, without feeling my heart cueered 
 and delighted, like one brought out of a murky chamber into 
 the open day. 
 
 But all this was highly objectionable to Jael. 
 
 "Phineas!" and she planted herself before me at the end of 
 the table; "it's a fine, sunshiny day; thee ought to be out." 
 
 "I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I went 
 on talking. 
 
 "Phineas!" a second and more determined attack "too 
 unch laughing bean't good for thee; and it's time this lad 
 were going about his own business." 
 
 "Hush! nonsense, Jael." 
 
 "No she's right/' said John Halifax, rising, while that 
 look of premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard ex- 
 perience, chased all the boyish fun from his face. "I've had 
 a merry day thank you kindly for it! and now I'll be gone." 
 
 Gone! It was not to be thought of at least, not till my 
 father came home. For now, more determinedly than ever, 
 the plan which I had just ventured to hint at to my father 
 fixed itself on my mind. Surely, he would not refuse me 
 me, his sickly boy, whose life had in it so little pleasure. 
 
 "Why do you want to go? You have no work?" 
 
 "No; I wish I had. But I'll get some." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Just by trying everything that comes to hand. That's 
 the only way. I never wanted bread, nor begged it, yet- 
 though I've been rather hungry. And as for clothes" he 
 looked down on his own, light and threadbare, here and there 
 almost burst into holes by the stout muscles of the big, grow- 
 ing boy looked rather disconsolately. "I'm afraid she would 
 be sorry, that's all! She always kept me so tidy." 
 
 By the way he spoke "she" must have meant his mother. 
 There the orphan lad had an advantage over me; alas! I did 
 not remember mine. 
 
 "Come," I said, for now I had quite made up my mind to 
 take no denial, and fear no rebuff from my father; "cheer 
 up. Who knows what may turn up?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 17 
 
 "Oh," yes, something always does; I'm not afraid." He 
 tossed back his curls, and looked smiling out through the win- 
 dow at the blue sky; that steady, brave, honest smile, which 
 will meet Fate in every turn, and fairly coax the jade into 
 good 1 -amor. 
 
 "John, do you know you're uncommonly like a childish 
 hero of mine Dick Whittington? Did you ever hear of 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Come into the garden, then," for I caught another omin- 
 ous vision of Jael in the door-way, and I did not want to vex 
 my good old nurse; besides, unlike John, I was anything but 
 brave. "You will hear the Abbey bells chime presently 
 not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy sometimes; and we'll lie 
 on the grass, and I will tell you the whole true and particular 
 story of Sir Eichard Whittington." 
 
 I lifted myself and began looking for my crutches. John 
 found and put them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look. 
 
 "You don't need those sort of things," I said, making pre- 
 tense to laugh, for I had not grown used to them, and felt 
 often ashamed. 
 
 "I hope you will not need them always." 
 
 "Perhaps not Doctor Jessop isn't sure. But it doesn't 
 matter much; most likely I sha'n't live long." For this was, 
 God forgive me, always the last and greatest comfort I had. 
 
 John looked at me surprised, troubled, compassionate 
 but he did not say a word. I hobbled past him; he following 
 through the long passage to the garden door. There I 
 paused, tired out. John Halifax took gentle hold of my 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I think, if you did not mind, I'm sure I could carry you. 
 I carried a meal-sack once, weighing eight stone." 
 
 I burst out laughing, which maybe was what he wanted and 
 forthwith consented to assume the place of the meal-sack. He _ 
 took me on his back what a strong fellow he was and fairly 
 trotted with me down the garden-walk. We were both very 
 merry, and though I was his senior. I seemed with him, out 
 of my great weakness and infirmity, to feel almost like a child. 
 
 "Please take me to that clematis arbor: 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 
 2
 
 18 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 gazed about him observantly, while a quiet, intense satisfac- 
 tion grew and diffused itself over his whole countenance. 
 
 "It's a very nice place.'* 
 
 Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as a 
 bowling-green, with borders round. Beyond, divided by a 
 low hedge, was the kitchen and fruit garden my father's 
 pride, as this old-fashioned pleasance was mine. When, years 
 ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch 
 of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-patterned carpet, bounded by 
 its broad gravel walks and above that, apparently shut in as 
 with an impassable barrier from the outer world, by a three- 
 sided fence, the high wall, the yew-hedge, and the river. 
 
 John Halifax's comprehensive gaze seemed to take in all. 
 
 "Have you lived here long?" he asked me. 
 
 "Ever since I was born." 
 
 "Ah! well, it's a nice place," he repeated, somewhat sadly. 
 "This grass-plot is very even thirty yards square, I should 
 guess. I'd get up and pace it, only I'm rather tired." 
 
 "Are you? Yet you would carry " 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing. I've often walked farther than to- 
 day. But still it's a good step across the country since morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "How far have you come?" 
 
 "From the foot of those hills I forget what they call 
 them over there. I have seen bigger ones but they are 
 steep enough bleak and cold, too, especially when one is ly- 
 ing out among the sheep. At a distance they look pleasant. 
 This is a very pretty view." 
 
 Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever new, 
 when I had some one to say how "very pretty" it was. Let 
 me describe it this first landscape, the sole picture of my 
 boyish days, and vivid as all such pictures are. 
 
 At the end of the arbor the wall which enclosed us on the 
 riverward side was cut down my father had done it at my 
 asking so as to make a seat, something after the fashion of 
 Queen Mary's seat at Stirling, of which I had read. Thence, 
 one could see a goodly sweep of country. First, close below, 
 flowed the Avon Shakespeare's Avon here a narrow, slug- 
 gish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury sometimes 
 knew to our cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. 
 Now it slipped on, quietly enough, contenting itself with turn-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 19 
 
 ing a flour-mill hard by, the lazy whir of which made a sleepy, 
 incessant monotone which I was fond of hearing. 
 
 From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called 
 the Ham dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond 
 it was a second river, forming an arc of a circle round the ver- 
 dant flat. But the stream itself lay so low as to be invisible 
 from where we sat; you could only trace the line of its 
 course by the small white sails that glided in and out, oddly 
 enough, from behind clumps of trees, and across meadow- 
 lands. 
 
 They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, 
 surely. Is there water there?" 
 
 "To be sure or you would not see the sails. It is the 
 Severn though at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it 
 is deep enough too, as you may see by the boats it carries. 
 You would hardly believe so to look at it here but I believe 
 it gets broader and broader, and turns out a noble river by the 
 time it reaches the King's Koads, and forms the Bristol Chan- 
 nel." 
 
 "I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I 
 like the Severn." 
 
 He stood gazing at it a good while a new expression 
 dawning in his eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, 
 I watched a thought grow, and grow, till out of them was 
 shining a beauty absolutely divine. 
 
 All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the 
 lad start. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang 
 to the bells; and then it seemed such a commonplace history, 
 and such a very low degree of honor to arrive at, that I was 
 really glad I had forgotten to tell John the story. I merely 
 showed him where, beyond our garden-wall, and in the invisi- 
 ble high-road that interposed, rose up the grim old Abbey 
 tower. 
 
 "Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient 
 time our orchard is so fine. The monks may have planted 
 it; they liked fruit, these 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 w&ated to 
 show off my superior knowledge.
 
 20 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "The monks were parsons, John, you know. Very good 
 men, I dare say, but rather idle." 
 
 "Oh, indeed. Do you think they planted that yew-hedge?" 
 And he went to examine it. 
 
 Now, far and near, our yew-hedge was noted. There was 
 not its like in the whole country. It was about fifteen feet 
 high, and as many thick. Century and century of growth, with 
 careful clipping and training, had compacted it into a massive 
 green barrier, as close and impervious as a wall. 
 
 John poked in and about it peering through every in- 
 terstice leaning his breast against the solid depth of 
 branches; but their close shield resisted all his strength. 
 
 At length he came back to me, his face glowing with the 
 vain efforts he had made. 
 
 "What were you about? Did you want to get through?" 
 
 "I wanted justjto 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 try- 
 ing." 
 
 "Would you give up, then?" 
 
 He smiled there was no "giving up" in that smile of his. 
 "I'll tell you what I'd do I'd begin and break it twig by 
 twig, till I forced my way through, and got out safe at the 
 other side." 
 
 "Well done, lad! but if it's all the same to thee I would 
 rather thee did not try that experiment upon my hedge at 
 present." 
 
 My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. 
 We were both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindli- 
 ness of aspect showed that he was not displeased nay, even 
 amused. 
 
 "Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend 
 what's thy name?" 
 
 I supplied the answer. For the minute Abel Fletcher ap- 
 peared, John seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go back to 
 that premature gravity and hardness of demeanor which I sup- 
 posed his harsh experience of the world of men had neces- 
 sarily taught him, but which was very sad to see in a lad so 
 young. 
 
 My father sat down beside me on the bench pushed aside
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 21 
 
 an intrusive branch of clematis finally, because it would 
 come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it 
 into the river; then leaning on his stick with both hands, eyed 
 John Halifax sharply all over, from top to toe. 
 
 "Didn't thee say thee wanted work? It looks rather like 
 it." 
 
 His glance upon the shabby clothes made the boy color 
 violently. 
 
 "Oh, thee need'st not be ashamed; better men than thee 
 have been in rags. Hast thee any money?" 
 
 "The groat you gave me, that is, paid me, I never take what 
 I don't earn," said the lad, sticking a hand in either poor 
 pocket. 
 
 "Don't be afraid I was not going to give thee anything 
 except, maybe would thee like some work?" 
 
 "0, sir!" 
 
 "0, father!" 
 
 I hardly know which was the most grateful cry. 
 
 Abel Fletcher looked surprised, but on the whole not ill- 
 pleased. Putting on and pulling down his broad-brimmed 
 hat, he sat meditatively for a minute or so, making circles in 
 the gravel walk with the end of his stick. People said 
 nay, Jael herself, once, in a passion, had thrown the fact at 
 me that the wealthy Friend himself had come to Norton 
 Bury without a shilling in his pocket. 
 
 "Well, what work canst thee do, lad?" 
 
 "An}'thing," was the eager answer. 
 
 "Anything generally means nothing," sharply said my fa- 
 ther. "What hast thee been at all this year? The truth, 
 mind!" 
 
 John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him 
 right again,. He said quietly and respectfully, "Let me think 
 a minute, and I'll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer's, 
 riding the plow-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the 
 hills with some sheep; in June I tried hay-making, and caught 
 a fever you needn't start, sir, Fve been well these six weeks, 
 or I wouldn't have come near your son then " 
 
 "That will do lad I'm satisfied." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "Thee need not say 'sir 5 it is folly. I am Abel Fletcher." 
 For my father retained scrupulously the Friends' mode of 
 speech, though he was practically but a lax member of the
 
 22 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Society, and had married out of its pale. In this announce- 
 ment of his plain name appeared, I fancy, more pride than 
 humility. 
 
 "Very well, I will remember," answered the boy fearlessly, 
 though with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily re- 
 strained. "And now, Abel Fletcher, I shall be willing and 
 thankful for any work you can give me." 
 
 "We'll see about it." 
 
 I looked gratefully and hopefully at my father; but his next 
 words rather modified my pleasure. 
 
 "Phineas, one of my men at the tan-yard has gone and 
 'listed this day left an honest livelihood to be a paid cut- 
 throat. Now if I could get a lad one too young to be caught 
 hold of at every pot-house by that man of blood, the recruiting 
 sergeant. Dost thee think this lad is fit to take the place?" 
 
 "Whose place, father?" 
 
 "Bill Watkins'?" 
 
 I was dumfounded! I had occasionally seen the said Bill 
 Watkins, whose business it was to collect the skins which my 
 father had bought from the farmers round about. A distinct 
 vision presented itself to me of Bill and his cart, from which 
 dangled the sanguinary exuviae of defunct animals, while in 
 front the said Bill sat enthroned, dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, 
 with his pipe in his mouth. The idea of John Halifax in such 
 a position was not agreeable. 
 
 "But, father " 
 
 He read deprecation in my looks alas! he knew too well 
 how I disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. "Thee'rt 
 a fool, and the lad's another. He may go about his business 
 for me." 
 
 "But, father, isn't there anything else?" 
 
 "I have nothing else, or if I had I wouldn't give it. 'He 
 that will not work, neither shall he eat.' " 
 
 "I will work," said John, sturdily he had listened, scarcely 
 comprehending, to my father and me. "I don't care what it 
 is, if only it's honest work." 
 
 Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me 
 but that I little minded and addressed himself solely to John 
 Halifax. 
 
 "Canst thee drive?" 
 
 "That I can!" and his eyes brightened with boyish delight.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 23 
 
 "Tut! it's only a cart the cart with the skins. Dost thee 
 know anything of tanning?" 
 
 "No, but I can learn." 
 
 "Hey, not so fast! still, better be fast than slow. In the 
 meantime, thee can drive the cart." 
 
 "'Thank you, sir Abel Fletcher I mean I'll do it well. 
 That is, as well as I can." 
 
 "And mind! no stopping on the road. No drinking, to find 
 the King's cursed shilling at the bottom of the glass, like poor 
 Bill, for thy mother to come crying and pestering. Thee 
 hasn't got one, eh? So much the better all women are 
 born fools especially mothers." 
 
 "Sir!" The lad's face was all crimson and quivering; his 
 voice choked; it was with difficulty he smothered down a 
 burst of tears. Perhaps this self-control was more moving 
 than if he had wept at least it answered better with my fa- 
 ther. 
 
 After a few minutes more, during which his stick had made 
 a little grave in the middle of the walk, and buried something 
 there I think something beside the pebble Abel Fletcher 
 said, not unkindly: 
 
 "Well, I'll take thee; though it isn't often I take a lad 
 without a character of some sort. I suppose thee hast none." 
 
 "None," was the answer, while the straightforward, steady 
 gaze which accompanied it unconsciously contradicted the 
 statement; his own honest face was the lad's best witness at 
 all events, I thought so. 
 
 " 'Tis done then," said my father, concluding the business 
 more quickly than I had ever before known his cautious tem- 
 per settle even such a seemingly trifling matter* I say seem- 
 ingly. How blindly we talk when we talk of "trifles." 
 
 Carelessly rising he, from some kindly impulse, or else to 
 mark the closing of the bargain, shook the boy's hand, and 
 left in it a shilling. 
 
 "What is this for?" 
 
 "To show I have hired thee as my servant." 
 
 "Servant!" John repeated hastily, and rather proudly. 
 "Oh yes; I understand well, I will try and serve you well." 
 
 My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. 
 He was too busy calculating how many more of those said 
 shillings would be a fair equivalent for such Jabor as a lad, 
 even so much the junior of Bill Watkins, could supply. After
 
 24 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 some cogitation he hit upon the right sum. I forget how 
 much be sure it was not overmuch; for money was scarce 
 enough in this war-time; and, besides, there was a belief afloat, 
 so widely that it tainted even my worthy father, that plenty 
 was not good for the working classes; they required to be kept 
 low. 
 
 Having settled the question of wages, which John Halifax 
 did not debate at all, my father left us, but turned back when 
 half-way across the green-turfed square. 
 
 "Thee said thee had no money; there's a week in advance, 
 my son being witness I pay it thee; and I can pay thee a shill- 
 ing less every Saturday till we get straight." 
 
 "Very well, sir; good-afternoon, and thank you." 
 
 John took off his cap as he spoke; Abel Fletcher, involun- 
 tarily almost, touched his hat in return of the salutation. 
 Then he walked away, and we had the garden all to ourselves 
 we, Jonathan and his new-found David. 
 
 I did not "fall upon his neck," like the princely Hebrew to 
 whom I have likened myself, but whom, alas! I resembled in 
 nothing save my loving. But I grasped his hand, for the first 
 time, and looking up at him, as he stood thoughtfully by me, 
 whispered "that I was very glad." 
 
 "Thank you, so am I," said he, in a low tone. Then all 
 his own manner returned; he threw his battered cap high up 
 in the air, and shouted out, "Hurrah 1" a thorough boy. 
 
 -And I in my poor, quavering voice, shouted too. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I had 
 the very useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish 
 habit of keeping a diary. To me, at least, it has been less 
 foolish and harmful than to most; and out of it, together 
 with much drawn out of the stores of memory, made preter- 
 naturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, colorless 
 itself, had nothing to do but to reflect and retain clear images 
 of the lives around it out of these two sources I have com- 
 piled the present history. 
 
 Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur. These I
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 25 
 
 shall not try to fill up, but merely resume the thread of nar- 
 ration as recollection serves. 
 
 Thus, after this first day, many days came and went before 
 I again saw John Halifax almost before I again thought of 
 him. For it- was one of my seasons of excessive pain; when I 
 found it difficult to think of anything beyond those four gray- 
 painted walls; where morning, noon and night slipped wearily 
 awaj', marked by no changes, save from daylight to candle- 
 light, from candlelight to dawn. 
 
 Afterward, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by oc- 
 casional memories of something pleasant that had crossed my 
 dreary life; visions of a brave, bright young face, ready alike 
 to do battle with and enjoy the world. I could hear the 
 voice, that, speaking to me, was always tender with pity, yet 
 not pity enough to wound; I could see the peculiar smile just 
 creeping round his grave mouth, that irrepressible smile, in- 
 dicating the atmosphere of thorough heart-cheerfulness, 
 which ripens all the fruits of a noble nature, and without 
 which' the very noblest has about it something unwholesome, 
 blank and cold. 
 
 I wondered if John had ever asked for me. At length I 
 put the question. 
 
 Jael "thought he had but wasn't sure. Didn't bother her 
 head about such folk." 
 
 "If he asked again, might he come upstairs?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 I was too weak to combat, and Jael was too strong an ad- 
 versary; so I lay for days and days in my sick-room often 
 thinking, but never speaking, about the lad. Never once 
 asking for him to come to me. Not though it would have 
 been life to me to see his merry face I longed after him so. 
 
 At last I broke the bonds of sickness which Jael always 
 riveted as long and as tightly as she could and plunged into 
 the outer world again. 
 
 It was one market-day Jael being absent that I came 
 down-stairs. A soft, bright, autumn morning, mild as spring, 
 coaxing a wandering robin to come and sing to me, loud as a 
 choir of birds, out of the thin trees of the Abbey yard. I 
 opened the window to hear him, though all the while in mor- 
 tal fear of Jael. I listened, but caught no tone of her sharp 
 voice, which usually came painfully from the back regions of 
 the house; it would ill have harmonized with the sweet au-
 
 26 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tumn day and the robin's song. I sat, idly thinking so, and 
 wondering whether it were a necessary and universal fact 
 that human beings, unlike the year, should become harsh and 
 unlovely as they grew old. 
 
 My robin had done singing, and I amused myself with 
 watching a spot of scarlet winding down the rural road, our 
 house being on the verge where Norton Bury melted into "the 
 country." It turned out to be the clqak of a well-to-do young 
 farmer's wife riding to market in her cart beside her jolly- 
 looking spouse. Very spruce and self-satisfied she appeared, 
 and the market people turned to stare after her, for her cos- 
 tume was a novelty then. Doubtless many thought as I did, 
 how much prettier was scarlet than duffle gray. 
 
 Behind the farmer's cart came another, which at first I 
 scarcely noticed, being engrossed by the ruddy face under the 
 red cloak. The farmer himself nodded good humoredly, but 
 Mrs. Scarlet-cloak turned up her nose. "Oh, pride, pride!" 
 I thought, amused, and watched the two carts, the second of 
 which was with difficulty passing the farmer's on the opposite 
 side of the narrow road. At last it succeeded in getting in 
 advance, to the young woman's evident annoyance, until the 
 driver, turning, lifted his hat to her with such a merry, frank, 
 pleasant smile. 
 
 Surely, I knew that smile, and the well-set head with its 
 light curly hair. Also, alas! I knew the cart with relics of 
 departed sheep dangling out behind. It was our cart of skins 
 and John Halifax was driving it. 
 
 "John! John!" I called out, but he did not hear, for his 
 horse had taken fright at the red cloak, and required a steady 
 hand. Very steady the boy's hand was, so that the farmer 
 clapped his two great fists, and shouted "Bravo!" 
 
 But John my John Halifax he sat in his cart and drove. 
 His appearance was much as when I first saw him shabbier, 
 perhaps, as if through repeated drenchings; this had been a 
 wet autumn, Jael had told me. Poor John! well might he 
 look gratefully up at the clear blue sky to-day; ay, and the sky 
 never looked down on a brighter, cheerier face the same 
 face, which, whatever rags it surmounted, would, I believe, 
 have ennobled them all. 
 
 I leaned out, watching him approach our house; watching 
 him with so great pleasure that I forget to wonder whether or 
 no he would notice me. He did not at first, being busy over
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 21 
 
 his horse; until, just as the notion flashed across my mind 
 that he was passing by our house also, how keenly his doing 
 so would pain me the lad looked up. 
 
 A beaming smile of surprise and pleasure, a friendly nod, 
 then all at once his manner changed; he took off his cap and 
 bowed ceremoniously to his master's son. 
 
 For the moment I was hurt; then I could not but respect 
 the honest pride which thus intimated that he knew his own 
 position and wished neither to ignore nor to alter it; all ad- 
 vances between us must evidently come from my side. So, 
 having made his salutation, he was driving on, when I called 
 after him : 
 
 "John! John!" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I am so glad you're better again." 
 
 "Stop one minute till I come out to you." And I crawled 
 on my crutches to the front door, forgetting everything but 
 the pleasure of meeting him forgetting even my terror of 
 Jael. What could she say? even though she held nominally 
 the Friends' doctrine obeyed in the letter at least, "Call no 
 man your master'' what would Jael say if she found me, 
 Phineas Fletcher, talking in front of my father's respectable 
 mansion with the vagabond lad who drove my father's cart of 
 skins ? 
 
 But I braved her, and opened the door. "John, where are 
 you?" 
 
 "Here" (he stood at the foot of the steps, with the reins 
 on his arm); "did you want me?" 
 
 "Yes. Come up here; never mind the cart." 
 
 But that was not John's way. He led the refractory horse, 
 settled him comfortably under a tree, and gave him. in charge 
 to a small boy. Then he bounded back across the road, and 
 was up the steps to my side in a single leap. 
 
 "I had no notion of seeing you. They said you were in bed 
 yesterday." (Then he had been inquiring for me!) "Ought 
 you to be standing at the door this cold day?" 
 
 "It's quite warm," I said, looking up at the sunshine, and 
 shivering. 
 
 "Please, go in." 
 
 "If you'll come too." 
 
 He nodded, then put his arm around mine, and helped me 
 in, as if he had been a big elder brother, and I a little ailing 
 child. Well nursed and carefully guarded as I had always
 
 28 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 been, it was the first time in my life I ever knew the meaning 
 of that rare thing tenderness. A quality different from 
 kindliness, affectionateness, or benevolence; a quality which 
 can exist only in strong, deep, and undemonstrative natures, 
 and therefore in its perfection is oftenest found in men. John 
 Halifax had it more than any one, woman or man, that I ever 
 knew. 
 
 "I'm glad you're better/' he said, and said no more. But 
 one look of his expressed as much as half a dozen sympathetic 
 sentences of other people. 
 
 "And how have you been, John? How do you like the tan- 
 yard? Tell me, "frankly." 
 
 He pulled a wry face, though comical withal, and said, 
 cheerily "Everybody must like what brings them their daily 
 bread. It's a grand thing for me not to have been hungry for 
 nearly thirty days." 
 
 "Poor John!" I put my hand on his wrist his strong, 
 brawny wrist. Perhaps the contrast involuntarily struck us 
 both with the truth good for both to learn that Heaven's 
 ways are not so unequal as we sometimes fancy they seem. 
 
 "I have so often wanted to see you, John. Couldn't you 
 come in now?" 
 
 He shook his head and pointed to the cart. That minute, 
 through the open hall-door, I perceived Jael sauntering leis- 
 urely home from market. 
 
 Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. 
 The avalanche of ill words I knew must fall, but it should not 
 fall on him, if I could help it. 
 
 "Jump up on your cart, John. Let me see how well you 
 can drive. There good-by, for the present. Are you going 
 to the tan-yard?" 
 
 "Yes, for the rest of the day." And he made a face as if he 
 did not quite revel in that delightful prospect. No wonder. 
 
 "I'll come and see you there this afternoon." 
 
 "No?" with a look of delighted surprise. "But you musi 
 not you ought not." 
 
 "But I will!" And I laughed to hear myself actually using 
 that phrase. What would Jael have said? 
 
 What as she arrived just in time to receive a half ma- 
 licious, half -ceremonious bow from John as he drove off what 
 that excellent woman did say, I have not the slightest recol- 
 lection. I only remember that it did not frighten and grieve
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 29 
 
 me as such attacks used to do; that, in her own vernacular, it 
 all "went in at one ear and out at t'other;" that I persisted in 
 looking out until the last glimmer of the bright curls had 
 disappeared down the sunshiny road then shut the front 
 door, and crept in, content. 
 
 Between that time and dinner, I sat quiet enough even to 
 please Jael. I was thinking over the beautiful old Bible 
 story, which latterly had so vividly impressed itself on my 
 mind; thinking of Jonathan,, as he walked "by the stone 
 Ezel," with the shepherd lad, who was to be King of Israel. 
 I wondered whether he would have loved him, and seen the 
 same future perfection in him, had Jonathan, the king's son, 
 met the poor David keeping his sheep among the folds of 
 Bethlehem. 
 
 When my father came home, he found me waiting in my 
 place at table. He only said, "Thee art better then, my 
 son?" But I knew how glad he was to see me. He gave 
 token of this by being remarkably conversable over our meal 
 though, as usual, his conversation had a sternly moral tone, 
 adapted to the improvement of what he persisted in consider- 
 ing my "infant" mind. It had reference to an anecdote Dr. 
 Jessop had just been telling him about a little girl, one of 
 our doctor's patients, who, in some passionate struggle, had 
 hurt herself very much with a knife. 
 
 "Let this be a warning to thee, my son, not to give way to 
 violent passions." (My good father, thought I, there is little 
 fear.) "For this child I remember her father well, for he 
 lived at Kings well here; he was violent too, and much given 
 to evil ways before he went abroad Phineas, this child, this 
 miserable child, will bear the mark of the wound all her life." 
 
 "Poor thing!" said I, absently. 
 
 "No need to pity her; her spirit is not half broken yet. 
 Thomas Jessop said to me, 'That little Ursula ' '' 
 
 "Is her name Ursula?" And I called to mind the little 
 girl who had tried to give some bread to the hungry John 
 Halifax, and whose cry of pain we heard as the door shut 
 upon her. Poor little lady! how sorry I was. I knew John 
 would be so infinitely sorry too and all to no purpose that 
 I determined not to tell him anything about it. The next 
 time I saw Dr. Jessop, I asked him after the child, and learned 
 she had been taken away somewhere I forget where; and 
 then the whole affair slipped from my memory.
 
 30 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Father," said I, when he ceased talking and Jael, who 
 always ate her dinner at the same time and table as ourselves, 
 but "below the salt," had ceased nodding a respectful running 
 comment on all he said "Father?" 
 
 "Well, my son." 
 
 "I should like to go with thee to the tan-yard this after- 
 noon." 
 
 Here Jael, who had been busy pulling back the table, re- 
 placing the long row of chairs, and re-sanding the broad cen- 
 ter Sahara of the room to its dreary, pristine aridness, stopped 
 fairly aghast with amazement. 
 
 "Abel Abel Fletcher! the lad's just out of his bed; he is 
 no more fit to " 
 
 "Pshaw, woman!" was the sharp answer. "So, Phineas, 
 thee art really strong enough to go out?" 
 
 "If thou wilt take me, father." 
 
 He looked pleased, as he always did when I used the 
 Friends' mode of phraseology for I had not been brought up 
 in the Society; this having been the last request of my mother, 
 rigidly observed by her husband. The more so, people said, 
 as while she lived they had not been quite happy together. 
 But whatever he was to her, in their brief union, he was a 
 good father to me, and for his sake I have always loved and 
 honored the Society of Friends. 
 
 "Phineas," said he (after having stopped a volley of poor 
 Jael's indignations, beseechings, threats, and prognostica- 
 tions, by a resolute "Get the lad ready to go") "Phineas, 
 my son, I rejoice to see thy mind turning toward business. I 
 trust, should better health be vouchsafed thee, that some day 
 soon " 
 
 "Not just yet, father," said I, sadly for I knew what he 
 referred to, and that it would never be. Mentally and physi- 
 cally I alike revolted from my father's trade. I held the tan- 
 yard in abhorrence to enter it made me ill for days; some- 
 times for months and months I never went near it. That I 
 should ever be, what was my poor father's one desire, his as- 
 sistant and successor in his business, was, I knew, a thing to- 
 tally impossible. 
 
 It hurt me a little that my project of going with him to- 
 day should in any way have deceived him; and rather silently 
 and drearily we set out together; progressing through Norton 
 Bury streets, in our old way, my father marching along in nib
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 31 
 
 grave 'fashion, I steering my little carriage, and keeping as 
 close as I could beside him. Many a person looked at us as 
 we passed; almost everybody knew us, but few, even of our 
 own neighbors, saluted us; we were Nonconformists and 
 Quakers. 
 
 I had never been in the town since the day I came through 
 it with John Halifax. The season was much later now, but it 
 was quite warm still in the sunshine, and very pleasant looked 
 the streets, even the close, narrow streets of Norton Bury. I 
 beg its pardon; antiquaries hold it a most "interesting and re- 
 markable" place; and I myself have sometimes admired its 
 quaint, overhanging, ornamented house-front blackened and 
 wonderfully old. But one rarely notices what has been fa- 
 miliar throughout life; and now I was less struck by the 
 beauty of the picturesque old town, than by the muddiness of 
 its pathways, and the mingled noises of murmuring looms, 
 scolding women, and squabbling children, that came up from 
 the alleys which lay between the High Street and the Avon. 
 In those alleys hundreds of our poor folk lived, huddled to- 
 gether, in misery, rags and dirt. Was John Halifax living 
 there too? 
 
 My father's tan-yard was in an alley a little farther on. 
 Already I perceived the familiar odor; sometimes a not un- 
 pleasant barky smell; at other times borne in horrible wafts, 
 as if from a lately forsaken battle-field. I wondered how any- 
 body 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 of one of the sheds, helping two 
 or three women to split bark, very busy at work; yet he found 
 time to stop now and then, and administer a wisp of sweet hay 
 to the old blind mare, as she went slowly round and round, 
 turning the bark-mill. Nobody seemed to notice him, and he 
 did not speak to anybody. 
 
 As we passed, John did not even see us. I asked my father, 
 in a whisper, how he liked the boy. 
 
 "What boy? Eh, him? Oh, well enough there's no harm 
 in him that I know of. Dost thee want him to wheel thee 
 about the yard? Here, I say, lad bless me! I've forgot thy 
 name." 
 
 John Halifax started up at the sharp tone of command; 
 but when he saw me he smiled. My father walked on to some 
 pits where he told me he was trying an important experiment,
 
 32 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 how a hide might be tanned completely in five months instead 
 of eight. I stayed behind. 
 
 ''John, I want you." 
 
 John shook himself free from the bark-heap, and came, 
 rather hesitatingly at first. 
 
 "Anything I can do for you, sir?" 
 
 "Don't call me 'sir;' if I say 'John', why don't you sav 
 Thineas?" ; 
 
 And I held out my hand his was all grimed with bark dust. 
 
 "Are you not ashamed to shake hands with me?" 
 
 "Nonsense, John." 
 
 So we settled that point entirely. And though he never 
 failed to maintain externally a certain gentle respectfulness 
 of demeanor toward me, yet it was more the natural defer- 
 ence of the younger to the elder, of the strong to the weak, than 
 the duty paid by a serving-lad to his master's son. And this 
 was how I best liked it to be. 
 
 He guided me carefully among the tan-pits those deep 
 fosses of abomination, with a slender network of pathways 
 thrown between until we reached the lower end of the yard. 
 It was bounded by the Avon only, and by a great heap oi' 
 refuse bark. 
 
 "This is not a bad place to rest in; if you liked to get out of 
 the carriage, I'd make you comfortable here in no time." 
 
 I was quite willing; so he ran off and fetched an old horse- 
 rug, which he laid upon the soft, dry mass. Then he helped 
 me thither, and covered me with a cloak. Lying thus, with 
 my hat over my eyes, just distinguishing the shiny glimmer 
 of the Avon running below, and beyond that the green, level 
 Ham, dotted with cows, my position was anything but un- 
 pleasant. In fact, positively agreeable ay, even though tho 
 tan-yard was close behind; but here it would offend none of 
 my senses. 
 
 "Are you comfortable, Phineas?" 
 
 "Very, if you would come and sit down too." 
 
 "That I will." 
 
 And then we began to talk. I asked him if he often pat- 
 ronized the bark-heap, he seemed so very much at home there. 
 
 "So I am," he answered, smiling; "it is my castle my 
 house." 
 
 "And not unpleasant to liv at, either."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 33 
 
 "Except when it rains. Does it always rain at Norton 
 Bury?" 
 
 "For shame, John!" and I pointed to the bluest of au- 
 tumnal skies, though in the distance an afternoon mist was 
 slowly creeping on. 
 
 "All very fine now, but there's a fog coming over Severn; 
 and it is sure to rain at nightfall. I shall not get my nice 
 little bit of October evening." 
 
 "You must spend it within doors then." John shook his 
 head. "You ought; it must be dreadfully cold on this bark- 
 heap after sunset." 
 
 "Bather, sometimes. Are you cold now? Shall I fetch 
 
 ? but I haven't anything fit to wrap you in, except this 
 
 rug." 
 
 He muffled it closer round me; infinitely light and tender 
 was his rough-looking boy's hand. 
 
 "I never saw anybody so thin as you; thinner much since I 
 saw you. Have you been very, very ill, Phineas? What 
 ailed you?" 
 
 His anxiety was so earnest that I explained to him what 
 I may as well explain here, and dismiss, once for all, the use- 
 less topic, that from my birth I had been puny and diseased, 
 that my life "had been a succession of sicknesses, and that I 
 could hope for little else until the end. 
 
 "But don't think I mind it, John," for I was grieved to 
 see his shocked and troubled look. "I am very content; I 
 have a quiet home, a good father, and now I think and be- 
 lieve I have found the one thing I wanted a good friend." 
 
 He smiled, but only because I did. I saw he did not un- 
 derstand me. In him, as in most strong and self-contained 
 temperaments, was a certain slowness to receive impressions, 
 which, however, being once received, are indelible. Though I . 
 being in so many things his opposite, had none of this pecul- 
 iarity, but felt at once quickly and keenly, yet I rather liked 
 the contrary in him, as I think we almost always do like in 
 another those peculiarities which are most different from our 
 own. Therefore I was neither vexed nor hurt because the 
 lad was slow to perceive all that he had so soon become, and 
 all that I meant him to become, to me. I knew from every 
 tone of his voice, every chance expression of his honest eyes, 
 that he was one of those characters in which we may be sure 
 that for each feeling they express, lies a countless wealth of 
 
 3
 
 34 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the same, unexpressed below; a character the key-stone of 
 which was that whereon is built all liking and all love de- 
 pendableness. He was one whom you may be long in know- 
 ing, but whom the more you know, the more you trust; and 
 once trusting, you trust forever. 
 
 Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, pre- 
 mature in discovering all these characteristics in a boy of 
 fourteen; and possibly in thus writing of him I may unwit- 
 tingly be drawing a little from after-experience; however, be- 
 ing the truth, let it stand. 
 
 "Come," said I, changing the conversation, "we have had 
 enough of me; how goes the world with you? Have you taken 
 kindly to the tan-yard? Answer frankly." 
 
 He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, 
 and began to whistle a tune. 
 
 "Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know 
 the real truth." 
 
 "Well, then, I hate the tan-yard." 
 
 Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking 
 a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became com- 
 posed. 
 
 "But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I 
 intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got 
 used to many a worse thing. It's wicked to hate vhat wins 
 one's bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in 
 the world with, merely because it's disagreeable." 
 
 "You are a wise lad of your age, John." 
 
 "Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was 
 in solemn earnest.) "And don't think I'm worse than I am; 
 and especially that I'm not thankful to your good father for 
 giving me a lift in the world the first I ever really had. If 
 I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb." 
 
 "I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. 
 "But you seem to have thought a good deal about these sort 
 of things." 
 
 "Oh yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's 
 thoughts travel fast enough, lying on this bark heap faster 
 than in-doors. I often wish I could read that is, read easily. 
 As it is, I have nothing to do but to think, and nothing to 
 think of but myself, and what I should like to be." 
 
 "Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded 
 to your master's business, should you like to be a tanner?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 35 
 
 He paused, his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, 
 resolutely, "I would like to be anything that was honest and 
 honorable. It's a notion of mine, that whatever a man may 
 be, his trade does not make him he makes his trade. That 
 is but I know I can't put the subject clear, for I have not 
 got it clear in my own head yet I'm only a kd. However, 
 it all comes to this that whether I like it or not, I'll stick to 
 the tanning as long as I can." 
 
 "That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless" and I watched 
 him as he stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the 
 shifting bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but 
 smiling "nevertheless, John, it's my opinion you might be 
 anything you liked." 
 
 He laughed. "Questionable that at least at present. 
 Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives your 
 father's cart, and works in your father's tan-yard John Hali- 
 fax, and very much at your service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher." 
 
 Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, 
 with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance that 
 I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Hali- 
 fax, Gentleman." However, that could be no matter to me, 
 or to him either, now. The lad, like many another, owed 
 notbing to his father but his mere existence Heaven knows 
 whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon. 
 
 The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very 
 loath to part with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking 
 where his home was. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Where do you live? where do you take your meals and 
 sleep?" 
 
 "Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and 
 drinking. Generally, I eat my dinner as I go along the road, 
 where there's lots of blackberries by way of pudding which 
 is grand! Supper, when I do get it, I like best on this bark- 
 heap, after the men are away, and the tan-yard's clear. Your 
 father lets me stay." 
 
 "And where is your lodging, then? Where do you sleep?" 
 
 He hesitated colored a little. "To tell the truth any- 
 where I can. Generally here." 
 
 "What, out-of-doors?" 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 I. was much shocked. To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me
 
 36 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the very lowest ebb of human misery; so degrading, too like 
 a common tramp or vagabond, instead of a decent lad. 
 
 "John how can you why do you do such a thing?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," said he, sitting down beside me in a dogged 
 way, as if he had read my thoughts, guessed at my suspi- 
 cions, and was determined to show that he feared neither 
 that he would use his own judgment, and follow his own will 
 in spite of anybody. "Look here. I get three shillings a 
 week, which is about fivepence a day; out of that I eat three- 
 pence I'm a big, growing lad, and it's hard to be hungry. 
 There's twopence left to pay for lodging. I tried it once 
 
 twice at the decentest place I could find, but " here an 
 
 expression of intolerable disgust came over the boy's face 
 "I don't intend to try that again. I was never used to it. 
 Better keep my own company and the open air. Now, you 
 see." 
 
 "Oh, John!" 
 
 "Nay there's no need to be sorry. You don't know how 
 comfortable it is to sleep out-of-doors; and so nice to wake in 
 the middle of the night, and see the stars shining over vour 
 head." 
 
 "But isn't it very cold?" 
 
 "No not often. I scoop out a snug little nest in the bark, 
 and curl up in it like a dormouse, wrapped in this rug, which 
 one of the men gave me. Besides, every morning early I take 
 a plunge and a swim in the stream, and that makes me warm 
 all day." 
 
 I shivered I Who feared the touch of cold water. Yet 
 there, with all his hardships, he stood before me, the model of 
 healthy boyhood. Alas! I envied him. 
 
 But" this trying life, which he made so light of, could not 
 go on. "What shall you do when winter comes?" 
 
 John looked grave. "I don't know. I suppose I shall 
 manage somehow like the sparrows," he answered, perceiv- 
 ing not how opposite his illustration was. For truly he 
 seemed as destitute as the birds of the air, whom One feedeth 
 when they cry to Him. 
 
 My question had evidently made him thoughtful; 'he re- 
 mained silent a good while. 
 
 At last I said "John, do you remember the woman who 
 spoke so sharply to you in the alley that day?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 37 
 
 "Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened that 
 day/' he answered softly. 
 
 "She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, 
 though trouble has sharpened her temper. Her biggest boy, 
 Bill, who is gone off for a soldier, used to drive vour cart, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes?" said John, interrogatively; for I was slow in .put- 
 ting forth my plans that is, as much of them as it was need- 
 ful he should know. 
 
 "Sally is poor not so very poor, though. Your twopence 
 a night would help her; and I dare say, if you'll let me speak 
 to her, you might have Bill's attic all to yourself. She has 
 but one other lad at home; it's worth trying for." 
 
 "It is, indeed. Y"ou are very kind, Phineas." He said no 
 words than these but their tone spoke volumes. 
 
 I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxious 
 not to lose a day in this matter. I persuaded John to go at 
 once with me to Sally Watkins. My father was not to be 
 seen, but I ventured to leave word for him that I was gone 
 home, and had taken John Halifax with me; it was astonish- 
 ing how bold I felt myself growing, now that there was 
 another besides myself to think and act for. 
 
 We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place- 
 poorer than I had imagined; but I remembered what agonies 
 of cleanliness had been inflicted on me in nursery days, and 
 took hope for John. 
 
 Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old 
 jacket that had once been Bill's, until being supplanted by the 
 grand red coat, it descended upon Jem, the second lad. But 
 Bill still engrossed the poor mother's heart she could do 
 nothing but weep over him, and curse "Bonyparty." Her mind 
 was so full of this that she apparently failed to recognize in 
 the decent young workman, John Halifax, the half-starved 
 lad she had belabored with her tongue in the alley. She con- 
 sented at once to his lodging with her though she looked up 
 with an odd stare when I said he was "a friend" of mine. 
 
 So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally and 
 I alone, while John went up to look at his room. I knew I 
 could trust Sally, whom I was glad enough to help, poor wo- 
 man! She promised to make him extra comfortable, and keep 
 my. secret too. When John came down she was quite civil 
 to him even friendly.
 
 38 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 She said it would really be a comfort to her that another 
 fine, strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in 
 and out of her house just like her poor dear boy. 
 
 I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and, indeed, half 
 angry, but John only smiled. 
 
 "And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now an then about 
 the kitchen I s'pose he bean't above it?" 
 
 "Not a bit!" said John Halifax, pleasantly. 
 
 Before we left, I wanted to see his room; he earned me up, 
 and we both sat down on the bed that had been poor Bill's. 
 It was nothing to boast of, being a mere sacking stuffed with 
 hay a blanket below, and another at top; I had to beg from 
 Jael the only pair of sheets John owned for a long time. The 
 attic was very low and small, hardly big enough "to whip a 
 cat round," or even a kitten yet John gazed about it with an 
 air of proud possession. 
 
 "I declare I shall be as happy as a king. Only look out of 
 the window." 
 
 Ay, the window was the grand advantage; out of it one 
 could crawl on to the roof, and from the roof was the finest 
 view in all Norton Bury. On one side, the town, the Abbey, 
 and beyond it a wide stretch of meadow and woodland as far 
 as you could see; on the other, the broad Ham, the glittering 
 curve of Severn, and the distant country, sloping up into "the 
 blue hills far away." A picture which, in its incessant va- 
 riety, its quiet beauty, and its inexpressibly soothing charm, 
 was likely to make the simple, every-day act of "looking out 
 o' window," unconsciously influence the mind as much as a 
 world of books. 
 
 "Do you like your 'castle,' John?" said I, when I had 
 silently watched his beaming face; "will it suit you?" 
 
 "I rather think it will!" he cried in hearty delight. And 
 my heart likewise was very glad. 
 
 Dear little attic room! close against the sky so close that 
 many a time the rain came pattering in, or the sun beating 
 down upon the roof made it like a furnace, or the snow on the 
 leads drifted so high as to obscure the window yet how 
 merry, how happy we have been there! How often have we 
 both looked back upon it in after days I
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Winter came early and sudden that year. 
 
 It was to me a long, dreary season, worse even than my 
 winters inevitably were. I never stirred from my room, and 
 never saw anybody but my father, Dr. Jessop, and Jael. At 
 last I took courage to say to the former that I wished he 
 would send John Halifax up some day. 
 
 "What dost thee want the lad for?" 
 
 "Only to see him." 
 
 "Pshaw! a lad out o' the tan-yard is not fit company for 
 thee. Let him alone; he'll do well enough, if thee doesn't try 
 to lift him out of his place." 
 
 Lift John Halifax out of his "place!" I agreed with my 
 father that that was impossible; but then we evidently dif- 
 fered widely in our definition of what the "place" might be. 
 So afraid of doing him harm, and feeling how much his future 
 depended on his favor with his master, I did not discuss the 
 matter. Only at every possible opportunity and they were 
 rare I managed to send John a little note, written carefully 
 in printed letters, for I knew he could read that; also a book 
 or two, out of which he might teach himself a little more. 
 
 Then I waited eagerly but patiently, until spring came, when 
 without ranking any more fruitless efforts I should be sure to 
 see him. I kne^v enough of himself, and was too jealous over 
 his dignity, to wish either to force him by entreaties, or bring 
 him by stratagem, into a house where he was not welcome, 
 even though it were the house of my own father. 
 
 One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, 
 and soft, plentiful rain had half melted the great snowdrifts 
 which, Jael told me, lay about the country everywhere I 
 thought I would just put my head out-of-doors to see how 
 long the blessed spirit would be in coming. So I crawled 
 down into the parlor, and out of the parlor into the garden; 
 Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. My poor fa- 
 ther! he always had the belief that people need not be ill unless 
 they chose, and that I could do a great deal if I would. 
 
 I felt very strong to-day. It was delicious to see again the 
 green grass which had been hidden for weeks; delicious to
 
 40 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 walk up and down in the sunshine, under the shelter of the 
 yew-hedge. I amused myself by watching a pale line of snow- 
 drops, which had come up one by one, like prisoner? of war 
 to their execution. 
 
 But the next moment I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, 
 for it reminded me of poor Bill Watkins, who, taken after the 
 battle of Mentz, last December, had been shot by the French 
 as a spy. Poor, rosy, burly Bill! better had he still been in- 
 gloriously driving our cart of skins. 
 
 "Have you been to see Sally lately?" said I to Jael, who 
 was cutting winter cabbages hard by; "is she getting over her 
 trouble?" 
 
 "She bean't rich, to afford fretting. There's Jem and 
 three little 'uns yet to feed, to say naught of another big lad 
 as lives there, and eats a deal more than he pays, I'm sure." 
 
 1 took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father 
 had lately raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. 
 This, together with a few other facts which lay between Sally 
 and me, made me quite easy in the mind as to his being no 
 burden, but rather a help to the widow so I let Jael have her 
 say; it did no harm to me or anybody. 
 
 "What bold little things snow-drops are stop, Jael, you 
 are setting your foot on them." 
 
 But I was too late; she had crushed them under the high- 
 heeled shoe. She was even near pulling me down, as she 
 stepped back in great hurry and consternation. 
 
 "Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden; 
 and here I be in my dirty gown, and my apron full o' cab- 
 bages." 
 
 And she dropped the vegetables all over the path, as the 
 "gentleman," came toward us. 
 
 I smiled for, in spite of his transformation, I, at least, 
 had no difficulty in recognizing John Halifax. 
 
 He had on new clothes let me give the credit due to that 
 wonderful civilizer, the tailor clothes neat, decent, and 
 plain, such as any 'prentice lad might wear. They fitted well 
 his figure, which had increased both in height, compactness, 
 and grace. Round his neck was a coarse but white shirt frill: 
 and over it fell, carefully arranged, the bright curls of his 
 bonny hair. Easily might Jael or any one else have "mis- 
 taken" him, as she cuttingly said, for a young gentleman.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 41 
 
 _ 
 
 She looked very indignant though., when she found out 
 the aforesaid "mistake." 
 
 "What may be thy business here?" she said, roughly. 
 
 "Abel Fletcher sent me on a message." 
 
 "Out with it, then don't be stopping with Phineas here. 
 Thee bean't company for him, and his father don't choose it." 
 
 "Jael!" I cried, indignantly. John never spoke, but his 
 cheek burned furiously. I took his hand, and told him how 
 ulad I was to see him but, for a minute, I doubt if he heard 
 me. 
 
 "Abel Fletcher sent me here," he repeated, in a well-con- 
 trolled voice, "that I might go out with Phineas; if he objects 
 to my company, it's easy to say so." 
 
 And he turned to me. I think he must have been satisfied 
 then. 
 
 Jael retired discomfited, and in her wrath again dropped 
 half of her cabbages. John picked them up and restored 
 them; but got for thanks only a parting thrust. 
 
 "Thee art mighty civil in thy new clothes. Be off, and be 
 back again sharp; and I say, don't thee be leaving the cart o' 
 skins again under the parlor windows." 
 
 "I don't drive the cart now," was all he replied. 
 
 "Not drive the cart?" I asked, eagerly, when Jael had dis- 
 appeared, for I was afraid some ill chance had happened. 
 
 "Only, that this winter I've managed to teach myself to read 
 and add up, out of your books, you know; and your father 
 found it out, and he says I shall go round collecting money 
 instead of skins, and it's much better wages, and I like it 
 better, that's all." 
 
 But, little as he said, his whole face beamed with pride 
 and pleasure. It was, in truth, a great step forward. 
 
 "He must trust you very much, John," said I, at last, 
 knowing how exceedingly particular my father was in his col- 
 lectors. 
 
 "That's it; that's what pleases me so. He is very good to 
 me, Phineas, and he gave me a special holiday, that I might 
 go out with you. Isn't that grand?" 
 
 "Grand, indeed. What fun we'll have! I almost think I 
 could take a walk myself." 
 
 For the lad's company invariably gave me new life, and 
 strength, and hope. The very sight of him was as good as 
 the coming oi spring.
 
 42 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" said he, when we were fairly off, and 
 he was guiding my carriage down Norton Bury streets. 
 
 "I think to the Mythe." The Mythe was a little hill 
 on the outskirts of the town, breezy and fresh, where 'Squire 
 Brithwood had built himself a fine house, ten years ago. 
 
 "Ay, that will do; and as we go, you will see the floods out 
 a wonderful sight, isn't it? The river is rising still, I 
 hear; at the tan-yard they are busy making a dam against it. 
 How high are the floods here, generally, Phineas?" 
 
 "I'm sure I can't remember. But don't look so serious. 
 Let us enjoy ourselves." 
 
 And I did enjoy, intensely, that pleasant stroll. The mere 
 sunshine was delicious; delicious, too, to pause on the bridge 
 at the other end of the town, and feel the breeze brought in 
 by the rising waters, and hear the loud sound of them as they 
 poured in a cataract over the flood-gates hard by. 
 
 "Your lazy, muddy Avon looks splendid now. What 
 masses of white foam it makes, and what wreaths of spray; 
 and see! ever so much of the Ham is under water. How it 
 sparkles in the sun." 
 
 "John, you like looking at anything pretty." 
 
 "Ah! don't I!" cried he, with his whole heart. My heart 
 leaped too, to see him so happy. 
 
 "You can't think how fine this is from my window; I have 
 watched it for a week. Every morning the water seems to 
 have made itself a fresh channel. Look at that one, by the 
 willow-tree how savagely it pours!" 
 
 "Oh, we at Norton Bury are used to floods." 
 
 "Are they ever very serious?" 
 
 "Have been but not in my time. Now, John, tell me 
 what you have been doing all winter." 
 
 It was a brief and simple chronicle of hard work all day 
 over, and from the Monday to the Saturday too hard work 
 to do anything of nights, save to drop into the sound, dream- 
 less sleep of youth and labor. 
 
 "But how did vou teach yourself to read and add up, 
 then?" 
 
 "Generally, at odd minutes going along the road. It's 
 astonishing what a lot of odd minutes one can catch during 
 the day, if one really sets about it. And then I had Sunday 
 afternoons besides I did not think it wrong "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 43 
 
 "No," said I, decisively. "What books have you got 
 through?" 
 
 "All you sent Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe and 
 the Arabian Nights. That's fine, isn't it?" and his eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 "Any more?" 
 
 "Also the one you gave me Christmas. I have read it a 
 good deal." 
 
 I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke; I 
 liked to hear him own, nor be ashamed to awn that he read 
 "a good deal" in that rare book for a boy to read the Bible. 
 
 But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; 
 indeed, it seemed to me, and seems still, that no more were 
 needed. 
 
 "And you can read quite easily now, John?" 
 
 "Pretty well, considering." Then, turning suddenly to me: 
 "You read a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father 
 say you were very clever. How much do you know?" 
 
 "Oh nonsense!" But he pressed me and I told him. The 
 list was short enough; I almost wished it were shorter, when 
 I saw John's face. 
 
 "For me I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen 
 directly!" 
 
 The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to 
 my very heart. 
 
 "Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon 
 that which guided me on, so steady and so strong; "how could 
 you have had time, working as hard as you do ?" 
 
 "But I ought to learn; I must learn." 
 
 "You shall. It's little I can teach; but, if you like, I'll 
 teach you all I know." 
 
 "0, Phineas!" 
 
 One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walked hastily 
 across the road. Thence he came back in a minute or two, 
 armed with the tallest, straightest of brier-rose shoots. 
 
 "You like a rose-switch, don't you? I do. Nay, stop till 
 I've cut off the thorns." And he walked on beside me, work- 
 ing at it with his knife in silence. 
 
 I was silent, too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as seen 
 in profile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by 
 that mouth, so flexible, sensitive, and at time$ so infinitely
 
 44 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 sweet. It wore that expression now. I was satisfied, for I 
 knew the lad was happy. 
 
 We reached the Mythe. "David," I said (I had got into a 
 habit of calling him "David;" and now he had read a certain 
 history in that Book, I supposed he had guessed why, for he 
 Hked the name), "I don't think I can go any farther up the 
 hill." 
 
 "Oh! but you shall! I'll push behind; and when we come 
 to the stile, I'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the My the 
 look at the sunset. You cannot have seen a sunset for ever 
 so long." 
 
 No that was true. I let John do as he would with me 
 he who brought into my pale life the only brightness it had 
 ever known. 
 
 Ere long we stood on the top of the steep mound. I know 
 not if it be a natural hill, or one of those old Roman or Brit- 
 ish remains, plentiful enough hereabouts, but it was always 
 called the Mythe. Close below it", at the foot of a precipitous 
 slope, ran the Severn, there broad and deep enough, and grad- 
 uallygrowingbroader and deeper as it flowed on, through a wide 
 plain of level country, toward the line of hills that bounded 
 the horizon. Severn looked beautiful here; neither grand nor 
 striking, but certainly beautiful; a calm, gracious, generous 
 river, bearing strength in its tide and plenty in its bosom, 
 rolling on through the land slowly and surely, like a good 
 man's life, and fertilizing wherever it flows. 
 
 "Do you like Severn still, John?" 
 
 "I love it." 
 
 I wondered if his thoughts had been anything like mine. 
 
 "What is that?" he cried, suddenly, pointing to a new 
 sight, which even I had not often seen on our river. It was a 
 mass of water, three or four feet high, which came surging 
 along the mid-stream, upright as a wall. 
 
 "It is the eger; I've often seen it on Severn, where the 
 swift seaward current meets the spring-tide. Look what a 
 crest of foam it has, like a wild-boar's mane. We often call 
 it the river-boar." 
 
 "But it's 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 45 
 
 "They never can I they'll assuredly be drowned! Oh, 
 John!" 
 
 But he had already slipped from my side and swung him- 
 self by furze-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the wa- 
 ter's edge. 
 
 It was a breathless moment. The eger traveled slowly in 
 its passage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a whirl 
 of conflicting currents, in which no boat could live least of 
 all, that light pleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. In it was 
 a youth I knew by sight, Mr. Brithwood, of the Mythe House, 
 and another gentleman. 
 
 They both pulled hard they got out of the mid-stream, 
 but not close enough to land, and already there was but two 
 oars' length between them and the "boar." 
 
 "Swim for it!" I heard one cry to the other, but swimming 
 would not have saved them. 
 
 "Hold there!" shouted John at the top of his voice, "throw 
 that rope out, and I will pull you in!" 
 
 It was a hard tug; I shuddered to see him wade, knee- 
 deep, in the stream but he succeeded. Both gentlemen 
 leaped on shore. The younger tried desperately to save his 
 boat, but it was too late. Already the "waterboar" had 
 clutched it the rope broke like a gossamer-thread the trim, 
 white sail was dragged down rose up once, broken and torn, 
 like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream then disappeared. 
 
 "So it's all over with her, j)oor thing!" 
 
 "Who cares? We might have lost our lives," sharply said 
 the other, an older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in 
 mourning, to whom life did not seem a particularly pleasant 
 thing, though he appeared to value it so highly. 
 
 They both scrambled up the Mythe without noticing John 
 Halifax; then the elder turned. 
 
 "But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young 
 friend?" 
 
 John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, "I 
 suppose so." 
 
 "Indeed, we owe you much." 
 
 "Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brithwood, 
 gruffly; "I know him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher 
 the Quaker's tan -yard!" 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at 
 the boy with a kindly, even half -sad air. "Impossible,
 
 46 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Young man, will you tell me to whom I am so much obliged?" 
 
 fC M.y name is John Halifax." 
 
 "Yes; but what are you?" 
 
 "What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough. 
 I work in the tan-yard." 
 
 "Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dig- 
 nity, though evidently both surprised and disappointed. 
 Young Brithwood laughed. 
 
 "I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eying John over, 
 "you've been out at grass, and changed your coat for the 
 better; but you're certainly the same lad that my curricle 
 nearly ran over one day; you were driving a cart of skins 
 pah! I remember." 
 
 "So do I," said John, fiercely; but when the youth's in- 
 solent laughter broke out again, he controlled himself. The 
 laughter ceased. 
 
 "Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one, young 
 what's your name, so here's a guinea for you." He threw 
 it toward 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 strug- 
 gling with conflicting intentions, and not very easy in his 
 mind. "My good fellow," he said, at last, in a constrained 
 voice, "I won't forget your bravery. If I could do anything . 
 
 for you and, meanwhile, if a trifle like this " and he 
 
 slipped something into John's hand. 
 
 John returned it with a bow, merely saying, "That he 
 would rather not take any money." 
 
 The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was 
 a little more of persistence on one side and resistence on the 
 other; and then Mr. March put the guinea irresolutely back 
 into his pocket, looking the while lingeringly at the boy 
 at his tall figure, and flushed, proud face. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "Fifteen, nearly." 
 
 "Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned 
 back again. My name is March Henry March; if you 
 should ever " 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Good-day." 
 
 "Good-day." I fancied he was half-inclined to shake 
 hands bui John did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March 
 walked on, following young Brithwood; but at the stile he
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 47 
 
 turned round once more and glanced at John. Then they 
 disappeared. 
 
 "I'm glad they are gone; now we can be comfortable." He 
 flung himself down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at 
 me for being so afraid he would take cold, and so angry at 
 young Brithwood's insults. I sat wrapped in my cloak, and 
 watched him making idle circles in the sandy path with the 
 rose-switch he had cut. 
 
 A thought struck me. "John, hand me the stick, and I'll 
 give you your first writing lesson." 
 
 So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a 
 pen, I taught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and 
 join them together. He learned them very quickly so 
 quickly that in a little while the simple copybook that Mother 
 Earth obliged us with was covered in all directions with 
 "J, 0, H, N John." 
 
 "Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing 
 his gigantic pen, which had done such good service, "bravo, I 
 have gained something to-day." 
 
 Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to 
 look at the waters that were "out." They had risen con- 
 siderably, even in that short time, and were now pouring in 
 several new channels, one of which was alongside of the high- 
 road; we stopped a good while, watching it. The current was 
 harmless enough, merely flooding a part of the Ham; but it 
 awed us to see the fierce power of waters let loose. An old 
 willow-tree about whose roots I had often watched the king- 
 cups growing, was now in the center of a stream as broad as 
 the Avon by our tan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent 
 rushed round it impatient of the divisions its great roots 
 caused eager to undermine and tear it up. Inevitably, if 
 the flood did not abate, within a few hours more there would 
 be nothing left of the fine old tree. 
 
 "I don't quite like this," said John, meditatively, as his 
 quick eye- swept down the course of the river, with the houses 
 and wharves which abutted it, all along one bank. "Did you 
 see the waters thus high before?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe I have; nobody minds it at Norton Bury; it 
 is only the sudden thaw, my father says, and he ought to 
 know, for he has had plenty of experience, the tan-yard being 
 so close to the river." 
 
 "I was thinking of that; but come, it is getting cold." He
 
 48 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 took me safe home, and we parted cordially nay affection- 
 ately at my own door. 
 
 "When will you come again, David?" 
 
 "When your father sends me." 
 
 And I felt that he felt that our intercourse was always to 
 be limited to this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, 
 was possible, even for friendship's sake, to John Halifax. 
 
 My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and 
 uneasy, and instead of going to bed, though it was after nine 
 o'clock, sat down to his pipe in the chimney-corner. 
 
 "Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to 
 the tan-yard?" 
 
 "What dost thee know about the tan-yard?" 
 
 "Only, John Halifax was saying " 
 
 "John Halifax had better hold his tongue." 
 
 I held mine. 
 
 My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him 
 good-night. I think the sound of my crutches on the floor 
 stirred him out of a long meditation, in which his ill-humor 
 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 hap- 
 pened there. He listened without reply. 
 
 "Wasn't it a brave thing to do, father?" 
 
 "Um!" and a few meditative puffs. "Phineas, the lad 
 thee hast such a hankering after is a good lad a very decent 
 lad if thee doesn't make too much of him. Remember, he 
 is but my servant; thee'rt my son my only son." 
 
 Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have 
 such an "only son" as I. 
 
 In the middle of the night or else to me, lying awake, it 
 seemed so there was a knocking at our hall-door. I slcpi. 
 on the ground-flat, in a little room opposite the parlor. Ere 
 I could well collect my thoughts, I saw my father pass, fully 
 dressed, with a light in his hand. And, man of peace though 
 lie was, I was very sure I saw in the other something which 
 always lay near his strong-box, at his bed's head at night. 
 Because, ten years ago, a large sum had been stolen from him, 
 and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law re- 
 fused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony he was "only a 
 Quaker."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 49 
 
 The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to 
 hesitate at making a noise. 
 
 "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the answer he 
 opened the front-door, first shutting mine. 
 
 A minute afterward, I heard some one in my room. 
 
 "Phineas, are you here? Don't be frightened." 
 
 I was not as soon as his voice reached me, John's own 
 familiar voice. "It's something about the tan-yard?" 
 
 "Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your 
 father; he may save a good deal yet I'm ready, sir' in an- 
 swer to a loud call. "Now Phineas, you lie down again i\ie 
 night's bitter cold. Don't stir you'll promise? I'll see after 
 your father." 
 
 They went out of the house together, and did not return 
 the whole night. 
 
 That night ? February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at 
 Norton Bury. Bridges were destroyed, boats carried away, 
 houses inundated, or sapped at their foundations. The loss 
 of life was small, but that of property was very great. Six 
 hours did the work of ruin, and then the flood began to turn. 
 
 It was a long waiting until they came home my father and 
 John. At daybreak, I saw them standing on the doorstep. 
 A blessed sight! 
 
 "0 father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding 
 fast his hands faster and closer than I had done since I 
 was a child. He did not repel me. 
 
 "Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. 
 Go back to the fire." 
 
 His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two 
 strange things in Abel Fletcher. 
 
 "Father, tell me what has befallen thee?" 
 
 "Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods 
 has seen fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many 
 another in this town, am poorer by some thousands than when 
 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
 
 60 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 world save for Where is the lad? What art thee standing 
 outside for? Come in, John, and shut the door." 
 
 John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and 
 wet. I wanted him to sit down by the fireside. 
 
 "Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly. 
 
 John came. 
 
 1 stood between the two afraid to ask what they had un- 
 dergone; but sure, from the old man's grave face and the lad's 
 bright one flushed all over with that excitement of danger 
 so delicious to the young that the peril had not been small. 
 
 "Jael," cried my father, rousing himself, "give us some 
 breakfast, the lad and me we have had a hard night's work 
 together." 
 
 Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but 
 either did not or could not notice that the meal had been 
 ordered for more than one. 
 
 "Another plate," said my father, sharply. 
 
 "The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher; his 
 breakfast is waiting there." 
 
 My father winced even her master was sometimes rather 
 afraid of Jael. But conscience or his will conquered. 
 
 "Woman, do as I desire. Bring another plate and another 
 mug of ale." 
 
 And so, to Jael's great wrath, and to my great joy, John 
 Halifax was bidden, and sat down to the same board as his 
 master. The fact made an ineffaceable impression on our 
 household. 
 
 After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of that 
 February morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained 
 to me all his losses; and how, but for the timely warning he 
 had received, the flood might have nearly ruined him. 
 
 "So it was well John came," I said, half afraid to say more. 
 
 "Ay, and the lad has been useful, too; it is an old head on 
 young shoulders." 
 
 John looked very proud of this praise, though it was 
 grimly given. But directly after it, some ill, or suspicious 
 thought seemed to come into Abel Fletcher's mind. 
 
 "Lad," suddenly turning round on John Halifax, "thee 
 told me thee saw the river rising, by the light of the moon. 
 What was thee doing then, out o' thy honest bed and thy 
 quiet sleep, at eleven o'clock at night?" 
 
 John colored violently; the quick young blood was always
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 61 
 
 ready enough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for him with 
 my father. 
 
 "Answer. I will not be hard upon thee to-night, at 
 least." 
 
 "As you like, Abel Fletcher," answered the boy, sturdily. 
 "I was doing no harm. I was in the tan-yard." 
 
 "Thy business there?" 
 
 "None at all. I was with the men they were watching 
 and had a candle; and I wanted to sit up and had no light." 
 
 "What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father 
 keen and sharp as a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister 
 hunting a witness in those courts of law that were never used 
 by, though often used against, us Quakers. 
 
 John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing 
 blushes tried him sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. 
 Though I am such a big fellow, I can't write; and your son 
 was good enough to try and teach me. I was afraid of for- 
 getting the letters; so I tried to make them all over again, 
 with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It did nobody 
 any harm that I know of." 
 
 The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry 
 won no reproof. At last, my father said, gently enough: 
 
 "Is that all, lad?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads 
 talked softly to each other afraid to interrupt. He smoked 
 through a whole pipe his great and almost his only luxury, 
 and then again called out: 
 
 "John Halifax." 
 
 "I'm here." 
 
 "It's time thee went away to thy work." 
 
 "I'm going this minute. Good-by, Phineas. Good-day, 
 sir; is there anything you want done?" 
 
 He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest 
 manliness pleasant to see. Any master might have been 
 proud of such a servant any father of such a son. My poor 
 father no, he did not once look from John Halifax to me. 
 He would not have owned for the world that smothered sigh, 
 or murmured because Heaven had kept back from him as, 
 Heaven knows why, it often does from us all the one desire 
 of the heart.
 
 52 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this 
 night. What reward shall I give thee?" 
 
 And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. 
 John turned away. 
 
 "Thank you Fd rather not. It is quite enough reward 
 that I have been useful to my master, and that he acknowl- 
 edges it." 
 
 My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand. 
 "Thee'rt in the right, lad. I am very much obliged to thee, 
 and I will not forget it/'* 
 
 And John blushing brightly once -more went away, 
 looking as proud as an emperor, and as happy as a poor man 
 with a bag of gold. 
 
 "Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would 
 pleasure the lad ?" said my father, after we had been talking 
 some time though not about John. 
 
 I had thought of something something I had long de- 
 sired, but which seemed then all but an impossibility. Even 
 now, it was with some doubt and hesitation that I made the 
 suggestion that he should spend every Sunday at our house. 
 
 "Nonsense! thou know'st naught of Norton Bury lads. He 
 would not care. He had rather lounge about all First-day at 
 street-corners with his acquaintances." 
 
 "John has none, father. He knows nobody cares for no- 
 body but me. Do let him come." 
 
 "We'll see about it." 
 
 My father never broke or retracted his word. So after 
 that, John Halifax came to us every Sunday; and for one 
 day of the week, at least, was received in his master's house- 
 hold as our equal, and my friend. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Summers and winters slipped by, lazily enough, as the 
 years seemed always to crawl round at Norton Bury. Ho\v 
 things went in the outside world, I little knew or cared. My 
 father lived his life, mechanical and steady as clock-work, and 
 we two, John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, lived our lives 
 the one so active and busy, the other so useless and dull.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 63 
 
 Neither of us counted the days,, nor looked backward or for- 
 ward. 
 
 One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was 
 twenty years old, and that John Halifax was a man; the 
 difference between us being precisely as I have expressed it. 
 
 Our birthdays fell within a week of each other, and it was 
 in remembering his the one which advanced him to the dig- 
 nity of eighteen that I called to mind my own. I say, "ad- 
 vanced him to the dignity" but in truth that is an idle 
 speech; for any dignity which the maturity of eighteen may 
 be supposed to confer, he had already in possession. Man- 
 hood had come to him, both in character and demeanor, not 
 as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired and pre- 
 sumptuously-asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance, to 
 be received humbly, and worn simply and naturally. So 
 naturally that I never seemed to think of him as anything but 
 a boy, until this one June Sunday, when, as before stated, 1 
 myself became twenty years old. 
 
 I was talking over that last fact, in a rather dreamy mood, 
 as he and I sat in our long-familiar summer seat, the clematis 
 arbor by the garden-wall. 
 
 "It seems very strange, John, but so it is I am actually 
 twenty." 
 
 "Well, and what of that?" 
 
 I sat looking down into the river, which flowed on, as my 
 years were flowing, monotonous, dark, and slow; as they must 
 flow on forever. John asked me what I was thinking of. 
 
 "Of myself; what a fine specimen of the noble genus homo 
 I am." 
 
 I spoke bitterly, but John knew how to meet that mood. 
 Very patient he was, with it and with every ill mood of mine. 
 And I was grateful, with that deep gratitude we feel to those 
 who bear with us, and forgive us, and laugh at us, and correct 
 us; all alike for love. 
 
 "Self-investigation is good on birthdays. Phineas, here 
 goes for a catalogue of your qualities, internal and external." 
 
 "John, don't be foolish." 
 
 "I will, if I like; though perhaps not quite so foolish as 
 some other people; so listen: 'Imprimis,' as saith Shakes- 
 peare Imprimis, height, full five feet four; a stature histori- 
 cally appertaining to great men, including Alexander of 
 Macedon and the First Consul."
 
 84 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Oh! oh!" said I, reproachfully; for this was our chief bone 
 of contention I hating, he rather admiring, the great ogre 
 of the day, Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 
 "Imprimis, of a slight, delicate person, but not lame, as 
 once was " 
 
 "No, thank God!" 
 
 "Thin, rather " 
 
 "Very, a mere skeleton!" 
 
 "Face elongated and pale " 
 
 "Sallow, John, decidedly sallow." 
 
 "Be it so sallow. Big eyes, much given, to observation, 
 which means hard staring. Take them off me, Phineas, or 
 I'll not lie on the grass a minute longer. Thank you. To 
 return: Imprimis, and finis (I'm grand at Latin now, you 
 see) long hair, which, since the powder tax, has resumed its 
 original blackness, and is any young damsel would say, only 
 we count not a single one among our acquaintance exceed- 
 ingly bewitching." 
 
 I smiled, feeling myself color a little too, weak invalid as I 
 was. I was, nevertheless, twenty years old; and although 
 Jael and Sally were the only specimens of the other sex 
 which had risen on my horizon, yet once or twice, since I had 
 read Shakespeare, I had had a boy's lovely dreams of the 
 divinity of womanhood. They began, and ended mere 
 dreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth that my character 
 was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any woman's 
 reverence or love. Or, even had this been possible, one 
 sickly as I was, stricken with hereditary disease, ought never 
 seek to perpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put from me, 
 at once and forever, every feeling of that kind; and during 
 my whole life I thank God! have never faltered in my reso- 
 lution. Friendship was given me for love duty for happi- 
 ness. So best, and I was satisfied. 
 
 This conviction, and the struggle succeeding it for, 
 though brief, it was but natural that it should have been a 
 hard struggle was the only secret that I had kept from 
 John. It had happened some months now, and was quite 
 over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun, and shake at 
 him my "bewitching" black locks, calling him a foolish boy. 
 And while I said it, the notion slowly dawning during the long 
 gaze he had complained of, forced itself upon me clear as 
 daylight, that he was not a "boy" any longer.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 65 
 
 "Xow 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 ex- 
 hibited to its full advantage that very creditable altitude, 
 more tall perhaps than graceful at present; since, like most 
 youth?., he did not as yet quite know what to do with his legs 
 and arms. But he was 
 
 I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I only 
 remember that when I looked at him, and began jocularly 
 "Imprimis," my heart came up into my throat and choked 
 me. 
 
 It was almost with sadness that I said, "Ah! David, you are 
 quite a young man now." 
 
 He smiled, of course only with pleasure, looking forward 
 to the new world into which he was going forth; the world 
 into which, as I knew well, I could never follow him. 
 
 "I am glad I look rather old for my years," said he, when, 
 after a pause, he had again flung himself down on the grass. 
 "It tells well in the tan-yard. People would be slow to trust 
 a clerk who looked a mere boy. Still, your father trusts me." 
 
 "He does, indeed. You need never have any doubt of 
 that. It was only yesterday he said to me that now he was 
 no longer dissatisfied with your working at all sorts of studies, 
 in leisure hours, since it made you none the worse man of 
 business." 
 
 "No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would 
 not be doing my duty to myself any more than to my master, 
 if I shirked his work for my own. I am glad he does not 
 complain now, Phineas." 
 
 "On the contrary; I think he intends to give you a rise this 
 miflsuminer. But oh!" I cried, recurring to a thought which 
 would often come when I looked at the lad, though he always 
 combated it so strongly, that I often owned my prejudices 
 were unjust: "How I wish you were something better than 
 a clerk in a tan-yard. I have a plan, John." 
 
 But what that plan was was fated to remain unrevealed. 
 Jael came to us in the garden, looking very serious. She 
 had been summoned, I knew, to a long conference with her 
 master the day before, the subject of which she would not 
 tell me, though she acknowledged it concerned myself. Ever 
 since she had followed me about very softly, for her, and
 
 56 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 called me more than once, as when I was a child, "my dear." 
 She now came with half-dolorous, half-angry looks, to sum- 
 mon me to an interview with my father and Dr. Jessop. 
 
 I caught her parting mutterings as she marched behind me: 
 "Kill or cure, indeed" "No more fit than a baby" "Abel 
 Fletcher be clean mad" "Hope Thomas Jessop will speak 
 out plain and tell him so," and the like. From these, and 
 from her strange fit of tenderness, I guessed what was loom- 
 ing in the distance a future which my father constantly held 
 in terrorem over me, though successive illnesses had kept it in 
 abeyance. Alas! I knew that my poor father's hopes and 
 plans were vain! I went into his presence with a heavy heart. 
 
 There is no need to detail that interview. Enough, that 
 after it he set aside forever his last lingering hope of having 
 a son able to assist, and fmallly succeed him in his business, 
 and that I set aside every dream of growing up to be a help 
 and comfort to my father. It cost something on both our 
 parts; but after that day's discussion we tacitly covered over 
 the pain and referred to it no more. 
 
 I came back into the garden and told John Halifax all. He 
 listened, with his hand on my shoulder, and his grave, sweet 
 look dearer sympathy than any words! Though he added 
 thereto a few, in his own wise way, then he and I, also, drew 
 the curtain over an inevitable grief, and laid it in the peace- 
 ful chamber of silence. 
 
 When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax and I met at 
 dinner, the subject had passed into seeming oblivion and was 
 never afterward revived. 
 
 But dinner being over, and the chatty little doctor gone, 
 while Abel Fletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe, and we two 
 at the window maintained that respectful and decorous silence 
 which in my younger days was rigidly exacted by elders and 
 superiors, I noticed my father's eyes frequently resting, with 
 keen observance, upon John Halifax. Could it be that there 
 had recurred to him a hint of mine, given faintly that morn- 
 ing, as faintly as if it had only just entered my mind, instead 
 of having for months continually dwelt there, until a fitting 
 moment should arrive Could it be that this hint, which he 
 had indignantly scouted at the time, was germinating in his 
 acute brain, and might bear fruit in future days? I hoped so 
 I earnestly prayed so. And to that end I took no notice, 
 but let it silently grow,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 67 
 
 The June evening came and went. The service-bell rang 
 out and ceased. First,, deep shadows, and then a bright star 
 appeared over the Abbey tower. We watched it from the 
 garden, where, Sunday after Sunday, in fine weather we used 
 to lounge, and talk over all manner of things in heaven and 
 in earth, chiefly ending with the former, as on Sunday nights, 
 with stars over our heads, was natural and fit we should do. 
 
 "Phineas," said John, sitting on the grass with his hands 
 upon his knees, and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shin- 
 ing down into his eyes, deepening them into that peculiar 
 look, worth any so-called "handsome eyes;" "Phineas, I won- 
 der how soon we shall have to rise up from this quiet, easy 
 life, and fight our battles in the world. Also, I wonder if we 
 are ready for it." 
 
 "I think you are." 
 
 "I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could resist doing 
 anything wrong, if it were pleasant. So many wrong things 
 are pleasant just now, instead of rising to-morrow, and go- 
 ing into the little dark counting-house, and scratching paper 
 from eight till six, shouldn't I like to break away! Dash out 
 into the world, take to all sorts of wild freaks, do all sorts of 
 grand things, and perhaps never come back to the tanning 
 any more." 
 
 "Never, any more." 
 
 "No, no! I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should 
 do such a wrong thing; but merely that I sometimes feel the 
 wish to do it. I can't help it; it's my Apollyon that I have to 
 fight with everybody keeps a private Apollyon, I fancy. 
 Now, Phineas, be content; my Apollyon is beaten down." 
 
 He rose up, but I thought that, in the red glow of the 
 twilight, he looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to 
 help me up from the grass. We went into the house together, 
 silently. 
 
 After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, John 
 prepared to leave as usual. He went to bid good-night to my 
 father, who was sitting meditatively over the fireless hearth- 
 place, sometimes poking the great bow-pot of fennel and 
 asparagus, as in winter he did the coals; an instance of 
 obliviousness which, in my sensible and acute father, argued 
 very deep cogitation on some subject or other. 
 
 "Good-night,'' said John, twice over, before his master heard 
 him,
 
 18 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Eh? Oh, good-night, good-night, lad. Stay! Halifax, 
 what hast thee got to do to-morrow?" 
 
 "Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in; I 
 cleared off the week's accounts last night, as usual." 
 
 "Ay, to-morrow I shall look over all thy books, and see how 
 thee stand'st, and what further work thou art n't for. There- 
 fore, take a day's holiday, if thee likes." 
 
 We thanked him warmly. "There, John,'' whispered I, 
 "you may have your wish, and run wild to-morrow." 
 
 He said, "the wish had gone out of him." So we planned 
 a sweet lazy day under the midsummer sky, in some fields 
 about a mile off, called the Vineyards. 
 
 The morning came and we took our way thither, under 
 the Abbey walls, and along a lane, shaded on one side by the 
 "willows in the water-courses." We came out in those quiet 
 hay-fields, which, tradition says, had once grown wine for the 
 rosy monks close by, and, history avers, were_ afterward wa- 
 tered by a darker stream than the blood of grapes. The 
 Vineyards had been a battle-field; and under the long wavy 
 grass, and the roots of the wild apple-trees, slept many a York- 
 ist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrow 
 turned out a white bone but more often the relics were un- 
 disturbed, and the meadows used as pastures or hay-fields. 
 
 John and I lay down on some wind-rows, and sunned our- 
 selves in the warm and delicious air. How beautiful even-- 
 thing was! so very still! with the Abbey tower always the 
 most picturesque point in our Norton Bury views showing 
 so near, that it almost seemed to rise up out of the fields and 
 hedge-rows. 
 
 "Well, David," and 1 turned to the long, lazy figure beside 
 me, which had considerablv flattened the hay; are you sat- 
 isfied?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring 
 to a few of the infinitude of subjects we used to compare notes 
 upon; though we were neither of us given to wordiness, and 
 never talked but when we had something to say. Often as 
 on this day we sat for hours in a pleasant dreaminess, 
 scarcely exchanging a word; nevertheless, I could generally 
 track John's thoughts, as they went wandering on, ay, as 
 clearly as one might track a stream through a wood; some- 
 times like to-day I failed.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 59 
 
 In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and 
 cheese eaten slowly and with graceful dignity, in order to 
 make dinner a more important and lengthy affair he said 
 abruptly: 
 
 "Phineas, don't you think this field is rather dull? Shall 
 we go somewhere else? not if it tires you, though." 
 
 I protested the contrary, my health being much above the 
 average this summer. But just as we were quitting the field 
 we met two rather odd-looking persons entering it, young- 
 old persons they seemed, who might own to any age or any oc- 
 cupation. Their dress, especially that of the younger, 
 amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness and home- 
 liness, such as gray ribbed stockings and shining paste shoe- 
 buckles, rusty velvet small-clothes and a coat of blue cloth. 
 But the wearer carried off this anomalous costume with an 
 easy, condescending air, full of pleasantness, humor, and 
 grace. 
 
 "Sir," said he, approaching John Halifax, with" a bow that 
 I feel sure the "first gentleman of his day," as loyal folk then 
 entitled the Prince Regent, could not have surpassed "Sir, 
 will you favor me by informing us how far it is to Coltham?" 
 
 "Ten miles, and the stage will pass here in three hours." 
 
 "Thank you; at present I have little to do with the at 
 least with that stage. Young gentleman, excuse our continu- 
 ing our dessert, in fact, I may say our dinner. Are you con- 
 noisseurs in turnips?" 
 
 He offered us with a polite gesture one of the "swedes" 
 he was munching. I declined; but John, out of a deeper deli- 
 cacy than I could boast, accepted it. 
 
 "One might dine worse," he said; "I have done, some- 
 times." 
 
 "It was a whim of mine, sir. But I am not the first re- 
 markable person who has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury 
 fields ay, and turned field-preacher afterward the cele- 
 brated John Philip- 
 Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers in- 
 terposed with a nudge, indicating silence. 
 
 "My companion is right, sir," he continued. "I will not 
 betray our illustrious friend by mentioning his surname; he 
 is a great man now, and might not wish it generally known 
 that he had dined off turnips. May I give you instead my 
 own humble name?"
 
 60 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He gave it me; but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his 
 reticence, and not indulge the world therewith. It was a 
 name wholly out of my sphere, both then and now; but I 
 know it has since risen into note among the people of the 
 world. I believe, too, its owner has carried up to the topmost 
 height of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanly spirit, and 
 kindly heart, which he showed when sitting with us and eat- 
 ing swedes. Still, I will not mention his surname. I will 
 only call him "Mr. Charles/' 
 
 "Now, having satisfactorily 'munched, and munched, and 
 munched/ like the sailor's wife who had chestnuts in her lap 
 are you acquainted with my friend, Mr. William Shakes- 
 peare, young gentleman? I must try to fulfill the other 
 duties of existence. You said the Coltham mail passed here 
 in three hours? Very well. I have the honor of wishing 
 you a very good-day, Mr. " 
 
 "Halifax." 
 
 "And yours?" 
 
 "Fletcher." 
 
 "Any connection with him who went partnership with the 
 worthy Beaumont?" 
 
 "My father has no partner, sir," said I. But John, whose 
 reading had latterly surpassed mine, and whom nothing ever 
 puzzled, explained that I came from the same old stock as 
 the brothers Phineas and Giles Fletcher. Upon which Mr. 
 Charles, who till now had somewhat overlooked me, took oil 
 his hat, and congratulated me on my illustrious descent. 
 
 "That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world," 
 said John, smiling; "I wonder what the world is like!" 
 
 "Did you not see something of it as a child?" 
 
 "Only the worst and lowest side: not the one I want to see 
 now. What business do you think that Mr. Charles is in? A 
 clever man, anyhow; I should like to see him again." 
 
 "So should I." 
 
 Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our now 
 acquaintance, we strolled along till we came to a spot called 
 by the country people "the Bloody Meadow," from being, 
 like several other places in the neighborhood, the scene of 
 one of those terrible slaughters chronicled in the wars of the 
 Roses. It was a sloping field, through the middle of which 
 ran a little stream down to the meadow's end, where, fringed 
 and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. Here,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 61 
 
 too, in all directions, the hay-fields lay, either in green swathes, 
 or tedded, or in the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lane 
 was quite populous with wagons and hay-makers the men in 
 their corduroys and blue hose the women in their trim jack- 
 ets and bright calamanco petticoats. There were more wo- 
 men than men, by far, for the flower of the peasant youth of 
 England had been drafted off to fight against "Bonyparty." 
 Still hay-time was a glorious season, when half our little town 
 turned out, and made holiday in the sunshine. 
 
 "I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems 
 a crowd down in the meadow; and who is that man standing 
 on the hay-cart, on the other side of the stream?" 
 
 "Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. 
 Charles. How he is talking and gesticulating! What can 
 he be at?" 
 
 Without more ado, John leaped the low hedge, and ran 
 down the slope of the Bloody Meadow. I followed less 
 quickly. 
 
 There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the sim- 
 ple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a 
 low frame-work on wheels, with a.pole stuck at either of the 
 four corners. He was bareheaded, and his hair hung in grace- 
 ful curls, well powdered. I only hope he had honestly paid 
 the tax, which we were all then exclaiming against so fondly 
 does custom cling to deformity. Despite the powder, the 
 blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches, Mr. Charles was a 
 very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonder the 
 poor hay-makers had collected from all parts to hear him 
 harangue. 
 
 What was he haranguing upon? Could it be, that like 
 his friend, "John Philip," whoever that personage might be, 
 his vocation was that of a field-preacher? It seemed like it, 
 especially judging from the sanctified demeanor of the elder 
 and inferior person who accompanied him, and who sat in the 
 front of the cart, and folded his hands and groaned, after the 
 most approved fashion of a Methodistical "revival." 
 
 We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and 
 shocked; but no! I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no 
 way did he trespass the bounds of reverence and decorum. 
 His harangue, though given as a sermon, was strictly and 
 simply a moral essay, such as might have emanated from any 
 professor's chair. In fact, as I afterward learned, he had
 
 62 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 given for his text one which the simple rustics received in all 
 respect, as coming from a higher and holier volume than 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 "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 burdened 
 with a queer constraint, that now and then resulted in an 
 irrepressible twitch of the corners of his flexible mouth be- 
 came those of a man beguiled into real earnestness. We of 
 Norton Bury had never heard such eloquence. 
 
 "Who can he be, John? Isn't it wonderful?" 
 
 But John never heard me. His whole attention was riveted 
 on the speaker. Such oratory a compound of graceful ac- 
 tion, polished language, and brilliant imagination, came to 
 him as a positive revelation a revelation from the world of 
 intellect, the world which he longed after with all the ardor 
 of youth. 
 
 What that harangue would have seemed like, could we 
 have heard it with maturer ears, I know not; but at eighteen 
 and twenty it literally dazzled us. No wonder it affected the 
 rest of the audience. Feeble men, leaning on forks and 
 rakes, shook their old heads sagely, as if they understood it 
 all. And when the speaker alluded to the horrors of war 
 a subject which then came so bitterly home to every heart in 
 Britain many women melted into sobs and tears. At last, 
 when the orator himself, moved by the pictures he had con- 
 jured up, paused suddenly, quite exhausted, and asked for a 
 slight contribution "to help a deed of charity," there was a 
 general rush toward him. 
 
 "No, no, my good people," said Mr. Charles, recovering his 
 natural manner, though a little clouded, I thought, by a 
 faint shade of remorse. "No, I will not take from any one 
 more than a penny; and then only if they are quite sure they 
 can spare it. Thank you, my worthy man. Thanks, my 
 bonny young lass I hope your sweetheart will soon be back 
 from the wars. Thank you all, my 'very worthy and approved 
 good masters/ and a fair harvest to you." 
 
 He bowed them away, in a dignified and graceful manner, 
 still standing on the hay-cart. The honest folk trooped off,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 63 
 
 having "no more time to waste, and left the field in possession 
 of Mr. Charles, his co-mate, and ourselves, whom I do not 
 think he had as yet noticed. 
 
 He descended from the cart. His companion burst into 
 roars of laughter; but Mr. Charles looked grave. 
 
 "Poor, honest souls!'' said he, wiping his brows I am not 
 sure that it was only his brows. "Hang me if I'll be at this 
 trick again, Yates." 
 
 "It was a trick then, sir," said John, advancing. "I am 
 sorry for it." 
 
 "So am I, young man,*' returned the other, no way discon- 
 certed; indeed, he seemed a person whose frank temper noth- 
 ing could disconcert. "But starvation is excuse me un- 
 pleasant; and necessity has no law. It is of vital consequence 
 that I should reach Coltham to-night; and after walking 
 twenty miles, one cannot easily walk ten more, and afterward 
 appear as Macbeth to an admiring audience." 
 
 "You are an actor?" 
 
 "I am, please your worship 
 
 " 'A poor player, 
 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is seen no more.' " 
 
 There was inexpressible pathos in his tone, and his fine face 
 looked thin and worn it did not take much to soften both 
 John's feelings and mine toward the "poor player." Besides, 
 we had lately been studying Shakespeare, who, for the first 
 time of reading, generally sends all young people tragedy- 
 mad. 
 
 "You acted well to-day," said John; "all the folk here took 
 you for a Methodist preacher." 
 
 "Yet I never meddled with theology only common moral- 
 ity. You cannot say I did." 
 
 John thought a moment and then answered: 
 
 "No. But what put the scheme into your head?" 
 
 "The fact that under a like necessity, the same amusing 
 play was played out here years ago, as I told you, by John 
 Philip no, I will not conceal his name, the greatest actor and 
 the truest gentleman our English stage has ever seen John 
 Philip Kemble." 
 
 And he raised his hat, with sincere reverence. We too had 
 heard at least John had of this wonderful man.
 
 64 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles' society was strongly 
 upon him. It was no wonder. More brilliant, more versa- 
 tile talent, I never saw. He turned "from grave to gay, from 
 lively to severe" appearing in all phases like the gentleman, 
 the scholar, and the man of the world. And neither John 
 nor I had ever met any one of these character, 1 ?, all so irresis- 
 tibly alluring at our age. 
 
 I say our, because though I followed where he led, I always 
 did it of my own will likewise. 
 
 The afternoon began to wane, while we, with our two com- 
 panions, yet sat talking by the brook-side. Mr. Charles had 
 washed his face, and his travel-sore, blistered feet, and we had 
 induced him, and the man he called Yates. to share our rem- 
 nants of bread and cheese. 
 
 "iSTow," he said, starting up, "I am ready to do battle again, 
 even with the Thane of Fife who, to-night, is one Johnson, 
 a fellow of six feet and twelve stone. What is the hour, Mr 
 Halifax?" 
 
 "Mr. Halifax" (I felt pleased to hear him, for the first 
 time, so entitled) had, unfortunately, no watch among his 
 worldly possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he 
 made a near guess, by calculating the position of his unfail- 
 ing time-piece, the sun. It was four o'clock. 
 
 "Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentleman? 
 Surely you would not lose such a rare treat as 'Macbeth,' 
 with I will not say my humble self but with that divine 
 Siddons. Such a woman! Shakespeare himself might lean 
 out of Elysium to watch her. You will join us?" 
 
 John made a silent, dolorous negative, as he had done once 
 or twice before, when the actor urged us to accompany 'him 
 to Coltham, for a few hours only we might be back by mid- 
 night, easily. 
 
 "What do you think, Phineas?" said John, when we stood 
 -in the high-road, waiting for the coach; "I have money and 
 we have so little pleasure we would send word to your 
 father. Do you think it would be wrong?'' 
 
 I could not say; and to this minute, viewing the question 
 nakedly in a strict and moral sense, I cannot say either, 
 whether or no it was an absolute crime; therefore, being ac- 
 customed to read my wrong or right in "David's eyes," I re- 
 mained perfectly passive. 
 
 We waited by the hedge-side for several minutes. Mr.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 65 
 
 Charles ceased his urging, half in dudgeon, save that he was 
 too pleasant a man really to take offense at anything. Kis 
 conversation was chiefly directed to me. John took no part 
 therein, but strolled about plucking at the hedge. 
 
 When the stage appeared down the winding of the road, I 
 was utterly ignorant of what he meant us to do, or if 'he had 
 any definite purpose at all. 
 
 It came the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook 
 hands with us and mounted, paying his own fare and that of 
 Yates with their handful of charity-pennies, which caused a 
 few minutes' delay in counting, .and a great deal of good- 
 humored joking, as good-humoredly borne. 
 
 Meanwhile John put his two hands on my shoulders, and 
 looked hard into my face he was slightly flushed and ex- 
 cited, I thought. 
 
 "Phineas, are you tired?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "Do you feel strong enough to go to Coltham? Would it 
 do you no harm? Would you like to go?" 
 
 To all these hurried questions I answered with as hurried 
 an affirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked 
 to go. _ 
 
 "It is only for once; your father would not grudge us the 
 pleasure, and he is too busy to be out of the tan-yard before 
 midnight. We will be home soon after then, if I carry you 
 on my back all the ten miles. Come, mount, we'll go." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Mr. Charles, and leaned over to help me up 
 the coach's side. John followed, and the crisis was past. 
 
 But I noticed that for several miles he hardly spoke one 
 word. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 as we lived to Coltham, I had only been there once in 
 my life; but John Halifax knew the town pretty well, having 
 latterly, in addition to his clerkship, been employed bj my 
 father in going about the neighborhood buying bark. 1 was 
 amused when the coach stopped at an inn, <diich bore the 
 ominous sign of the "Fleece," to see how well accustomed he 
 seemed to be to the ways of the place. He deported himself 
 with perfect self -possession; the waiter served him respectfully.
 
 66 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He had evidently taken his position in the world at least, 
 our little world he was no longer a boy, but a man. I was 
 glad to see it; leaving everything in his hands, I lay down 
 where he placed me in the inn parlor, and watched him giving 
 his orders and walking about. Sometimes I thought his eyes 
 were restless and unquiet, but his manner was as composed as 
 usual. 
 
 Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee- 
 house Yard, where the theater then was. 
 
 ''A poor, barn-like place, I believe," said John, stopping 
 in his walk up and down the room, to place my cushions more 
 easy; "they should build a new one, now Coltiiam is growing 
 up into such a fashionable town. I wish I could take you to 
 see the 'Well-walk/ with all the fine people promenading. 
 But you must rest, Phineas." 
 
 I consented, being indeed rather weary. 
 
 "You will like to see Mrs. Siddons, whom we have so often 
 talked about? She is not young now, Mr. Charles says, but 
 magnificent still. She first came out in this same theater, 
 more than twenty years ago. Yates saw her. I wonder, 
 Phineas, if your father ever did?" 
 
 "Oh no! my father would not enter a play-house for the 
 world." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know 
 he did not bring me up in the Society, and its restrictions are 
 not binding upon me." 
 
 "True, true." And he resumed his walk, but not his 
 cheerfulness. "If it were myself alone now, of course, what 
 I myself hold to be a lawful pleasure I have a right to enjoy; 
 or, if not, being yet a lad and under a master well, I will 
 bear the consequences," added he, rather proudly; "but to 
 share them Phineas," turning suddenly to me, "would you 
 like to go home? I'll take you." 
 
 I protested earnestly against any such thing; told him I was 
 sure we were doing nothing wrong which was, indeed, my 
 belief; entreated him to be merry and enjoy himself, and suc- 
 ceeded so well that in a few minutes we had started in a flutter 
 of gayety and excitement for Coffee-house Yard. 
 
 It was a poor place little better than a barn, as Mr. 
 Charles had said built in a lane leading out of the principal 
 street. This lane was almost blocked up with play-goers of
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 67 
 
 all ranks and in all sorts of equipages, from the coach-and- 
 six to the sedan-chair, mingled with a motley crowd on foot, 
 all jostling, fighting, and screaming, till the place became a 
 complete bear-garden. 
 
 "Oh, John! take care!" and I clung to'his arm. 
 
 "Never mind! I'm big enough and strong enough for any 
 crowd. Hold on, Phineas." If I had been a woman, and 
 the woman that he loved, he could not have been more tender 
 over my weakness. The physical weakness which, however 
 humiliating to myself, and doubtless contemptible in most 
 men's eyes was yet dealt by the hand of Heaven, and, as 
 such, regarded by John only with compassion. 
 
 The crowd grew denser and more fonnidable. I looked be- 
 yond it, up toward the low hills that rose in various directions 
 round the town; how green and quiet they were, in the still 
 June evening! I only wished we were safe back again at 
 Norton Bury. 
 
 But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a 
 sedan-chair was borne through or attempted to be for the 
 effort failed. There was a scuffle, and one of the bearers 
 was knocked down and hurt. Some cried "Shame!" others 
 seemed to think this incident only added to the frolic. At 
 last, in the midst of the confusion, a lady put her head out of 
 the sedan and gazed around her. 
 
 It was a remarkable countenance; once seen, you could 
 never forget it. Pale, rather large and hard in outline, an 
 aquiline nose full, passionate, yet sensitive lips and very 
 dark eyes. She spoke, and the voice belonged naturally to 
 such a face. "Good people, let me pass. I am Sarah Sid- 
 dons." 
 
 The crowd divided instantaneously, and, in moving, set 
 up a cheer that must have rang through all the town. There 
 was a minute's pause while she bowed and smiled such a 
 smile! and then the sedan curtain closed. 
 
 "Now's the time only hold fast to me!" whispered John, 
 as he sprang forward, dragging me after him. In another 
 second he had caught up the pole dropped by the man who 
 was hurt; and before I well knew what we were about, we 
 both stood safe inside the entrance of the theater. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers 
 a most simple action but so elevated in the doing, that even 
 it, I thought, could not bring her to the level of common
 
 68 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 humanity. The tall, cloaked, and hooded figure, and the 
 tones that issued thence, made her, even in that narrow pas- 
 sage, under the one flaring tallow candle, a veritable Queen of 
 Tragedy at least, so she seemed to us two. 
 
 The one man was paid overpaid, apparently, from his 
 thankfulness and she turned to John Halifax. 
 
 "I regret, young man, that you should have had so much 
 trouble. Here is some requital." 
 
 He took the money, selected from it one silver coin, and 
 returned the rest. 
 
 "I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that 
 I once had the honor of being useful to Mrs. Siddons." 
 
 She looked at him keenly out of her wonderful dark eyes, 
 then courtesied with grave dignity. "I thank you, sir," she 
 said, and passed on. 
 
 A few minutes after some underling of the theater found 
 us out and brought us, "by Mrs. Siddons' desire," to the best 
 places the house could afford. 
 
 It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when 
 I look back upon it, my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, 
 it was a glorious night! 
 
 Before the curtain rose we had time to glance about us on 
 that scene, to both entirely new the inside of a theater. 
 Shabby and small as the place was, it was filled with all the 
 beau monde of Coltham, which then, patronized by royalty, 
 rivaled even Bath in its fashion and folly. Such a dazzle of 
 diamonds and spangled turbans and Prince-of- Wales' plumes. 
 Such an odd mingling of costume, which was then in a tran- 
 sition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to the stately 
 silken petticoats and. long bodices, surmounted by the prim 
 and decent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun to 
 flaunt in the French fashions of flimsy muslins, short-waisted 
 narrow-skirted. These we had already heard Jael furiously 
 inveighing against; for Jael, Quakeress as she was, could not 
 quite smother her original propensity toward the decoration 
 of "the flesh," and betrayed a suppressed but profound in- 
 terest in the same. 
 
 John and I quite agreed with her that it was painful to see 
 gentle English girls clad, or rather unclad, after the fashion 
 of our enemies across the Channel; now, unhappy nation! 
 sunk to zero in politics, religion and morals where high- 
 bred ladies went about dressed as heathen goddesses, with bare
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 68 
 
 amis and bare sandaled feet, gaining none of the pure sim- 
 plicity of the ancient world, and losing all the decorous dig- 
 nity of our modern times. 
 
 We two who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for wo- 
 manhood, in its most ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I 
 believe, were, in our ignorance, expecting to behold in every 
 woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or a Desdemona felt no par- 
 ticular attraction toward the ungracefully attired, flaunting, 
 simpering belles of Coltham. 
 
 But the play began. 
 
 I am not going to follow it; all the world has heard of the 
 Lady Macbeth of Mrs. Siddons. This, the first and last play 
 I ever witnessed, stands out to my memory, after more than 
 half a century, as clear as on that night. Still I can see her 
 in her first scene, "reading a letter" that wondrous woman, 
 who, in spite of her modern black velvet and point-lace, did 
 not act, but was Lady Macbeth; still I hear the awe-struck, 
 questioning, weird-like tone, that sent an involuntary shud- 
 der through the house, as if supernatural things were abroad 
 "They made themselves air!" And still there quivers 
 through the silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken 
 "All the perfumes of Arabia will never sweeten this little 
 hand!" 
 
 Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung 
 on her every breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of 
 time. But they have whirled on whirled her away with them 
 into the infinite, and into earthly oblivion! People tell me 
 that a new generation only smiles at the traditional glory of 
 Sarah Siddons. They never saw her. For me, I shall go 
 down to the grave worshiping her still. 
 
 Of him whom I call Mr. Charles, I have little to say. John 
 and I both smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly 
 bearing subdued into that poor, whining, sentimental craven, 
 the stage Macbeth. Yet I believe he acted it well. But we 
 irresistibly associated this idea with that of turnip-munching 
 and hay-cart oratory. And when, during the first colloquy 
 of Bar. quo with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunity of 
 winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the parapher- 
 nalia of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of 
 Cawclor aught else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. 
 Charles. I never saw him after that night. He is still liv-
 
 70 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ing may his old age have been as peaceful as his youth was 
 kind and gay. 
 
 The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, 
 but we would not stay for that. We staggered, half -blind and 
 dazzled both in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, 
 John almost carrying me. Then we paused, and leaning 
 against a post which was surmounted by one of the half-dozen 
 oil-lamps, which illumined the town, tried to regain our men- 
 tal equilibrium. 
 
 John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his 
 brow, he bared it to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard 
 breath. He was very pale, I saw. 
 
 "John?" 
 
 He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "What did 
 you say? Are you cold?" 
 
 "No." He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 "Well," said he, after a pause, "we have had our pleasure, 
 and it is over. Now we must go back to the old ways again. 
 I wonder what o'clock it is?" 
 
 He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly 
 over the silent town. I counted the strokes eleven! 
 
 Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the 
 lamp. Until this minute we had taken no note of time. 
 Eleven o'clock! How should we get home to Norton Bury 
 that night? 
 
 For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; 
 my limbs almost sank under me. 
 
 "What must we do, John?" 
 
 "Do! Oh! 'tis quite easy. You cannot walk you shall 
 not walk we must hire a gig, and drive home. I have 
 enough money all my month's wages see!" He felt in his 
 pockets one after the other; his countenance grew blank. 
 "Why, where is my money gone to?" 
 
 Where, indeed! But that it was gone and irretrievably- 
 most likely stolen when we were so wedged in the crowd 
 there could be no manner of doubt. And I had not a groat. 
 I had little use for money, and rarely carried any. 
 
 "Would not somebody trust us?" suggested I. 
 
 "I never asked an}'body for credit in my life and for a 
 horse and gig they'd laugh at me. Still yes stay here a 
 minute and I'll try."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 71 
 
 He came back, though not immediately, and took my arm 
 with a reckless laugh. 
 
 "It's of no use, Phineas, I'm not so respectable as I 
 thought. What's to be done?" 
 
 Ayl what indeed! Here we were, two friendless youths, 
 with not a penny in our pockets, and ten miles away from 
 home. How to get there, and at midnight, too, was a very 
 serious question. We consulted a minute and then John 
 said, firmly: 
 
 "We must make the best of it and start. Every instant is 
 precious. Your father will think we have fallen into some 
 harm. Come, Phineas, I'll help you on." 
 
 His strong, cheery voice, added to the necessity of the cir- 
 cumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his arm, 
 and we marched on bravely through the shut-up town, and 
 for a mile or two along the high-road leading to Norton Bury. 
 There was a cool, fresh breeze; and I often think one can 
 walk so much further by night than by day. For some time, 
 listening to John's talk about the stars he had lately added 
 astronomy to the many things he tried to learn and recall- 
 ing with him all that we had heard and seen this day, I hardly 
 felt my weariness. 
 
 But gradually it grew upon me; my pace lagged slower and 
 slower even the scented air of the midsummer night im- 
 parted no freshness. John wound his young arm, strong and 
 firm as iron, round my waist, and we got on awhile in that 
 way. 
 
 "Keep up, Phineas. There's a hay-rick near; I'll wrap you 
 in my coat, and you shall rest there; an hour or two will not 
 matter now we shall get home by daybreak." 
 
 I feebly assented; but it seemed to me that we never should 
 get home at least, I never should. For a short way more, I 
 dragged myself or rather, was dragged along; then the stars, 
 the shadowy fields, and the winding, white high-road mingled 
 and faded from me. I lost all consciousness! 
 
 When I came to myself, I was lying by a tiny brook at the 
 road-side, my head resting on John's knees. He was bathing 
 my forehead; I could not see him, but I heard his smothered 
 moan. 
 
 "David, don't mind. I shall be well directly." 
 
 "Oh, Phineas, Phineas! I thought I had killed you." 
 
 He said no more; but I fancied that under cover of the
 
 72 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 night he yielded to what his manhood might have been 
 ashamed of yet need not a few tears. 
 
 I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. "Why, 
 it is daybreak! How far are we from Norton Bury?" 
 "Not very far. Don't stir a step. I shall carry you." 
 "Impossible!" , 
 
 "Nonsense; I have done it for half a mile already. Come, 
 mount! I am not going to have Jonathan's death laid at Da- 
 vid's door." 
 
 And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. 
 What strength supported him I cannot tell; but he certainly 
 carried me with many rests between, and pauses, during 
 which I walked a quarter of a mile or so the whole way to 
 Norton Bury. 
 
 The light broadened and broadened; when we reached my 
 father's door, haggard and miserable, it was in the pale sun- 
 shine 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 watch- 
 ers there. All the windows were closed, as if the whole 
 peaceful establishment were taking its sleep, prior to the early 
 stirring of Norton Bury household. Even John's loud knock- 
 ing was some time before it was answered. 
 
 I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five 
 awful minutes seemed interminable. I could not have borne 
 them, save for John's voice in my ear. 
 
 "Courage, I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no 
 absolute sin, and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!" 
 At the five minutes' end, my father opened the door. He 
 was dressed as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat 
 up watching, or had suffered any anxiety, I never found out. 
 He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and 
 closed it behind us. But we were certain from his face that 
 he knew all. It was so; some neighbor driving home from 
 Coltham had taken pains to tell Abel Fletcher where he had 
 seen his son at the very last place a Friend's son ought to 
 be seen the play-house. We knew that it was by no means 
 to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my father
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 73 
 
 reaching the parlor, and opening the shutters, that the 
 hard daylight should shame us more and more asked the 
 stern question: 
 
 "Phineas, where hast thee been?" 
 
 John answered for me. "At the theater at Coltham. It 
 was my fault. He went because I wished to go." 
 
 "And wherefore didst thee wish to go?" 
 
 ^Ylierefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh, Mr. 
 Fletcher, were you never young like me?" 
 
 My father made no reply; John gathered courage. 
 
 "It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong 
 I think now that it was but the temptation was hard. My 
 life here is dull; I long sometimes for a little amusement a 
 little change." 
 
 "Thee shall have it." 
 
 That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb. 
 
 "And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?" 
 
 "Not a day not an hour. It was a sudden freak of mine." 
 (My father shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) 
 '"Sir Abel Fletcher did I ever tell you a lie? If you will 
 not believe me, believe your own son. Ask Phineas no, no, 
 ask him nothing!" And he came in great distress to the sofa 
 where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas! how cruel I have been to 
 you!" 
 
 I tried to smile at him, being past speaking but my fa- 
 ther put John aside. 
 
 "Young man, I can take care of my son. Thee shalt not 
 lead him into harm's way any more. Go I have been mis- 
 taken in thee!" 
 
 If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, re- 
 proached us, and stormed at us with all the ill-language that 
 men of the world use! but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I 
 have been mistaken in thee!" was ten times worse. 
 
 John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had 
 ebbed away. 
 
 "I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee. Thee seemed a 
 lad to my mind; I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, 
 I meant to have bound thee 'prentice to me, and in good time 
 to have taken thee into the business. Now " 
 
 There was a silence. At last John muttered, in a low, 
 broken-hearted voice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I 
 might, perhaps, earn my living elsewhere; shall I?"
 
 74 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him 
 (oh, David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No, I do not 
 wish that. At least, not at present." 
 
 I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart. John came 
 over to me, and we clasped hands. 
 
 "John, you will not go?" 
 
 "No, I will stay to redeem my character with your father. 
 Be content, Phineas, I won't part with you." 
 
 "Young man, thou must," said my father, turning round. 
 
 "But." 
 
 "I have said it, Phineas. I accuse him of no dishonesty, no 
 crime but of weakly yielding, and selfishly causing another to 
 yield, to the temptation of the world. Therefore, as my 
 clerk I retain him; as my son's companion never!" 
 
 We felt that "never" was irrevocable. 
 
 Yet I tried, blindly and despairingly, to wrestle with it; I 
 might as well have flung myself against a stone wall. 
 
 John stood perfectly silent. 
 
 "Don't, Phineas," he whispered at last; "never mind me. 
 Your father is right at least so far as he sees. Let me go 
 perhaps I may come back to you some time. If not 
 
 I moaned out bitter words I hardly knew what I was say- 
 ing. My father took no notice of them, only went to the door 
 and called Jael. 
 
 Then, before the woman came, I had strength enough to 
 bid John go. 
 
 "Good-by don't forget me, don't v 
 
 "I will not," he said; "and if I live, we shall be friends 
 again. Good-by, Phineas." He was gone. 
 
 After that day, though he kept his word, and remained in 
 the tan-yard, and though from time to time I heard of him, 
 always accidentally after that day, for two long years I 
 never once saw the face of John Halifax. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 It was the year 1800, long known in English households as 
 "the dear year." The present generation can have no con- 
 ception of what a terrible time that was war, famine and 
 tumult stalking hand in hand, and no one to stay them. For
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 76 
 
 between the upper and lower classes there was a great gulf 
 fixed; the rich ground the faces of the poor and the poor 
 hated, yet meanly succumbed to the rich. Neither had 
 Christianity enough boldly to cross the line of demarcation, 
 and prove, the humbler, that they were men the higher and 
 wiser, that they were gentlemen. 
 
 These troubles, which were everywhere abroad, reached us 
 even in our quiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, per- 
 sonally, they touched me not, or, at least, only kept fluttering 
 like evil birds outside the dear home-tabernacle, where I and 
 Patience sat, keeping our solemn counsel together for these 
 two years with me had been very hard. 
 
 Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I was 
 seldom told of any worldly cares, still I often fancied things 
 were going ill both within and without our doors. Jael com- 
 plained in an under-key of stinted housekeeping, or boasted 
 aloud of her own ingenuity in making ends meet; and my 
 father's brow grew continually heavier, graver, sterner; some- 
 times so stern that I dared not wage, what was, openly or se- 
 cretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence the 
 bringing back of John Halifax. 
 
 He still remained my father's clerk nay, I sometimes 
 thought he was even advancing in duties and trusts, for I 
 heard of his being sent long journeys up and down England 
 to buy grain Abel Fletcher having added to his tanning 
 business the flour-mill hard by whose lazy whir was so fa- 
 miliar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these journeys 
 my father never spoke; indeed he rarely mentioned John at 
 all. However he might employ and even trust him in busi- 
 ness relations, I knew that in every other way he was inexor- 
 able. 
 
 And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No underhand 
 or clandestine friendship would he admit no, not even for 
 my sake. I knew quite well that until he could walk in 
 openly, honorably, proudly, he never would re-enter my fa- 
 ther's door. Twice only he had written to me on my two 
 birthdays my father himself giving me in silence the un- 
 sealed letters. They told me what I already was sure of 
 that I held, and always should hold, my steadfast place in his 
 friendship. Nothing more. 
 
 One other fact I noticed; that a little lad, afterward dis- 
 covered to be Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard
 
 76 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 working lot of the lost Bill, had somehow crept into our 
 household as errand-boy, or gardener's boy, and being "cute," 
 and a "scholard," was greatly patronized by Jael. I noticed, 
 too, that the said Jem, whenever he came in my way, in house 
 or garden, was the most capital "little foot-page" that ever 
 invalid had, knowing intuitively all my needs, and serving me 
 with an unfailing devotion which quite surprised and puzzled 
 me at the time. It did not afterward. 
 
 Summer was passing. People began to watch with anxious 
 looks the thin 'harvest-fields as Jael often told me, when 
 she came home from her afternoon walks. "It was piteous 
 to see them," she said; "only July, and the quartern loaf 
 nearly three shillings, and meal four shillings a peck." 
 
 And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for 
 several days a week the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sun- 
 days; for my father kept his grain locked, up, waiting for 
 what he wisely judged might be a worse harvest than the 
 last. But Jael, though she said nothing, often looked at the 
 flour-mill, and shook her head. And after one market-day 
 when she came in rather "flustered," saying there had been a 
 mob outside the mill, until "that young man, Halifax," had 
 gone out and spoken to them she never once allowed me to 
 take my rare walk under the trees in the Abbey yard; nor, if 
 she could help it, would she even let me sit watching the lazy 
 Avon from the garden- wall. 
 
 One Sunday it was the first of August, for my father had 
 just come back from meeting, very much later than usual; 
 and Jael said he had gone, as was his usual custom on that his 
 wedding day to the Friends' burial-ground in St. Mary's Lane, 
 where, far away from her own kindred and people, my poor 
 young mother had been 'laid: on this one Sunday I began to 
 see that things were going wrong. Abel Fletcher sat at din- 
 ner, wearing the heavy, hard look which had grown upon his 
 face, not unmingled with the wrinkles planted by physical 
 pain. For, with all his temperance, he could not quite keep 
 down his hereditary enemy, gout; and this week it had 
 clutched him. pretty hard. 
 
 Dr. Jessop came in, and I stole away gladly enough,, and sat 
 for an hour in my old place in the garden, idly watching the 
 stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, 
 more as a pretty bit in the landscape, than as a fact of vital
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 77 
 
 importance, in how many places the half -ripe corn was already 
 cut, and piled in thinly-scattered sheaves over the fields. 
 
 After the doctor left my father sent for me and all his 
 household; in the which, creeping humbly after the woman- 
 kind, was now numbered the lad Jem. That Abel Fletcher 
 was not quite himself was proved by the fact that his un- 
 lighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoon tankard of 
 ale sank from foam to flatness, untouched. 
 
 He first addressed Jael. "Woman, was it thee who cooked 
 the dinner to-day?" 
 
 She gave a dignified affirmative. 
 
 "Thee must give us no more such dinners. No cakes, no 
 pastry kickshaws, and only wheaten bread enough for abso- 
 lute necessity. Our neighbors shall not say that Abel 
 Fletcher has flour in his mill, and plenty in his house while 
 there is famine abroad in the land. So take heed." 
 
 "I do take heed," answered Jael, stanchly. " Thee canst 
 not say I waste a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not 
 ity the poor? On First-day a woman cried after me about 
 wasting good flour in starch to-day, behold!" 
 
 And with a spasmodic bridling up, she pointed to the bouf- 
 fante which used to stand up stiffly round her withered old 
 throat and stick out in front like a pouter-pigeon. Alas! its 
 glory and starch were alike departed; it now appeared nothing 
 but a heap of crumpled and yellowish muslin. Poor Jael! 
 I knew this was the most heroic personal sacrifice she could 
 have made, yet I could not help smiling; even my father did 
 the same. 
 
 "Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher?" cried she, angrily. 
 "Preach not to others while the sin lies on thy own head." 
 
 And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular inten- 
 tion, as, advancing sternly, she pointed to her master's pate, 
 where his long-worn powder was scarcely distinguishable from 
 the snows of age. He bore the assault gravely and unshrink- 
 ingly, merely saying, "Woman, peace!" 
 
 "Nor while," pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last 
 and most poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath "while the 
 poor folk be starving in scores about Norton Bury, and the 
 rich folk there will not sell their wheat tinder famine price. 
 Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher." 
 
 My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or con- 
 science; and then Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the
 
 78 JOHN HALIFAX. GENTLEMAN. 
 
 other servants out of the room, and tended her master as care- 
 fully as if she had not insulted him. In his fits of gout, my 
 father, unlike most men, became the quieter and easier to 
 manage, the more he suffered. He had a long fit of pain, 
 which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at last 
 relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said to 
 me: 
 
 "Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I thought 
 the mill would make up for it. But if it will not, it will not. 
 Wouldst thee mind, my son, being left a little poorer when I 
 am gone?" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Well, then, in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, 
 as that lad has advised and begged me to do these weeks past. 
 He is a sharp lad, and I am getting old. Perhaps he is 
 right." 
 
 "Who father?" I asked, rather hypocritically. 
 
 "Thee knowest well enough John Halifax." 
 
 I thought it best to say no more; but I never let go one 
 thread of hope which could draw me nearer to my fondest 
 desire. 
 
 On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as 
 usual. I spent the day in my bed-room, which looked over 
 the garden, where I saw nothing but the waving of the trees 
 and the birds hopping over the smooth grass; heard nothing 
 but the soft chime, hour after hour, of the Abbey bells. 
 What was passing in the world, in the town, or even in the 
 next street, was to me faint as dreams. 
 
 At dinner-time I rose, went down-stairs, and waited for my 
 father; waited one, two, three hours. It was very strange. 
 He never by any chance overstated his time without sending 
 a message home. So, after some consideration as to whether 
 I dare encroach upon his formal habits so much, and after 
 much advice from Jael, who betrayed more anxiety than was 
 at all warranted by the cause she assigned, viz., the spoiled 
 dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to the tan-yard to see after 
 his master. 
 
 He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tan- 
 yard was blocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, 
 starved patience of our Norton Bury poor had come to an 
 end at last they had followed the example of many others, 
 There was a bread-riot in the town.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 79 
 
 God only knows how terrible those "riots" were; when the 
 people rose in desperation, not from some delusion of crazy, 
 blood-thirsty "patriotism," but to get food for themselves, 
 their wives, and children. God only knows what madness 
 was in each individual heart of that concourse of poor 
 wretches, styled '"the mob," when every man took up arms, 
 certain that there were before him but two alternatives, starv- 
 ing or hanging. 
 
 The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was 
 not a large place, and had always abundance of small-pox and 
 fevers to keep the poor down numerically. Jem said it was 
 chiefly about our mill and our tan-yard that the disturbance 
 lay. 
 
 "And where is my father?" 
 
 Jem "didn't know," and looked very much as if he didn't 
 care. 
 
 "Jael, somebody must go at once, and find my father." 
 
 "I am going," said Jael, who had already put on her cloak 
 and hood. Of course, despite all her opposition, I went too. 
 
 The tan-yard was deserted; the mob had divided and gone, 
 one-half to our mill, the rest to another that was lower down 
 the river. I asked of a poor frightened bark-cutter if she 
 knew where my father was? She thought he was gone for the 
 "millingtary," but Mr. Halifax was at the mill now she 
 hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax. 
 
 Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. 
 I had not been in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I did 
 not know John had come already to be called "Mr. Halifax." 
 
 There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father 
 returned. He could not surely be so insane as to go to the 
 mill and John was there. Terribly was my heart divided, 
 but my duty lay with my father. 
 
 Jael sat down in the shed, or marched restlessly between 
 the tan-pits. I went to the end of the yard, and looked down 
 toward the mill. What a half -hour it was! 
 
 At last, exhausted, I sat down on the bark-heap where John 
 and I had once sat as lads. He must now be more than 
 twenty; I wondered if he were altered. 
 
 "Oh, David, David!" I thought, as I listened eagerly for 
 any sounds abroad in the town; "what should I do if any 
 harm came to thee?" 
 
 This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it
 
 80 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 was not my father's it was firmer, quicker, younger. I 
 sprang from the bark-heap. 
 
 "Phinea-j!" 
 
 "John!" 
 
 What a grasp that was both hands! and how fondly and 
 proudly I looked up in his face the still boyish face. But 
 the figure was quite that of a man, now. 
 
 For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he 
 let go my hands, saying hurriedly: 
 
 "Where is your father?" 
 
 "I wish I knew! Gone for the soldiers, they say." 
 
 "No, not that he would never do that. I must go and 
 look for him. Good-by." 
 
 "Nay, dear John!" 
 
 "Can't can't/' said he, firmly, "not while your father for- 
 bids. I must go." And he was gone. 
 
 Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him; 
 marvelling how it was that he who had never known his fa- 
 ther, should uphold so sternly the duty of filial obedience. I 
 think it ought to act as a solemn warning to those who exact 
 so much from the mere fact and name of parenthood, without 
 having in any way fulfilled its duties, that orphans from birth 
 often revere the ideal of that bond far more than those who 
 have known it in realit} r . Always excepting those children 
 to whose blessed lot it has fallen to have the ideal realized. 
 
 In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tan- 
 yard together. He was talking earnestly, and my father was 
 listening ay, listening and to John Halifax! But what- 
 ever the argument was it failed to move him. Greatly troub- 
 led, but stanch as a rock, my old father stood, resting his lame 
 foot on a heap of hides. I went to meet him. 
 
 "Phineas," said John, anxiously, "come and help me. "No, 
 Abel Fletcher," he added, rather proudly, in reply to a sharp 
 suspicious glance at us both, "your son and I only met ten 
 minutes ago, and have scarcely exchanged a word. But we 
 cannot waste time over that matter now. Phinea.-'. help me 
 to persuade your father to eave his property. He will not call 
 for the aid of the law because he is a Friend. Besides, for 
 the same reason it might be useless asking." 
 
 "Verily!" said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile. 
 
 "But he might get his own men to defend his property, and 
 need not do what he is bent on doing go to the mill himself."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 81 
 
 "Surely," was all Abel Fletcher said, planting his oaken 
 stick firmly, as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the 
 river-side, in the direction of the mill. 
 
 I caught his arm "Father, don't go." 
 
 "My son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," 
 as I used to call them tokens of a nature that might have 
 run molten once, and had settled into a hard, molded mass, 
 of which nothing could afterward alter one form or erase one 
 line. "My son, no opposition. Any who try that with me will 
 fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I would have 
 sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the quarter; now they 
 shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. 
 Get thee safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thou likewise." 
 
 But neither went. John held me back as I was following 
 my father. 
 
 "He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please 
 God, I'll take care no harm touches him but you go home." 
 
 That was not to be thought of. Fortunately the time was 
 too brief for argument, so the discussion soon ended. He fol- 
 lowed my father, and I followed him. For Jael, she disap- 
 peared. 
 
 There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, 
 along the river-side; by this we went in silence. When we 
 reached the spot, it was deserted; but further down the river 
 we heard a scuffling, and saw a number of men breaking down 
 our garden-wall. 
 
 "They think he is gone home," whispered John; "we'll 
 get in here the safer. Quick, Phineas." 
 
 We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his 
 pocket, and let us into the mill by a small door the only en- 
 trance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It had 
 good need to be, in such times. 
 
 The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the 
 machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, 
 dangerous stream. We waited there a good while it was the 
 safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my 
 father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. 
 There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a 
 large fortune by a cursed fortune, wrung out of human 
 lives. 
 
 "Oh! how could my father " 
 
 6
 
 82 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you 
 know." 
 
 But while we stood, and with a meaning, but rather grim 
 smile, Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much 
 as bags of gold we heard a hammering at the door below. 
 The rioters were come. 
 
 Miserable "rioters?" A handful of weak, starved men, 
 pelting us with stones and words. One pistol-shot might 
 have routed them all; but my father's doctrine of non-resis- 
 tance forbade. Small as their force seemed, there was some- 
 thing at once formidable and pitiful in the low howl that 
 reached us at times. 
 
 "Bring out the bags! Us mun have bread!" 
 
 "Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!" 
 
 "Abel Fletcher will throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said 
 my father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, 
 half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from be- 
 low. 
 
 "That is well!" exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you 
 thank you, Mr. Fletcher I knew you would yield at last." 
 
 "Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short. 
 
 "Not because they forced you not to save your life but 
 because it was right." 
 
 "Help me with this bag," was all the reply. 
 
 It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young 
 arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up. 
 
 "Now, open the window dash the panes through it mat- 
 ters not. On to the window, I tell thee." 
 
 "But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You can- 
 not oh, no you cannot mean that!" 
 
 "Haul it up to the window, John Halifax." 
 
 But John remained immovable. 
 
 "I must do it myself, then;" and in the desperate effort he 
 made somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. 
 Tortured into frenzy with the pain or else, I will still be- 
 lieve, my old father would not have done such a deed 
 his failing strength seemed doubled and trebled. In an in- 
 stant more he had got the bag half through the window, and 
 the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river 
 below. 
 
 Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very 
 sight of the famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair 
 arose. Some plunged into the water, ere the eddies left by
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 88 
 
 the falling mass had ceased but it was too late. A sharp 
 substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw 
 thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon, thous- 
 ands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, or waded 
 after them, clutching a handful here or there but by the 
 mill pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disap- 
 peared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn 
 on shore. Over even that they fought like demons. 
 
 We could not look at them John and I. He put his hand 
 over his eyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he 
 was, I have never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on 
 his lips. It was a sight that would move any one to cry for 
 pity unto the Great Father of the human family. 
 
 Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion 
 that I think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of 
 anger past, he, ever a just man, could not fail to be struck 
 with what he had done. He seemed subdued, even to some- 
 thing like remorse. 
 
 John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he 
 listened in silence to the shouting outside, and then turned 
 to my father. 
 
 "Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose they will 
 fire the mill next." 
 
 "Let them." 
 
 "Let them? and Phineas is here!" 
 
 My poor father! He rose at once. 
 
 We got him down-stairs he was very lame his ruddy 
 face all drawn and white with pain; but he did not speak one 
 word of opposition, or utter a groan of complaint. 
 
 The flour-mill was built on piles, in the center of the nar- 
 row river. It was only a few steps of bridge-work to either 
 bank. The little door was on the Norton Bury side, and was 
 hid from the opposite shore, where the rioters had now col- 
 lected. In a minute we had crept forth, and dashed out of 
 sight, in the narrow path which had been made from the mill 
 to the tan-yard. 
 
 "Will you take my arm? we must get on fast." 
 
 "Home?" said my father, as John led him passively along. 
 
 "No, sir, not home; they are there before you. Your life's 
 not safe an hour unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it." 
 
 Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stem old 
 Quaker held to his principles still.
 
 84 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Then you must hide for a time both of you. Come to 
 my room. You will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas 
 for your own sake and his own." 
 
 But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. 
 Grasping more tightly both John's arm and mine, which, for 
 the first time in his life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be 
 led whither we chose. So, after this long interval of time, I 
 once more stood in Sally Watkins' small attic, where, ever 
 since I first brought him there, John Halifax had lived. 
 
 Sally knew not of our entrance; she was out watching the 
 rioters. No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honor was safe 
 as a rock. I knew that in the smile with which he pulled off 
 his cap to "Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "Now," said John, hastily smoothing his bed, so that my 
 father might lie down, and wrapping his cloak round me, 
 "you must both be very still. You will likely have to spend 
 the night here. Jem shall bring you a light and supper. 
 You will make yourself easy, Abel Fletcher?" 
 
 "Ay." It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respect- 
 fully, John spoke, and how quietly my father answered. 
 
 "And Phineas" he put his arm round my shoulder in his 
 old way "you will take care of yourself. Are you any 
 stronger than you used to be?" 
 
 I clasped his hand, without reply. My heart melted to 
 hear that tender accent, so familiar once. All was happen- 
 ing for the best, if it only gave me back David. 
 
 "Now good-by I must be off." 
 
 "Whither?" said my father, rousing himself. 
 
 "To try and save the house and the tan-yard." I fear we 
 must give up the mill. No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run 
 no risk, everybody knows me. Besides, I am young. There! 
 see after your father. I shall come back in good time." 
 
 He grasped my hands warmly, then unloosed them, and I 
 heard his step descending the staircase. The room seemed to 
 darken when he went away. 
 
 The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted 
 with pain, lay on the bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky 
 over the housetops, which met in the old angles, with the 
 same blue peeps between. I half forgot all the day's events 
 it seemed but two weeks, instead of two years ago, that John 
 and I had sat in this attic-window, conning our Shakespeare 
 for the first time.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 85 
 
 Ere twilight, I examined John's room. It was a good deal 
 changed; the furniture was improved; a score of ingenious lit- 
 tle contrivances made the tiny attic into a cosy bed-chamber. 
 One corner was full of shelves laden with books, chiefly of a 
 scientific and practical nature. John's taste did not lead him 
 into the current literature of the day; Cowper, Akenside and 
 Peter Pindar, were alike indifferent to him. I found among 
 his books no poet but Shakespeare. 
 
 He evidently still practiced his old mechanical arts. There 
 was lying in the window a telescope the cylinder made of 
 pasteboard into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted! A 
 rough telescope-stand of common deal, stood on the ledge of 
 the roof, from which the field of view must have been satis- 
 factory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragments 
 of skillful handiwork, chiefly meant for machinery on a 
 Lilliputian scale, were strewn about the floor; on a chair, just 
 as he had left it that morning, stood a loom, very small in size, 
 but perfect in its neat workmanship, with a few threads 
 already woven, making some fabric not so very unlike cloth. 
 
 I had gone over all these things, without noticing that my 
 father was awake, and that his sharp eye had observed them 
 likewise. 
 
 "The lad works hard," said he, half to "himself . "He has 
 useful hands, and a clear head." I smiled, but took no notice 
 whatever. 
 
 Evening began to close in less peacefully than usual 
 over Norton Bury; for, whenever I ventured to open the win- 
 dow, we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in the 
 town. I trembled inwardly. But John was prudent as well 
 as brave; besides, "everybody knew him." Surely he was 
 safe. 
 
 Faithfully at supper-time Jem entered. But he could tell 
 us no news; he had kept watch all the time on the staircase, 
 by desire of "Mr. Halifax," so he informed me. My father 
 asked 110 questions, not even about his mill. From his look, 
 sometimes I fancied he yet beheld in fancy these starving 
 men fighting over the precious food, destroyed so willfully 
 nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, if I too harshly 
 use the word; for I think, till the day of his death, that cruel 
 sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father. 
 
 Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that "mas-
 
 86 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ter was looking sprack agin; and warn't this a tidy room, 
 like?" 
 
 I praised it; and supposed his mother was better off now. 
 
 "Ay, she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent; and she 
 sees 'im made comfortable. Not that he wants much, being 
 out pretty much all day." 
 
 "What is he busy about of nights?" 
 
 "Laming," said Jem, with an awed look. "He's terrible 
 wise. But for all that, sometimes he'll teach Charley and me 
 a bit o' the Readamadeasy." (Reading-made-easy, 1 suppose 
 John's hopeful pupil meant). "He's very kind to we, and to 
 mother, too. Her says, that her do, Mr. Halifax " 
 
 "Send the fellow away, Phineas," muttered my father, 
 turning his face to the wall. 
 
 I obeyed. But first I asked in a whisper, if Jem had any 
 idea when "Mr. Halifax" would be back. 
 
 "He said, maybe not till morning. Them's bad folk about. 
 He was going to stop all night, either at your house or at the 
 tan-yard, for fear of a blaze." 
 
 The word made my father start; for in these times well we 
 knew what poor folk meant by "a blaze." 
 
 "My house my tan-yard I must get up this instant 
 help me. He ought to come back that lad Halifax. There's 
 a score of my men at hand Wilkes and Johnson, and Jacob 
 Baines I say, Phineas But thee know'st nothing." 
 
 He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell 
 back, sick with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down 
 again on the bed. 
 
 "Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting 
 as helpless as thee." 
 
 So we kept watch together, all the night through; some- 
 times dozing, sometimes waking up at some slight noise be- 
 low, or at the flicker of the long-wicked candle, which fear 
 converted into the glare of some incendiary fire doubtless 
 our own home. Now and then I heard my father mutter 
 something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. I 
 only prayed. 
 
 Thus the night wore away.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 87 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 After midnight I know not how long, for I lost count of 
 the hours by the Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out 
 after midnight I heard by my father's breathing that he was 
 asleep. I was thankful to see it for his sake, and also for 
 another reason. 
 
 I could not sleep all my faculties were preternaturally 
 alive; my weak body and timid mind became strong and 
 active, able to compass anything. For that one night, at 
 least, I felt myself a man. 
 
 My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing 
 would disturb him till daylight; therefore my divided duty 
 was at an end. I left him, and crept down-stairs into Sally 
 Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, only the faithful warder, 
 Jem, dozed over the dull fire. I touched him on the shoul- 
 der at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down. 
 
 "Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas hope I didn't hurt'ee, sir?" 
 cried he, all but whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, 
 was the most tender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought 
 it were some of them folk that Mr. Halifax ha' gone among/' 
 
 "Where is Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 " Doan't know, sir wish I did! wouldn't be long a finding 
 out, though on'y he says: 'Jem, you stop 'ere wi' they" 3 
 (pointing his thumb up the staircase). "So, Master Phineas, 
 I stop." 
 
 And Jem settled himself, with a doggedly obedient, but 
 most dissatisfied air, down by the fire-place. It was evident 
 nothing would move him thence; so he was as safe a guard 
 over my poor father's slumber as the mastiff in the tan-yard, 
 who was as brave as a lion, and as docile as a child. My last 
 lingering hesitation ended. 
 
 "Jem, lend me your coat and hat. I'm going out into 
 the town." 
 
 Jem was so astonished that he stood with open mouth 
 while I took the said garments from him, and unbolted the 
 door. At last it seemed to occur to him that he ought to 
 intercept me. 
 
 "But, sir, Mr. Halifax said "
 
 88 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "I'm going to look for Mr. Halifax." 
 
 And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal duty 
 did not strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the door-sill 
 and gazed after me with a hopeless expression. 
 
 "I s'pose you mun have your way, sir; but Mr. Halifax 
 said, 'Jem, you stop y'ere,' and y'ere I stop." 
 
 He went in, and I heard him bolting the door, with a sul- 
 len determination, as if he would have kept guard against 
 it waiting for John until doomsday. 
 
 I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very 
 silent I need not have borrowed Jem's exterior in order to 
 creep through a throng of maddened rioters. There was 
 no sign of any such, except that under one of the three oil- 
 lamps that lit the night darkness of Norton Bury, lay a few 
 smoldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, then, had 
 thought of that dreadful engine of destruction fire. Had 
 my terrors been true? Our house and perhaps John within 
 it! 
 
 On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur, which I fancied I 
 heard; and still there was no one in the street no one ex- 
 cept the Abbey-watchman lounging in his box. I roused 
 him, and asked if all was safe? where were the rioters? 
 
 "What rioters?'"' 
 
 "At Abel Fletcher's mill; they may be at his house 
 now " 
 
 "Ay, I think they be." 
 
 "And will not one man in the town help him? no con- 
 stables 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 Non-conform- 
 ists of every kind; and all they knew of the glorious con- 
 stitution of English law was when its iron hand was turned 
 against them. 
 
 I had forgotten this: bitterly I remembered it now. So, 
 wasting no more words, I flew along the church-yard until 
 I saw, shining against the boles of the chestnut-trees, a red 
 light. It was one of the hempen torches. Now, at last, I 
 had got into the midst of that small body of men, u the 
 rioters." 
 
 They were a mere handful not above two score appar- 
 ently the relics of the band which had attacked ihe mill,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 89 
 
 joined with a few plow-lads from the country around. But 
 they were desperate; they had come up the Coltham road 
 so quietly that except this faint murmur, neither I nor any 
 one in the town could have told they were near. Wherever 
 they had been ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my 
 father's house; it stood up on the other side the road barred, 
 black, silent. 
 
 I heard a muttering "Th' old man bean't there." 
 
 "Nobody knows where he be." No, thank God! 
 
 "Be us all y'ere?" said the man with the torch, holding 
 it up so as to see round him. It was well then that I ap- 
 peared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me, except 
 one man, who skulked behind a tree, and of whom I was 
 rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching. 
 
 "Ready, lads? Now for the resin! Blaze 'un out!" 
 
 But in the eager scuffle the torch, the only one alight, 
 was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, 
 though whose fault it was no one seemed to know; but I 
 missed my man from behind the tree nor found him till after 
 the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One 
 of them was left behind, standing close to our own railings. 
 He looked round to see if none were by, and then sprang 
 over the gate. Dark as it was, I thought I recognized him. 
 
 "John?" 
 
 "Phineas?" He was beside me in a bound. "How could 
 you do " 
 
 "I could do anything to-night. But you are safe; no one 
 has harmed you? Oh, thank God, you are not hurt!" 
 
 And I clung to his arm my friend, whom I had missed 
 so long, so sorely. 
 
 He held me tight his heart felt as mine, only more 
 silently. 
 
 "Now, Phineas, we have a minute's time. I must have 
 you safe we must go into the house." 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "Jael; she is as good as a host of constables; she has braved 
 the fellows once to-night, but they're back again, or will 
 be directlv." 
 
 "And the mill?" 
 
 "Safe, as yet; I have had three of the tan-yard men there 
 since yesterday morning, though your father did not know. 
 I have been going to and fro all night between there and
 
 90 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 here, waiting till the rioters should come back from the Severn 
 Mills. Hist! here they are I say, Jael?" 
 
 He tapped at the window. In a few seconds Jael had un- 
 barred the door, let us in, and closed it again securely, mount- 
 ing guard behind it with something that looked very like 
 my father's pistols, though I would not discredit her among 
 our peaceful Society by positively stating the fact. 
 
 "Bravo!" said John, when we stood altogether in the barri- 
 caded house, and heard the threatening murmur of voices 
 and feet outside. "Bravo, Jael! The wife of Heber the 
 Kenite was no braver woman than you!" 
 
 She looked gratified, and followed John obediently from 
 room to room. 
 
 "I have done all as thee bade me thee art a sensible lad, 
 John Halifax. We are secure, I think." 
 
 Secure? bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was 
 threatening us now. 
 
 "They can't mean it surely they can't mean it," repeated 
 John, as the cry of "Burn 'un out!" rose louder and louder. 
 
 But they did mean it. From the attic window we 
 watched them light torch after torch, sometimes throwing 
 one at the house but it fell harmless against the stanch 
 oaken door, and blazed itself out on our stone steps. All 
 it did was to show more plainly than even daylight had shown, 
 the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces, furious with 
 famine. John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight. 
 
 "I'll speak to them," he said. "Unbar the window, Jael;" 
 and before I could hinder, he was leaning right out, "Halloo, 
 there!" 
 
 At his loud and commanding voice a wave of upturned 
 faces surged forward, expectant. 
 
 "My men, do you know what you are about? To burn 
 down a gentleman's house is hanging." 
 
 There was a hush, and then a shout of derision. 
 "Not a Quaker's! nobody'll get hanged for burning out a 
 Quaker!" 
 
 "That be true enough," muttered Jael between her teeth. 
 "We must e'en fight, as Mordecai's people fought, hand to 
 hand, until they slew their enemies." 
 
 "Fight!" repeated John, half to himself, as he stood at 
 the now closed window, against which more than one blazing
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 91 
 
 torch began to rattle. "Fight with these? What are you 
 doing, Jael?" 
 
 For she had taken down a large Book the last Book in 
 the house she would have taken under less critical circum- 
 stances, and with it was trying to stop up a broken pane. 
 
 "No, my good Jael, not this;" and he carefully replaced 
 the volume; that volume in which he might have read, as 
 day after day, and year after year, we Christians generally 
 do read, such plain words as these: "Love your enemies;" 
 "bless them that curse you;" "pray for them that despitefully 
 use you and persecute you." 
 
 A minute or two John stood with his hand on the Book, 
 thinking. Then he touched me on the shoulder. 
 
 "Phineas, I'm going to try a new plan at least, one so 
 old that it's almost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you'll 
 bear me witness to your father that I did it for the best, and 
 did it because I thought it right. Now for it." 
 
 To my horror, he threw up the window wide, and leaned 
 out. 
 
 "My men, I want to speak to you." 
 
 He might as well have spoken to the roaring sea. The 
 only answer was a shower of missiles, which missed their 
 aim. The rioters were too far off our spiked iron railings, 
 eight feet high or more, being a barrier which none had yet 
 ventured to climb. But at length one random stone hit 
 John on the chest. 
 
 I pulled him in, but he declared he was not hurt. Ter- 
 rified, I implored him not to risk his life. 
 
 "Life is not always the first thing to be thought of," said 
 he, gently. "Don't be afraid I shall corne to no harm. But 
 I must do what 1 think right, if it is to be done." 
 
 While he spoke, I could hardly hear him for the bellow- 
 ings 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 Jaei, 
 is that a pistol?" 
 
 "Loaded," she said, handing it over to him with a kind 
 of stern delight. Certainly, Jael was not meant to be a 
 Friend. 
 
 John ran down-stairs, and before I guessad bis purpose, 
 had unbolted the hall-door, and stood on the flight of steps 
 in full view of the mob.
 
 92 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. 
 A pillar sheltered me I do not think he saw me, though I 
 stood close behind him. 
 
 So sudden had been his act, that even the rioters did not 
 seem to have noticed, or clearly understood it, till the next 
 lighted torch showed them the young man standing there 
 with his back to the door outside the door. 
 
 The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for 
 the moment he was safe. They were awed nay, paralyzed, 
 by his daring. 
 
 But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for 
 one brief minute. A confusion of voices burst out afresh: 
 
 "Who be thee?" "It's one o' the Quakers." "No, he bean't." 
 "Burn 'un anyhow." "Touch 'un, if ye dare." 
 
 There was evidently a division arising. One big man, who 
 had made himself very prominent all along, seemed trying 
 to calm the tumult. 
 
 John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him; 
 he stooped and picked it up. I thought he was going to 
 hurl it back again, but he did not; he only threw it down 
 and stamped it out safely with his foot. This simple action 
 had a wonderful effect on the crowd. 
 
 The big fellow advanced to the gate, and called John by 
 his name. 
 
 "Is that you, Jacob Baines? I am sorry to see you here." 
 
 "Be ye, sir?" 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "Naught wi' thee. We wants Abel Fletcher. Where is 
 'un?" 
 
 "I shall certainly not tell you." 
 
 As John said this, again the noise arose, and again Jacob 
 Baines seemed to have power to quiet the rest. 
 
 John Halifax never stirred. Evidently he was pretty well 
 known. I caught many a stray sentence, such as, "Don't hurt 
 the lad." "He were kind to my lad, he were." "No, he be 
 a real gentleman." "No, he corned here as poor as us," and 
 the like. At length, one voice, sharp and shrill, was heard 
 above the rest. 
 
 "I zay, young man, didst ever know what it was to be 
 pretty nigh varnished?" 
 
 "Ay, many a time."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. dS 
 
 The answer, so brief, so unexpected, struck a great hush 
 into the throng. Then the same voice cried: 
 
 "Speak up, man! we won't hurt 'ee! You be one 'o we." 
 
 "No, I am not one of you. I'd be ashamed to come in the 
 night and burn my master's house down." 
 
 I expected an outbreak, but none came. They listened, 
 as it were, by compulsion, to the clear, manly voice that had 
 not in it one shade of fear. 
 
 "What do you do it for?" John continued. "All because 
 he would not sell you, or give you his wheat. Even so it 
 was his wheat, not yours. May not a man do what he likes 
 with his own?" 
 
 The argument seemed to strike home. There is always 
 a lurking sense of rude justice in a mob at least a British 
 mob. 
 
 "Don't you see how foolish you were? You tried threats, 
 too. Now you all know Mr. Fletcher; you are his men 
 some of you. He is not a man to be threatened." 
 
 This seemed to be taken rather angrily; but John went 
 on speaking, as if he did not observe the fact. 
 
 "Nor am I one to be threatened, neither. Look here the 
 first one of you who attempted to break into Mr. Fletcher's 
 house, I should most certainly have shot. But I'd rather 
 not shoot you, poor, starving fellows! I know what it is to 
 be hungry. I'm sorry for you sorry from the bottom of 
 my heart." 
 
 There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor 
 the murmur which followed it. 
 
 "But what must us do, Mr. Halifax?" cried Jacob Baines: 
 "us be starved, a'most. What's the good o' talking to we?" 
 
 John's countenance relaxed. I saw him lift his head and 
 shake his hair back, with that pleased gesture I remembered 
 so well of old. He went down to the locked gate. 
 
 "Suppose I gave you something to eat, would you listen 
 to. me afterward?" 
 
 There rose up a frenzied shout of assent. Poor wretches! 
 they were fighting for no principle, true or false, only for 
 bare life. They would have bartered their very souls for 
 a mouthful of bread. 
 
 "You must promise to be peaceable," said John, again, 
 very resolutely, as soon as he could obtain a hearing. "You 
 are Norton Bury folk, I know you, I could get every one oi
 
 94 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 you hanged, even though Abel Fletcher is a Quaker. Mind, 
 you'll be peaceable?" 
 
 "Ay ay! Some'at to eat; give us some'at to eat." 
 
 John Halifax called out to Jael; bade her bring all the 
 food of every kind that there was in the house, and give it 
 to him out of the parlor window. She obeyed 1 marvel now 
 to think of . it but she implicitly obeyed. Only I 
 heard her fix the bar to the closed front-door, and go back 
 with a strange, sharp sob, to her station at the hall window. 
 
 "Now, my lads, come in!" and he unlocked the gate. 
 
 They came thronging up the steps, not more than two 
 score, I imagined in spite of the noise they had made. But 
 two score of such famished, desperate men, God grant I may 
 never again see! 
 
 John divided the food as well as he could among them; 
 they fell to it like wild beasts. Meat, cooked, or raw, loaves, 
 vegetables, meal; all came alike, and were clutched, gnawed, 
 and scrambled for, in the fierce selfishness of hunger. After- 
 ward there was a call for drink. 
 
 "Water, Jael; bring them water." 
 
 "Beer!" shouted some. 
 
 "Water," repeated John. "Nothing but water. I'll have 
 no drunkards rioting at my master's door." 
 
 And, either by chance or design, he let them hear the click 
 of his pistol. But it was hardly needed. They were all 
 cowed by a mightier weapon still the best weapon a man 
 can use his own firm, indomitable will. 
 
 At length all the food we had in the house was con- 
 sumed. John told them so; and they believed him. Little 
 enough, indeed, was sufficient for some of them; wasted with 
 long famine, they turned sick and faint, and dropped down 
 e'en 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 ra- 
 tional human beings; and there was but one, the little, shrill- 
 voiced man, who asked me if he might "tak' a bit o' bread to 
 the old wench at home?" 
 
 John, hearing, turned, and for the first time noticed me. 
 
 "Phineas, it was very wrong of you; but there is no danger 
 now." 
 
 No, there was none not even for Abel Fletcher's son. I 
 stood safe by John's side, very happy, very proud.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 95 
 
 "Well, my men," he said, looking round with a smile, "have 
 you had enough to eat?" 
 
 "Oh, ay!" they all cried. 
 
 And one man added "Thank the Lord!" 
 
 "That's right, Jacob Baines; and, another time, trust the 
 Lord. You wouldn't then have been abroad this summer 
 morning" and he pointed to the dawn just reddening in 
 the sky "this quiet, blessed summer morning, burning and 
 rioting, bringing yourselves to the gallows, and your children 
 to starvation." 
 
 "They be nigh that a-ready," said Jacob, sullenly. "Us 
 men ha' gotten a meal, thankee for it; but what'll become o' 
 the little 'uns at home? I say, Mr. Halifax," and he seemed 
 waxing desperate again, "we must get some food somehow." 
 
 John turned away, his countenance very sad. Another 
 of the men plucked at him from behind. 
 
 "Sir, when thee was a poor lad, I lent thee a rug to sleep 
 on; I doan't grudge'ee getting on; you was born for a gen- 
 tleman, sure-ly. But Master Fletcher be a hard man." 
 
 "And a just one," persisted John. "You that work for 
 him, did he ever stint you of a half -penny? If you had come 
 to him and said, 'Master, times are hard, we can't live upon 
 our wages/ he might I don't say that he would but he 
 might even have given you the food you tried to steal." 
 
 "D'ye think he'd give it to us now?" And Jacob Baines, 
 the big, gaunt, savage fellow, who had been the ringleader 
 the same, too, who had spoken of his "little 'uns" came 
 and looked steadily in John's face. 
 
 "I knew thee as a lad; thee'rt a young man now, as will 
 be a father some o' these days. Oh! Mr. Halifax, may'ee 
 ne'er want a meal o' good meat for the missus and the babbies 
 at home, if ee'll get a bit o' bread for our'n this day." 
 
 "My man, I'll try." 
 
 He called me aside, explained to me, and asked my ad- 
 vice and consent, as Abel Fletcher's son, to a plan that had 
 come into his mind. It was to write orders, which each man 
 presenting at our mill, should receive a certain amount of 
 flour. 
 
 "Do you think your father would agree?" 
 
 "I think he would." 
 
 "Yes," John added, pondering "I am sure he would. 
 And besides, if he does not give some he may lose all. But
 
 96 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 he would not do it for fear of that. No, he is a just man 
 I am not afraid. Give me some paper, Jael.*' 
 
 He sat down as composedly as if he had been alone in the 
 counting-house, and wrote. I looked over his shoulder, ad- 
 miring his clear, firm handwriting; the precision, concentra- 
 tiveness,and quickness, with which he first seemed to arrange, 
 and then execute his ideas. He possessed to the full that 
 "business" faculty so frequently despised, but which, out of 
 very ordinary material, often makes a clever man; and with- 
 out which the cleverest man alive can never be altogether a 
 great man. 
 
 When about to sign the orders, John suddenly stopped. 
 "No; I had better not." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I have no right; your father might think it presumption." 
 
 "Presumption? after to-night!" 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing! Take the pen. It is your part to 
 sign them, Phineas." 
 
 I obeyed. 
 
 'Isn't this better than hanging?" said John to the men, 
 when he had distributed the little bits of paper precious 
 as pound-notes and made them all fully understand the 
 same. "Why, there isn't another gentleman in Norton Bury 
 who, if you had come to burn his house down, would not 
 have had the constables or the soldiers, have shot down one- 
 half of you like mad dogs, and sent the other half to the 
 county jail. Now, for all your misdoings, we let you go 
 quietly home, well fed, and with food for children, too. Why, 
 think you?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Jacob Baines, humbly. 
 
 "I'll tell you. Because Abel Fletcher is a Quaker, and 
 a Christian." 
 
 "Hurrah for Abel Fletcher! hurrah for the Quakers!" 
 shouted they, waking up the echoes down Norton Bury 
 streets; which, of a surety, had never echoed to that shout 
 before. And so the riot was over. 
 
 John Halifax closed the hall-door and came in unstead- 
 ily staggering. Jael placed a chair for him worthy soul! 
 she was wiping her old eyes. He sat down, shivering, speech- 
 less. I put my hand on his shoulder; he took it, and pressed 
 it hard. 
 
 "Oh! Phineas, lad, I'm glad it's safe over."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 97 
 
 "Yes, thank God!" 
 
 "Ay, indeed; thank God!" 
 
 He covered his eyes for a minute or two, then rose up pale, 
 but quite himself again. 
 
 "Now let us go and fetch your father home." 
 
 We found him on John's bed, still asleep. But as we en- 
 tered he woke. The daylight shone on his face it looked ten 
 years older since yesterday he stared, bewildered and angry, 
 at John Halifax. 
 
 "Eh, young man oh! I remember. Where is my son 
 where's my Phineas? 
 
 I fell on his neck as if I had been a child. And almost 
 as if it had been a child's feeble head, mechanically he 
 smoothed and patted mine. 
 
 "Thee art not hurt? Nor any one?" 
 
 "No," John answered; "nor is either the house or the 
 tan-yard injured." 
 
 He looked amazed. "How has that been?" 
 
 "Phineas will tell you. Or, stay better wait till you are 
 at home." 
 
 But my father insisted on hearing. I told the whole, with- 
 out any comments on John's behavior; he would not have 
 liked it; and, besides, the facts spoke for themselves. I told 
 the simple, plain story nothing more. 
 
 Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence. As I proceeded, 
 he felt about for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim 
 close down over his eyes. Not even when I told him of the 
 flour we had promised in his name, the giving of which 
 would, as we had calculated, cost him considerable loss, did he 
 utter a word or move a muscle. 
 
 John, at length, asked him if he were satisfied. 
 
 "Quite satisfied." 
 
 But having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked to- 
 gether on his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the 
 face except the rigid mouth and chin sat so long, so mo- 
 tionless, 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." 
 
 7
 
 98 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 There was no answer none. But all the words in the 
 world could not match that happy silence. 
 
 By degrees we got my father home. It was just such an- 
 other summer morning as the one, two years back, when we 
 too had stood, exhausted and trembling, before that sternly- 
 bolted door. We both thought of that day; I knew not if 
 my father did also. 
 
 He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in 
 the very seat, in the very room, where he had so harshly 
 judged us judged him. 
 
 Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the young 
 man's spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold. 
 
 "Come in," said my father, looking up. 
 
 "If I am welcome; not otherwise." 
 
 "Thee art welcome." 
 
 He came in I drew him in and sat down with us. But 
 his manner was irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed 
 nervously. My father, too, sat leaning his head on his two 
 hands, not unmoved. I stole up to him and thanked him 
 softly for the welcome he had given. 
 
 "There is nothing to thank me for," said he, with some- 
 thing of his old hardness. "What I once did was only justice 
 or I then believed so. What I have done, and am about 
 to do, is still mere justice. John, how old art thee now ?" 
 
 "Twenty." 
 
 "Then for one year from this time I will take thee as my 
 'prentice, though thee knowest already nearly as much of 
 the business as I do. At twenty-one thee will be able to 
 set up for thyself, or I may take thee into partnership we'll 
 see. But" and he looked at me, then sternly, nay, fiercely, 
 into John's steadfast eyes "remember, thee hast in some 
 measure taken that lad's place. May God deal with thee 
 as thou dealest with my son Phineas my only son!" 
 
 "Amen!" was the solemn answer. 
 
 And God who sees us both now ay, now! and, perhaps, 
 not so far apart as some may deem He knows whether or 
 no John Halifax kept that vow.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 99 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Well done, Phineas, to walk round the garden without 
 once resting! Now I call that grand, after an individual has 
 been ill a month. However, you must cairn your superabund- 
 ant energies and be quiet." 
 
 I was not unwilling, for I still felt very weak. But sick- 
 ness did not now take that heavy, overpowering grip of me, 
 mind and body, that it once used to do. It never did when 
 John was by. He gave me strength, mentally tnd physically. 
 He was life and health to me, with his brave cheerfulness, 
 his way of turning all minor troubles into pleasantries, till 
 they seemed to break and vanish away, sparkling, like the 
 foam on the top of a wave. Yet, all the while, one knew 
 well that he could meet any great evil as gallantly as a good 
 ship meets a heavy sea breasting it, plunging through it, 
 or riding over it, as only a good ship can. 
 
 When I recovered just a month after the bread-riot, and 
 that month was a great triumph to John's kind care I felt 
 that if I always had him beside me I should never be ill any 
 more; I said as much in a laughing sort of way. 
 
 "Very well; I shall keep you to that bargain. Now, sit 
 down; listen to the newspaper, and improve your mind as 
 to what the world is doing. It ought to be doing something, 
 with the new century it began this year. Did it not seem 
 very odd at first to have to write '1800?' " 
 
 "John, what a capital hand you write now!" 
 
 "Do I? That's somebody's credit. Do you remember my 
 first lesson on the top of the Mythe?" 
 
 "I wonder what has become of those two gentlemen?" 
 
 "Oh! did you never hear? Young Mr. Brithwood is the 
 'squire now. He married, last month, Lady Somebody Some- 
 thing, 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 re- 
 member, something about "the spacious new quadrangles
 
 100 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to be called Russell and Tavistock Squares, with elegantly 
 laid-out nursery-grounds adjoining." 
 
 "It must be a fine place, London." 
 
 "Ay; I should like to see it. Your father says, perhaps 
 he shall have to send me, this winter, on business won't 
 that be fine? If only you would go too." 
 
 I shook my head. I had the strongest disinclination to 
 stir from my quiet home, which now held within it, or about 
 it, all I wished for and all I loved. It seemed as if any 
 change must be to something worse. 
 
 "Nevertheless, you must have a change. Dr. Jessop insists 
 upon it. Here have I been beating up and down the country 
 for a week past 'Adventures in Search of a Country Resi- 
 dence' and, do you know, I think I've found one at last. 
 Shouldn't you like^to hear about it?" 
 
 I assented to please him. 
 
 "Such a nice, nice place, on the slope of Enderley Hill. A 
 cottage Rose Cottage for it's all in a bush of cluster-roses, 
 up to the very roof." 
 
 "Where is Enderley?" 
 
 "Did you never hear of Enderley Flat, the highest table- 
 land in England? Such a fresh, free, breezy spot how 
 the wind sweeps over it! I can feel it in my face still!" 
 
 And even the description was refreshing, this heavy, sultry 
 day, with not a breath of air moving across the level valley in 
 which Norton Bury lay. 
 
 "Shouldn't you like to live on a hill-side, to be at the top 
 of everything, overlooking everything? Well, that's Ender- 
 ley; the village lies just under the brow of the Flat." 
 
 "Is there a village?" 
 
 "A dozen cottages or so, at each door of which half a dozen 
 white little heads, and a dozen round eyes appeared staring 
 at me. But oh, the blessed quiet and solitude of the place! 
 No fights in filthy alleys! no tan-yards I mean," he added, 
 correcting himself, "that it's a thorough country spot; and I 
 like the country better than the town." 
 
 "Do you, still? Would you really like to take to the 'shep- 
 herd's life and state,' upon which my namesake here is so 
 eloquent! Let us see what he says." 
 
 And from the handful of books that usually lay strewn 
 about wherever we two sat, I took up one he had lately got, 
 with no small pains, I was sure, and had had bound in its
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 101 
 
 own proper color, and presented it to me 'The Purple 
 Island;' and 'Sicelides,' of Phineas Fletcher. People seldom 
 read this wise, tender, and sweet-voiced old fellow now; so 
 I will even copy the verses I found for John to read. 
 
 "Here is the place. Thyrsis is just ending his 'broken 
 lay/ 
 
 " 'Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay' " 
 
 "Stop a minute," interrupted John. "Apropos of 'stealing 
 night,' the sun is already down below the yew-hedge. Are 
 you cold?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it." 
 
 "Then we'll begin: 
 
 " 'Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state: 
 When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!' 
 
 "That's not clear," said John, laying down the book. ''Now 
 I do like poetry to be intelligible. A poet ought to see things 
 more widelv, and express them more vividly, than ordinary 
 folk." 
 
 "Don't you perceive he means the pawns on the chess- 
 board the common people." 
 
 "Phineas, don't say the common people. I'm a common 
 person myself. But to continue: 
 
 " 'His cottage low, and safely humble gate, 
 
 Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns: 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep. 
 Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep, 
 Himself as innocent as are his quiet sheep.' 
 
 ("Not many sheep at Enderley, I fancy; the Flat chiefly 
 abounds in donkeys. Well ) 
 
 " 'No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread, 
 Drew out their silken lives nor silken pride ' 
 
 "WTrich reminds me that " 
 
 "David, how can you make me laugh at my reverend an- 
 cestor in this way? I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 "Only let me tell you this one fact very interesting, you'll 
 allow that I saw a silken gown hanging up in the kitchen
 
 102 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 at Rose Cottage. _ Now, though Mrs. Tod is a decent, comely 
 woman, I don't think it belonged to her." 
 
 "She may have lodgers/' 
 
 "I think she said she had an old gentleman but he 
 wouldn't wear a silk gown." 
 
 "His wife might. Now do go on reading/' 
 
 "Certainly; I only wish to draw a parallel between Thyrsis 
 and ourselves, in our future summer life at Enderley. So 
 the old gentleman's wife may appropriate the 'silken pride,' 
 while we emulate the shepherd. 
 
 " 'His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need ' 
 
 "I wear a tolerably good coat now, don't I, Phineas?" 
 
 "You are incorrigible." 
 
 Yet, through all his fun, I detected a certain undertone 
 of seriousness, observable in him ever since my father's decla- 
 ration of his intentions concerning him had, so to speak, 
 settled John's future career. He seemed aware of some crisis 
 in his life, arrived or impending, which disturbed the gen- 
 erally even balance of his temperament. 
 
 "Nay, I'll be serious;" and passing over the unfinished 
 verse, with another or two following, he began afresh in a new 
 place, and in an altogether changed tone. 
 
 " 'His certain life, that never can deceive him, 
 
 Is full of thousand sweets and rich content; 
 
 The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him 
 
 With coolest shades till noon-tide's rage is spent; 
 His life is neither tost on boisterous seas 
 Of troublous worlds, nor lost in slothful ease. 
 
 Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. 
 
 " 'His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleep, 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; 
 
 His little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively image of his father's face; 
 
 Never his humble house or state torment him; 
 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; 
 And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him.' " 
 
 John ceased. He was a good reader; but I had never heard 
 him read like this before. Ending, one missed it like the 
 breaking off of music, or like the inner voice of one's own 
 heart talking when nobody is by.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 103 
 
 "David," I said, after a pause, "what are you thinking - 
 about?" 
 
 He started, with his old, quick blush "Oh, nothing no, 
 that's not quite true. I was thinking that, so far as happiness 
 goes, this 'shepherd's' is my ideal of happy life ay, down 
 to the 'grassy tomb.' " 
 
 "Your fancy leaps at once to the grassy tomb; but the 
 shepherd enjoyed a few intermediate stages of felicity before 
 that." 
 
 "I was thinking of those likewise." 
 
 "Then you do intend some day to have a "faithful spouse 
 and a little son?" 
 
 "I hope so God willing." 
 
 It may seem strange, but this was the first time our con- 
 versation had ever wandered in a similar direction. Though 
 he was twenty, and I twenty-two, to us both and I thank 
 Heaven that we both could look up in the face of Heaven 
 and say so! to us both, the follies and wickednesses of youth 
 were, if not equally unknown, equally alike hateful. Many 
 may doubt, or smile at the fact; but I state it now, in my 
 old age, with honor and pride, that we two young men that 
 day trembled on the subject of love as shyly, as reverently, 
 as delicately, as any two young maidens of innocent sixteen. 
 
 After John's serious "God willing," there was a good long 
 silence. Afterward, I said: 
 
 "Then you propose to marry?" 
 
 "Certainly! as soon as I can." 
 
 "Have you ever" and, while speaking, I watched him 
 narrowly, for a sudden possibility flashed across my mind 
 "Have you ever seen any one whom you would like for your 
 wife?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 I was satisfied. John's single "No" was as conclusive as 
 a score of asseverations. 
 
 We said no more; but after one of those pauses of conver- 
 sation which were habitual to us John used to say, that the 
 true test of friendship was to be able to sit or walk together 
 for a whole hour, in perfect silence, without wearying of one 
 another's company we again began talking about Enderley. 
 
 I soon found that in this plan my part was simply acqui- 
 escence; my father and John had already arranged it all. I 
 was to be in charge of the latter; nothing could induce Abel
 
 104 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Fletcher to leave, even for a day, his house, liis garden, and 
 his tan-yard. We two young men were to set up for a month 
 or two our bachelor establishment at Mrs. Tod's; John riding 
 thrice a week over to Norton Bury to bring news of me, and 
 to fulfill his duties at the tan-yard. One could see plain 
 enough and very grateful to me was the sight that 
 whether or no Abel Fletcher acknowledged it, his right hand 
 in all his business affairs was the lad John Halifax. 
 
 On a lovely August day, we started for Enderley. It was 
 about eight miles off, on a hilly, cross-country road. We 
 lumbered slowly along in our post-chaise; I leaning back, en- 
 j eying the fresh air, the changing views, and chiefly to see 
 how intensely John enjoyed them too. 
 
 He looked extremely well to-day handsome, I was about 
 to write; but John was never, even in his youth, ''handsome." 
 Nay, I have heard people call him "plain;" but that was not 
 true. His face had that charm, perhaps the greatest, cer- 
 tainly the most lasting, either in women or men, of infinite 
 variety. You were always finding out something an expres- 
 sion strange as tender, or the track of a swift brilliant 
 thought, or an indication of feeling different from, perhaps 
 deeper than, anything which appeared before. When you be- 
 lieved you had learned it line by line, it would startle you 
 by a phase quite new, and beautiful as new. For it was not 
 one of your impassive faces, whose owners count it pride to 
 harden into a mass of stone those lineaments which nature 
 made as the flesh-and-blood representation of the man's soul. 
 True, it had its reticences, its sacred disguises, its noble pow- 
 ers of silence and self-control. It was a fair-written, open 
 book; only, to read it clearly, you must come from its own 
 country, and understand the same language. 
 
 For the rest, John was decidedly like the "David" whose 
 name I still gave him now and then "a goodly person;" 
 tall, well-built, and strong. "The glory of a young man is 
 his strength;" and so I used often to think, when I looked at 
 him. He always dressed with extreme simplicity; generally 
 in gray, he was fond of gray; and in something of our Quaker 
 fashion. On this day, I remember, I noticed an especial care- 
 fulness of attire, at his age neither unnatural nor unbecom- 
 ing. His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished 
 with the snowiest of lawn frills and ruffles; his knee-breeches, 
 black silk hose, and shoes adorned with the largest and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 106 
 
 brightest of steel buckles, made up a costume, which, quaint 
 as it would now appear, still is, to my mind, the most suitable 
 and graceful that a young man can wear. I never see any 
 young men now who come at all near the picture which 
 still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax as he looked 
 that day. 
 
 Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially 
 of youth that has struggled up through so many opposing 
 circumstances as his had done, he noticed my glance. 
 
 "Anything amiss about me, Phineas? You see I am not 
 much used to holidays and holiday clothes." 
 
 "I have nothing to say against either you or your clothes," 
 replied I, smiling. 
 
 "That's all right; I beg to state, it is entirely in honor 
 of you and of Enderley that I have slipped off my tan-yard 
 husk, and put on the gentleman." 
 
 "You couldn't do that, John. You couldn't put on what 
 you were born with." 
 
 He laughed; but I think he was pleased. 
 
 \Ve had now come into a hilty region. John leaped out 
 and gained the top of the steep road long before the_ post- 
 chaise did. I watched him standing, balancing in his hands 
 the riding-whip which had replaced the everlasting rose- 
 switch, or willow-wand, of his boyhood. His figure was out- 
 lined sharply against the sky, his head thrown backward a 
 little, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest zest, on the 
 breezy flat before him. His hair a little darker than it 
 used to be, but of the true Saxon color still, and curly as 
 ever was blown about by the wind, under his broad hat. 
 His whole appearance was full of life, health, energy, and 
 enjoyment. 
 
 I thought any father might have been proud of such a son, 
 any sister of such a brother, any young girl of such a lover. 
 Ay, that last tie, the only one of the three that was possible 
 to him I wondered how long it would be before times 
 changed, and I ceased to be the only one who was proud of 
 him. 
 
 We drove on a little further, and came to the chief land- 
 mark of the high moorland a quaint hostelry, called the 
 "Bear." Bruin swung aloft, pole in hand, brown and fierce, 
 on an old-fashioned sign, as he and his progenitors had prob- 
 ably swung for two centuries or more,
 
 106 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Is this Enderley?" I asked. 
 
 "Xot quite, but near it. You never saw the sea? "Well, 
 from this point I can show you something very like it. Do 
 you see that gleaming bit in the landscape far away? That's 
 water that's our very own Severn, swelled to an estuary. 
 But you must imagine the estuary you can only get that 
 tiny peep of water, glittering like a great diamond that some 
 voung Titaness has flung out of her necklace down among 
 the hills." 
 
 "David, you are actually growing poetical." 
 
 "Am I? Well, I do feel rather strange to-day crazy like; 
 a high wind always sends me half-crazy with delight. Did 
 you ever feel such a breeze? And there's something so glo- 
 riously free in this high level common as flat as if my 
 Titaness had found a little Mont Blanc, and amused herself 
 with patting it down like a dough-cake." 
 
 "A very culinary goddess." 
 
 "Yes! but a goddess after all. And her dough-cake, her 
 mushroom, her flattened Mont Blanc, is very fine. What a 
 broad green sweep- nothing but sky and common, common 
 and sky. This is Enderley Flat. We shall come to its edge 
 scon, where it drops abruptly into such a pretty valley. 
 There, look down; that's the church. We are on a level with 
 the top of its tower. Take care, my lad," to the post-boy, 
 who was crossing with difficulty the literally "pathless waste," 
 "don't lurch us into the quarry-pits, or topple us at once 
 down the slope, where we shall roll over and over -facilis 
 descensus Averni and lodge in Mrs. Tod's garden hedge." 
 
 "Mrs. Tod would feel flattered if she knew Latin. You 
 don't look upon our future habitation as a sort of Avernus?" 
 
 John laughed "merrily. "No, as I told you before, I like 
 Enderley Hill. I can't tell why, but I like it. It seems as if 
 I had known the place before. I feel as if we were going 
 to have great happiness here." 
 
 And as he spoke, his unwonted buoyancy softened into a 
 quietness of manner, more befitting that word "happiness." 
 Strange word! hardly in my vocabulary. Yet, when he 
 uttered it, I seemed to understand it and to be content. 
 
 We wound a little way down the slope, and came in front 
 of Rose Cottage. It was well named. I never in my life had 
 seen such a bush of bloom. They hung in clusters those 
 roses a dozen in a group; pressing their pinky cheeks to-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 107 
 
 gether in a mass of family fragrance, pushing in at the*parlor 
 window, climbing up even to the very attic. There was a 
 yellow jasmine over the porch at one front door, and a wood- 
 bine at the other; the cottage had two entrances, each dis- 
 tinct. But the general impression it gave, both as to sight 
 and scent, was of roses nothing but roses. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Tod?" as a comely, middle aged body 
 appeared at the right-hand door-way, dressed sprucely in one 
 of those things Jael called a "coat and jacket," likewise a red 
 calamanco petticoat tucked up at the pocket-holes. 
 
 "I be pretty fair, sir be you the same? The children 
 ha' not forgotten you you see, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "So much the better!" and he patted two or three little 
 white heads, and tossed the youngest high up in the air. It 
 locked very strange to see John with a child in his arms. 
 
 "Don't 'ee make jnore noise than 'ee can help, my lad," 
 the good woman said to our post-boy, "because, sir, the sick 
 gentleman bean't so well again to-day." 
 
 "I am sorry for it. We would not have driven up to the 
 door, had we known. Which is his room?" 
 
 Mrs. Tod pointed to a window not on our side of the 
 house, but the other. A hand was just closing the casement 
 and pulling down the blind a hand which in the momen- 
 tary glimpse we had of it, seemed less like a man's than a 
 woman's. 
 
 When we were settled in the parlor, John noticed this 
 fact. 
 
 "It was the wife, most likely. Poor thing! how hard to 
 be shut up in-doors on such a summer evening as this!" 
 
 It did seem a sad sight that closed window, outside which 
 was the fresh, balmy air, the sunset, and the roses. 
 
 "And how do you like Enderley?" asked John, when, tea 
 being over, I lay and rested, where he sat leaning his elbow 
 on the window-sill, and his cheek against a bunch of those 
 ever-intruding, inquisitive roses. 
 
 "It is very, very pretty, and so comfortable almost like 
 home." 
 
 "I feel as if it were home," John said, half to himself. "Do 
 you know, I can hardly believe that I have only seen this 
 place once before; it is so familiar. I seem to know quite well 
 that slope of common before the door, with its black dots of 
 furze-bushes. And that wood below; what a clear line its
 
 108 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 top makes against the yellow sky! There, that high ground 
 to the right] it's all dusky now, but it's such a view by day- 
 light. And between it and Enderley is the prettiest valley, 
 where the road slopes down just under those chestnut-trees." 
 
 "How well you seem to know the place already." 
 
 "As I tell you, I like it. I hardly ever felt so content be- 
 fore. We will have a Jiappy time, Phineas." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" How, even if I had felt differently, could I say 
 anything but "yes" to him then? 
 
 I lay until it grew quite dark, and I could only see a dim 
 shape sitting at the window, instead qf John's known face; 
 then I bade him good-night, and retired. Directly afterward, 
 I heard him, as I knew he would, dash out of the house, and 
 away up the Flat. In the deep quiet of this lonely spot 1 
 could distinguish, for several minutes, the diminishing sound 
 of his footsteps along the loose, stony road; and the notes, 
 clear and shrill, of his whistling. I think it was "Sally in 
 Our Alley," or some such pleasant old tune. At last it faded 
 far off, and I fell into sleep and dreams. 
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 "That Mrs. Tod is an extraordinary woman. I repeat it 
 a most extraordinary woman." 
 
 And leaning his elbows on the table, from which the said 
 extraordinary woman had just removed breakfast, John 
 looked over to me with his own merry brown eyes. 
 
 "Wherefore, David?" 
 
 "She has a houseful of children, yet manages fa keep it 
 quiet, and her own temper likewise. Astonishing patience! 
 However people attain it who have to do with brats, I can't 
 imagine." 
 
 "John! that's mean hypocrisy. I saw you myself, half an 
 hour ago, holding the eldest Tod boy on a refractory donkey, 
 and laughing till you could hardly stand." 
 
 "Did I?" said he, half-ashamed. "Well, it was only to keep 
 the little scamp from making a noise under the windows. 
 And that reminds me of another remarkable virtue in Mrs. 
 Tod she can hold her tongue." 
 
 "How go?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 109 
 
 "In two whole days she has not communicated to us a single 
 fact concerning our neighbors on the other half of Rose Cot- 
 tage." 
 
 "Did you want to know?" 
 
 John laughingly denied; then allowed that he always had 
 a certain pleasure in eliciting information on men and things. 
 
 "The wife being indicated, I suppose, by that very com- 
 plimentary word 'thing.' But what possible interest can you 
 have in either the old gentleman or the old lady?" 
 
 "Stop, Phineas; you have a bad habit of jumping at con- 
 clusions. And in our great dearth of occupation here, I 
 think it might be all the better for you to take a little interest 
 in your neighbors. So I've a great mind to indulge you with 
 an important idea, suggestion, discovery. Harkee, friend!" 
 and he put on an air of sentimental mystery, not a bad copy 
 of our old acquaintance, Mr. Charles. "What if the in- 
 dividual should not be an old lady at all?" 
 
 "What! The old gentleman's wife?" 
 
 "Wife? ahem! more jumping at conclusions. No; let us 
 keep on the safe side, and call her the individual. In short, 
 the owner of that gray silk gown I saw hanging up in the 
 kitchen. I've seen it again." 
 
 "The gray gown! when and where?" 
 
 "This morning early. I walked after it across the Flat, a 
 good way behind, though; for I thought that it well, let me 
 say she might not like to be watched or followed. She was 
 trotting along very fast, and she carried a little basket, I fancy 
 a basket of eggs." 
 
 "Capital housekeeper! excellent wife!" 
 
 "Once more I have my doubts on that latter fact. She 
 walked a great deal quicker and merrier than any wife ought 
 to walk when her husband is ill." 
 
 I could not help laughing at John's original notions of con- 
 jugal duty. 
 
 "Besides, Mrs. Tod always calls her invalid 'the old gentle- 
 man!' and I don't believe this was an elderly lady." 
 
 "Nay, old men do sometimes marry young women." 
 
 "Yes, but it is always a pity, and sometimes not quite right. 
 No," and I was amused to see how gravely and doggedly John 
 kept to his point. "Though this lady did not look like a 
 sylph or a wood-nymph, being neither very small nor very 
 slight, and having a comfortable woolen cloak and hood over
 
 110 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the gray silk gown, still, I don't believe she's an old woman, 
 or married either." 
 
 "How can you possibly tell? Did you see her face?" 
 
 "Of course not," he answered, rather indignantly. "I 
 should not think it manly to chase a lady as a school-boy does 
 a butterfly, for the mere gratification of staring at her. I 
 stayed on the top of the Flat till she had gone in-doors." 
 
 ''Into Eose Cottage?" 
 
 "Why, yes." 
 
 "She had, doubtless, gone to fetch new-laid eggs for her 
 I mean for the sick gentleman's breakfast. Kind soul!" 
 
 "You may jest, Phineas, but I think she is a kind soul. On 
 her way home I saw her stop twice; once to speak to an old 
 woman who was gathering sticks; and again, to scold a lad for 
 thrashing a donkey." 
 
 "Did you hear her?" 
 
 "No; but I judge from the lad's penitent face as I passed 
 him. I am sure she had been scolding him." 
 
 "Then she's not young, depend upon it. Your beautiful 
 young creatures never scold." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said John, meditatively. "For 
 my part, I should rather not cheat myself, or be cheated after 
 that manner. Perfection is impossible. Better see the young 
 woman as she really is, bad and good together." 
 
 "The young woman! The fair divinity, you mean!" 
 
 "No;" shutting his mouth over the negative in his firm way 
 "I strongly object to divinities. How unpleasant it would 
 be to woo an angel of perfection, and find her out at last to be 
 only only Mrs., " 
 
 "Halifax," suggested I; at which he laughed, slightly color- 
 ing. 
 
 "But how woful must be our dearth of subjects when we 
 talk such nonsense as this! What suggested it?" 
 
 "Your friend in the gray gown, I suppose." 
 
 "Requiescat in pace! May she enjoy her eggs! And now 
 I must go saddle the brown mare and be off to Norton Bury. 
 A lovely day for a ride. How I shall dash along!" 
 
 He rose up cheerily. It was like morning sunshine only 
 to see his face. No morbid follies had ever tainted his 
 healthy nature, whatsoever romance was there and never 
 was there a thoroughly noble nature without some romance
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. Ill 
 
 ill it. But it lay deep down, calm and unawakened. His 
 heart was as light and free as air. 
 
 Stooping over my easy-chair, he wheeled it to the window 
 in sight of the pleasant view. 
 
 "Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll 
 take a walk before dinner? You'll not be moping?" 
 
 No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent 
 or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing of being first in 
 his thoughts and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or 
 not the best things never are expressed, or expressible 
 knew by a thousand little daily acts like these, the depth and 
 tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly love for me. As 
 yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how little else I had, 
 will pardon if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint 
 of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon. 
 
 He lingered about, making me "all right," as he called it, 
 and planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, 
 too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors, when, 
 as John said, "the duties of our responsible position" would 
 allow. 
 
 "Eesponsible position! It's our good landlady who ought 
 to talk about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and 
 an indefinite number of children. There's one of them got 
 into mischief at last. Hark!" 
 
 "It's Jack, my namesake. Bless my life! I knew he would 
 come to grief with that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind, get 
 up again." 
 
 But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious, 
 and disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open 
 window. The next minute I saw him carrying in the unlucky 
 Jack, who was bleeding from a cut on the forehead, and 
 screaming vociferously. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, Mrs. Tod; it is very slight. I saw 
 it .done. Jack my lad! be a man, and never mind it. Don't 
 scream so; you alarm your mother." 
 
 But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was 
 no real cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath 
 against Jack for his carelessness, and for giving so much 
 trouble to the gentleman. 
 
 "But he be always getting into mischief, sir that boy. 
 Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got 
 playing with the carriage-horse, and it kicked him and broke
 
 112 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 his arm. A deal he cares; he be just as sprack as ever. As 
 I say to Tod it bean't no use fretting over that boy." 
 
 "Have patience/' answered John, who had again carried 
 the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlor into Mrs. 
 Tod's kitchen the center room of the cottage; and was try- 
 ing to divert the torrent of maternal indignation, while he 
 helped her plaster up the still ugly-looking wound. "Come, 
 forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterward than if you 
 had punished him." 
 
 "Do'ee think so?" said the woman, as struck either by the 
 words, the manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at 
 him. "Do'ee really think so, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being for- 
 given when one has been naughty. Isn't it so, Jack, my 
 namesake?" 
 
 "Jack ought to be proud o' that, sir," said the mother, re- 
 spectfully; "and there's some sense in what you say, too. You 
 talk like my man does, o' Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, 
 Mr. Halifax; and they're good folks, the Scotch, and read their 
 Bibles hard. There's a deal about forgiving in the Bible, 
 isn't there, sir?" 
 
 "Exactly," John answered, smiling. "And so, Jack, you're 
 safe this time; only you must not disobey your mother again, 
 for the sake of donkeys or anything else." 
 
 "No, sir thank'ee, sir," sobbed Ja<ck, humbly. "Yon be 
 a gentleman Mr. March bean't he said it served me right 
 for getting under his horses." 
 
 "Hold thy tongue!" said Jack's mother, sharply; for the 
 latch of the opposite door was just then lifted, and a lady 
 stood there. 
 
 "Mrs. Tod, my father says " 
 
 Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her 
 voice a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided 
 in tone John and I both involuntarily turned. We felt awk- 
 ward! doubtful whether to stay, or retire abruptly. She 
 saved us the choice. 
 
 "Mrs. Tod, my father will take his soup at eleven. You 
 will remember?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss March." 
 
 Upon which, Miss March shut the door at once, and van- 
 ished. 
 
 She wore a gray silken gown. I glanced at John, but he
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 113 
 
 did not see me; his eyes were fixed on the door, which had 
 disclosed and concealed the momentary picture. Its mo- 
 mentariness impressed it the more vividly on my memory. I 
 have it there still. 
 
 A girl, in early but not precocious maturity, rather tall, of 
 a figure built more for activity and energy than the mere 
 fragility of sylph-like grace; dark-complexioned, dark-eyed, 
 dark-haired the whole coloring being of that soft darkness 
 of tone which gives atsense of something at once warm and 
 tender, strong and womanly. Thorough woman she seemed 
 not a bit of the angel about her. Scarcely beautiful; and 
 "pretty" would have been the very last word to have applied 
 to her; but there was around her an atmosphere of freshness, 
 health, and youth, pleasant as a breeze in spring. 
 
 For her attire, it was that notable gray silk gown very 
 simply made, with no fripperies or fandangoes of any sort 
 reaching up to her throat and down to her wrists, where it 
 had some kind of trimming of white fur, which made the skin 
 beneath show exquisitely delicate. 
 
 "That i& Miss March," said our landlady, when she had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "Is it?" said John, removing his eyes from the shut door. 
 
 "She be very sensible-like, for a young body of seventeen; 
 more sensible and pleasanter than her father, who is always 
 ailing, and always grumbling. Poor gentleman! most like 
 he can't help it. But it be terrible hard for the daughter 
 bean't it, sir?" 
 
 "Very," said John. His laconism was extraordinary. 
 
 Still, he kept standing by the kitchen-table, waiting till the 
 last bandage had been sewn on Jack's cut forehead, and even 
 some minutes after his protege had begun playing about as 
 usual. It was I who had to suggest that we should not in- 
 trude on Mrs. Tod's kitchen any longer. 
 
 "No, certainly not. Come, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, I hope 
 our presence did not inconvenience the young lady?" 
 
 "Bless your heart, sir! nothing ever inconveniences she. 
 There bean't a pleasanter young body alive. She'll often 
 come into this kitchen just as you did, gentlemen, and very 
 happy to see you always,'* added Mrs. Tod, courtesying. 
 "When Mr. March is asleep, she'll come and sit for half an 
 hour, talking to Tod and me, and playing with the baby '* 
 
 Here, probably at the sound of its name, the individual 
 
 8
 
 114 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 alluded to set up, from its cradle in the corner, such a terrific 
 squall that we young men beat a precipitate retreat. 
 
 "So John, your gray gown is discovered at last. She's 
 young certainly but not exactly a beauty." 
 
 "I never said she was." 
 
 "A pleasant person, though; hearty, cheerful-looking, and 
 strong. I can easily imagine her trotting over the common 
 with her basket of eggs chatting to the old woman and 
 scolding the naughty boy." 
 
 "Don't make fun of her. She must have a hard life with 
 her old father." 
 
 Of course, seeing him take it up so seriously, I jested no 
 more. 
 
 "By-the-by, did not the father's name strike you? March 
 suppose it should turn out to be the very Mr. March you 
 pulled out of the Severn five years ago. What a romantic 
 conjuncture of circumstances!" 
 
 "Nonsense," said John, quickly more quickly than he 
 usually spoke to me; then came back to wish me a kind good- 
 by. "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 com- 
 mon turning once to look back at Eose Cottage, ere he 
 finally disappeared between the chestnut-trees; a goodly 
 sight, for he was an admirable horseman. 
 
 When he was gone I, glancing lazily iip at Mr. March's 
 window, saw a hand, and, I fancied, a white-furred wrist, 
 pulling down the blind. It amused me to think Miss March 
 might possibly have been watching him likewise. 
 
 I spent the whole long day alone in the cottage parlor, 
 chiefly meditating; though more than once friendly Mrs. Tod 
 broke in upon my solitude. She treated me in a motherly, 
 free-and-easy way; not half so deferentially as she treated 
 John Halifax. 
 
 The sun had gone down over Nunnely Hill, behind the four 
 tall Italian poplars which stood on the border of our bit of 
 wilderness three together and one apart. They were our 
 landmarks and skymarks too for the first sunbeam com- 
 ing across the common struck their tops of a morning, and 
 the broad western glimmer showed their forms distinctly un- 
 til far in the night. They were just near enough for me to 
 hear their faint rustling in windy weather; on calm days they
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 115 
 
 stood up straight against the sky like memorial columns. 
 They were friends of mine those four poplars; sometimes 
 they almost seemed alive. We made acquaintance on this 
 first night, when I sat watching for John; and we kept up the 
 friendship ever afterward. 
 
 It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs clat- 
 tering up the road; joyfully I ran out. 
 
 David was not quite his youthful, gay self that night; not 
 quite, as he expressed it, "the David of the sheep-folds." He 
 was very tired, and had what he called the "tan-yard feeling/' 
 the oppression of business cares. 
 
 "Times are hard," said he, when we had finally shut out the 
 starlight, and Mrs. Tod had lit candies, bade us good-night in 
 her free, independent way, and "hoped Mr. Halifax had every- 
 thing he wanted." She always seemed to consider him the 
 head of our little menage. 
 
 "The times are very hard," repeated John, thoughtfully. 
 "I don't see how your father can rightly be left with so many 
 anxieties on his shoulders. I must manage to get to Norton 
 Bury at least five days a week. You will have enough of soli- 
 tude, I fear." 
 
 "And you will have little enough of the pleasant country 
 life you planned, and which you seem so to delight in." 
 
 "Never mind, perhaps it is good for me. I have a life of 
 hard work before me, and can't afford to get used to too much 
 pleasure. But we'll make the most of every bit of time we 
 have. How have you felt to-day? Strong?" 
 
 "Very strong. Now, what would you like us to do to-mor- 
 row?" 
 
 "I want to show you the common in early morning; the 
 view there is so lovely." 
 
 "Of nature, or human nature?" 
 
 He half-smiled, though only at my mischievousness. I 
 could see it did not affect him in the least. "Nay, I know 
 what you mean; but I had forgotten her; or, if not absolutely 
 forgotten, she was not in my mind just then. We will go 
 another way, as indeed I had intended; it might annoy the 
 young lady, our meeting her again." 
 
 His grave, easy manner of treating and dismissing the sub- 
 ject was a tacit reproach to me. I let the matter drop; we 
 had much more serious topics afloat than gossip about our 
 neighbors.
 
 116 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 At seven the next morning we were out on the Flat. 
 
 "I'm not going to let you stand here in the dews, Phineas. 
 Come a little further on, to my terrace, as I call it. There's 
 a panorama!" 
 
 It was indeed. All around the high flat a valley lay, like a 
 moat, or as if some broad river had been dried up in its course, 
 and, century after century, gradually converted into meadow, 
 woodland, and town. For a little white town sat demurely at 
 the bottom of the hollow, and a score or two of white cot- 
 tages scattered themselves from this small nucleus of civiliza- 
 tion over the opposite bank of this imaginary river, which was 
 now a lovely hill-side. Gorges, purple with shadow, yellow 
 cornfields, and dark clumps of woodland dressed this broad 
 hill-side in many colors; its highest point, Xunnely Hill, 
 forming the horizon where last night I had seen the sun go 
 down, and which now was tinted with the tenderest western 
 morning gray. 
 
 "Do you like this, Phineas? I do very much. A dear, 
 smiling English valley, holding many a little nest of an Eng- 
 lish home. Fancy being patriarch -over such a region; hav- 
 ing the whole valley in one's hand, to do good to, or ill. You 
 can't think what primitive people they are hereabouts; de- 
 scendants from an old colony of French cloth-weavers, they 
 keep to the trade. Down in the valley if one could see 
 through the beech-wood is the grand support of the neigh- 
 borhood, a large cloth-mill!" 
 
 "That's quite in your line, John;" and I saw his face 
 brighten up as it had done, when, as a boy, he had talked to 
 me about his machinery. "What has become of that won- 
 derful little loom you made?" 
 
 "Oh! I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth-mill! I 
 have been all over it. , If the owner would put aside his old 
 Flemish stolidity!, I do believe he and his ancestors have gone 
 on in the same way, and with almost the same machinery, ever 
 since Queen Elizabeth's time. Now, just one or two of our 
 modern improvements, such as but I forget, you never could 
 understand mechanics." 
 
 "You can, though. Explain dearly, and I'll try my best." 
 
 He did so, and so did I. I think he even managed to knock 
 something of the matter into my stupid head, where it re- 
 mained for ten minutes! Much longer remained the im- 
 pression of his energetic talk his clear-headed way of put-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 117 
 
 ting before another what he understood so well himself. I 
 marvelled how he had gained all his information. 
 
 "Oh! it's easy enough, when one has a natural propensity 
 for catching hold of facts; and then, you know I always had a 
 weakness for machinery; I could stand for an hour watching a 
 mill at work, especially if it's worked by a great water-wheel." 
 
 "Would you like to be a mill-owner?" 
 
 "Shouldn't I!" with a sunshiny flash, which soon clouded 
 over. "However, 'tis idle talking; one cannot choose one's 
 calling at least, very few can. After all, it isn't the trade 
 that signifies it's the man. I'm a tanner, and a capital tan- 
 ner I intend to be. By-the-by, I wonder if Mrs. Tod, who 
 talks so much about 'gentle-folk,' knows that latter fact about 
 you and me?" 
 
 "I think not; I hope not. Oh, David! this one month at 
 least let us get rid of the tan-yard." 
 
 For I hated it more than ever now, in our quiet, free Arca- 
 dian life; the very thought of it was insupportable, not only 
 for myself, but for John. 
 
 He gently blamed me, yet I think he involuntarily felt 
 much as I did, if he would have allowed himself so to feel. 
 
 "Who would guess now that I who stand here delighting 
 myself in this fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, 
 all thick with flowers what a pretty blue cluster that is at 
 your foot, Phineas! who would guess that all yesterday I 
 had been stirring up tan-pits, handling raw hides? Faugh! 
 I wonder the little harebells don't sicken in these my hands 
 such ugly hands, too!" 
 
 "Nonsense, John! they're not so bad, indeed; and if they 
 were, what does it matter?" 
 
 "You are right, lad; it does not matter. They have done 
 me good service, and will yet, though they were not made for 
 carrying nosegays." 
 
 "There is somebody besides yourself plucking posies on the 
 Flat. See, how large the figure looks against the sky. It 
 might be your Titaness, John 
 
 " 'Like Proserpina gathering flowers, 
 Herself the fairest ' 
 
 no, not fairest; for I declare she looks very like your friend 
 Gray-gown I beg her pardon Miss March."
 
 118 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "It is she," said John, so indifferently that I suspect that 
 fact had presented itself to him for at least two minutes bc- 
 fcre I found it out. 
 
 ''There's certainly a fatality about your meeting her." 
 
 "Not the least. She has this morning taken a walk in a 
 different direction, as I did; and we both chanced again to hit 
 upon the same," answered John, gravely and explanatorily. 
 "Come away down the slope. We must not intrude upon a 
 lady's enjoyments." 
 
 He carried me off, much against my will, for I had a great 
 wish to see again that fresh young face, so earnest, cheerful, 
 and good. Also, as I labored in vain to convince my com- 
 panion, the said face indicated an independent dignity which 
 would doubtless make its owner perfectly indifferent whether 
 her solitary walk were crossed by two gentlemen, or two hun- 
 dred. 
 
 John agreed to this; nevertheless, he was inexorable. And, 
 since he was "a man of the world" having in his journeys up 
 and down the country for my father occasionally fallen into 
 "polite" society I yielded the point to him, and submitted 
 to his larger experience of good-breeding. 
 
 However, Fate, kinder than he, took the knot of etiquette 
 into her own hands and broke it. 
 
 Close to the cottage door, our two paths converging, and 
 probably our breakfast hours likewise, brought us suddenly 
 face to face with Miss March. 
 
 She saw us, and we had a distinct sight of her. 
 
 I was right; we and our contiguity were not of the smallest 
 importance to Miss March. Her fresh morning roses did not 
 deepen, nor her eyes droop, as she looked for a moment at us 
 both a quiet, maidenly look of mere observation. Of course, 
 no recognition passed; but there was a merry dimple beside 
 her mouth, as if she quite well knew who we were, and owned 
 to a little harmless feminine curiosity in observing us. 
 
 She had to pass our door, where stood Mrs. Tod and the 
 baby. It stretched out its little arms to come to her, with 
 that pretty, babyish gesture which I suppose no woman can 
 resist. Miss March could not. She stopped and began toss- 
 ing up the child. 
 
 Truly, they made a pleasant picture, the two she with her 
 hooded cloak dropping off, showing her graceful shape, and 
 her dark-brown hair, all gathered up in a mass of curls at the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 119 
 
 top of her head, as the fashion then was. As she stood, with 
 her eyes sparkling, and the young blood flushing through her 
 clear, brunette cheeks, I was not sure whether I had not judged 
 too hastily in calling her "no beauty." 
 
 Probably, by his look, John thought the same. 
 
 She stood right before our wicket-gate; but she had evi- 
 dently quite forgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. Tod's 
 bonny boy, until the landlady made some remark about "let- 
 ting the gentlemen by." Then, with a slight start, drawing 
 her hood back over her head, the young lady stepped aside. 
 
 In passing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural enough. 
 For me, I could hardly take mine from her, such a pleasant 
 creature was she to behold. She half smiled, he bowed, which 
 she returned, courteously, and we both went in-doors. I told 
 him, this was a good beginning of acquaintance with our 
 neighbor. 
 
 "Not at all, no acquaintance; a mere civility between two 
 people living under the same roof. It will never be more." 
 
 "Probably not." 
 
 I am afraid John was disappointed at my "probably." I 
 am afraid that when he stood at our window, contemplating 
 the little group which rilled 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 after- 
 ward, that though there had been some lapse of time before I 
 hazarded this remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun 
 to that indefinite personal pronoun. 
 
 "A good, nay, a noble face; though still, with those irregular 
 features, I can't, really I can't, call her beautiful." 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 "She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, 
 for the first time in our lives, we may say we have seen a lady." 
 
 "Most certainly a lady." 
 
 "Nay, I only meant that, girl as she is, she is evidently ac- 
 customed to what is called 'society/ Which makes it the 
 more likely that her father is the Mr. March who was cousin 
 to the Brithwoods. An odd coincidence." 
 
 "A very odd coincidence." 
 
 After which brief reply John relapsed into taciturnity. 
 
 More than once that morning we recurred to the subject of
 
 120 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 our neighbors; that is, I did, but John was rather saturnine 
 and uncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Tod was remov- 
 ing the breakfast, I ventured to ask her a harmless question 
 or two who Mr. March was, and where he came from? I was 
 abruptly reproached, the very minute our good landlady had 
 shut the door, for iny tendency to "gossip." 
 
 At which I only laughed and reminded him that he had in- 
 geniously scolded me after, not before, I had gained the de- 
 sired information, namely, that Mr. March was a gentleman 
 of independent property; that he had no friends hereabouts; 
 and that he usually lived in Wales. 
 
 "He cannot be our Mr. March, then." 
 
 "No," said John, with an air of great relief. 
 
 I was amused to see how seriously he took such a trifle; ay, 
 many a time that day I laughed at him for evincing such 
 great sympathy over our neighbors, and especially which 
 was plain enough to see, though he doubtless believed he en- 
 tirely disguised it for that interest which a young man of 
 twenty would naturally take in a very charming and person- 
 able young woman. Ay, naturally, as I said to myself, for I 
 admired her too, extremely, 
 
 It seems strange now to call to mind that morning, and our 
 light-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that Destiny 
 should often come thus, creeping like a child to our very 
 doors; we hardly notice it, or send it away with a laugh; it 
 comes so naturally, so simply, so accidentally, as it were, that 
 we recognize it not. We cannot believe that the baby intruder 
 is in reality the king of our fortunes, the ruler of our lives. 
 But so it is continually; and since it is, it must be right. 
 
 We finished the morning by reading Shakespeare Romeo 
 and Juliet at which the old folio seemed naturally to open. 
 There is a time a sweet time, too, though it does not last 
 when to every young mind the play of plays, the poem of 
 poems, is Romeo and Juliet. We were at that phase now. 
 
 John read it all through to me not for the first time, 
 either; and then, thinking I had fallen asleep, he sat with the 
 book on his knee, gazing out of the open window. 
 
 It was a warm summer day breathless, soundless a day 
 for quietness and dreams. Sometimes a bee came buzzing 
 among the roses, in and away again, like a happy thought. 
 Nothing else was stirring; not a single bird was to be seen or 
 heard, except that now and then came a coo of the wood-pig-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 121 
 
 eons among the beech, trees a low, tender voice reminding 
 one of a mother's crooning over a cradled child; or of two 
 true lovers standing clasped heart to heart, in the first em- 
 brace, which finds not, and needs not, a single word. 
 
 John sat listening. What was he thinking about? Why 
 that strange quiver about his mouth? Why that wonderful 
 new glow, that infinite depth of softness in his eyes? 
 
 I closed mine. He never knew I saw him. He thought I 
 slept placidly through that half-hour, which seemed to him 
 as brief as a minute. To me it was long ah, so long! as I lay 
 pondering with an intensity that was actual pain, on what 
 must come some time; and, for all I knew, might even now be 
 coming. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A week slipped by. We had grown familiar with Enderley 
 Hill at least, I had. As for John, he had little enough en- 
 joyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, being 
 absent five days out of the seven; riding away when the morn- 
 ing sun had slid down to the boles of my four poplars, and 
 never coming home till Venus peeped out over their heads at 
 night. It was hard for him; but he bore the disappointment 
 well. 
 
 With me one day went by just like another. In the morn- 
 ings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, 
 and there lay a little under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny 
 shelter, watching the ants running in and out of the numerous 
 ant-hills there; or else I turned my observation to the short 
 velvet herbage that grew everywhere hereabouts; for the com- 
 mon, so far from being barren, was a perfect sheet of green- 
 est, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare flowers. Often a 
 square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty 
 and variety in color and form, to criticise and contemplate for 
 a full hour. 
 
 My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the 
 Enderley villagers, or the Tod children, who were a grade 
 above these, and decidedly "respectable," would appear and 
 have a game of play at the foot of the slope, their laughter 
 rising up to where I lay. Or some old woman would come 
 with her pails to the spring below, a curious and very old stone 
 well, to which the cattle from the common often rushed down
 
 122 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their mouths making 
 glancing circles in the water as they drank. 
 
 Being out-of-doors almost all day, I saw very little of the 
 inhabitants of our cottage. Once or twice, a lady and gentle- 
 man passed, creeping at the foot of the slope, so slowly, that I 
 felt sure it must be Mr. March and his daughter. He was tall, 
 with gray hair; I was not near enough to distinguish his fea- 
 tures. She walked on the further side, supporting him with 
 her arm. Her comfortable morning hood was put off, and she 
 had on her head that ugly, stiff thing which ladies had lately 
 taken to wearing, and which, Jael said, was called a "bonnet." 
 
 Except on these two occasions, I had no opportunity of 
 making any observations on the manners and customs of our 
 neighbors. Occasionally Mrs. Tod mentioned them in her 
 social chatter, while laying the cloth; but it was always in the 
 most cursory and trivial way, such as "Miss March having 
 begged that the children might be kept quiet Mrs. Tod hoped 
 their noise didn't disturb me? but Mr. March was such a 
 fidgety gentleman so particular in his dress, too why, Miss 
 March had to iron his cravats with her own hands. Besides, 
 if there was a pin awry in her dress, he did make such a fuss 
 and, really, such an active, busy young lady couldn't look al- 
 ways as if she came trim out of a bandbox. Mr. March wanted 
 so much waiting on, he seemed to fancy he still had his big 
 house in Wales, and his seven servants." 
 
 Mrs. Tod conversed as if she took it for granted I was fully 
 acquainted with all the prior history of her inmates, or any 
 others that she mentioned a habit peculiar to Enderley folk 
 with strangers. It was generally rather convenient, and it 
 saved much listening; but in this case, I would rather have had 
 it broken through. Sometimes I felt strongly inclined to 
 question her; but on consulting John, he gave his veto so de~ 
 cidedly against seeking out people's private affairs in such an 
 illicit manner, that I felt quite guilty, and began to doubt 
 whether my sickly, useless, dreaming life was not inclining me 
 to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are ac- 
 customed I know not why to insult the other sex, by de- 
 scribing as "womanish." 
 
 As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so that 
 we could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbors, save 
 upon the neutral ground of Mrs. Tod's kitchen; where, how- 
 ever I might have felt inclined to venture, John's prohibition 
 stopped me entirely.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 123 
 
 I 
 
 Thus save the two days when he was at home, when he put 
 me on his mare's back, and led me far away, over common and 
 valley and hill, for miles, only coming back at twilight save 
 those two blithe days, I spent the week in dignified solitude, 
 and was very thankful for Sunday. 
 
 We determined to make it a long, lovely country Sunday; 
 so we began it at six a. m. John took me a new walk across 
 the common, where he said, in answer to my question we 
 were quite certain not to meet Miss March. 
 
 "Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calculate 
 her paths with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her 
 again, for I know you have been out most mornings?" 
 
 "Morning is the only time I have for walking, you know, 
 Phineas." 
 
 "Ah, true! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I almost 
 wish we could go home." 
 
 "Don't think of such a thing. It's doing you a world of 
 good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home." 
 
 I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest; that 
 whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere 
 thought of me was the one uppermost in his mind. 
 
 "Well, we'll stay that is, if you are happy, John." 
 
 "Thoroughly happy; I like the dashing rides to Norton 
 Bury. Above all, I like coming back. The minute I begin 
 to climb Enderley Hill, the tan-yard, and all belonging to it, 
 drops off like an incubus, and I awake into free, beautiful life. 
 Now, Phineas, confess; is not this common a lovely place, es- 
 pecially of a morning?" 
 
 "Ay," said I, smiling at his energy. "But you did not tell 
 me whether you had met Miss March again." 
 
 "She has never once seen me." 
 
 "But you have seen her? Answer honestly." 
 
 "Why should I not? Yes, I have seen her once or twice 
 or so but never in any way that could annoy her." 
 
 "That explains why you have become so well acquainted 
 with, the direction of her walks?" 
 
 He colored deeply. "I hope, Phineas, you do not think that 
 that in any way I would intrude on or offend a lady?" 
 
 "Nay, don't take it so seriously indeed, I meant nothing 
 of the kind. It would be quite natural if a young man like 
 you did use some pains to look at such a 'cunning piece of 
 Nature's handiwork as that apple-cheeked girl of seventeen." 
 
 "Russet apple. She is brown, you know a real 'nut-
 
 124 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 browue mayde,' " said John, recovering his gay humor. "Cer- 
 tainly, I like to look at her. I have seen many a face that 
 was more good-looking never one that looked half so good." 
 
 "Sententious, that;" yet I could not smile, he spoke with 
 such earnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would 
 have walked half-Avay across the common any day for a glance 
 at Miss March. Why not he? 
 
 "But, John, you never told me that you had seen her 
 again." 
 
 "Because you never asked me." 
 
 We were silent. Silent until we had walked along the 
 whole length of a Roman encampment, the most perfect of 
 the various fosses that seamed the flat tokens of many a 
 battle fought on such capital battle-ground, and which John 
 had this morning especially brought me to look at. 
 
 "Yes," I said at last, putting the ending affirmative to a 
 long train of thought, which was certainly not about Roman 
 encampments; "yes, it is quite natural that you should admire 
 her. It would even be quite natural, and not unlikely, either, 
 if 8 he " 
 
 "Pshaw!" interrupted he. "What nonsense you are talking! 
 Impossible!" and setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, 
 he kicked it down into the ditch, where probably many a dead 
 Roman had fallen before it in ages gone by. 
 
 The impetuous gesture the energetic "impossible," struck 
 me less than the quickness with which his mind had worked 
 out my unexpressed thought carrying it to a greater length 
 than I myself had ever contemplated. 
 
 "Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of that sort ever 
 entered my head. I only thought you might admire her, and 
 be unsettled thereby as young men are when they take fancies. 
 That would grieve me very much, John.'' 
 
 "Don't let it then. Why, I have only seen her five times; 
 I never spoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall 
 do. Could any one be in a safer position? Besides," and his 
 tone changed to extreme gravity, "I have too many worldly 
 cares to think of; I can't afford the harmless little amusement 
 of falling in love so be easy, Phineas." 
 
 I smiled; and we began a discussion on camps and fosses, 
 vallum and praetorium; the Danes, Saxons, and Normans; 
 which, doubtless, we carried on to a most learned length; but 
 at this distance of time, and indeed the very day after, I plead 
 guilty to having forgotten all about it.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 12S 
 
 That, long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never 
 came out all day; but the whole earth and sky melted .to- 
 gether in a soft, gray 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, toward twilight, we went 
 down into the beech-wood below the house, and sat idly there 
 among the pleasant-smelling ferns; when, from the morning 
 to the evening, he devoted himself altogether to my comfort 
 and amusement to perfect which required of him no harder 
 duty than to be nearer me always; that Sunday was the last 1 
 ever had David for my own my very own. 
 
 It was natural, it was just, it was right. God forbid that in 
 any way I should have murmured. 
 
 About ten o'clock just as he was luring me out to see how 
 grand the common looked under the black night, and we were 
 wondering whether or no the household were in bed Mrs. 
 Tod came mysteriously into the parlor, and shut the door after 
 her. Her round, fresh face looked somewhat troubled. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to 'ee, sir?" 
 
 "With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Tod. There's nothing 
 wrong with your children?" 
 
 "No, I thank'ee. You are very kind, sir. No, it be about 
 the poor Miss March." 
 
 I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was lean- 
 ing on. "I hope " he began, and stopped. 
 
 "Her father is dreadful bad to-night, and it's a good seven- 
 mile walk to the doctor's at S ; and Miss March says 
 
 that is, she don't, for I bean't going to tell her a word about 
 it but I think, Mr. Halifax, if I might make so bold, it would 
 be a great kindness in a young gentleman like you to lend Tod 
 your mare to ride over and fetch the doctor." 
 
 "I will, gladly. At once?" 
 
 "Tod bean't come in yet." 
 
 "He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March 
 so I mean, do not tell her, of course. It was very right of 
 you to come to us in this way, Mrs. Tod. Really, it would be 
 almost a treat to be ill in your house you are so kind." 
 
 "Thank'ee, Mr. Halifax," said the honest landlady, greatly 
 delighted. "But a body couldn't help doing anything for 
 Miss March. You would think so yourself, if you only knew 
 her." 
 
 "No doubt/' returned John, more politely than warmly, I
 
 126 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 fancied, as he closed the door after the retreating figure of 
 Mrs. Tod. But when he came and sat down again, I saw he 
 was rather thoughtful. He turned the books restlessly, one 
 after the other, and could not settle to anything. To all my 
 speculations about our sick neighbor, and our pearl of kind- 
 hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; at last he 
 started up and said: 
 
 "Phineas, I think I'll go myself." 
 
 'Where?" 
 
 "To fetch Dr. Brown. If Tod is not come in, it would be 
 but a common charity. And I know the way/' 
 
 "But the dark night?" 
 
 "Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a 
 stranger. And though I have taken good care that the three 
 horses in the tan-yard shall have the journey, turn and turn 
 about; still it's a good pull from here to Norton Bury, and the 
 mare's my favorite. I would rather take her myself." 
 
 I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very 
 simple thing; and agreed that it was right and best he should 
 do it. 
 
 "Then, shall I call Mrs. Tod and inquire? Or perhaps it 
 might make less fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitch- 
 en. Will you, Phineas, or shall I ?" 
 
 Scarcely waiting my answer, he walked from our parlor into 
 what I called the Debatable Land. 
 
 No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, 
 listening to the groanings overhead. 
 
 "That must be Mr. March, John." 
 
 "I hear. Good heavens! how hard for her. And she such 
 a young thing, and alone," muttered he, as he stood gazing 
 into the dull wood embers of the kitchen fire. I saw he was 
 moved; but the expression on his face was one of pure and holy 
 compassion. That at this moment no less unselfish feeling 
 mingled with it, I am sure. 
 
 Mrs. Tod appeared at the door leading to the other half of 
 the cottage; she was apparently speaking to Miss March on 
 the staircase. We heard again those clear, quick, decided 
 tones, but subdued to a half -whisper. 
 
 "No, Mrs. Tod, I am not sorry you did it on my father's 
 account 'tis best. Tell Mr. , the young gentleman, I for- 
 get his name, that I am very much obliged to him." 
 
 "I will, Miss March. Stay, he is just here. Bless us! she 
 has shut the door already. Won't you take a seat, Mr. Hali-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 127 
 
 fax? I'll stir up the fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are 
 always welcome in my kitchen, young gentlemen." And Mrs. 
 Tod bustled about, well aware what a cosy and cheerful old- 
 fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings. 
 
 But when John explained the reason of our intrusion, there 
 was no end to her pleasure and gratitude. He was the kind- 
 est young gentleman that ever lived. She would tell Miss 
 March so; as, indeed, she had done many a time. 
 
 " 'Miss/ said I to her the first day I set eyes on you, when 
 * I had told her how you came hunting for lodgings (she often 
 has a chat with me quite freely, being so lonesome-like and 
 knowing I to be too proud myself to forget that she's a born 
 lady) 'miss,' said I, 'who Mr. Halifax may be I don't know, 
 but depend upon it he's a real gentleman.' " 
 
 I was the sole amused auditor of this speech, for John had 
 vanished. In a few minutes more he had brought the mare 
 round, and after a word or two with me, was clattering down 
 the road. 
 
 I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred 
 the blind to watch him. 
 
 John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor 
 rode back with him. They parted at the gate, and he came 
 into our parlor, his cheeks all glowing with the ride. He only 
 remarked that "the autumn nights were getting chill," and 
 sat down. The kitchen clock struck one. 
 
 "You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will 
 you not go? I shall sit up just a little while to hear how Mr. 
 March is." 
 
 "I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that 
 one learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when 
 shut up together in a lonely place like this, especially when 
 they are in trouble." 
 
 "Ay, that's it," said he, quickly. "It's the solitude, and 
 their being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I 
 was away?" 
 
 "Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had 
 gone to bed except his daughter and Mrs. Tod." 
 
 "Plark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if 
 one might ask no! they would think it intrusive. He must 
 be better. But Dr. Brown told me that in one of these parox- 
 ysms he might Oh, that poor young thing!" 
 
 "Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Dr. Brown 
 surely knows."
 
 128 . JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not 
 my business; my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas 
 Fletcher, as quickly as possible." 
 
 "Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can do 
 anything more." 
 
 "Ay, if we can do anything more," repeated he, as we again 
 recrossed the boundary-line, and entered the Tod country. 
 
 All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burned brightly, and 
 a cricket sang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans over- 
 head were stilled, but we heard low talking, and presently * 
 stealthy footsteps crept down-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and 
 Miss March. 
 
 We ought to have left the kitchen; I think John muttered 
 something to that effect, and even made a slight movement to- 
 ward the door; but I don't know how it was we stayed. 
 
 She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her 
 fresh cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one 
 who has watched for many hours. Some sort of white dimity 
 gown that she wore added to this paleness. 
 
 "I think he is better, Mrs. Tod decidedly better," said 
 she, speaking quickly. "You ought to go to bed now. Let 
 all the house be quiet. I hope you .told Mr. Oh ' 
 
 She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge 
 of her roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us with 
 a slight bend. 
 
 John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on 
 his part; but no, he was thinking too little of himself for that. 
 His demeanor earnest, gentle, kind was the sublimation of 
 all manly courtesy. 
 
 "I hope, madam" young men used the deferential word 
 in those days always "I do hope that Mr. March is better. 
 We were unwilling to retire until we had heard." 
 
 "Thank you. My father is much better. You are very 
 kind," said Miss March, with a maidenly drooping of the 
 eyes. 
 
 "Indeed he is kind," broke in warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. "He 
 rode all the way to S his own self, to fetch the doctor." 
 
 "Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse." 
 
 "Oh! I like a night ride. And you are sure, madam, that 
 your father is better ? Is there nothing else I can do for you ?" 
 
 His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than hi;' 
 years, softened too with that quiet deference which marked at 
 once the man who reverenced all women, simply for their
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 129 
 
 womanhood seemed entirely to reassure the young lady. This 
 and her own frankness of character made her forget, as she 
 apparently did, the fact that she was a young lady and he a 
 young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged neutral ground 
 perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another than the 
 mere surname. 
 
 Nature, sincerity and simplicity conquered all trammels of 
 formal custom. She held out her hand to him. 
 
 "I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I wanted help I 
 would ask you; indeed, I would." 
 
 "Thank you. Good-night." 
 
 He pressed the hand with reverence and was gone. I saw 
 Miss March look after him; then she turned to speak, and 
 smiled with me. A light word, an easy smile, as to a poor 
 invalid whom she had often pitied, out of the fullness of her 
 womanly heart. 
 
 Soon I followed John into the parlor. He asked me no 
 questions, made no remarks, only took his candle and went 
 upstairs. 
 
 But years afterward, he confessed to me that the touch of 
 that hand it was rather a peculiar hand in the "feel" of it ? as 
 the children say, with a very soft palm, and fingers that had 
 a habit of perpetually fluttering, like a little bird's wing the 
 touch of that hand was to the young man like the revelation of 
 a new world. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The next day John rode away, earlier even than was his 
 wont, I thought. He stayed but a little while talking with 
 me. While Mrs. Tod was bustling over our breakfast, he 
 asked her, in a grave and unconcerned manner, "How Mr. 
 March was this morning?" which was the only allusion he 
 made to the previous night's occurrences. 
 
 I hacl a long, quiet day alone in the beech- wood, close below 
 our cottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to a thread 
 with the summer weather, but singing still. It talked to me 
 like a living thing. 
 
 When I came home in the evening, Miss March stood in 
 front of the cottage, with, strange to say, her father. But I 
 had heard that his paroxysms were often of brief continuance, 
 and that, like most confirmed valetudinarians, when real dan- 
 
 9
 
 130 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ger stared him in the face, he put it from him, and was glad 
 to be well. 
 
 Seeing me coming, Miss March whispered to him; he turned 
 upon me a listless gaze from over his fur collar, and bowed 
 languidly, without rising from his easy-chair. Yes, it was 
 Mr. March, the very Mr. March we had met! I knew him, 
 changed though he was; but he did not know me in the least, 
 as, indeed, was not likely. 
 
 His daughter came a step or two to meet me. "You are 
 better, I see, Mr. Fletcher. Enderley is a most healthy place, 
 as I try to persuade my father! This is Mr. Fletcher, sir, the 
 gentleman who " 
 
 "Was so obliging as to ride to S , last night, for me? 
 
 Allow me to thank him myself." 
 
 I began to disclaim, and Miss March to explain; but we 
 must both have been slightly incoherent, for I think the poor 
 gentleman was never quite clear as to who it was that went for 
 Dr. Brown. However, that mattered little, as his acknowl- 
 edgments were evidently dictated more by a natural habit of 
 courtesy than by any strong sense of service rendered. 
 
 "I am a very great invalid, sir. My dear, will you explain 
 to the gentleman?" And he leaned his head back wearily. 
 
 "My father has never recovered his ten years' residence in 
 the West Indies." 
 
 " 'Residence?' Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was gov- 
 ernor of ." 
 
 "Oh, yes! The climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher. 
 But since he has been in England five years only he has 
 been very much better. I hope he will be quite well in time." 
 
 Mr. March shook his head drearily. Poor man! the world 
 of existence to him seemed to have melted lazily down into a 
 mere nebula, of which the forlorn neucleus was himself. What 
 a life for any young creature, even his own daughter, to be 
 bound to continually! 
 
 I could not help remarking the strong contrast between 
 them. He with his sallow, delicately-shaped features the 
 thin mouth, and long, straight nose, of that form I have heard 
 called the "melancholy nose," which usually indicates a feeble, 
 pensive, and hypochondriac temperament; while his daughter 
 . But I have described her already. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher is an invalid, too, father," she said; so gently, 
 that I could feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity; and 
 took gratefully a seat she gave me beside that of Mr. March.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 131 
 
 She seemed inclined to talk to me; and her manner was per- 
 fectly easy, friendly, and kind. 
 
 We spoke of commonplace subjects near at hand, and of the 
 West Indian islands, which its late "governor" was apparently 
 by no means inclined to forget. I asked Miss March whether 
 she had liked it? 
 
 "I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind 
 in Wales poor mamma's country. Were you ever in Wales? 
 I like it so! Indeed, I feel as if I belonged altogether to the 
 mountains." 
 
 And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the free 
 mountain spirit a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply out- 
 lined; but that would soften with time, and was better and 
 wholsomer than any tame green level of soft perfection. At 
 least, one inclined to think so, looking at her. * 
 
 I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it. 
 
 In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he 
 hung trustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and 
 asked if she could lend me any books to read? I must find 
 the days long and dull without my friend. 
 
 I assented with thanks; and shortly afterward she brought 
 me an armful of literature enough to have caused any young 
 damsel to have been dubbed a "blue/' in those matter-of-fact 
 days. 
 
 "I have no time to study much myself," said she, in answer 
 to my questions; "but I like those who do. Now good-even- 
 ing, for I must run. You and your friend can have any books 
 of ours. You must not think" and she turned back to tell 
 me this "that because my father said little, he and I are not 
 deeply grateful for the kindness Mr. Halifax showed us last 
 night." 
 
 "It was a pleasure to John it always is to do a kind office 
 for any one." 
 
 "I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher." And she left me. 
 
 When John came home I informed him of what had passed. 
 He listened, though he made no comment whatever. But all 
 the evening he sat turning over Miss March's books and read- 
 ing, either aloud or to himself, fragments out of one which I 
 had expected he would have scouted, inasmuch as it was mod- 
 ern, not classical poetry; in fact, a collection of Lyrical Bal- 
 lads, brought out that year by a young man named Mr. William 
 Wordsworth, and some anonymous friend, conjointly. I had 
 opened it and found therein great nonsense; but John had
 
 132 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 better luck he hit upon a short poem called "Love," by the 
 Anonymous Friend, which he read, and I listened to, almost 
 as if it had been Shakespeare. It was about a girl named 
 Genevieve a little simple story everybody knows it now; but 
 it was like a strange, low, mystic music, luring the very heart 
 out of one's bosom, to us young visionaries then. 
 
 I wonder if Miss March knew the harm she did, and the mis- 
 chief that has been done among young people in all ages 
 (since Caxton's days) by the lending books, especially books 
 of poetry. 
 
 The next day John was in a curious mood. Dreamy, Ia2y, 
 mild; he sat poring indoors instead of roaming abroad in 
 truth, was a changed lad. I told him so, and laid it all to the 
 blame of the Anonymous Friend: who held him in such fasci- 
 nated thrall that he only looked up once all the morning 
 which was when Mr. and Miss March went by. In the after- 
 noon he submitted, lamb-like, to be led down to the beech- 
 wood that the wonderful talking stream might hold forth 
 to him as it did to me. But it could not ah, no! it could 
 not. Our lives, though so close, were yet as distinct as the 
 musical living water and the motionless gray rock beside which 
 it ran. The one swept joyfully on to its appointed course: 
 the other was what Heaven made it, abode where Heaven 
 placed it, and likewise fulfilled its end. 
 
 Coming back out of the little wood, I took John a new way 
 I had discovered, through the prettiest undulating meadow, 
 half -field, half-orchard, where trees loaded with ripening cider 
 apples and green crabs made a variety among the natural for- 
 esters. Under one of these, as we climbed the slope for field, 
 beech-wood, and common formed a gradual ascent we sa\v 
 a vacant table laid. 
 
 "A pretty piece of rusticity domestic Arcadia on a small 
 scale," said John. "I should like to invite myself to tea with 
 them. Who can they be?" 
 
 "Probably visitors. Resident country-folks like their meals 
 best under a decent roof-tree. I should not wonder if this 
 were not one of Mr. March's vagaries." 
 
 "Don't say vagaries he is an old man." 
 
 "Don't be reproachful I shall say naught against him. 
 Indeed, I have no opportunity, for there they both are com- 
 ing hither from the house." 
 
 Sure enough they were Miss March helping her father
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 133 
 
 across the uneven bit of common to the gate which led to the 
 field. Precisely at that gate we all four met. 
 
 " "Pis useless to escape them/' whispered I to John. 
 
 "I do not wish why should I?" he answered, and held the 
 gate open for the father and daughter to go through. She 
 looked up and acknowledged him, smiling. I thought that 
 smile and his courteous, but far less frank response to it, would 
 have been all the greeting; but no! Mr. March's dull percep- 
 tions had somehow been brightened up. He stopped. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, I believe?" 
 
 John bowed. 
 
 They stood a moment looking at one another; the tall, stal- 
 wart young man, so graceful and free in bearing, and the old 
 man, languid, sickly, prematurely broken down. 
 
 "Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I de- 
 tected something more than curiosity something of the lin- 
 gering pensiveness with which years ago, he had turned back 
 to look at John as if the lad reminded him of some one he 
 knew. "Sir, I have to thank you." 
 
 "Indeed no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are 
 better to-day?" 
 
 Mr. March assented: but John's countenance apparently in- 
 terested him so much that he forgot his usual complainings. 
 "My daughter tells me you are our neighbors I am happy to 
 have such friendly ones. My dear," in a half audible, pensive 
 whisper to her, "I think your poor brother Walter would have 
 grown up extremely like Mr. Mr. " 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, papa." 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there 
 my daughter's suggestion she is so fond of rurality. Will 
 you give us the pleasure of your company? You and" here, 
 I must confess, the second invitation came in reply to a glance 
 of Miss March's "your friend." 
 
 Of course we assented; I considerably amused, and not ill- 
 pleased, to see how naturally it fell out that when John ap- 
 peared in the scene, I, Phineas, subsided into the secondary 
 character of John's "friend." 
 
 Very soon, so soon that our novel position seemed like an 
 adventure out of the Arabian Nights we found ourselves es- 
 tablished under the apple-tree, between whose branches the 
 low sun stole in, kissing in red chestnut-color the hair of the 
 "nut-browne mayde," as she sat, bareheaded, pouring into 
 small white china cups that dainty luxury, tea. She had on
 
 134 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 not the gray gown, but a white one, worked in delicate mus- 
 lin. A branch of those small pinky-white roses that grew in 
 such clusters about our parlor window, nestled, almost as if 
 they were still growing, in her fair maiden bosom. 
 
 She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from 
 our domains for her lucky Jack! and received some brief and 
 rather incoherent answer from John, about being "quite wel- 
 come." 
 
 He sat opposite her, I by her side she had placed me there. 
 It struck me as strange that, though her manner to us both 
 was thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, 
 more kind to me than to him. Also, I noted that, while she 
 chatted gayly with me, John almost entirely confined his talk 
 to her father. 
 
 But the young lady listened ay, undoubtedly she listened 
 to every word that was said. I did not wonder at it; when 
 his tongue was once unloosed few people could talk better 
 than John Halifax. Not that he was one of your showy con- 
 versationalists; language was with him neither a science, an 
 art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for thought; 
 the garb always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his 
 ideas were clothed. His conversation was never wearisome, 
 since he only spoke when he had something to say; and hav- 
 ing said it in the most concise and appropriate manner that 
 suggested itself at the time, he was silent; and silence is a 
 great and rare virtue at twenty years of age. 
 
 We talked a good deal about Wales; John had been there 
 more than once in his journey ings; and this fact seemed to 
 warm Miss March's manner, rather shy and reserved though it 
 was, at least to him. She told us many an innocent tale of her 
 life there, of her childish days, and of her dear old governess, 
 whose name, I remember, was Cardigan. She seemed to have 
 grown up solely under that lady's charge. It was not difficult 
 to guess though I forget whether she distinctly told us so 
 that "poor mamma" had died so early as to become a mere 
 name to her orphan daughter. She evidently owed every- 
 thing she was to this good governess. 
 
 "My dear," at last said Mr. March, rather testily, "you make 
 rather too much of our excellent Jane Cardigan. She is going 
 to be married, and she will not care for you now." 
 
 "Hush, papa! that is a secret at present. Pray, Mr. Halifax, 
 do you know Norton Bury?" 
 
 The abruptness of the question startled John, so that he
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 135 
 
 only answered in a hurried affirmative. Indeed, Mr. March 
 left him no time for further explanation. 
 
 "I hate the place. My late wife's cousins, the Brithwoods 
 of the Mythe, with whom I have had ahem! strong politi- 
 cal differences live there. And I was once nearly drowned 
 in the Severn, close by." 
 
 "Papa, don't speak of that, please," said Miss March, hur- 
 riedly; so hurriedly, that I am sure she did not notice what 
 would otherwise have been plain enough John's sudden and 
 violent color. But the flush died down again he never spoke 
 a word. And, of course, acting on his evident desire, neither 
 did I. 
 
 "For my part," continued the young lady, "I have no dis- 
 like to Norton Bury. Indeed, I rather admired the place, if I 
 remember right." 
 
 "You have been there?" Though it was the simplest ques- 
 tion, John's sudden look at her, and the soft inflection of his 
 voice, struck me as peculiar. 
 
 "Once, when I was about twelve years old. But we will talk 
 of something papa likes better. I am sure papa enjoys this 
 lovely evening. Hark! how the doves are cooing in the beech- 
 wood!" 
 
 I asked her if she had ever been in the beech-wood. 
 
 No; she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries the 
 fern-glades, the woodbine tangles, and the stream, that, if you 
 listened attentively, you could hear faintly gurgling even 
 where we sat. 
 
 "I did not know there was a stream so near. I have gen- 
 erally taken my walks across the Flat," said Miss March, smil- 
 ing, and then blushing at having done so, though it was the 
 faintest blush imaginable. 
 
 Neither of us made any reply. 
 
 Mr. March settled himself to laziness and his arm-chair; the 
 conversation fell to the three younger persons I may say 
 the two for I also seceded, and left John master of the fieW. 
 It was enough for me to sit listening to him and Miss March, 
 as they gradually became more friendly; a circumstance nat- 
 ural enough, under the influence of that simple, solitary place, 
 where all the pretences of etiquette seemed naturally to drop 
 away, leaving nothing but the forms dictated and preserved 
 by true manliness and true womanliness. 
 
 How young both looked, how happy in their frank, free 
 youth, with the sun-rays slanting down upon them, making a
 
 136 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 glory round either head, and as glory often does dazzling 
 painfully! 
 
 "Will you change seats with me, Miss March ? The sun will 
 not reach your eyes there." 
 
 She declined, refusing to punish any one for her conven- 
 ience. 
 
 "It would not be punishment," said John, so gravely that 
 one did not recognize it for a "pretty speech" till it had passed, 
 and went on with their conversation. In the course of it, he 
 managed so carefully, and at the same time so carelessly, to 
 interpose his broad hat between the sun and her, that the fiery 
 old king went down in splendor before she noticed that she 
 had been thus guarded and sheltered. Though she did not 
 speak why should she? of such a little thing, yet it was one 
 of those "little things" which often touch a woman more than 
 any words. 
 
 Miss March rose. "I should greatly like to hear your stream 
 and its wonderful singing." (John Halifax had been telling 
 how it held forth to me during my long, lonely days.) "I 
 wonder what it would say to me? Can we hear it from the 
 bottom of this field?" 
 
 "Not clearly; we had better go into the wood." For I knew 
 John would like that, though he was too great a hypocrite to 
 second my proposal by a single word. 
 
 Miss March was more single-minded, or else had no reason 
 for being the contrary. She agreed to my plan with childish 
 eagerness. Papa, you wouldn't miss me I shall not be away 
 five minutes. Then, Mr. Fletcher, will you go with me?" 
 
 "And I will stay beside Mr. March so that he will not be left 
 alone," said John, reseating himself. 
 
 What did the lad do that for? Why did he sit watching us 
 so intently, as I led Miss March down the meadow and into 
 the wood? It passed my comprehension. 
 
 The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in 
 perfect simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesi- 
 tation; even as the women I have known have treated me all 
 my life, showing me that sisterly trust and sisterly kindness 
 which have compensated in a measure for the solitary fate 
 which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me; which, in any case, 
 conscience would have forced me to lay upon myself that no 
 woman should ever be more to me than a sister. 
 
 Yet I watched her with pleasure, this young girl, as she 
 tripped on before me, noticing everything, enjoying every-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 137 
 
 thing. She talked to me a good deal too about myself, in her 
 kindly way, asking what I did all day, and if I were not rather 
 dull sometimes in this solitary country lodging? 
 
 "I am dull occasionally myself, or should be, if I had time 
 to think about it. It is hard to be an only child." 
 
 I told her I had never found it so. 
 
 "But then you have your friend. Has Mr. Halifax any 
 brothers or sisters?'"' 
 
 "None. No relatives living." 
 
 "Ah!" a compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a wood- 
 bine spray, and began twisting it with those never-quiet fingers 
 of hers. "You and he seem to be great friends?" 
 
 "John is a brother, friend, everything in the world to me." 
 
 "Is he? He must be very good. Indeed, he looks so," ob- 
 served Miss March, thoughtfully. "And I believe at least 
 I have often heard that good men are rare." 
 
 I had no time to enter into that momentous question, when 
 the origin of it himself appeared, breaking through the bushes 
 to join us. 
 
 He apologized for so doing, saying Mr. March had sent him. 
 
 "You surely do not mean that you come upon compulsion. 
 What an ill compliment to this lovely wood." 
 
 And the eyes of the "nut-browne mayde" were a little mis- 
 chievous. John looked preternaturally grave, as he said, "I 
 trust you do not object to my coming?" 
 
 She smiled so merrily that his slight haughtiness evaporated 
 like mist before the sunbeams. 
 
 "I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bush- 
 es; for I heard my own name. What terrible revelations has 
 this friend of mine been making to you, Miss March?" 
 
 He spoke gayly; but I fancy he looked uneasy. The young 
 lady only laughed. 
 
 "I have a great mind not to tell you, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "Not when I ask you?" 
 
 He spoke so seriously that she could not choose but reply. 
 
 "Mr. Fletcher was telling me three simple facts: First, 
 that you were an orphan, without relatives. Secondly, that 
 you were his dearest friend. Thirdly, well, I never com- 
 promise truth that you were good." 
 
 'And you?" 
 
 "The first I was ignorant of; the second I had already 
 guessed; the third " 
 
 He gazed at her intently.
 
 138 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "The third I had likewise not doubted." 
 
 John made some hurried acknowledgment. He looked 
 greatly pleased, nay, more than pleased, happy. He walked 
 forward by Miss March's side, taking his natural place in the 
 conversation, while I as naturally as willingly fell behind. But 
 I heard all they said, and joined in it now and then. 
 
 Thus, sometimes spoken to, and sometimes left silent watch- 
 ing their two figures, and idly noting their comparative 
 heights her head came just above John's shoulder I fol- 
 lowed these young people through the quiet wood. 
 
 Let me say a word about that wood dear and familiar as it 
 was. Its like I have never since seen. It was small so small 
 that in its darkest depths you might catch the sunshine light- 
 ing up the branches of its outside trees. A young wood, too 
 composed wholly of smooth-barked beeches and sturdy 
 Scotch firs, growing up side by side the Adam and Eve, in 
 this forest Eden. No old folk were there no gnarled and 
 withered foresters every tree rose up, upright in its youth, 
 and perfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking un- 
 dergrowth of vegetation; nothing but mosses, woodbine, and 
 ferns; and between the boles of the trees you could trace vista 
 after vista, as between the slender pillars of a cathedral aisle. 
 
 John pointed out all this to Miss March, especially noticing 
 the peculiar character of the two species of trees the mascu- 
 line and feminine fir and beech. She smiled at the fancy; 
 and much graceful badinage went on between them. I had 
 never before seen John in the company of women, and I mar- 
 velled to perceive the refinement of his language, and the 
 poetic ideas it clothed. I forgot the truth of whose saying 
 was it? "that once in his life every man becomes a poet." 
 
 They stood by the little rivulet, and he showed her how the 
 water came from the spring above; the old well-head where 
 the cattle drank: how it took its course merrily through the 
 woods, till at the bottom of the valley below it grew into a 
 wide stream. 
 
 "Small beginnings make great endings," observed Miss 
 March, sententiously. 
 
 John answered her with the happiest smile! He dipped his 
 hollowed palm into the water, and drank: she did the same. 
 Then, in her free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a cup of a 
 broad leaf, which, by the greatest ingenuity, she managed to 
 make contain about two teaspoonfuls of water for the space of 
 half a minute, and held it to my mouth.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 139 
 
 "I am like Kebecca at the well. Drink, Eleazer," she cried, 
 gayly. 
 
 John looked on. "I am very thirsty, too," said he, in a IOM- 
 voice. 
 
 The young girl hesitated a moment; then filled and offered 
 to him the Arcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper 
 and more subtle draught than that innocent water. 
 
 Both became somewhat grave, and stood, one on either side 
 the stream, looking down upon it, letting its bubbling murmur 
 have all the talk. What it said, I know not; I only know that 
 it did not, could not, say to those two what it said to me. 
 
 When we took leave of our acquaintances, Mr. March was 
 extremely courteous, and declared our society would always be 
 a pleasure to himself and his daughter. 
 
 "He always says so formally, 'my daughter,' " I observed, 
 breaking the silence in which they had left us. "I wonder 
 what her Christian name is." 
 
 "I believe it is Ursula." 
 
 "How did you find that out?" 
 
 "It is written in one of her books." 
 
 "Ursula!" I repeated, wondering where I had heard it be- 
 fore. "A pretty name." 
 
 "A very pretty name." 
 
 When John fell into this echo mood, I always found it best 
 to fall into taciturnity. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 
 
 Next day the rain poured down incessantly, sweeping blind- 
 ingly across the hills as I have rarely seen it sweep except at 
 Enderley. The weather had apparently broken up, even thus 
 early in the autumn; and for that day, and several days fol- 
 lowing, we had nothing but wind, rain, and storm. The sky 
 was as dusky as Miss March's gray gown; broken sometimes in 
 the evening by a rift of misty gold, gleaming over Nunnely 
 Hill, as if to show us what September sunsets might have 
 been. 
 
 John went every day to Norton Bury that week. His mind 
 seemed restless he was doubly kind and attentive to me; but 
 every night I heard him go out in all the storm to walk upon 
 the common. I longed to follow him, but it was best not.
 
 140 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 On the Saturday morning, coming up to breakfast, I heard 
 him ask Mrs. Tod how Mr. March was. We knew the invalid 
 had been ailing all the week, nor had we seen him or his 
 daughter once. 
 
 Mrs. Tod shook her head ominously. "He is very bad, sir; 
 badder than ever, I do think. She sits up wi' him best part of 
 every night." 
 
 "I imagined so. I have seen her light burning." 
 
 "Law, Mr. Halifax! you don't be walking abroad of nights 
 on the Flat? It's terrible bad for your health," cried the hon- 
 est soul, who never disguised the fact that Mr. Halifax was 
 her favorite of all her lodgers, save and except Miss March. 
 
 "Thank you for considering my health," he replied, smiling. 
 "Only tell me, Mrs. Tod, can anything be done can we do 
 anything for that poor gentleman?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir thank'ee all the same." 
 
 "If he should grow worse let me go for Dr. Brown. I shall 
 be at home all day." 
 
 "I'll tell Miss March of your kindness, sir," said Mrs. Tod, 
 as with a troubled countenance she disappeared. 
 
 "Were you not going to Norton Bury to-day, John?" 
 
 "I was; but, as it is a matter of no moment, I have changed 
 my mind. You have been left so much alone lately. Nay 
 I'll not disguise the truth; I had another reason." 
 
 "May I know it?" 
 
 "Of course you may. It is about our fellow-lodgers. Dr. 
 Brown I met him on the road this morning told me that 
 her father cannot live more than a few days perhaps a few 
 hours. And she does not know it." 
 
 Us leaned on the mantel-piece. I could see he was very 
 much affected. 
 
 So was I. 
 
 "Her relatives surely they oiTght to be sent for." 
 
 "She has none. Dr. Brown said she once told him so; none 
 nearer than the Brithwoods of the Mythe and we know what 
 the Brithwoods are." 
 
 A young gentleman and his young wife proverbially the 
 gayest, proudest, most light-hearted of all our county 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 141 
 
 Every minute he fell into abstractions. At length he said, 
 suddenly: 
 
 "Phineas, I do think it is wicked, downright wicked, for a 
 doctor to be afraid of telling a patient he is going to die 
 more wicked, perhaps, to keep the friends in ignorance, until 
 the last stunning blow falls. She ought to be told; she must 
 be told ; she may have many things to say to her poor father. 
 And God help her! for such a stroke she ought to be a little 
 prepared. It might kill her else!" 
 
 He rose up and walked about the room. The seal once 
 taken from his reserve, he expressed himself to me freely, as 
 he had used to do perhaps because at this time his feeling 
 required no disguise. The dreams which might have peopled 
 that beautiful sunset wood, necessarily faded in an atmosphere 
 like this filled with the solemn gloom of impending death. 
 
 At last he paused in his hurried walk, quieted, perhaps, by 
 what he might have read in my ever-following eyes. 
 
 "I know you are as grieved as I am, Phineas. What can we 
 do? Let us forget that they are strangers, and act as one 
 Christian ought to another. Do you not think she ought to 
 be told?" 
 
 "Most decidedly. They might get further advice." 
 
 "That would be vain. Dr. Brown says it is a hopeless case, 
 has been so for long; but he would not believe it, nor have his 
 daughter told. He clings to life desperately. How horrible 
 for her!" 
 
 "You think most of her." 
 
 "I do," said he, firmly. "He is reaping what he sowed, 
 poor man! God knows, I pity him. But she is as good as an 
 angel of heaven." 
 
 It was evident that, somehow or other, John had learned a 
 great deal about the father and daughter. However, now was 
 not the time to question him; for, at this moment, through the 
 opened doors, we heard faint moans that pierced the whole 
 house, and too surely came from the sick, possibly, the dying 
 man. Mrs. Tod, who had been seeing Dr. Brown to his horse, 
 now entered our parlor, pale, with swollen eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Halifax!" and the kind soul burst out into crying 
 afresh. John made her sit down, and gave her a glass of 
 wine. 
 
 "I've been with them since four this morning, and it makes 
 me weakly like," said she, "That poor Mr. March, I didn't
 
 142 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 like him very much alive, but I do feel so sorry now he's a- 
 dying" 
 
 Then he was dying. 
 
 ''Does his daughter know?" I asked. 
 
 "No, no, I dare not tell her. Nobody dare." 
 
 "Does she not guess it?" 
 
 "Not a bit. Poor young body! she's never seen anybody so. 
 She fancies him no worse than he has been, and has got over it. 
 She wouldn't think else. She be a good daughter to him, that 
 she be!" 
 
 We all sat silent; and then John said, in a low voice: "Mrs. 
 Tod, she ought to be told, and you would be the best person to 
 tell her." 
 
 But the soft-hearted landlady recoiled from the task. "If 
 Tod were at home now he that is so full o' wisdom learnt in 
 'the kirk' " 
 
 "I think," said John, hastily interrupting, "that a woman 
 would be the best. But if you object, and as Dr. Brown will 
 not be here till to-morrow, and as there is no one else to per- 
 form such a trying duty, it seems that is, I believe" here 
 his rather formal speech failed. He ended it abruptly "If 
 you like, I will tell her myself." 
 
 Mrs. Tod overwhelmed him with thankfulness. 
 
 "How shall I meet her, then? If it were done by chance, 
 it would be best." 
 
 "I'll manage it somehow. The house is very quiet; I've 
 sent all the children away, except the baby. The bab/11 com- 
 fort her, poor dear, afterward." And, again drying her hon- 
 est eyes, Mrs. Tod ran out of the room. 
 
 We could do nothing at all that morning. The impending 
 sorrow might have been our own, instead of that of people 
 who three weeks ago were perfect strangers. We sat and 
 talked less, perhaps, of them individually, than of the dark 
 Angel, whom face to face I at least had never yet known who 
 even now stood at the door of our little habitation, making its 
 various inmates feel as one family, in the presence of the great 
 leveller of all things Death. 
 
 Hour by hour of that long day, the rain fell down pouring 
 pouring shutting us up, as it were, from the world with- 
 out, and obliterating every thought, save of what was happen- 
 ing under our one roof that awful change which was takinsr 
 place in the upper room in the other half of the house, whence 
 the moans descended, and whence Mrs. Tod came out from
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 142 
 
 time to time, hurrying mournfully to inform "Mr. Halifax" 
 how things went on. 
 
 It was nearly dusk before she told us Mr. March was asleep, 
 that his daughter had at last been persuaded to come down 
 stairs, and was standing drinking a a cup o' tea" by the kitchen 
 fire. 
 
 "You must go now, sir; she'll not stop five minutes. Please 
 go." 
 
 "I will," he answered; but he turned frightfully pale. 
 "Phineas, don't let her see us both. Stay without the door. 
 If there were anybody to tell her this but me!" 
 
 "Do you hesitate?" 
 
 "No no." 
 
 And he went out. I did not follow him, but I heard after- 
 ward, both from himself and Mrs. Tod, what transpired. 
 
 She was standing so absorbed that she did not notice his 
 entrance. She looked years older and sadder than the young 
 girl who had stood by the stream-side less than a week ago. 
 When she turned and spoke to John, it was with a manner also 
 changed. No hesitation, no shyness; trouble had put aside 
 both. 
 
 "Thank you, my father is indeed seriously ill. I am in 
 great trouble, you see, though Mrs. Tod is very, very kind. 
 Don't cry so, good Mrs. Tod; I can't cry, I dare not. If I once 
 began, I should never stop, and then how could I help my poor 
 father? There now, there!" 
 
 She laid her hand, with its soft, fluttering motions, on the 
 good woman's shoulder, and looked up at John. He said af- 
 terward that those dry, tearless eyes smote him to the heart. 
 
 "Why does she sob so, Mr. Halifax? Papa will be better 
 to-morrow, I am sure." 
 
 "I hope so," he answered, dwelling on the word; "we should 
 always hope to the very last." 
 
 "The last!" with a quick, startled glance. 
 
 "And then we can only trust." 
 
 Something more than the mere words struck her. She ex- 
 amined him closely for a minute. 
 
 "You mean yes I understand what you mean. But you 
 
 are mistaken. The doctor would have told me if if " 
 
 she shivered, and left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 "Dr. Brown was afraid we were all afraid," broke in Mrs. 
 Tod, sobbing. "Only Mr. Halifax, he said " 
 
 Miss March turned abruptly to John. That woful gaze of
 
 144 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 hers could be answered by no words. I believe that he took 
 her hand, but I cannot tell. One thing I can tell, for she said 
 it to me herself afterward, that he seemed to look down upon 
 her like a strong, pitiful, comforting angel; a messenger sent 
 by God. 
 
 Then she broke away and flew upstairs. John came in 
 again to me and sat down. He did not speak for many min- 
 utes. 
 
 After an interval I know not how long we heard Mrs. 
 Tod calling loudly for "Mr. Halifax." We both ran through 
 the empty kitchen to the foot of the stairs that led to Mr. 
 March's room. 
 
 Mr. March's room! Alas, he owned nothing now on this 
 fleeting, perishable earth of ours. He had gone from it; the 
 spirit stealing quietly away in sleep. He belonged now to the 
 world everlasting. 
 
 Peace be to him! whatever his life had been, he was her 
 father. 
 
 Mrs. Tod sat half-way down the staircase, holding Ursula 
 March across her knees. The poor creature was insensible, or 
 nearly so. She, we learned, had been composed under the 
 terrible discovery made when she returned to his room; and 
 when all restorative means failed, the fact of death became 
 certain, she had herself closed her father's eyes, and kissed 
 him, then tried to walk from the room, but at the third step 
 she dropped quietly down. 
 
 There she lay; physical weakness conquering the strong 
 heart: she lay, overcome at last. There was no more to bear. 
 Had there been, I think she would have been able to have 
 borne it still. 
 
 John took her in his arms; I know not if he took her, or 
 Mrs. Tod gave her to him but there she was. He carried 
 her across the kitchen into our own little parlor, and laid her 
 down on my sofa. 
 
 "Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, keep everybody out. 
 She is waking now." 
 
 She did, indeed, open her eyes, with a long sigh, but 
 closed them again. Then, with an effort, she sat upright, 
 and looked at us all around. 
 
 "Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, 
 and sobbing over her like a child. "Cry do cry?" 
 
 "I can't," she said, and lay down again. 
 
 We stood awed, watching that poor, pale face, on every line
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 145 
 
 of which was written stunned, motionless., impassive grief. 
 For John two minutes of such a gaze as his might, in a man's 
 heart do the work of years. 
 
 "She must be roused," he said at last. "She must cry. 
 Mrs. Tod, take her upstairs. Let her look at her father." 
 
 The word affected what he desired; what almost her life 
 demanded. She clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of 
 weeping. 
 
 "Now, Phineas, let us go away." 
 
 And he went, walking almost like one blindfolded, straight 
 out of the house, I following him. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "I am quite certain, Mrs. Tod, that it would be much bet- 
 ter for her; and, if she consents, it shall be so," said John, 
 decisively. 
 
 We three were consulting, the morning after the death, on 
 a plan which he and I had already settled between ourselves, 
 namely, that we should leave our portion of the cottage en- 
 tirely at Miss March's disposal, while we inhabited hers, save 
 that locked and silent chamber wherein there was no com- 
 plaining, no suffering now. 
 
 Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was suc- 
 cessful; we received a message to the effect that Miss March 
 would not refuse our "kindness." So we vacated; and all that 
 long Sunday we sat in the parlor lately our neighbor's, heard 
 the rain come down, and the church bells ring; the wind blow- 
 ing autumn gales, and shaking all the windows, even that of 
 the room overhead. It sounded awful there. We were very 
 glad the poor young orphan was away. 
 
 On the Monday morning we heard going upstairs the heavy 
 footsteps that everyone at some time or other has shuddered 
 at; then the hammering. Mrs. Tod came in and told us that 
 no one, not even his daughter, could be allowed to look at 
 what had been "poor Mr. March" any more. All with him 
 was ended. 
 
 "The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do then, 
 poor thing?" 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 "Is she left well provided for, do you think?" 
 10
 
 146 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "It is impossible to say." 
 
 His answers were terse and brief enough, but I could not 
 help talking about the poor young creature, and wondering if 
 she had any relative or friend to come to her in this sad time. 
 
 "She said do you remember, when she was crying that 
 she had not a friend in the wide world?" 
 
 And this fact, which he expressed with a sort of triumph, 
 seemed to afford the greatest possible comfort to John. 
 
 But all our speculations were set at rest by a request brought 
 this moment by Mrs. Tod, that Mr. Halifax would go with her 
 to speak to Miss March. 
 
 "I! only I?" said John, starting. 
 
 "Only you, sir. She wants somebody to speak to about the 
 funeral and I said, 'There be Mr. Halifax, Miss March, the 
 kindest gentleman;' and she said, 'if it wouldn't trouble him to 
 come ' " 
 
 "Tell her I'm coming." 
 
 When, after some time, he returned, he was very serious. 
 
 "Wait a minute, Phineas, and you shall hear; I feel con- 
 fused, rather. It is so strange, but trusting me thus. I wish 
 I could help her more." 
 
 Then he told me all that had passed how he and Mrs. Tod 
 had conjointly arranged the hasty funeral how brave and 
 composed she had been that poor child, all alone! 
 
 "Has she, indeed, no one to help her?" 
 
 "No one. She might send for Mr. Brithwood, but he was 
 not friendly with her father; she said, she had rather ask this 
 'kindness' of me, because her father had liked me, and thought 
 I resembled their Walter, who died." 
 
 "Poor Mr. March! perhaps he is with Walter now. But, 
 John, can you do all that is necessary for her? You are very 
 young." 
 
 "She does not seem to feel that. She treats me as if I were 
 a man of forty. Do I look so old and grave, Phineas?" 
 
 "Sometimes. And about the funeral?" 
 
 "It will be very simple. She is determined to go herself. 
 She wishes to have no one besides Mrs. Tod, you, and me." 
 
 "Where is he to be buried?" 
 
 "In the little church-yard close by, which you and I have 
 looked at many a time. Ah, Phineas, we did not think how 
 soon we should be laying our dead there." 
 
 "Not our dead, thank God!" 
 
 But the next minute I understood. "Our dead" the in-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 147 
 
 voluntary admission of that sole feeling, which makes one, 
 erewhile a stranger, say to, or think of another "All thine 
 are mine, and mine are thine, henceforward and forever." 
 
 I watched John as he stood by the fire; his thoughtful brow 
 and firm-set lips contradicting the youthfulness of his looks. 
 Few as were his years, he had learned much in them. He was 
 at heart a man, ready and able to design and carry out a man's 
 work in the world. And^in his whole aspect was such grave 
 purity, such honest truth, that no wonder, young as they both 
 were, and little as she knew of him, this poor orphan should 
 not have feared to trust him entirely. And there is nothing 
 that binds heart to heart, of lovers or friends, so quickly and 
 so safely as to trust and be trusted in time of trouble. 
 
 "Did she tell you any more, John? anything of her cir- 
 cumstances?" 
 
 "No. But from something Mrs. Tod let fall I fear" and 
 he vainly tried to disguise his extreme satisfaction "that she 
 will be left with little or nothing." 
 
 "Poor Miss March!" 
 
 "Why call her poor? She is not a woman to be pitied, but 
 to be honored. You would have thought so had you seen her 
 this morning. So gentle, so wise, so brave. Phineas" and 
 I could see his lips tremble "that was the kind of woman 
 Solomon meant when he said, 'Her price is above rubies.' " 
 
 "I think so, too. I doubt not that when she marries, Ur- 
 sula March will be a 'crown to her husband.' }: 
 
 My words, or the half -sigh that accompanied them I could 
 not help it seemed to startle John, but he made no remark. 
 Nor did we recur to the subject again that day. 
 
 Two days after our little company followed the coffin out of 
 the woodbine porch, where we had last said good-bye to poor 
 Mr. March across the few yards of common to the church- 
 yard, scarcely larger than a cottage garden, where, at long 
 intervals, the few Enderley dead were laid. 
 
 A small procession the daughter first, supported by good 
 Mrs. Tod, then John Halifax and I. So we buried him the 
 stranger, who at this time and henceforth seemed even, as 
 John had expressed it, "our dead," our own. 
 
 We followed the orphan home. She had walked firmly, and 
 stood by the grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her 
 face. But when we came back to Eose Cottage door, and she 
 gave a quick startled glance up at the familiar window, we
 
 148 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 saw Mrs. Tod take her, unresisting, into her motherly arms 
 then we knew how it would be. 
 
 "Come away," said John, in a smothered voice, and we came 
 away. 
 
 All that day we sat in our parlor Mr. March's parlor that 
 had been where, through the no longer darkened casement, 
 the unwonted sun poured in; we tried to settle to our ordinary 
 ways, and feel as if this were like all other days our old sun- 
 shiny days at Enderley. But it would not do. Some imper- 
 ceptible but great change had taken place. It seemed a year 
 since that Saturday afternoon, when we were drinking tea so 
 merrily under the apple-tree in the field. 
 
 We heard no more from Miss March that day. The next, 
 we received a message of thanks for our "kindness." She had 
 given way at last, Mrs. Tod said, and kept her chamber, not 
 seriously ill, but in spirit thoroughly broken down. For three 
 days more, when I went to meet John returning from Norton 
 Bury, I could see that his first glance, as he rode up between 
 the chestnut trees, was to the window of the room that had 
 been mine. I always told him, without his asking, whatever 
 Mrs. Tod had told me about her state; he used to listen, gen- 
 erally in silence, and then speak of something else. He hard- 
 ly ever mentioned Miss March's name. 
 
 On the fourth morning, I happened to ask him if he had 
 told my father what had occurred here? 
 
 "No." 
 
 I looked surprised. 
 
 "Did you wish me to tell him? I will, if you like, Phin- 
 eas." 
 
 "Oh, no. He takes little interest in strangers." 
 
 Soon after, as he lingered about the parlor, John said: 
 
 "Probably I may be late to-night. After business hours, I 
 want to have a little talk with your father." 
 
 He stood irresolutely by the fire. I knew by his counten- 
 ance that there was something on his mind. 
 
 "David!" 
 
 "Ay, lad." 
 
 "Will you not tell me first what you want to say to my 
 father?" ' 
 
 "I can't stay now. To-night, perhaps. But, pshaw! what 
 is there to be told? 'Nothing.' ' ; 
 
 "Anything that concerns you can never be to me quite 
 'nothing.' "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 149 
 
 "I know that," he said, affectionately, and went out of the 
 room. 
 
 When he came in, he looked much more cheerful stood 
 switching his riding-whip after the old habit, and called upon 
 me to admire his favorite brown mare. 
 
 "I do; and her master likewise. John, when you're on 
 horseback, you look like a young knight of the Middle Ages. 
 Maybe some of the old Norman blood was in 'Guy Halifax, 
 gentleman/ '' 
 
 It was a dangerous allusion. He changed color so rapidly 
 and violently that I thought I had angered him. 
 
 "No that would not matter cannot cannot never 
 shall. I am what God made me, and what, with His blessing, 
 I will make myself." 
 
 He said no more, and very soon afterward he rode away. 
 But not before, as every day, I had noticed that wistful, wan- 
 dering glance up at the darkened window of the room, where 
 sad and alone, save for kindly Mrs. Tod, the young orphan 
 lay. 
 
 In the evening, just before bed-time, he said to me, with 
 a rather sad smile, "Phineas, you wanted to know what it was 
 that I wished to speak about to your father?" 
 
 "Ay, do tell me." 
 
 "It is hardly worth telling. Only to ask him how he set up 
 in business for himself. He was, I believe, little older than I 
 am now." 
 
 "Just twenty-one." 
 
 "And I shall be twenty-one next June." 
 
 "Are you thinking of setting up for yourself?" 
 
 "A likely matter!" and he laughed rather bitterly, I thought 
 "when every trade requires some capital, and the only trade 
 I thoroughly understand, a very large one. No, no, Phineas; 
 you'll not see me setting up a rival tan-yard next year. My 
 capital is nil." 
 
 "Except youth, health, courage, honor, honesty, and a few 
 other such trifles." 
 
 "None of which I can coin into money, however. And your 
 father has expressly told me, that without money a tanner 
 can do nothing." 
 
 "Unless, as was his own case, he was taken into some partner- 
 ship, where his services were so valuable as to be received in- 
 stead of capital. True, my father earned little at first, scarce-
 
 150 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ly more than you earn now; but he managed to live respecta- 
 bly, and in course of time to marry." 
 
 I avoided looking at John as I said the last word. He made 
 no answer, but in a little time he came and leaned over my 
 chair. 
 
 "Phineas, you are a wise counsellor 'a brother born for 
 adversity.' I have been vexing myself a good deal about my 
 future, but now I will take heart. Perhaps, some day, neither 
 you nor any one else will be ashamed of me." 
 
 "No one could, even now, seeing you as you really are." 
 
 "As John Halifax, not as the tanner's 'prentice-boy? Oh! 
 lad, there the goad sticks. Here, I forget everything unpleas- 
 ant; I am my own free natural self; but the minute I get back 
 to Norton Bury however, it is a wrong, a wicked feeling, and 
 must be kept down. Let us talk of something else." 
 
 "Of Miss March? She has been greatly better all day." 
 
 "She? No, not her to-night!" he said, hurriedly. "Pah! 
 I could almost fancy the odor of these hides on my hands still. 
 Give me a candle." 
 
 He went upstairs, and only came down a few minutes before 
 bed-time. 
 
 Next morning was Sunday. After the bells had done ring- 
 ing, we saw a black-veiled figure pass our window. Poor girl! 
 going to church alone. We followed taking care that she 
 should not see us, either during service, or afterward. We 
 did not see anything more of her that day. 
 
 On Monday a message came, saying that Miss March would 
 be glad to speak with us both. Of course, we went. 
 
 She was sitting quite alone, in our old parlor, very grave and 
 pale, but perfectly composed. A little more womanly-looking 
 in the dignity of her great grief, which, girl as she was, and 
 young men as we were, seemed to be to her a shield transcend- 
 ing all wordly "proprieties." 
 
 As she rose, and we shook hands, in a silence only broken 
 by the rustle of her black dress, not one of us thought surely 
 the most evil-minded gossip could not have dared to think 
 not the thing. She seemed to have fought through the worst 
 of the trouble, and to have put it back into those deep, quiet 
 chambers where all griefs go; never forgotten, never removed, 
 but sealed up in silence, as it should be. Perhaps, too for 
 let us not exact more from Nature than Nature grants the 
 wide difference in character, temperament, and sympathies 
 between Miss March and her father, unconsciously made his
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 151 
 
 loss less a heart-loss, total and irremediable, than one of mere 
 habit and instinctive feeling, which, the first shock over, would 
 insensibly heal. Besides, she was young young in life, in 
 hope, in body and soul; and youth, though it grieves passion- 
 ately, cannot forever grieve. 
 
 I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some de- 
 gree herself again; at least so much of her old self as was right, 
 natural, and good for her to be. 
 
 She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him 
 was easy and natural, as to a friend who deserved and pos- 
 sessed her warm gratitude; his was most constrained. Gradu- 
 ally, however, this wore away; there was something in her 
 which, piercing all disguises, went at once to the heart of 
 things. She seemed to hold in her hand the touchstone of 
 truth. 
 
 He asked no I believe I asked her, how long she intended 
 staying at Enderley? 
 
 "I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin, 
 Eichard Brithwood, was left my guardian. This my fa 
 this was to have been altered, I believe. I wish it had been. 
 You know Norton Bury, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "I live there." 
 
 "Indeed!" with some surprise. "Then you are probably 
 acquainted with my cousin and his wife?" 
 
 "No; but I have seen them." 
 
 John gave these answers without lifting his eyes. 
 
 "Will you tell me candidly, for I know nothing of her, and 
 it is rather important that I should learn what sort of per- 
 son is Lady Caroline?" 
 
 This frank question,- put directly, and guarded by the bat- 
 tery of those innocent girlish eyes, was a very hard question 
 to be answered; for Norton Bury had said many ill-natured 
 things of our young 'squire's wife, whom he married at Naples, 
 from the house of the well-known Lady Hamilton. 
 
 "She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Eavenel, the Earl 
 of Luxmore's daughter." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but that does not signify. I know nothing of 
 Lord Luxmore. I want to know what she is herself!" 
 
 John hesitated, then answered, as he could with truth, 
 "She is said to be very charitable to the poor, pleasant and 
 kind-hearted. But if I may venture to hint as much, not ex- 
 actly the friend whom I think Miss March would choose, or to
 
 152 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 whom she would like to be indebted for anything but cour- 
 tesy." 
 
 "That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to any 
 one. Only, if she were a good woman, Lady Caroline would 
 have been a great comfort and useful adviser to one who is 
 scarcely eighteen, and, I believe, an heiress." 
 
 "An heiress!" The color flashed in a torrent over John's 
 whole face, then left him pale. "I pardon me I thought 
 it was otherwise. Allow me to to express my pleasure " 
 
 "It does not add to mine," said she, half sighing. "Jane 
 Cardigan always told me riches brought many cares. Poor 
 Jane! I wish I could go back to her but that is impossible!" 
 
 A silence here intervened, which it was necessary some one 
 should break. 
 
 "So much good can be done with a large fortune," I said. 
 
 "Yes. I know not if mine is very large; indeed I never 
 understood money matters, but have merely believed what I 
 was told. However, be my fortune much or little, I will try 
 to use it well." 
 
 "I am sure you will." 
 
 John said nothing; but his eyes, sad indeed, yet lit with a 
 proud tenderness, rested upon her as she spoke. Soon after, 
 he rose up to take leave. 
 
 "Do not go yet. I want to ask about Norton Bury. I had 
 no idea you lived there. And Mr. Fletcher, too ?" 
 
 I replied in the affirmative. 
 
 "In what part of the town?" 
 
 "On the Coltham Eoad, near the Abbey." 
 
 "Ah, those Abbey chimes! how I used to listen to them 
 night after night, when the pain kept me awake!" 
 
 "What pain?" asked John suddenly, alive to any suffering 
 of hers. 
 
 Miss March smiled almost like her old smile. "Oh! I had 
 nearly forgotten it, though it was very bad at the time: only 
 that I cut my wrist rather dangerously with a bread-knife, in 
 a struggle with my nurse." 
 
 "When was that?" eagerly inquired John. 
 
 For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas! the 
 tide of fate was running strong against my poor David. What 
 could I do but stand aside and watch? 
 
 "When 'was it? Let me see five, six years ago. But, in- 
 deed, 'tis nothing." 
 
 "Not exactly 'nothing.' Do tell me!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 153 
 
 And John stood, listening for her words, counting them 
 even, as one would count, drop by drop, a phial of joy which 
 is nearly empty, yet Time's remorseless hand still kept on, 
 pouring, pouring. 
 
 "Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses 
 I was very naughty as a child. They would not let me have 
 a piece of bread that I wanted to give away to a poor lad." 
 
 "Who stood opposite, under an alley, in the rain, was it 
 not?" 
 
 "How could you know? But he looked so hungry; I was 
 so sorry for him." 
 
 "Were you?" in a tone almost inaudible. 
 
 "I have often thought of him since, when I chanced to look 
 at this mark." 
 
 "Let me look at it may I?" 
 
 Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering, 
 just above the wrist, a deep, discolored seam. He gazed at it, 
 his features all quivering; then without a word either of adieu 
 or apology, he quitted the room. 
 
 CHAPTEB XV. 
 
 I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the 
 door where John had disappeared in extreme surprise, not 
 unmingled with a certain embarrassment. 
 
 "What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended 
 him in any way?" 
 
 "Indeed, no." 
 
 "Why did he go away?" 
 
 But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most sim- 
 ply put, involved so much that I felt I had no right to answer 
 it; while, at the same time, I had no possible right to use any 
 of those disguises or prevarications which are foolish and per- 
 ilous and very frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, 
 was Miss March the woman to which one dared offer the like: 
 therefore I said to her plainly: 
 
 "I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John 
 would prefer telling you himself." 
 
 "As he pleases," returned Miss March, a slight reserve tem- 
 pering her frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began 
 talking to me in her usual friendly way, asking me many ques-
 
 154 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tions about the Brithwoods and about Norton Bury. I an- 
 swered them freely, my only reservation being that I took care 
 not to give any information concerning ourselves. Soon af- 
 terward, as John did not return, I took leave of her and went 
 to our parlor. 
 
 He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who 
 had met him on the common, that he was gone a long walk, 
 and should not return till dinner-time. Dinner-time came, 
 but I had to dine alone. It was the first time I ever knew him 
 to break even such a trivial promise. My heart misgave me 
 I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search of him, 
 lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlor. Better, when 
 he did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth and 
 me. 
 
 Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six 
 years better than anything else in the whole world. Yet what 
 could I do now? Fate had taken the scepter out of my hands 
 I was utterly powerless; I could neither give him comfort 
 nor save him pain any more. 
 
 What I felt then in those long, still hours, many a one has 
 felt likewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over 
 a brother, many a friend over a friend a feeling natural and 
 universal. Let those who suffer take it patiently, as the com- 
 mon lot; let those who win hold the former ties in tenderness 
 and reverence, nor dare to flaunt the new bond cruelly in face 
 of the old. 
 
 Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as 
 right to say, I will no more allude to the subject. 
 
 In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach-and- 
 four, resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door: I knew it 
 well, and so did all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady 
 Caroline's own maid so I heard afterward sat in the rum- 
 ble, and Lady Caroline's own black-eyed Neapolitan page 
 leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concluded was for 
 Miss March. I was glad that John was not at home; glad that 
 the coach, with all its fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as 
 it had arrived, before John came up. 
 
 He did not come until it was nearly dusk. I was at the 
 window, looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed sky- 
 ward like long fingers stretching up out of the gloom, when T 
 saw him crossing the common. At first I was going to meet 
 him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained within and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 155 
 
 only stirred up the fire, which could be seen shining ever so 
 far. 
 
 "What a bright blaze! Nay, you have not waited dinner, 
 I hope? Tea yes, that's far better; I have had such a long 
 walk, and am so tired." 
 
 The words were cheerful, so was the tone. Too cheerful 
 oh, by far! The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend's 
 heart, like the piping of soldiers as they go away back from a 
 newly-filled grave. 
 
 "Where have you been, John?" 
 
 "All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there such ex- 
 pansive views! As Mrs. Tod informed me, quoting some local 
 ballad, which she said was written by an uncle of hers: 
 
 'There you may spy 
 Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.' 
 
 Remarkable fact, isn't it?" 
 
 Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly 
 talking. It was enough to make one weep. 
 
 After tea, I insisted on his taking my arm-chair, saying, 
 that after such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold. 
 
 "Not the least quite the contrary feel my hand." It 
 was burning. "But I am tired thoroughly tired." 
 
 He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weariness 
 of body and soul that was written on his face! 
 
 "Why did you go out alone? John, you know that you 
 have always me." 
 
 He looked up, smiling. But the momentary brightness 
 passed. Alas! I was not enough to make him happy now. 
 
 We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time; but 
 the gates of his heart were close locked. It seemed as if he 
 dared not open them, lest the flood should burst forth and 
 overwhelm us. 
 
 At nine o'clock, Mrs. Tod came in with supper. She had 
 always something or other to say, especially since the late 
 events had drawn the whole household of Eose Cottage so 
 closely together; now she was brimful of news. 
 
 She had been all that evening packing up for poor, dear 
 Miss March; though why she should call her "poor," truly, 
 she didn't know. Who would have thought Mr. March had 
 such grand relations! Had we seen Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood's coach come that day? Such a beautiful coach it was!
 
 156 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 sent on purpose for Miss March, only she wouldn't go. "But 
 now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She is leaving to- 
 morrow." 
 
 When John heard this, he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, 
 to fasten the heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the- 
 bolt, motionless, till the good woman was gone. Then IK; 
 staggered to the mantel-piece, and leaned on it with both his 
 elbows, his hands covering his face. 
 
 But there was no disguise now, no attempt to make it. A 
 young man's first love not first fancy, but first love in all 
 its passion, desperation, and pain, had come to him, as it comes 
 to all. I saw him writhing under it saw, and could not help 
 him. The next few silent minutes were very bitter to us both. 
 
 Then I said, gently, "David!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I thought things were so." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Suppose you were to talk to me a little, it might do you 
 good." 
 
 "Another time. Let me go out out into the air I'm 
 choking." 
 
 Snatching up his hat, he rushed from me. I did not dare 
 to follow. 
 
 After waiting some time, and listening till all was quiet in 
 the house, I could bear the suspense no longer, and went out. 
 
 I thought I should find him on the Flat, probably in his 
 favorite walk, his "terrace," as he called it, where he had first 
 seen, and must have seen many a day after, that girlish figure 
 tripping lightly along through the morning sunshine and 
 morning dew. I had a sort of instinct that he would be there 
 now; so I climbed up the shortest way, often losing my foot- 
 ing; for it was a pitch-dark night, and the common looked as 
 wide and black and still as a midnight sea. 
 
 John was not there; indeed, if he had been, I could scarce- 
 ly have seen him; I could see nothing but void expanse of the 
 Flat, or, looking down, the broad river of mist that rolled 
 through the valley, on the other side of which twinkled a few 
 cottage lights, like unearthly beacons from the farthest shore 
 of an impassable flood. 
 
 Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Tod say that, on ac- 
 count of its pits and quarries, the common was extremely 
 dangerous after dark, except to those who knew it well. In 
 a horrible dread I called out John's name but no one an-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 157 
 
 swered. I went on blindly, desperately, shouting as I went. 
 At length, in one of the Eoman fosses, I stumbled and fell. 
 Some one came, darting with great leaps through the mist, 
 and lifted me up. 
 
 "Oh! David David!" 
 
 "Phineas, is that you? You have come out this bitter night 
 why did you?" 
 
 His tenderness over me, even then, made me break down. 
 I forgot my manhood, or else it slipped from me unawares. 
 In the old Bible language, "I fell on his neck and wept." 
 
 Afterward I was not sorry for this, because I think my 
 weakness gave him strength. I think, amid the whirl of pas- 
 sion that racked him, it was good for him to feel that the one 
 crowning cup of life is not inevitably life's sole sustenance; 
 that it was something to have a friend and brother who loved 
 him with a love like Jonathan's "passing the love of wo- 
 men." 
 
 "I have been very wrong," he kept repeating, in a broken 
 voice; "but I was not myself. I am better now. Come let 
 us go home." 
 
 He put his arm round me to keep me warm. He even sat 
 down by the fire to talk with me. Whatever struggle there 
 had been, I saw it was over; he looked his own self, only so 
 very, very pale, and spoke in his natural voice; ay, even when 
 mentioning her, which he was the first to do." 
 
 "She goes to-morrow, you are sure, Phineas?" 
 
 "I believe so. Shall you see her again?" 
 
 "If she desires it." 
 
 "Shall you say anything to her?" 
 
 "Nothing. If for a little while not knowing or not think- 
 ing of all the truth I felt I had strength to remove all im- 
 pediments, I now see that even to dream of such things makes 
 me a fool, or possibly worse a knave. I will be neither; I 
 will be a man." 
 
 I replied not; how could one answer such words? calmly 
 uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like a 
 piece of his heart. 
 
 "Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her 
 so abruptly this morning?" 
 
 "She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason 
 yourself." 
 
 f 'l will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about
 
 168 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth save one 
 thing. She need never know that." 
 
 I guessed by his broken voice what the "one thing" was; 
 which he counted as nothing, but which, I think, any true 
 woman would have counted worth everything the priceless 
 gift of a good man's love. Love that in such a nature as his, 
 if once conceived, would last a lifetime. And she was not to 
 know it! I felt sorry, ay, very sorry, for Ursula March. 
 
 "Do you not think I am right, Phineas?" 
 
 "Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge." 
 
 "It is right," said he, firmly. "There can be no possible 
 hope for me; nothing remains but silence." 
 
 I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any 
 young man, only twenty years old, with the world all before 
 him, any love could be absolutely hopeless; especially to a 
 young man like John Halifax. But as things now stood, I 
 deemed it best to leave him altogether to himself, offering 
 neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through 
 his will, would happen: for me to interfere either way would 
 be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some sense, exceedingly 
 wrong. 
 
 So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total si- 
 lence. 
 
 John broke it talking to himself as if he had forgotten I 
 was by. 
 
 "To think it was she who did it that first kindness to a 
 poor friendless boy! I never forgot it never. It did me 
 more good than I can tell. And that scar on her poor arm 
 her dear little tender arm! how this morning I would have 
 given all the world to " 
 
 He broke off, instinctively as it were, with the sort of feel- 
 ing every good man has, that the sacred passion, the inmost 
 tenderness of his love, should be kept wholly between himself 
 and the woman he has chosen. 
 
 I knew that, too; knew that in his heart had grown up a se- 
 cret, a necessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship closer 
 than the closest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps, I hardly 
 know why, I sighed. 
 
 John turned round "Phineas, you must not think, because 
 of this, which you will understand for yourself, I hope one 
 day; you must not think I could ever think less, or feel less, 
 about my brother." 
 
 He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 159 
 
 warmly and silently. Thus was healed my last lingering pain; 
 I was thenceforward entirely satisfied. 
 
 I think we parted that night as we had never parted before; 
 feeling that the trial of our friendship the great trial, per- 
 haps, of any friendship had come and passed, safely; that 
 whatever new ties might gather round each, our two hearts 
 would cleave together until death. 
 
 The next morning rose, as I have seen many a morning rise 
 at Enderley, misty and gray; but oh, so heavenly fair; with a 
 pearly net-work of dewy gossamer underfoot, and overhead 
 countless thistle-downs flying about, like fairy chariots, hur- 
 rying out of sight of the sun, which had only mounted high 
 enough above the Flat to touch the horizon of hills opposite, 
 and the tops of my four poplars, leaving Eose Cottage and the 
 valley below it all in morning shadow. John called me to go 
 with him on the common; his voice sounded so cheerful out- 
 side my door, that it was with a glad heart I rose and went. 
 
 He chose his old walk his "terrace." No chance now of 
 meeting the light figure coming tripping along the level hill. 
 All that dream was now over. He did not speak of it nor I. 
 He seemed contented or, at least, thoroughly calmed down; 
 except that the sweet composure of his mien had settled into 
 the harder gravity of manhood. The crisis and climax of 
 youth had been gone through he never could be a boy again. 
 
 We came to that part of John's terrace which overhung the 
 church-yard. Both of us glanced instinctively down to the 
 heap of loose red earth the as yet nameless grave. Some one 
 stood beside it the only one who was likely to be there. 
 
 Even had I not recognized her, John's manner would have 
 told me who it was. A deadly paleness overspread his face 
 its quietness was gone every feature trembled it almost 
 broke my heart to see how deeply this love had struck its 
 roots down to the very core of his; twisting them with every 
 fiber of his being. A love which, though it had sprung up so 
 early, and come to maturity so fast, might yet be the curse of 
 his whole existence. Save that no love conceived virtuously, 
 for a good woman, be it ever so hopeless, can be rightly con- 
 sidered as a curse. 
 
 "Shall we go away?" I whispered "a long walk to the 
 other side of the Flat? She will have left Eose Cottage 
 soon." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Before noon, I heard. Come, David."
 
 160 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He suffered me to put my arm in his, and draw him away 
 for a step or two, then turned. 
 
 "I can't, Phineas, I can't! I must look at her again only 
 for one minute one little minute." 
 
 But he stayed we were standing where she could not see 
 us till she had slowly left the grave. We heard the click of 
 the church-yard gate; where she went afterward, we could not 
 discern. 
 
 John moved away. I asked him if we should take our walk 
 now? But he did not seem to hear me; so I let him follow his 
 own way perhaps it might be for good who could tell? 
 
 He descended from the Flat, and came quickly round the 
 corner of the cottage. Miss March stood there, trying to find 
 one fresh rose among the fast-withering clusters about what 
 had been our parlor window and now was hers. 
 
 She saw us, acknowledged us, but hurriedly, and not with- 
 out some momentary signs of agitation. 
 
 "The roses are all gone," she said, rather sadly. 
 
 "Perhaps, higher up, I can reach one shall I try?" 
 
 I marvelled to see that John's manner as he addressed her 
 was just like his manner always with her. 
 
 "Thank you that will do. I wanted to take some away 
 with me. I am leaving Kose Cottage to-day, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "So I have heard." 
 
 He did not say "sorry to hear." I wondered did the omis- 
 sion strike her? But no she evidently regarded us both as 
 mere acquaintances, inevitably, perhaps even tenderly, bound 
 up with this time; and as such, claiming a more than ordinary 
 place in her regard and remembrance. No man with common 
 sense or common feeling could for a moment dare to misinter- 
 pret the emotion she showed. 
 
 Ke-entering the house, she asked us if we would come in 
 with her; she had a few things to say to us. And then she 
 again referred gratefully to our "kindness." 
 
 We all went once more for the last time into the little 
 parlor. 
 
 "Yes, I am going away," said she, mournfully. 
 
 "We hope all good will go with you always and every- 
 where." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Fletcher." 
 
 It was strange, the grave tone our intercourse now invar- 
 iably assumed. We might have been three old people, who 
 had long fought with and endured the crosses of the world,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 161 
 
 instead of two young men and a young woman, in the very 
 dawn of life. 
 
 "Circumstances have fixed my plans since I saw you yes- 
 terday. I am going to reside for a time with my cousins, the 
 Brithwoods. It seems best for me. Lady Caroline is very 
 kind, and I am so lonely." 
 
 She said this not in any compliment, but as if accepting the 
 fact, and making up her mind to endure it. A little more 
 fragmentary conversation passed, chielly between herself and 
 me John uttered scarcely a word. He sat by the window, 
 half shading his face with his hand. Under that covert, the 
 gaze which incessantly followed and dwelt on her face oh, 
 had she seen it! 
 
 ' The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had in- 
 tended, concerning his position in the world? Had she 
 guessed or learned anything, or were we to her simply Mr. 
 Halifax and Mr. Fletcher two "gentlemen" of Norton Bury? 
 It appeared so. 
 
 "This is not a very long good-bye, I trust?" said she to me, 
 with something more than courtesy. "I shall remain at the 
 My the House some weeks, I believe. How long do you pro- 
 pose staying at Enderley?" 
 
 I was uncertain. 
 
 "But your home is in Norton Bury? I hope I trust, you 
 will allow my cousin to express in his own house his thanks 
 and mine for your great kindness during my trouble?" 
 
 Neither of us answered. Miss March looked surprised 
 hurt nay, displeased; then her eye, resting on John, lost its 
 haughtiness, and became humble and sweet. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do know 
 you. Will you tell me candidly, as I know you will wheth- 
 er there is anything in Mr. Brithwood which you think un- 
 worthy of your acquaintance?" 
 
 "He would think me unworthy of his," was the low, firm 
 answer. 
 
 Miss March smiled incredulously. "Because you are not 
 very rich? What can that signify? It is enough for me that 
 my friends are gentlemen." 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood, and many others, would not allow my 
 claim to that title." 
 
 Astonished nay, somewhat more than astonished the 
 young gentlewoman drew back a little. "I do not quite un- 
 derstand you." 
 11
 
 162 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Let me explain, then;" and her involuntary gesture seem- 
 ing to have brought all honest dignity and manly pride, he 
 faced her, once more himself. "It is right, Mies March, that 
 you should know who and what I am, to whom you are giving 
 the honor of your kindness. Perhaps you ought to have 
 known before; but here at Enderley we seemed to be equals 
 friends." 
 
 "I have indeed felt it so." 
 
 "Then, you will the sooner pardon my not telling you 
 what you never asked, and I was only too ready to forget 
 that we are not equals; that is, society would not regard us as 
 such, and I doubt if even you yourself would wish us to be 
 friends." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you are a gentlewoman, and I am a tradesman." 
 
 The news was evidently a shock to her; it could not but be, 
 reared as she had been. She sat, the eyelashes drooping over 
 her flushed cheeks, perfectly silent. 
 
 John's voice grew firmer prouder no hesitation now. 
 
 "My calling is, as you will soon hear at Norton Bury, that of 
 a tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher, Phineas' father." 
 
 "Mr. Fletcher!" She looked up at me a mingled look of 
 kindliness and pain. 
 
 "Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. 
 He is rich; he has been well educated; I have had to educate 
 myself. I came to Norton Bury six years ago a beggar-boy. 
 No, not quite that, for I never begged; either worked or 
 starved." 
 
 The earnestness, the passion of his tone, made Miss March 
 lift her eyes, but they fell again. 
 
 "Yes, Phineas found me in an alley, starving. We stood in 
 the rain, opposite the mayor's house. A little girl you know 
 her, Miss March came to the door, and threw out to me a 
 bit of bread." 
 
 Now indeed she started. "You was that you?" 
 
 "It was I." 
 
 John paused, and his whole manner changed into softness 
 as he resumed. "I never forgot that little girl. Many a time, 
 when I was inclined to do wrong, she kept me right the re- 
 membrance of her sweet face and her kindness." 
 
 That face was pressed down against the sofa where she sat. 
 Miss March was all but weeping. 
 
 John continued.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 163 
 
 "I am glad to have met her again glad to have been able 
 to do her some small good in return for the infinite good she 
 once did me. I shall bid her farewell now, at once and alto- 
 gether." 
 
 A quick involuntary turn of the hidden face asked him, 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because," John answered, "the world says we are not 
 equals, and it would neither be for Miss March's honor nor 
 mine did I try to force upon it the truth, which I may prove 
 openly one day, that we are equals." 
 
 Miss March looked up at him it were hard to say with what 
 expression of pleasure, or pride, or simple astonishment; per- 
 haps a mingling of all. She silently offered her hand, first to 
 me and then to John. Whether she meant it as a friendliness, 
 or as a mere ceremony of adieu, I cannot tell. John took it as 
 the latter and rose. 
 
 His hand was on the door, but he could not go. 
 
 "Miss March," he said, "perhaps I may never see you again, 
 at least never as now. Let me look once more at that wrist 
 which was hurt." 
 
 Her left arm was hanging over the sofa, the scar being visi- 
 ble enough. John took the hand and held it firmly. 
 
 "Poor little hand, blessed little hand! May God bless it 
 evermore!" 
 
 Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound 
 had been, a kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss 
 could be. Surely she must have felt it known it. 
 
 A moment afterward, he was gone. 
 
 That day Miss March departed, and we remained at Ender- 
 ley, alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was winter-time. All the summer-days at Enderley 
 were gone, "like a dream when one awaketh." Of her who 
 had been the beautiful center of the dream we had never heard 
 nor spoken since. 
 
 John and I were walking together along the road toward 
 the Mythe; we could just see the frosty sunset reflected on the 
 windows of the Mythe House, now closed for months, the fam- 
 ily being away. The meadows alongside, where the Avon had 
 overflowed and frozen, were a popular skating ground: and
 
 164 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the road was alive with lookers-on of every class. All Norton 
 Bury seemed abroad; and half Norton Bury exchanged salu- 
 tations with my companion, till I was amused to notice how 
 large John's acquaintance had grown. 
 
 Among the rest, there overtook us a little elderly lady, as 
 prim and neat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a hap- 
 py matron. I saw at once who it was Mrs. Jessop, our good 
 doctor's new wife and old love, whom he had lately brought 
 home, to the great amazement and curiosity of Norton Bury. 
 
 "She seems to like you very much," I said; as after a cordial 
 greeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on. 
 
 "They were both very kind to me in London, last month, as 
 I think I told you." 
 
 "Ay!" It was one of the few things he had mentioned 
 about that same London journey, for he had grown into a 
 painful habit of silence now. Yet I dreaded to break it, lest 
 any wounds rankling beneath might thereby be caused to 
 smart once more. And our love to one another was too faith- 
 ful for a little reserve to have power to influence it in any way. 
 
 We came once more upon the old lady, watching the skat- 
 ers. She again spoke to John, and looked at me with her 
 keen, kind, blue eyes. 
 
 "I think I know who your friend is, though you do not in- 
 troduce him." (John hastily performed that ceremony.) 
 "Tom and I" (how funny to hear her call our old bachelor 
 doctor "Tom") "were wondering what had become of you, 
 Mr. Halifax. Are you stronger than you were in London?" 
 
 "Was he ill in London, madam?" 
 
 "No, indeed, Phineas! Or only enough to win for me Dr. 
 and Mrs. Jessop's great kindness." 
 
 "Which you have never come to thank us for. Never 
 crossed our door-sill since we returned home! Does not your 
 conscience sting you for your ingratitude?" 
 
 He colored deeply. 
 
 "Indeed, Mrs. Jessop, it was not ingratitude." 
 
 "I know it; I believe it," she answered, with much kindness. 
 "Tell me what it was." 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "You ought to believe the warm interest we both take in 
 you. Tell me the plain truth." 
 
 "I will. It is that your kindness to me in London was no 
 reason for my intruding on you at Norton Bury. It might
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 165 
 
 not be agreeable for you and Dr. Jessop to have my acquaint- 
 ance here." 
 
 The little old lady's eyes brightened into something beyond 
 mere kindness as she looked at him. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that 'plain truth.' Truth is 
 always best. Now for mine. I had heard you were a trades- 
 man; I found out for myself that you were a gentleman. I 
 do not think the two facts imcompatible, nor does my hus- 
 band. We shall be happy to see you at our house at all times 
 and under all circumstances." 
 
 She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in silence. 
 
 "Well, then, suppose you come this evening; both of you?" 
 
 We assented; and, on her further invitation, John and I and 
 the little old lady walked on together. 
 
 I could not help watching Mrs. Jessop with some amuse- 
 ment. Norton Bury said she had been a poor governess all 
 her days; but that hard life had left no shadow on the cheer- 
 ful sunset of her existence now. It was a frank, bright, hap- 
 py face, in spite of its wrinkles, and its somewhat hard Welsh 
 features. And it was pleasant to hear her talk, even though 
 she talked a good deal, and in a decidedly Welsh accent. 
 
 Sometimes a tone or two reminded me slightly of . Ay, 
 
 it was easy to guess why John evidently liked the old lady. 
 
 "I know this road well, Mr. Halifax. Once I spent a sum- 
 mer here, with an old pupil now grown up. I am going to-day 
 to inquire about her at the Mythe House. The Brithwoods 
 came home yesterday. 
 
 I was afraid to look at John. Even to me the news was 
 startling. How I blessed Mrs. Jessop's innocent garrulous- 
 ness! 
 
 "I hope they will remain here some time. I have a special 
 interest in their stay. Not on Lady Caroline's account, 
 though. She patronizes me very kindly; but I doubt if she 
 ever forgets what Tom says I am rather too proud of remem- 
 bering that I was the poor governess, Jane Cardigan." 
 
 "Jane Cardigan!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "What, Mr. Fletcher, you know my name! And really, 
 now I think of it, I believe I have heard yours. Not from 
 
 Tom, either. It couldn't possibly be, yet it certainly was . 
 
 How strange! Did you ever hear tell of a Miss Ursula 
 March?" 
 
 The live crimson rushed madly over John's face. Mrs. Jes-
 
 166 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 sop saw it; she could not but see. At first she looked astound- 
 ed, then exceedingly grave. 
 
 I replied, "that we had had the honor of meeting Miss 
 March last summer, at Enderley." 
 
 "Yes," the old lady continued, somewhat formally. "Now 
 I recollect, Miss March told me of the circumstance; of two 
 gentlemen there, who were very kind to her when her father 
 died; a Mr. Fletcher and his friend was that Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "It was," I answered: for John was speechless. Alas! I saw 
 at once that all my hopes for him, all the design of my long 
 silence on this subject, had been in vain. No, he had not for- 
 gotten her. It was not in his nature to forget. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop went on, still addressing herself to me. 
 
 "I am sure I ought, on behalf of my dear pupil, to offer you 
 both my warmest thanks. Hers was a most trying position. 
 She never told me of it till afterward, poor child! I am 
 thankful her trouble was softened to her by finding that 
 strangers" (was it only my fancy that detected a slight stress 
 on the word?) "mere strangers could be at once so thoughtful 
 and so kind." 
 
 "No one could be otherwise to Miss March. Is she well? 
 Has she recovered from her trial ?" 
 
 "I hope so. Happily few sorrows, few feelings of any kind, 
 take lasting hold at eighteen. She is a noble girl. She did 
 her duty, and it was no light one, to him who is gone; now her 
 life begins anew. It is sure to be prosperous I trust it may 
 be very happy. Now I must bid you both good-bye." 
 
 She stopped at the gates of the Mythe House, great iron 
 gates a barrier as proud and impassable as that which in 
 these times the rich shut against the poor, the aristocrat 
 against the plebeian. John, glancing up at them, hurriedly 
 moved on. 
 
 "Stay; you will come and see us, Mr. Halifax? Promise." 
 
 "If you wish it." 
 
 "And promise, too, that under all circumstances, you will 
 tell me, as you did this morning, the 'plain truth?' Yes, I 
 see you will. Good-by." 
 
 The iron gates closed upon her, and against us. We took 
 our silent way up to the Mythe to our favorite stile. There 
 we leaned, still in silence, for many minutes. 
 
 "The wind is keen, Phineas; you must be cold." 
 
 Now I could speak to him could ask him to tell me of his 
 pain.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 167 
 
 "It is so long since you have told me anything. It might 
 do you good." 
 
 "Nothing can do me good. Nothing but bearing it. My 
 God ! what have I not borne ? Five whole months to be dying 
 of thirst, and not a drop of water to cool my tongue!" 
 
 He bared his head and throat to the cutting wind his chest 
 heaved, his eyes seemed in a flame. 
 
 "God forgive me! but I sometimes think I would give my- 
 self body and soul to the devil for one glimpse of her face, 
 one touch of her little hand.*' 
 
 I made no answer. What answer could be made to such 
 words as these? I waited all I could do till the paroxysm 
 had gone by. Then I hinted as indeed seemed not unlikely 
 that he might see her soon. 
 
 "Yes, a great way off, like that cloud up there. But I want 
 her near close in my home at my heart, Phineas," he 
 gasped; "talk to me about something else anything. Don't 
 let me think, or I shall go clean mad." 
 
 And indeed he looked so. I was terrified. So quiet as I 
 had always seen him when we met, so steadily as he had pur- 
 sued his daily duties; and with all this underneath this tor- 
 ment, conflict, despair, of a young man's love. It must come 
 out better it should. 
 
 "And you have gone on working all this while?" 
 
 "I was obliged. Nothing but work kept me in my senses. 
 Besides" and he laughed hoarsely "I was safest in the tan- 
 yard. The thought of her could not come there. I was glad 
 of it. I tried to be solely and altogether what I am a 'pren- 
 tice lad a mere clown." 
 
 "Nay, that was wrong." 
 
 "Was it? Well, at least it struck me so. I thought I would 
 be a gentleman again just for a pretense, you know a dream 
 a bit of the old dream back again. So I went to London." 
 
 "And met the Jessops there?" 
 
 "Yes; though I did not know she was Jane Cardigan. But 
 I liked her I liked my life with them. It was like breathing 
 a higher air, the same air that . Oh, Phineas, it was horrible 
 to come back to my life here to that accursed tan-yard!" 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 "You see, now," and that hard laugh smote me to the heart 
 again; "you see, Phineas, how wicked I am growing. You 
 will have to cut my acquaintance presently."
 
 168 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Tell me the rest I mean the rest of your life in London," 
 I said, after a pause. "Did you hear of her?" 
 
 "Of course not; though I knew she was there. I saw it in 
 the 'Court Circular/ Fancy a lady, whose name was in the 
 'Court Circular/ being inquired after by a tanners lad! But 
 I wanted to look at her any beggar might do that, you know : 
 so I watched in the streets and parks, by theater-doors at 
 nights, and by church-doors on Sunday mornings; yet I never 
 saw her once. Only think, not once for five whole months!" 
 
 "John, how could you tell me you were happy?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps because of my pride; perhaps be- 
 cause . Ah, don't look so wretched! Why did you let 
 
 me say all this? You are too good for such as I." 
 
 Of course, I took no heed of idle words like these. I let 
 him stand there, leaning against the stile, now and then 
 grasping it with his nervous, muscular hands, as if he would 
 tear it down; then I said quietly: 
 
 "What do you intend to do?" 
 
 "Do? Nothing! What can I do? Though sometimes a 
 score of plans rush into my mind, such as to run away to the 
 Indies, like that young Warren Hastings we were talking of, 
 come back twenty years hence a nabob, and marry her." 
 
 "Marry her," I repeated, mournfully. 
 
 "Ay, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she and 
 I were to meet and stand together, equal man and woman, 1 
 could make her love me; I feel I could. Instead of crawling 
 after her thus, I would go boldly in at those very gates do 
 you think she is there?" 
 
 He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of her 
 being so near. 
 
 "Oh, it's hard, hard! I could despise myself. Why can- 
 not I trust my manhood, my honest manhood that I was born 
 with, go straight to her and tell her that I love her; that God 
 meant her for me and me for her true husband and true 
 wife? Phineas, mark my words" and, wild as his manner 
 was, it had a certain force which sounded most like prophecy 
 "if ever Ursula March marries, she will be my wife my 
 wife!" 
 
 I could only murmur, "Heaven grant it!" 
 
 "But we shall never marry, neither one nor the other of us; 
 we shall go on apart and alone till the next world. Perhaps 
 she will come to me then: I may have her in my heart there." 
 
 John looked upward: there was in the west a broad, red,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 169 
 
 frosty cloud, and just beyond it, nay, all but resting on it, the 
 new moon a little, wintry, soft new moon. A sight that 
 might well have" hushed the maddest storm of passion: it 
 hushed his. He stood still, looking up, for many minutes, 
 then his eyes closed, the lashes all wet. 
 
 "We'll never speak of this again, Phineas; I'll not grieve 
 thee any more; I'll try and be a better brother to thee for the 
 future. Come along!" 
 
 He drew my arm in his and we went home. 
 
 Passing the tan-yard John proposed that we should call for 
 my father. My poor father; now daily growing more sour 
 and old, and daily leaning more and more upon John, who 
 never ceased to respect, and make every one else respect, his 
 master. Though still ostensibly a 'prentice, he had now the 
 business almost entirely in his hands. It was pleasant to see 
 how my father brightened up at his coming how readily, 
 when he returned homeward, he leaned upon John's strong 
 arm, now the support of both him and me. Thus we walked 
 through Norton Bury streets, where everybody knew us, and 
 indeed, as it seemed to me this morning, nearly everybody 
 greeted us at least, one of us; but my father walked along 
 soberly and sternly, frowning at almost every salutation John 
 .Halifax received. 
 
 "Thee art making far too many friends, John. I warn 
 tfceeP 
 
 "Not friends only friendly acquaintance," was the gentle 
 answer; he was well used to turn away, daily and hourly, Abel 
 Fletcher's wrath. But it was roused beyond control when Dr. 
 Jessop's neat little carriage, and neatest of little wives, stopped 
 at the curb-stone and summoned John. 
 
 "I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us to-morrow in- 
 stead of this evening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to 
 see you." 
 
 "Me?' 
 
 "Yes, you," smiled the old lady; "you, John Halifax, the 
 hero of the people, who quelled the bread riots, and gave evi- 
 dence thereupon to Mr. Pitt, in London. Nay! why didn't 
 you tell me the wonderful story? Her ladyship is full of it. 
 She will torment me till she sees you; I know her ways. For 
 my sake, you must come." 
 
 Waiting no refusal, Mrs. Jessop drove on. 
 
 "What's that?" said my father, sharply. "John, where art 
 thee going?"
 
 170 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I knew this was the first warning-gun of a battle which 
 broke out afresh every time John appeared in any livelier garb 
 than his favorite gray, or was suspected of any more worldly 
 associates than our quiet selves. He always took my father's 
 attacks patiently; this time peculiarly so. He made no an- 
 swer, but passed his hand once or twice over his brow, as if he 
 could not see clearly. 
 
 Abel Fletcher repeated the question. 
 
 "Yes; that was Mrs. Jessop, sir/* 
 
 "I know," grumbled my father. "The doctor is a fool in 
 his old age. Who did she want thee to meet?" 
 
 "She oh, Lady Caroline, you mean?" 
 
 "'Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John." 
 
 Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, re- 
 leased his arm from John's, and eyed him from top to toe. 
 
 "Thee? a woman of quality wanting to see thee? Young 
 man, thee art a hypocrite!" 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 "'I knew it! I foresaw how thy fine ways would end! Go- 
 ing 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 astonish- 
 ment. "Oh, lad!" he cried "poor, misguided lad! the Lord 
 have mercy upon thee!" 
 
 John smiled, his mind evidently full of other things. Abel 
 Fletcher's anger grew. 
 
 "And thee wants to hang on to the tail of other 'gentlemen,' 
 such as Eichard Brithwood, forsooth! a fox-hunting, drinking, 
 dicing fool!" 
 
 I was shocked; I had not believed him so bad as that, the 
 young 'squire, Miss March's cousin. 
 
 "Or," pursued my father, waxing hotter and hotter, "or a 
 'lady,' such as his wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an Ahab 
 father, brought up in the impious atrocities of France and the 
 debaucheries of Naples, where, though she keeps it close here, 
 she abode with that vile woman whom they call Lady Hamil- 
 ton." 
 
 John started. Well he might, for even to our quiet town 
 had come, all this winter, foul newspaper tales about Nelson 
 and Lady Hamilton. 
 
 "Take care!" he said, in much agitation. "Any taint upon 
 a woman's fame harms not her alone, but all connected with
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 171 
 
 her. For God's sake, sir, whether it be true or not, do not 
 whisper in Norton Bury that Lady Caroline Brithwood is ?i 
 friend of Lady Hamilton!" 
 
 "Pshaw! What is either woman to us?" 
 
 And my father climbed the steps to his own door, John fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 "Nay, young gentleman, my poor house is hardly good 
 enough for such as thee." 
 
 John turned, cruelly galled, but recovered himself. 
 
 ''You are unjust to me, Abel Fletcher; and you yourself 
 will think so soon. May I come in?" 
 
 My father made no answer, and I brought John in as usual. 
 In truth, we had both more to think of than Abel Fletcher's 
 temporary displeasure. This strange chance what might it 
 imply? to what might it not lead? But no; if I judged Mrs. 
 Jessop aright, it neither implied, nor would lead to, what I 
 saw John's fancy had at once sprung toward, and revelled in 
 madly. A lover's fancy a lover's hope. Even I could see 
 what will-o'-the-wisps they were. 
 
 But the doctor's good wife, Ursula March's wise governess, 
 would never lure a young man with such phantoms as these. 
 I felt sure certain that if we met the Brithwoods, we should 
 meet no one else. Certain, even when, as we sat at our dish 
 of tea, there came in two little dainty notes the first invita- 
 tions to worldly festivity that had ever tempted our Quaker 
 household, and which Jael flung out of her fingers as if they 
 had been coals from Gehenna notes, bidding us to a "little 
 supper" at Dr. Jessop's, with Mr. and Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood, of the Mythe House. 
 
 "Give them to your father, Phineas." And John vainly 
 tried to hide the flash of his eye the smiles that came and 
 went like summer lightning. "To-morrow you see, it is to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Poor lad! he had forgotten every worldly thing, in the hope 
 of that to-morrow. 
 
 My father's sharp voice roused him. "Phineas, thee'll stay 
 at home. Tell the woman I say so." 
 
 "And John, father?" 
 
 "John may go to ruin if he chooses. He. is his own mas- 
 ter." 
 
 "I have been always." And the answer came less in pride 
 than sadness. "I might have gone to ruin years ago, but for
 
 172 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the mercy of Heaven and your kindness. Do not let us be at 
 warfare now." 
 
 "All thy own fault, lad. Why cannot thee keep in thy own 
 rank? Eespect thyself. Be an honest tradesman, as I have 
 been." 
 
 "And as I trust always to be. But that is only my calling, 
 not me. I John Halifax am just the same whether in the 
 tan-yard or Dr. Jessop's drawing-room. The one position 
 cannot degrade, nor the other elevate me. I should not 're- 
 spect myself,' if I believed otherwise." 
 
 "Eh?" my father absolutely dropped his pipe in amaze- 
 ment. "Then, thee thinkest thyself already quite a gentle- 
 man?" 
 
 "As I told you before, sir I hope I am." 
 
 "Fit to associate with the finest folk in the land?" 
 
 "If they desire it, and I choose it, certainly." 
 
 Now, Abel Fletcher, like all honest men, liked honesty. And 
 something in John's bold spirit and free brignt eye, seemed 
 to-day to strike him more than ordinarily. 
 
 "Lad, lad, thee art young. But it won't last no, it won't 
 last." 
 
 He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe it had been 
 curling in brave wreaths to the very ceiling, two minutes be- 
 fore and sat musing. 
 
 "But about to-morrow?" persisted John, after. watching him 
 some little time. "I could go I could have gone, without 
 either your knowledge or permission; but I had rather deal 
 openly with you. You know I always do. You have been 
 the kindest master the truest friend to me; I hope, as long as 
 I live, rarely to oppose, and never to deceive you." 
 
 His manner earnest, yet most respectful his candid looks, 
 under which lurked an evident anxiety and pain, Aight have 
 mollified a harder man than Abel Fletcher. 
 
 "John, why dost thee want to go among those grand folk?" 
 
 "Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons 
 strong reasons." 
 
 "Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons." 
 
 Here was a strait. 
 
 "Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee are 
 ashamed of?" 
 
 "Ashamed? No!" 
 
 "Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, 
 or any one else, dishonor?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 173 
 
 "Dishonor!" And the bright eye shot an indignant gleam. 
 
 "Then tell the truth." 
 
 "I will. I wish first to find out, for myself, whether Lady 
 Caroline Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one 
 who is young innocent good." 
 
 "Has she such an one? One thee knows?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Man or woman?" 
 
 "Woman." 
 
 My father turned and looked John full in the eyes. Stern 
 as that look was, I traced in it a strange compassion. 
 
 "Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's 
 life woman!" 
 
 To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He seemed 
 even as if he had forgotten himself and his own secret thus, 
 for what end 1 knew not, voluntarily betrayed so absorbed 
 was he in contemplating the old man. And truly, in all my 
 life, I had never seen such a convulsion pass over my fathers 
 face. It was like as if some one had touched and revived the 
 torment of a long-hidden but never-to-be-healed wound. Not 
 till years after did I understand the full meaning of John's 
 gaze, or why he was so patient with my father. 
 
 The torment passed ended in violent anger. 
 
 "Out with it! Who is deluding thee? Is it a matter of 
 wedlock, or only- 
 
 e 
 
 'Stop!" John cried, his face all on fire. "The lady- 
 
 "It is a 'lady!' Now I see why thee would fain be a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 "Oh, father, how can you?" 
 
 "So thee knowest it, too; I see it in thy face. Wouldst thee 
 be led away by him a second time! But thee shall not. I'll 
 put thee under lock and key before thee shall ruin thyself and 
 disgrace thy father." 
 
 This was hard to bear; but I believe it was John's teaching 
 that one ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just 
 and worthy parent. And it was John himself who now 
 grasped my hand and whispered patience. John who knew, 
 what I myself, as I have said, did not learn for years concern- 
 ing 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; honor is bold shame only is silent."
 
 174 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "I feel no shame; an honest love is no disgrace to any man. 
 And my confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it 
 nor returns it/' 
 
 As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and 
 sat down. His face was in shadow; but the fire shone on his 
 hands, tightly locked together, motionless as stone. 
 
 My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts 
 of former days came and knocked at the old man's heart. We 
 all three sat silent for a long time; then my father said: 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly sta- 
 tion." 
 
 "Ah!" a fierce exclamation. "But thee wouldst not humble 
 thyself ruin thy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry 
 her?" 
 
 "I would if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any hon- 
 orable means I can rise to her level, so as to be able to win her 
 love, marry her I will." 
 
 That brave "I will" it seemed to carry its own fulfillment. 
 Its indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder; nay, 
 with a sort of awe. 
 
 "Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee!" he said, kind- 
 ly. "Mayest thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, 
 lad; I will keep thy counsel." 
 
 "I knew you would." 
 
 The subject ceased; my father's manner indicated that he 
 wished it to cease. He relit his pipe, and puffed away, silently 
 and sadly. 
 
 Years afterward, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher 
 was a green mound beside that other mound, in the Friends' 
 burying-ground in St. Mary's Lane, I learned what all Nor- 
 ton Bury, except myself had long known that my poor moth- 
 er, the young, thoughtless creature, whose married life had 
 been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a "gentlewoman." 
 
 CHAPTEB XVII. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop's drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glitter- 
 ing with delicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-col- 
 ored gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold but-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 175 
 
 tons, yellow waistcoats, and smiles this was all I noticed of 
 the scene, which was quite a novel scene to me. 
 
 The doctor's wife had introduced us formally to all her 
 guests, as the custom then was, especially in these small, cosy 
 supper-parties. How they greeted us I do not now remem- 
 ber; no doubt with a kind of well-bred formal surprise; but 
 society was generally formal then. My chief recollection is of 
 Mrs. Jessop's* saying pointedly and aloud, though with a smile 
 playing under the corners of her good little mouth: 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come; Lady Caroline 
 Brithwood will be delighted. She longs to make your ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 After that, everybody began to talk with extraordinary civ- 
 ility to Mr. Halifax. 
 
 For John, he soon took his place among them, with that 
 modest self-possession which best becomes youth. Society's 
 dangerous waters accordingly became smooth to him as to a 
 good swimmer who knows his own strength, trusts it, and 
 struggles not. 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late," I over- 
 heard the hostess say. "I think I told you that Miss 
 March " 
 
 But here the door was flung open, and the. missing guests 
 announced. John and I were in the alcove of the window; I 
 heard his breathing behind me, but I dared not look at or 
 apeak to him. In truth, I was scarcely calmer than he. For, 
 chough it must be clearly understood I never was "in love" 
 with any woman, still, the reflected glamour of those Enderley 
 days had fallen on inc. It often seems now as if I, too, had 
 passed the golden gate, and looked far enough into youth's 
 Eden to be able ever after to weep with those that wept with- 
 out the doors. 
 
 No, she was not there. 
 
 We both sat down. I know not if I was thankful or sorry. 
 
 I had seldom seen the 'squire or Lady Caroline. He was a 
 portly young man, pinched in by tight, light-colored garments. 
 She was a lady rather past her first youth, but very hand- 
 some still, who floated about leaving a general impression of 
 pseudo-Greek draperies, gleaming arms and shoulders, spark- 
 ling jewelry, and equally sparkling smiles. These smiles 
 seemed to fall just as redundantly upon the family physician, 
 whom, by a rare favor, for so I suppose it must have been, she 
 was honoring with a visit, as if worthy Dr. Jessop were the
 
 176 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 noblest in the land. He, poor man, was all bows and scrapes, 
 and pretty speeches, in the which came more than the usual 
 amount of references to the time which had made his fortune, 
 the day when her Majesty Queen Charlotte had done him the 
 honor to be graciously taken ill in passing through Norton 
 Bury. Mrs. Jessop seemed to wear her honors as hostess to ;m 
 earl's daughter very calmly indeed. She performed the ordi- 
 nary courtesies, and then went over to talk with Mr. Brith- 
 wood. In her conversation, I sought in vain the name of Ur- 
 sula. 
 
 So it ended, the sickening expectation which I had read in 
 the lad's face all day. He would not see her perhaps it was 
 best. Yet my heart bled when I looked at him. But such 
 thoughts could not be indulged in now, especially as Mrs. Jes- 
 sop's quick eyes seemed often upon him or me, with an ex- 
 pression that I could not make out at all, save that in such a 
 good woman, whom Miss March so well loved, could lurk noth- 
 ing evil or unkindly. 
 
 So 1 tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One 
 could not choose but look at her, this handsome Lady Caro- 
 line, whom half Norton Bury adored, the other half pursed up 
 their lips at the mention of; but these were of the number 
 she declined to "know." All that she did know, all that came 
 within her influence, were irresistibly attracted, for to please 
 seemed part of her nature. To-night, nearly every one pres- 
 ent stole gradually into the circle round her; men and women 
 alike charmed by the fascination of her ripe beauty, her lively 
 manner, her exquisite smile and laugh. 
 
 I wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood. She could not easily see him, even though her acute 
 glance seemed to take in everything and everybody in the 
 room. But on her entrance John had drawn back a little, 
 and our half-dozen of fellow-guests, who had been conversing 
 with him, crept shyly out of his way; as if, now tho visible 
 reality appeared, they were aghast at the great gulf that lay 
 between John Halifax, the tanner, and the Brithwoods of the 
 Mythe. A few even looked askance at our hostess, as though 
 some terrible judgment must fall upon poor ignorant Mrs. 
 Jessop, who had dared to amalgamate such opposite ranks. 
 
 So it came to pass that while everybody gathered round 
 the Brithwoods, John and I stood alone and half -concealed by 
 the window. 
 
 Very soon I heard Lady Caroline's loud whisper:
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 177 
 
 "Mrs. Jessop, my good friend, one moment. Where is your 
 'jeune heros,' 'I'homme du peuple?' I do not see him. Does 
 he wear clouted shoes and woollen stockings? Has he a 
 broad face and turned-up nose, like your 'pay sans Anglais f' 
 
 "Judge for yourself, my lady he stands at your elbow. 
 Mr. Halifax, let me present you to Lady Caroline Brithwood." 
 
 If Lord Luxmore's fair daughter ever looked confounded in 
 her life, she certainly did at this minute. 
 
 "Lui? Mon Dieu! Lui!" And her shrug of amazement 
 was stopped, her half-extended hand drawn back. No, it was 
 quite impossible to patronize John Halifax. - 
 
 He bowed gravely she made a gracious courtesy; they met 
 on equal terms, a lady and gentleman. 
 
 Soon her lively manner returned. She buckled on her 
 spurs for new conquest, and left the already vanquished gen- 
 tilities of Norton Bury to amuse themselves as they best might. 
 
 "I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Halifax; I adore 'le peu- 
 ple.' 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 
 Franyais. Me comprenez vous?" 
 
 "Madame, je vous comprends." 
 
 Her ladyship looked surprised. French was not very com- 
 mon among the honest trading class, or indeed any but the 
 higher classes in England. 
 
 "But," John continued, "I must dissent from Lady Caroline 
 Brithwood, if she mingles the English people with 'le peuple 
 Francais,' They are a very different class of beings." 
 
 "Ah ca ira, pa ira" she laughed, humming beneath her 
 breath a few notes out of that terrible song. "But you know 
 French let us talk in that language; we shall horrify no one 
 then." 
 
 "I cannot speak it readil^ I am chiefly self-taught." 
 
 "The best teaching. Mon Dieu! Truly you are made to 
 be 'un hero' just the last touch of grace that a woman's hand 
 gives had you ever a woman for your friend? and you 
 would be complete. But I cannot flatter plain, blunt, hon- 
 esty for me. You must you shall be 'le homme du peu- 
 ple.' Were you born such? Who were your parents?" 
 
 I saw John hesitate; I knew how rarely he ever uttered 
 those names written in the old Bible; how infinitely sacred 
 they were to him. Could he blazon them out now, to gratify 
 this woman's idle curiosity? 
 
 a
 
 178 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Madam," he said gravely, "I was introduced to you simply 
 as John Halifax. It seems to me, that so long as I do no dis- 
 credit to it, the name suffices to the world." 
 
 "Ah I see! I see!" But he, with his downcast eyes, di 
 not detect the meaning smile that just flushed in hers, was 
 changed into a tone of soft sympathy. "You are right; rank 
 is nothing a cold, glittering marble, with no soul under. 
 Give me the rich flesh-and-blood life of the people. Liberte 
 fraternite egalite. I would rather be a gamin in Paris 
 streets, than my brother William at Luxmore Hall." 
 
 Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in Eng- 
 lish, the young man answering little. She only threw her 
 shining nets abroad the more; she seemed determined to 
 please. And Nature fitted her for it. Even if not born an 
 earl's daughter, Lady Caroline would have been everywhere 
 the magic center of any society wherein she chose to move. 
 Not that her conversation was brilliant or deep, but she said 
 the most frivolous things in a way that made them appear 
 witty; and the grand art, to charm by appearing charmed, was 
 hers in perfection. She seemed to float altogether upon and 
 among the pleasantness of life; pain, either endured or inflict- 
 ed, was to her an impossibility. 
 
 Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and 
 thus, after many years, it strikes me still. I look back upon 
 what she appeared that evening lovely, gay, attractive in 
 the zenith of her rich maturity. What her old age was, the 
 world knows or thinks it knows. But Heaven may be more 
 merciful I cannot tell. Whatever is now said of her, I can 
 only say, "Poor Lady Caroline." 
 
 It must have indicated a grain of pure gold at the bottom 
 of the gold-seeming dross, that from the first moment she 
 saw him, she liked John Halifax. 
 
 They talked a long time. She drew him out, as a well-bred 
 woman always can draw out a young man of sense. He 
 looked pleased; he conversed well. Had he forgotten? No; 
 the restless wandering of his eyes at the slightest sound in the 
 room told how impossible it was he should forget. Yet he 
 comported himself bravely, and I was proud that Ursula's 
 kindred should see him as he was. 
 
 "Lady Caroline (her ladyship turned, with a slightly bored 
 expression, to her intrusive hostess), I fear we must give up all 
 expectation of our young friend to-night." 
 
 "I told you so. Post-traveling is very uncertain, and the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 179 
 
 Bath roads are not good. Have you ever visited Bath, Mr. 
 Halifax?" 
 
 "But she is surely long on the road/' pursued Mrs. Jessop, 
 rather anxiously. "What attendance had she?" 
 
 "Her own maid, and our man Laplace. Nay, don't be 
 alarmed, excellent and faithful gouvernante! I assure you 
 your fair ex-pupil is quite safe. The furore about her has 
 considerably abated since the heiress-hunters at Bath discov- 
 ered the melancholy fact that Miss March " 
 
 "Pardon me," interrupted the other; "we are among strang- 
 ers. I assure you, I am quite satisfied about my dear child." 
 
 "What a charming thing is affectionate fidelity," observed 
 her ladyship, turning once more to John, with a sweet, lazy 
 dropping of the eyelids. 
 
 The young man only bowed. They resumed their conver- 
 sation at least, she did, talking volubly; satisfied with mono- 
 syllabic answers. 
 
 It was now almost supper-time held a glorious hour at 
 Norton Bury parties. People began to look anxiously to the 
 door. 
 
 "Before we adjourn," said Lady Caroline, "I must do what 
 it will be difficult to accomplish after supper;" and for the 
 first time a sharp, sarcastic tone jarred in her smooth voice. 
 "'I must introduce you especially to my husband. Mr. Brith- 
 wood?" 
 
 "Madam." He lounged up to her. They were a diverse 
 pair. She, in her well-preserved beauty, and Gallic artificial 
 grace he, in his coarse, bloated youth, coarser and worse than 
 the sensualism of middle age. 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood, let me introduce you to a new friend of 
 mine." 
 
 The 'squire bowed, rather awkwardly; proving the truth of 
 what Norton Bury often whispered, that Richard Brithwood 
 was more at home with grooms than gentlemen. 
 
 "He belongs to this your town. You must have heard of 
 hirn, perhaps met him." 
 
 "I have more than had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brith- 
 wood, but he has doubtless forgotten it." 
 
 "By Jove! I have. What might your name be, sir?" 
 
 "John Halifax." 
 
 "What, Halifax, the tanner?" 
 
 "The same." 
 
 "Phew!" He began a low whistle, and turned on his heel.
 
 180 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 John changed color a little. Lady Caroline laughed a 
 thoughtless, amused laugh, with a pleasant murmur of "JBete!" 
 " Anglais!" Nevertheless, she whispered her husband: 
 
 "Mon ami you forget; I have introduced you to this gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 "Gentleman, indeed! Pooh! rubbish! Lady Caroline I'm 
 busy talking." 
 
 "And so are we most pleasantly. I only called you as a 
 matter of form, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax, will, I 
 hope, dine with us next Sunday." 
 
 "The devil he will!" 
 
 "Eichard, you hurt me!" with a little scream, as she pushed 
 his rough fingers from her arm, so soft, and round, and fair. 
 
 "Madam, you must be crazy. The young man is a trades- 
 man a tanner. Not fit for my society." 
 
 "Precisely; I invite him for my own." 
 
 But the whispers and responses were alike unheeded by 
 their object. For, at the- door-way, entering with Mrs. Jessop, 
 was a tall girl in deep mourning. We knew her we both 
 knew her our dream at Enderley our "nut-browne mayde." 
 
 John was near to the door their eyes met. She bowed, he 
 returned it. He was very pale. For Miss March, her face 
 and neck were all in a glow. Neither spoke, nor offered more 
 than this passing acknowledgment, and she moved on. 
 
 She came and sat down beside me, accidentally, I believe; 
 but when she saw me, she held out her hand. We exchanged 
 a word or two her manner was unaltered; but she spoke hur- 
 riedly, and 'her fingers had their old nervous twitch. She said 
 this meeting was to her "unexpected," but "she was very glad 
 to see me." 
 
 So she sat, and I looked sideways at her dropped eyes, her 
 forehead with its coronet of chestnut curls. How would ho 
 bear the sight he of whose heart mine was the mere faint 
 echo? Yet truly an echo, repeating with cruel faithfulness 
 every throb. 
 
 He kept his position, a little aloof from the Brith woods, who 
 were holding a slight altercation though more of looks than 
 words. John heeded them not. I was sure, though he had 
 never looked directly toward us, that he had heard every 
 syllable Miss March said to me. 
 
 The 'squire called across the room, in a patronizing tone, 
 "My good fellow that is, ahem! I say, young Halifax!" 
 
 "Were you addressing me, Mr. Brithwood?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 181 
 
 "I was. I want a quiet word or two between ourselves." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 They stood face to face. The one seemed uncomfortable, 
 the other was his natural self a little graver, perhaps, as if 
 he felt what was coining, and prepared to meet it, knowing in 
 whose presence he had to prove himself what Richard Brith- 
 wood, with all his broad acres could never be a gentleman. 
 
 Few could doubt that fact who looked at the two young men, 
 as all were looking now. 
 
 "On my soul, it's awkward I'll call at the tan-yard and 
 explain." 
 
 "I had rather you would explain here." 
 
 "Well, then, though it's a confounded unpleasant thing to 
 say and I really wish I had not been brought into such a po- 
 sition you'll not heed my wife's nonsense?" 
 
 "I do not understand you." 
 
 "Come, it's no use running to cover in that way. Let's be 
 open and plain. I mean no offense. You may be a very re- 
 spectable young man for aught I know, still rank is rank. Of 
 course, Dr. Jessop asks whom he likes to his house and, by 
 George! I'm always civil to everybody but really, in spite of 
 my lady's likings, I can't well invite you to my table!" 
 
 "Nor could I humiliate myself by accepting any such invi- 
 tation." 
 
 He said the words distinctly, so that the whole circle might 
 have heard, and was turning away, when Mr. Brithwood fired 
 up as an angry man does in a losing game. 
 
 "Humiliate yourself! What do you mean, sir? Wouldn't 
 you be only too thankful to crawl into the houses of your bet- 
 ters, anyhow, by hook or by crook? Ha! ha! I know you 
 would. It's always the way with you common folk, you riot- 
 ers, you revolutionists. By the Lord! I wish you were all 
 hanged." 
 
 The young blood rose fiercely in John's cheek, but he re- 
 strained himself. "Sir, I am neither rioter nor 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 lis- 
 tening intently I had not noticed how intently till now.
 
 1S2 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on John, waiting for his answer. It came. 
 
 "Your memory is correct; I was that lad." 
 
 "Thank'ee for it, too. Lord! what a jolly life I should have 
 missed! You got no reward, though. You threw away the 
 guinea I offered you; come, I'll make it twenty guineas to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The insult was too much. "Sir, you forget that whatever 
 we may have been, to-night we meet as equals." 
 
 "Equals!" 
 
 "As guests in the same house most certainly for the time 
 being, equals." 
 
 Richard Brithwood stared, literally dumb with fury. The 
 standers-by were dumb, too, though such fracas were then 
 not uncommon even in drawing-rooms, and in women's pres- 
 ence, especially with men of Mr. Brithwood's stamp. His wife 
 seemed quite used to it. She merely shrugged her shoulders 
 and hummed a note or two of "Caira" It irritated the hus- 
 band beyond all bounds. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, my lady. What, because a 'prentice- 
 lad once saved my life, and you choose to patronize him as you 
 do many an other vagabond, with your cursed liberty and 
 equality, am I to have him at my table, and treat him as a 
 gentleman? By , madam, never!" 
 
 He spoke savagely and loud. John was silent; he had 
 locked his hands together convulsively; but it was easy to see 
 that his blood was at boiling heat, and that, did he once slip 
 the leash of his passions, it would go hard with Richard Brith- 
 wood. 
 
 The latter came up to him with clinched fist. "Now mark 
 me, you you vagabond!" 
 
 Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her 
 eyes gleaming fire. 
 
 "Cousin, in my presence this gentleman shall be treated as 
 a gentleman. He was kind to my father." 
 
 "Curse your father!" 
 
 John's right hand burst free; he clutched the savage by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Be silent. You had better." 
 
 Brithwood shook off the grasp, turned and struck him; that 
 last fatal insult, which offered from man to man, in those days, 
 could only be wiped out with blood. 
 
 John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 183 
 
 have sprung on his adversary and felled him to the ground, 
 but he did it not. 
 
 Some one whispered, "He won't fight. He is a Quaker." 
 
 "No!" he said, and stood erect; though he was ghastly pale, 
 and his voice sounded hoarse and strange. "But I am a 
 Christian. I shall not return blow for blow; I am a Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 It was a new doctrine; foreign to the practice, if familiar to 
 the ear, of Christian Norton Bury. No one answered him; 
 one or two sheered off from him with contemptuous smiles. 
 Then Ursula March stretched out her friendly hand. John 
 took it, and grew calm in a moment. 
 
 There arose a murmur, "Mr. Brithwood is going." 
 
 "Let him go!" Miss March cried, anger still glowing in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Not so it is not right. I will speak to him. May I?" 
 John softly unloosed her detaining hand and went up to Mr. 
 Brithwood. "Sir, there is no need for you to leave this house 
 I am leaving it. You and I shall not meet again if I can 
 help it." 
 
 His proud courtesy, his absolute dignity and calmness, com- 
 pletely overwhelmed his blustering adversary; who gazed open- 
 mouthed, while John made his adieu to his host and to those 
 he knew. The women gathered round him woman's instinct 
 is usually true. Even Lady Caroline, amid a flutter of regrets 
 declared she did not believe there was a man in the universe 
 who would have borne so charmingly such a "degradation." 
 
 At the word Miss March fired up. "Madam," she said, in 
 her impetuous young voice, "no insult offered to a man can 
 ever degrade him; the only real degradation is when he de- 
 grades himself." 
 
 John, passing out at the door-way, caught her words. As 
 he quitted the room no crowned victor ever wore a look more 
 joyful, more proud. 
 
 After a minute, we followed him; the doctor's wife and I. 
 But now the pride and joy had both faded. 
 
 "Mrs. Jessop, you see I am right," he murmured. "I ought 
 not to have come here. It is a hard world for such as I. I 
 shall never conquer it never." 
 
 "Yes, you will." And Ursula stood by him, with crimsoned 
 cheek and eyes no longer flashing, but fearless still. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop put her arm round the young girl. "I also 
 think you need not dread the world, Mr. Halifax, if you always
 
 184 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 act as you did to-night; though I grieve that things should 
 have happened thus, if only for the sake of this my child." 
 
 "Have I done any harm? oh! tell me, have 1 done any 
 harm?" 
 
 "No!" cried Ursula, with the old impetuosity kindling 
 anew in every feature of her noble face. "You have but 
 showed me what I remember all my life that a Christian only 
 can be a true gentleman." 
 
 She understood him he felt she did; understood him as, if 
 a man be understood by one woman in the world, he and she 
 too is strong, safe, and happy. They grasped hands once 
 more, and gazed unhesitatingly into each other's eyes. All 
 human passion for the time being set aside, these two recog- 
 nized, each in the other, one aim, one purpose, one faith; 
 something higher than love, something better than happiness. 
 It must have been a blessed moment for both. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop did not interfere. She had herself known what 
 true love was, if, as gossips said, she had kept constant to our 
 worthy doctor for thirty years. But still she was a prudent 
 woman, not unused to the world. 
 
 "You must go now," she said, laying her hand gently on 
 John's arm. 
 
 "I am going. But she what will she do?" 
 
 "Never mind me. Jane will take care of me," said Ursula, 
 winding her arms round her old governess, and leaning her 
 cheek down on Mrs. Jessop's shoulder. 
 
 We had never seen Miss March show fondness, that is, car- 
 essing fondness, to any one before. It revealed her in a new 
 light; betraying the depths there were in her nature; infinite 
 depths of softness and of love. 
 
 John watched her for a minute; a long, wild, greedy min- 
 ute, then whispered hoarsely to me, "I must go." 
 
 We made a hasty adieu, and went out together into the 
 night the cold, bleak night, all blast and storm. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 For weeks after, then, we went on in our usual way, Ursula 
 March living within a stone's throw of us. She had left her 
 cousin's, and come to reside with Dr. Jessop and his wife, 
 
 It was a very hard trial for John,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 185 
 
 Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessop. We could 
 not blame her; she held a precious charge, and Norton Bury 
 was a horrible place for gossip. Already tale after tale had 
 gone abroad about Miss March's "ingratitude" to her rela- 
 tions. Already tongue after tongue had repeated, in every 
 possible form of lying, the anecdote of "Young Halifax and 
 the 'squire." Had it been "young Halifax and Miss March," 
 I truly believe John could not have borne it. 
 
 As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by 
 chance: a momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing ac- 
 knowledgment in the street. I knew quite well when he had 
 thus met her whether he mentioned it or not knew by the 
 wild, troubled look, which did not wear off for hours. 
 
 I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and 
 pain. 
 
 For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping 
 over "the lad," as I stijl fondly called him. His strength, the 
 glory of a young man, was going from him; he was becom- 
 ing thin, weak, restless-eyed. That healthy energy and gentle 
 composure, which had been so beautiful in him all his life 
 through, were utterly lost. 
 
 "What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one 
 evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual I 
 knew why; for Ursula and her friend had just passed our 
 house, taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight. "Thou 
 art very ill, I fear." 
 
 "Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with 
 me. Do let me alone." 
 
 Two minutes afterward, he begged my pardon for those 
 sharp-spoken words. "It was not thee that spoke, John," I 
 said. 
 
 "No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that 
 lodges here;" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives 
 in is at times a burning hell." 
 
 He spoke in a low tone of great anguish. What could I an- 
 swer? Nothing. 
 
 We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut- 
 trees in the Abbey yard were budding green; there came that 
 faint, sweet sound of children at play, which one hears as the 
 days begin to lengthen. 
 
 "It's a lovely evening," he said. 
 
 "John!" I looked him in the face, He could not palm off
 
 186 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 that kind deceit upon me. "You have heard something about 
 her?" 
 
 "I have," he groaned. "She is leaving Norton Bury." 
 
 "Thank God!" I muttered. 
 
 John turned fiercely upon me but only for a moment. 
 ''Perhaps I ought to say, 'Thank God/ This could not have 
 lasted long, or it would have made me what I pray his 
 mercy to save me from, or to let me die. Oh, lad, if I could 
 only die!" 
 
 lie bent down over the window-sill, crushing his forehead 
 on his hands. 
 
 "John," 1 said, in this depth of despair snatching at an 
 equally desperate hope, "what if, instead of keeping this si- 
 lence, you were to go to her and tell her all?" 
 
 "I have thought of that: a noble thought, worthy of a poor 
 'prentice lad ! Why, two several evenings I have been insane 
 enough to walk to Dr. Jessop's door, which I have never en- 
 tered, and mark you well! they have never asked me to enter 
 since that night. But each time ere I knocked my senses 
 came back, and I went home luckily having made myself 
 neither a fool nor a knave." 
 
 There was no answer to this, either. Alas, I knew as well 
 as he did, that in the eye of the world's common-sense, for a 
 young man not twenty-one, a tradesman's apprentice, to ask 
 the hand of a young gentlewoman, uncertain if she loved him, 
 was most utter folly. Also, for a penniless youth to sue a lady 
 with a fortune, even though it was (the Brithwoods took care 
 to publish the fact) smaller than was at first supposed would, 
 in the eye of the world's honor, be not very much unlike knav- 
 ery. There was no help none! 
 
 "David," I groaned, "I would you had never seen her." 
 
 "Hush! not a word like that. If you heard all I hear of her 
 daily hourly her unselfishness, her energy, her generous, 
 warm heart! It is blessedness even to have known her. She 
 is an angel no, better than that, a woman! I did not want 
 her for a saint in a shrine; I wanted her as a helpmate, to 
 walk with me in my daily life, to comfort me, strengthen me, 
 make me pure and good. I could be a good man if I had her 
 for my wife. Now " 
 
 He rose, and walked rapidly up and down. His looks were 
 becoming altogether wild. 
 
 "Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road 
 as I meet her almost every day. Sometimes she merely bends
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 187 
 
 and smiles, sometimes she holds out her little hand, and 
 'hopes I am quite well.' And then they pass on, and I stand 
 gaping and staring after them like an idiot. There look 
 there they are now/' 
 
 Ay; walking leisurely along the other side of the road 
 talking and smiling to one another, in their own merry, fa- 
 miliar way, were Mrs. Jessop and Miss March. 
 
 They were not thinking of us, not the least. Only, just ere 
 they passed our house, Ursula turned slightly round, and 
 looked behind; a quiet, maidenly look, with the smile still lin- 
 gering on her mouth. She saw nothing, and no one; for John 
 had pulled me from the window, and placed himself out of 
 sight. So, turning back again, she went on her way. They 
 both disappeared. 
 
 "Now, Phineas, it is all ended." 
 
 "'What do you mean?" 
 
 "I have looked on her for the last time." 
 
 "Nay she is not going yet." 
 
 "Bat I am fleeing from the devil and his angels. Hurrah, 
 Phineas, lad! We'll have a merry night. To-morrow I am 
 away to Bristol, to set sail for America." 
 
 He wrung my hands, with a long, loud, half-mad laugh, and 
 then dropped heavily on a chair. 
 
 A few hours after, he was lying on my bed, struck down by 
 the first real sickness he had ever known. It was apparently 
 a low, languish fever, which had been much about Norton 
 Bury since the famine of last year. At least, so Jael said; and 
 she was a wise doctress, and had cured many. He would have 
 no one else to attend him seemed terrified at the mere men- 
 tion of Dr. Jessop. I opposed him not at first, for well I 
 knew, whatever the proximate cause of his sickness might be, 
 its root was in that mental pang which no doctors could cure. 
 So 1 trusted to the blessed quiet of a sick-room often so heal- 
 ing to misery to Jael's nursing, and his brother's love. 
 
 After a few days we called in a physician a stranger from 
 Coltham who pronounced it to be this Norton Bury fever, 
 caught through living, as he still persisted in doing, in this old 
 attic, in that unhealthy alley where was Sally Watkins' house. 
 It must have been coming on, the doctor said, for a long time; 
 but it had no doubt now reached its crisis. He would be bet- 
 ter soon. 
 
 But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and still 
 he lay there, never complaining, scarcely appearing to suffer,
 
 188 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 except from the wasting of the fever; yet when I spoke of re- 
 covery he "turned his face unto the wall" weary of living. 
 
 Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly 
 speaking a word, I began to feel growing palpable the truth 
 which day by day I had thrust behind me as some intangible, 
 impossible dread that ere now people had died of mere soul- 
 sickness, without any bodily disease. I took up his poor hand 
 that lay on the counterpane once, at Enderley, he had re- 
 gretted its somewhat coarse strength: now Ursula's own was 
 not thinner or whiter. He drew it back. 
 
 "Oh, Phineas, lad, don't touch me only let me rest." 
 
 The weak, querulous voice that awful longing for rest! 
 What if, despite of all the physician's assurances, he might be 
 sinking, sinking my friend, my hope, my pride, all my com- 
 fort in this life passing from it and from me into another, 
 where, let me call never so wildly, he could not answer me any 
 more, nor come back to me any more. 
 
 Oh, God of mercy! if I were to be left in this world without 
 my brother! 
 
 I had many a time thought over the leaving him, going 
 quietly away when it should please the Giver of all breath to 
 recall mine, falling asleep, encompassed and sustained by his 
 love until the last; then a burden no longer, leaving him to 
 work out a glorious life, whose rich web should include and 
 bring to beautiful perfection all the poor broken threads in 
 mine. But now, if this should be all vain if he should go 
 from me, not I from him! I slid down to the ground to my 
 knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went up on high. 
 
 How could I save him? 
 
 There seemed to be but one way; I sprung at it; stayed not 
 to think if it were right or wrong, honorable or dishonorable. 
 His life hung in the balance, and there was but one way; be- 
 sides, had I not cried unto God for help? 
 
 I put aside the blind, and looked out-of-doors. 
 
 For weeks I had not crossed the threshold; I almost started 
 to find that it was spring. Everything looked lovely in the 
 colored twilight; a blackbird was singing loudly in the Abbey 
 trees across the way; all things were fresh and glowing, laden 
 with the hope of the advancing year. And there he lay, on 
 his sick-bed dying! 
 
 All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan 
 "No light! I can't bear the light! Do let me rest!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 189 
 
 In half an hour, without saying a word to human being, I 
 was on my way to Ursula March. 
 
 She sat knitting in the summer-parlor alone. The doctor 
 was out; Mrs. Jessop I saw down the long garden, bonneted 
 and shawled, busy among her gooseberry-bushes so we were 
 safe. 
 
 As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a soft 
 dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her and driv- 
 en some sweet, shy thought away. 
 
 But she met me cordially; said she was glad to see me; that 
 she had not seen either of us lately; and the knitting-pins be- 
 gan to move quickly again. 
 
 Those dainty fingers that soft, tremulous smile I could 
 have hated her! 
 
 "No wonder you did not see us, Miss March; John has been 
 very ill, is ill now almost dying." 
 
 I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to 
 see them strike. 
 
 They struck they wounded; I could see her shiver. 
 
 "111! and no one ever told me?" 
 
 "You? How could it affect you? To me, now" and my 
 savage words, for they were savage, broke down in a burst of 
 misery "nothing in this world to me is worth a straw, in 
 comparison with John. If he dies " 
 
 I let loose the flood of my misery. I dashed it over her, 
 that she might see it, feel it; that it might enter all the fair 
 and sightly chambers of her happy life and make them desolate 
 as mine. For was she not the cause? 
 
 "Forgive me! I was cruel to thee, Ursula; and thou wert so 
 good, so kind!" 
 
 She rose, came to me, and took my hand. Hers was very 
 cold, and her voice trembled much. 
 
 "Be comforted. He is young, and God is very merciful." 
 
 She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting 
 and untwisting her fingers. There was in her looks a wild, 
 sorrow, a longing to escape from notice; but mine held her 
 fast, mercilessly, as a snake holds a little bird. She sat cow- 
 ering, 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!"
 
 190 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Further advice, perhaps? Dr. Jessop you must want 
 help " 
 
 "None save that which will never come. His bodily sick- 
 ness is conquered; it is his mind. Oh, Miss March!" and I 
 looked up at her like a wretch begging for life, "do you not 
 know of what my brother is dying?" 
 
 "Dying!" A long shudder passed over her from head to 
 foot, but I relented not. 
 
 "Think a life like his, that might be made a blessing to all 
 he loves to all the world is it to be sacrificed thus? It may 
 be I do not say it will but it may be. While in health, he 
 could fight against this this which I must not speak of; but 
 now his health is gone. He cannot rally. Without some 
 change, I see clearly, even I, who love him better than any one 
 can love him " 
 
 She stirred a little here. 
 
 "Far better," I repeated; "for while John does not love me 
 best, lie to me is more than any one else in the world. Yet 
 
 even I have given up hope, unless . But I have no right 
 
 to say more!" 
 
 There was no need. She began to understand. A deep, 
 soft red, sunrise color, dawned all over her face and neck, nay, 
 tinged her very arms her delicate, bare arms. She looked at 
 me once just once with a mute but keen inquiry. 
 
 "It is the truth, Miss March ay, ever since last year. You 
 will respect it? You will, you shall respect it." 
 
 She bent her head in acquiescence that was all. She had 
 not uttered a single syllable. Her silence almost drove me 
 wild. 
 
 "What! not one word? not one ordinary message from a 
 friend to a friend? one who is lying ill, too?" 
 
 Still silence. 
 
 "Better so!" I cried, made desperate at last. "Better, if it 
 must be, that he should die and go to the God who made him 
 ay, made him, as you shall yet see, too noble a man to die 
 for any woman's love." 
 
 I left her left her where she sat, and went my way. 
 
 Of the hours that followed, the less I say the better. My 
 mind was in a tumult of pain, in which right and wrong were 
 strangely confused. I could not decide I can scarcely decide 
 now whether what I had done ought to have been done; I 
 only know that I did it did it under an impulse so sudden 
 and impetuous that it seemed to me like the guidance of Provi-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 191 
 
 dence. All I could do afterward was to trust the result where 
 we say we trust all things, and yet are forever disquieting our- 
 selves in vain we of little faith! 
 
 I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true mar- 
 riage of which there is probably one in every five thousand 
 of conjugal unions is brought about by Heaven, and Heaven 
 only; and that all human influence is powerless either to make 
 e* 1 to mar that happy end. Therefore, to Heaven I left this 
 marriage, if such it was destined to be. And so, after a season, 
 I calmed myself enough to dare entering that quiet sick-cham- 
 ber, where no one ever entered but Jael and me. 
 
 The old woman met me at the door. 
 
 "Come in gently, Phineas; I do think there is a change." 
 
 A change! that awful word! I staggered rather than 
 walked to John's bedside. 
 
 Ay, there was a change, but not that one which made my 
 blood run cold in my veins even to think of. Thank God for 
 evermore for His great mercies not that change! 
 
 John was sitting up in bed. ]S~ew life shone in his eyes, in 
 his whole aspect. Life and no, not hope, but something far 
 better, diviner. 
 
 "Phineas, how tired you look; it is time you were in bed." 
 
 The old way of speaking the old, natural voice, as I had 
 not heard it for weeks. I flung myself by the bedside per- 
 haps I wept outright, God knows! It is thought a shame for 
 a man to weep; yet One Man wept, and that, too, was over His 
 friend His brother. 
 
 "You must not grieve over me any more, dear lad; to-mor- 
 row, please God! I mean to be quite well again." 
 
 Amid all my joy, I marveled over what could be the cause 
 of so miraculous a change. 
 
 "You would smile if I told you only a dream." 
 
 No, I did not smile; for I believed in the Ruler of all our 
 spirits, sleeping or waking. 
 
 "A dream so curious that I have scarcely lost the impression 
 of it yet. Do you know, Phineas, she has been sitting by me, 
 just where you sit now." 
 
 "She?" 
 
 "Ursula." 
 
 If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, 
 which had never fallen from his lips before it was always 
 either "Miss March," or the impersonal form used by all lovers 
 to disguise the beloved name "Ursula," spoken as no man
 
 192 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 speaks any woman's name save the one which is the music of 
 his heart, which he forsees shall be the one fireside tune of his 
 life, ever familiar, yet ever sweet. 
 
 "Yes, she sat there talking. She told me she knew I loved 
 her loved her so much that I was dying for her; that it was 
 very wrong; that I must rise up, and do my work in the world 
 do it for Heaven's sake, not for her's; that a true man should 
 live, and live nohly, for the woman he loves; it is only a coward 
 who dies for her." 
 
 I listened, wonder-struck; for these were the very words that 
 Ursula March might have uttered; the very spirit that seemed 
 to shine in her eyes that night the last night she and John 
 spoke to one another. I asked him if there was any more of 
 the dream? 
 
 "Nothing clear. I thought we were on the Flat at Ender- 
 ley, and I was following her; whether I reached her or not, I 
 cannot tell. And whether I shall ever reach her, I cannot 
 tell. But this I know, Phineas, I will do as she bade me; I will 
 arise and walk." 
 
 And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. 
 Next morning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a 
 specter, indeed; but with health, courage, and hope in his 
 eyes. Even my father noticed it when, at dinner-time, with 
 Jael's help poor old Jael! how proud she was John crawled 
 down-stairs. 
 
 "Why, thee art picking up, lad! Thee'lt be a man again in 
 no time." 
 
 "I hope so. And a better man than ever I was before." 
 
 "Thee might be better and thee might be worse. Anyhow, 
 we couldn't do without thee, John. Hey, Phineas, who's 
 been meddling with my spectacles?" 
 
 The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his 
 newspaper upside down. 
 
 We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner. 
 
 In the afternoon my father stayed at home a rare thing 
 for him to do; nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful 
 pipe in the garden. John lay on an extempore sofa, made of 
 three of our high-backed chairs and the window-sill. I read 
 to him, trying to keep his attention, and mine, too, solely to 
 the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just 
 as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked 
 whiter or more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his 
 thoughts were wandering, Jael burst in.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 193 
 
 "John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee!" 
 
 No, John no need for that start that rush of impetuous 
 blood to thy poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman 
 in all the world. No, it was only Mrs. Jessop. 
 
 At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the 
 good lady's eyes brimmed over. 
 
 "You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me but I 
 am an old woman, you know. Lie down again." 
 
 With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his 
 side. 
 
 "I had no idea why did you not let us know the doctor 
 and me? How long have you been ill?" 
 
 "I am quite well now I am, indeed. I shall be about 
 again to-morrow, shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly 
 to me for confirmation. 
 
 I gave it firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know 
 it glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart 
 would not lie tossing in the mire, because a haughty gir^ 
 scorned to wear it. Glad that she might one day find out 
 there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not 
 worthy. 
 
 "But you must be very careful very careful of yourself, 
 indeed." 
 
 'Tie 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 spok- 
 en to that good old lady but her gentle answer seemed at once 
 to understand and forgive me. 
 
 "I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax 
 hardly knows how much we we all esteem him." And 
 with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. "You 
 must make haste and get well now. My husband will come 
 and see you to-morrow. For Ursula " here she carefully 
 busied herself in the depths of her pocket "my dear child 
 sends you this." 
 
 It was a little note, unsealed. The superscription was sim- 
 ply his name, in her clear, round, fair handwriting "John 
 Halifax." 
 
 His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I she is very 
 kind." The words died away the hand which grasped, ay, 
 far more than a minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an 
 aspen leaf. 
 
 13
 
 194 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, sedu- 
 lously looking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it 
 otherwise I would not wish her to forget those whose worth 
 she proved in her season of trouble." 
 
 I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. 
 She took off her glove, wiped a finger across each eyelash, and 
 sat still. 
 
 "Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "I will take your message back. She told me what she had 
 said to you." 
 
 Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines: 
 
 "My Dear Friend: I did not know till yesterday that you had 
 been ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor 
 father. I should like to come and see you, if you would allow me. 
 "Yours sincerely, URSULA MARCH." 
 
 This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years 
 afterward, yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocketbook. 
 
 "Well, what shall I say to my child?" 
 
 "Say" he half rose, struggling to speak "ask her to 
 come." 
 
 He turned his head toward the window, and the sunshine 
 glittered on two great drops, large as a child's tear. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we 
 waited, scarcely moving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, 
 sometimes fixed dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out 
 above the iron railings, between the Abbey trees. More than 
 once they wandered to the little letter which lay buried in his 
 hands. He felt it there that was enough. 
 
 My father came in from the garden, and settled to his after- 
 noon doze; but I think John hardly noticed him nor I. My 
 poor old father! Yet we were all young once let youth en- 
 joy its day! 
 
 At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlor-door, rosy 
 with walking a vision of youth and candid innocence, which 
 blushed not, nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that 
 was sanctified by the law of God, and by her own heart. 
 
 John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only 
 clasped hands. 
 
 He was not strong enough for disguises now in his first 
 look she might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 195 
 
 truth. For hers but it dropped down, down, as Ursula 
 March's clear glance had never dropped before. Then, I 
 knew how all would end. 
 
 Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's 
 wife is wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she 
 says her green gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n." 
 
 My father awoke rubbed his eyes became aware of a 
 lady's presence rubbed them again, and sat staring. 
 
 John led Ursula to the old man's chair. 
 
 "Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, 
 hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness " 
 
 His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with 
 downcast e} r elids: 
 
 "I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father." 
 
 Abel Fletcher nodded adjusted his spectacles eyed her 
 all over and nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied 
 inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it lin- 
 gered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, 
 dignity, truth. 
 
 "If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Wilt 
 thee sit down?" 
 
 Offering his hand with a mixture of kindness and ceremon- 
 ious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, 
 he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I remember 
 her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, trimmed with the 
 white fur she was so fond of wearing, and her riding-hat, the 
 soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder, trembling as 
 <$he trembled! For she did tremble very much. 
 
 Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts be- 
 fore him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny and half-smiled. 
 
 "Wilt thee stay and have a dish of tea with us?" 
 
 So it came to pass, I hardly remember how, that in an 
 hour's space our parlor beheld the strangest sight it had be- 
 held since . Ah, no wonder that when she took her place 
 
 at the table's foot and gave him his dish of tea with her own 
 hand her pretty ringed lady's hand my old father started, 
 as if it had been another than Miss March who was sitting 
 there. No wonder that, more than once, catching the sound 
 of her low, quiet, gentlewoman-like speech, different from any 
 female voices here, he turned round suddenly with a glance, 
 half-scared, half-eager, as if she had been a ghost from the 
 grave. 
 
 But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as
 
 196 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the* doctor's lit- 
 tle wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk 
 all settled themselves for a cosy chat, taking very little notice 
 of us three. 
 
 Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring 
 some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise 
 present; for all Norton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher had 
 a soft place in his heart, it was for his garden and his flowers. 
 These were very lovely; in color and scent delicious to one 
 who had been long ill. John lay looking at them and at her 
 as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole life were ab- 
 sorbed into that one exquisite hour. 
 
 For me where I sat I do not clearly know, nor probably 
 did any one else. 
 
 "There," said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost 
 childish satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her 
 liking. 
 
 "They are very beautiful," I heard John's voice answer, 
 with a strange tremble in it. "It is growing too dark to judge 
 colors; but the scent is delicious, even here." 
 
 "I could move the table closer to you." 
 
 "Thank you; let me do it: will you sit down?" 
 
 She did so, after a very slight hesitation, by John's side. 
 Neither spoke; but sat quietly there, with the sunset light on 
 their two heads, softly touching them both, and then as softly 
 melting away. 
 
 "There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, ap- 
 positely and gravely. 
 
 "Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I re- 
 member noticing it through the trees the night when 
 
 He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To sueli 
 a very unimportant conversation as they were apparently hold- 
 ing, my involuntary listening could do no harm. 
 
 "You will be able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss 
 March again. "Norton Bury is a pretty town." 
 
 John asked suddenly "Are you going to leave it?" 
 
 "Not yet; I do not know for certain; perhaps not at all. I 
 mean," she added, hurriedly, "that being independent, and 
 having entirely separated from, and been given up by my 
 cousins, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessop altogether." 
 
 "Of course, most natural." The words were formally spok- 
 en, and John did not speak again for some time.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 19? 
 
 "I hope," said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stop- 
 ping, as if her own voice frightened her. 
 
 "What do you hope?" 
 
 "That long before this moon has grown old, you will be 
 quite strong again." 
 
 "Thank you! I hope so, too. I have need for strength 
 God knows!" He sighed heavily. 
 
 "And you will have what you need, so as to do your work in 
 the world. You must not be afraid." 
 
 "I am not afraid. I shall bear my burden like other men. 
 Every one has some inevitable burden to bear." 
 
 "So I believe." 
 
 And now the room darkened so fast that I could not see 
 them; but their voices seemed a great way off, as the children's 
 voices playing at the old well-head used to sound to me when I 
 lay under the brow of the Flat, in the dim twilights at Ender- 
 ley. 
 
 "I intend," John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton 
 Bury, and go abroad for some time." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To America. It is the best country for a young man who 
 has neither money, nor kindred, nor position nothing, in 
 fact, but his own right hand with which to carve out his for- 
 tunes as I will, if I can." 
 
 She murmured something about this being "quite right." 
 
 "I am glad you think so." But his voice had resumed that 
 formal tone which ever and anon mingled strangely with its 
 low, deep tenderness. "In any case I must quit England. I 
 have reasons for so doing." 
 
 "What reasons?" 
 
 The question seemed to startle John he did not reply at 
 once. 
 
 "If you wish, I will tell you; in order that, should I ever 
 come back or if I should not come back at all, you who were 
 kind enough to be my friend, will know I did not go away 
 from mere youthful recklessness, or love of change." 
 
 He waited, apparently for some answer but it came not, 
 and he continued: 
 
 "I am going away, because there has befallen me a great 
 trouble, which, while I stay here, I cannot get free from or 
 overcome. I do not wish to sink under it I had rather, as 
 you said, 'do my work in the world/ as a man ought. No man
 
 198 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 has a right to say unto his Maker: 'My burden is heavier than 
 I can bear/ Do you not think so?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Do you think I am right in .thus meeting, and trying to 
 conquer an inevitable ill?" 
 
 "Is it inevitable?" 
 
 "Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don't reason with me 
 you cannot judge you do not know. It is enough that I 
 must go. If I stay I shall become unworthy of myself, un- 
 worthy of . Forgive me, I have no right to talk thus; 
 
 but } r ou called me 'friend/ and I would like you to think kind- 
 ly of me always. Because because ." And his voice 
 
 shook broke down utterly. "God love thee and take care 
 of thee, wherever I may go!" 
 
 "John, stay!" 
 
 It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But 
 he heard it felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to 
 him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the 
 shelter of his love for evermore. At once all was made clear 
 between them; for whatever the world might say, they were in 
 the sight of Heaven equal, and she received as much as she 
 gave. 
 
 When Jael brought in lights, the room seemed to me, at 
 first, all in a wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss 
 March with him. Holding her hand, he led her across the 
 room. His head was erect, his eyes shining his whole as- 
 pect that of a man who declares before all the world, "This is 
 my own." 
 
 "Eh?" said my father, gazing at them from over his specta- 
 cles. 
 
 John spoke brokenly, "We have no parents, neither she nor 
 I. Bless her for she has promised to be my wife." 
 
 And the old man blessed her with tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "I hardly like taking thee out this wet day, Phineas but it 
 is a comfort to have thee." 
 
 Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. He 
 was going to communicate to Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 199 
 
 Ursula's legal guardian and trustee, the fact that she had 
 promised him her hand him, John Halifax, the tanner. He 
 did it nay, insisted upon doing it the day after he came of 
 age, and just one week after they had been betrothed, this 
 nineteenth day of June, one thousand eight hundred and one. 
 
 We reached the iron gates of the My the House; John hesi- 
 tated a minute, and then pulled the bell with a resolute hand. 
 
 "Do you remember the last time we stood here, John?" 
 
 "I do, well." 
 
 But soon the happy smile faded from his lips, and left them 
 pressed together in a firm, almost painful gravity. He was 
 not only a lover, but a man. And no man could go to meet, 
 what he knew he must meet, in this house, and on this errand, 
 altogether unmoved. One might foresee a good deal, even in 
 the knowing side-glance of the servant, whom he startled with 
 his name, "Mr. Halifax." 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood's bus} 7 , sir; better come to-morrow," sug- 
 gested the man, evident]y knowing enough upon his masters 
 affairs. 
 
 "I am sorry to trouble him, but I must see Mr. Brithwood 
 to-day." 
 
 And John determinedly followed the man into the grand 
 empty dining-room, where on crimson velvet chairs, we sat and 
 contemplated the great stag's head with its branching horns, 
 the silver flagons and tankards, and the throstles hopping out- 
 side across the rainy lawn at our fall leisure too for the 
 space of fifteen minutes. 
 
 "This will not do," said John, quietly enough, though this 
 time it was with a less steady hand that he pulled the bell. 
 
 "Did you tell your master I was here?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." And the grin with which the footman came in 
 somehow slid away from his mouth's corners. 
 
 "How soon may I have the honor of seeing him?" 
 
 "He says, sir, you must send up your business by me." 
 
 John paused, evidently subduing something within him 
 something unworthy of Ursula's lover of Ursula's husband 
 that was to be. 
 
 "Tell your master, my business is solely with himself, and I 
 must request to see him. It is important, say, or I would not 
 thus intrude upon his time." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 Ere long, the man brought word that Mr. Brithwood would 
 be at liberty, for five minutes only, in the justice-room. We
 
 200 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 were led out, crossing the court-yard once more where, just 
 riding out, I saw two ladies, one of whom kissed her hand gay- 
 ly to John Halifax to the magistrate's office. There, safe- 
 ly separated from his own noble mansion, Mr. Brithwood ad- 
 ministered justice. In the outer room a stout young fellow 
 a poacher, probably sat heavily ironed, sullen and fierce; and 
 by the door a girl with a child in her arms, and God pity her! 
 no ring on her finger stood crying; another ill-looking fellow, 
 maudlin drunk, with a constable by him, called out to us as we 
 passed for a "drop o' beer." 
 
 These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, 
 magistrate for the county of , had to judge and punish, ac- 
 cording to his own sense of equity and his knowledge of his 
 country's law. 
 
 He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dic- 
 tating so energetically to his clerk behind him, that we had 
 both entered, and John had crossed the room, before he saw 
 us, or seemed to see. 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood." 
 
 "Oh Mr. Halifax. Good-morning." 
 
 John returned the salutation, which was evidently meant to 
 show that the giver bore no grudge; that, indeed, it was im- 
 possible so dignified a personage as Richard Brithwood, Es- 
 quire, 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 haugh- 
 tily. 
 
 "Then shall I speak with you elsewhere? But I must have 
 the honor of an interview with you, and immediately." 
 
 Whether Mr. Brithwood was seized with some indefinite 
 alarm, he himself best knew why, or whether John's manner 
 irresistibly compelled him to civility, as the stronger always 
 compels the weaker, I cannot tell but he signed to the clerk 
 to leave the room. 
 
 "And Jones, send back all the others to the lock-up house 
 till to-morrow. Bless my life! it's near three o'clock. They 
 can't expect to keep a gentleman's dinner waiting these low 
 fellows,"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 201 
 
 I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside; at all 
 events, we chose to take it so. 
 
 "Xow you, sir perhaps you'll dispatch your business; the 
 sooner the better." 
 
 "It will not take long. It is a mere matter of form, which 
 nevertheless I felt it my duty to be the first to inform you. 
 Mr. Brithwood, I have the honor of bearing a message to you 
 from your cousin Miss Ursula March." 
 
 "She's nothing to me I never wish to see her face again, 
 the the vixen!" 
 
 "You will be kind enough, if you please, to avoid all such 
 epithets; at least, in my hearing." 
 
 "Your hearing! And pray who are you, sir?" 
 
 "You know quite well who I am." 
 
 "Oh, yes! And how goes the tanning? Any offers in the 
 horse-flesh line? Always happy to meet you in the way of 
 business. But what can you possibly have to do with me, or 
 with any member of my family?" 
 
 John bit his lip; the 'squire's manner was extremely galling; 
 more so, perhaps, in its outside civility than any gross rude- 
 ness. 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood, I was not speaking of myself, but of the 
 lady whose message I have the honor to bring you." 
 
 "That lady, sir, has chosen to put herself away from her 
 family, and her family can hold no further intercourse with 
 her," said the 'squire, loftily. 
 
 "I am aware of that," was the reply, with at least equal 
 hauteur. 
 
 "Are you? And pray what right may you have to be ac- 
 quainted with Miss March's private concerns?" 
 
 "The right which, indeed, was the purport of her message 
 to you that in a few months I shall become her husband." 
 
 John said this very quietly; so quietly that, at first, the 
 'squire seemed hardly to credit his senses. At last he burst 
 into a horse-laugh. 
 
 "Well, that is the best joke I ever did hear!" 
 
 "Pardon me, I am perfectly serious." 
 
 "Bah! how much money do you want, fellow? A pretty 
 tale! you'll not get me to believe it ha! ha! She wouldn't 
 be so mad. To be sure, women have their fancies, as we 
 know, and you're a likely young fellow enough; but to marry 
 you "
 
 202 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 John sprang up, his whole frame quivering with fury. 
 "Take care, sir! take care how you insult my wife!" 
 
 He stood over the wretch the cowardly, shrinking wretch; 
 he did not touch him, but he stood over him till, terrified out 
 of his life, Eichard Brithwood gasped out some apology. 
 
 "Sit down pray sit down again. Let us proceed in our 
 business." 
 
 John Halifax sat down. 
 
 "So my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying?" 
 
 "She will be, some months hence. We were engaged a 
 week ago, with the full knowledge and consent of Dr. and 
 Mrs. Jessop, her nearest friends." 
 
 "And of yours?" asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sar- 
 casm as his blunt wits could furnish him. 
 
 "I have no relatives." 
 
 "So I always understood. And that being the case, may 
 I ask the meaning of this visit? Where are your lawyers, 
 your marriage settlements, hey? I say, young man ha! ha! 
 I should like to know what you can possibly want with me, 
 Miss March's trustee?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever. Miss March, as you are aware, is, by 
 her father's will, left perfectly free in her choice of marriage; 
 and she has chosen. But since, under certain circumstances, 
 I wish to act with perfect openness, I came to tell you, as her 
 cousin and the executor of this will, that she is about to be- 
 come my wife." 
 
 And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance 
 strengthened and calmed him. 
 
 "May I inquire into those ' certain circumstances?' " asked 
 the other, still derisively. 
 
 "You know them already. Miss March has a fortune and I 
 have none; and though I wish that difference were on the 
 other side though it might and did hinder me from seeking 
 her yet, now she is sought and won, it shall not hinder my 
 marrying her." 
 
 "Likely not," sneered Mr. Brithwood. 
 
 John's passion was rising again. 
 
 "I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say what 
 it chooses; we follow a higher law than the world she and I. 
 She knows me; am I to be afraid to trust her? Am I to be 
 such a coward as not to dare to marry the woman I love, be- 
 cause the world might say I married her for her money?" 
 
 He stood, his clinched hand resting on the table, looking
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 203 
 
 full into Richard Brithwood's face. The 'squire sat dum- 
 founded at the young man's vehemence. 
 
 "Your pardon/' John added, more calmly. "Perhaps I 
 owe her some pardon, too, for bringing her name thus into 
 discussion; but I wished to have everything clear between my- 
 self and you, her nearest relative. You now know exactly 
 how the matter stands. I will detain you no longer I have 
 nothing more to say." 
 
 "But I have!" roared out the 'squire; at length, recovering 
 himself, seeing his opponent had quitted the field. "Stop a 
 minute." 
 
 John paused at the door. 
 
 "Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or any other vaga- 
 bond she pleases it's no business of mine. But her fortune 
 is my business, and it's in my hands, too. Might's right, and 
 possession's nine-tentks of the law. Not one penny shall she 
 get out of my fingers as long as I can keep hold of it." 
 
 John bowed, his hand still on the door. "As you please, 
 Mr. Brithwood. That was not the subject of our interview. 
 Good-morning." 
 
 And we were away. 
 
 Recrossing the iron gates and out into the open road, John 
 breathed freely. 
 
 "That's over all is well." 
 
 "Do you think what he threatened is true? Can he do it?" 
 
 "Very likely; don't let us talk about that." And he walked 
 on lightly, as if a load were taken off his mind, and body and 
 soul leaped up to meet the glory of the summer sunshine, the 
 freshness of the summer air. 
 
 "Oh what a day this is! after the rain, too! .How ehe will 
 enjoy it!" 
 
 And coming home through Norton Bury, we met her, walk- 
 ing with Mrs. Jessop. No need to dread that meeting now. 
 
 Yet she looked up, questioning, through her blushes. Of 
 course he had told her where we were going to-day: her who 
 had a right to know every one of his concerns now. 
 
 "Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid." 
 
 Afraid, indeed! Not the least fear was in those clear eyes. 
 Nothing but perfect content perfect trust. 
 
 John drew her arm through his. "Come, we need not 
 mind Norton Bury now," he said, smiling. 
 
 So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, earn-
 
 204 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 estly and rather seriously to one another; while Mrs. Jessop 
 and I followed behind. 
 
 "Bless their dear hearts!" said the old lady, as she sat rest- 
 ing on the stile of a bean-field. "Well, we have all been 
 young once." 
 
 Not all, good Mrs. Jessop, thought I; not all. 
 
 Yet, surely it was most pleasant to see them, as it is to see 
 all true-lovers young lovers, too, in the morning of their 
 days. Pleasant to see written on every line of their happy 
 faces the blessedness of Nature's law of love love begun in 
 youth-time, sincere and pure, free from all sentimental shams, 
 or follies, or shames love mutually plighted, the next strong- 
 est bond to that in which it will end, and is meant to end 
 God's holy ordinance of marriage. 
 
 We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. It 
 was John's custom to go there almost every evening; though 
 certainly he could not be said to "go a-courting." Nothing 
 could be more unlike it than his demeanor, or indeed the de- 
 meanor of both. They were very quiet lovers, never making 
 much of one another "before folk." No whispering in cor- 
 ners, or stealing away down garden-walks. No public show 
 of caresses caresses whose very sweetness must consist in 
 their entire sacredness; at least, I should think so. No co- 
 quettish exactions, no testing of cither's power over the other, 
 in those perilous small quarrels which may be the renewal of 
 passion, but are the death of true love. 
 
 No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat 
 at her work, and he made himself generally pleasant, falling in 
 kindly to the Jessops' household ways. But whatever he was 
 about, at Ursula's lightest movement, at the least sound of h er 
 voice, I could see him lift a quiet glance, as if always conscious 
 of her presence; she who was the delight of his eyes. 
 
 To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link 
 seemed to be drawn closer between them, though they spoke 
 little together, and even sat at opposite sides of the table; but 
 whenever their looks met, one could trace a soft, smiling inter- 
 change, full of trust, and peace, and joy. He had evidently 
 told her all that had happened to-day, and she was satisfied. 
 
 More, perhaps, than I was; for I knew how little John 
 would have to live upon besides what means his wife brought 
 him; but that was their own affair, and I had no business to 
 make public my doubts or fears. 
 
 We all sat round the tea-table, talking gayly together, and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 205 
 
 then John left us, reluctantly enough; but he always made a 
 point of going to the tan-yard for an hour or two, in my fath- 
 er's stead, every evening. Ursula let him out at the front door; 
 this was her right, silently claimed, which nobody either jested 
 at or interfered with. 
 
 When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a min- 
 ute or two longer than was absolutely necessary, there was a 
 wonderful brightness on her young face; though she listened 
 with a degree of attention most creditable in its gravity to a 
 long dissertation of Mrs. Jessop's on the best and cheapest way 
 of making jam and pickles. 
 
 "You know, my dear, you ought to begin and learn all about 
 such things now." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss March, with a little droop of the head. 
 
 "I assure you" turning to me "she comes every day into 
 the kitchen never mind, my dear, one can say anything to 
 Mr. Fletcher. And what lady need be ashamed of knowing 
 how a dinner is cooked and a household kept in order?" 
 
 "Nay, she should rather be proud; I know John thinks so." 
 
 At this answer of mine Ursula half-smiled; but there was a 
 color in her cheek and a thoughtfulness in her eyes deeper 
 than any that our conversation warranted or occasioned. I 
 was planning how to divert Mrs. Jessop from the subject, 
 when it was broken at once by a sudden entrance, which 
 startled us all like a flash of lightning. 
 
 "Stole away! stole away! as my husband would say. Here 
 have I come in the dusk, all through the streets, to Dr. Jes- 
 sop's very door. How is she where is she, ma petite?" 
 
 "Caroline!" 
 
 "Ah, come forward. I haven't seen you for an age." 
 
 And Lady Caroline kissed her on both cheeks in her lively, 
 French fashion, which Ursula received patiently and returned 
 no, I will not be certain whether she returned it or not. 
 
 "Pardon how do you do, Mrs. Jessop, my dear woman? 
 What trouble I have had in coming! Are you not glad to see 
 me, Ursula?" 
 
 "Yes, very." In that sincere voice which never either fal- 
 sified or exaggerated a syllable. 
 
 "Did you ever expect to see me again?" 
 
 "No, certainly I did not. And I would almost rather not 
 see you now, if " 
 
 "Richard Brithwood did not approve of it? Bah! what
 
 206 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 notions you always had of marital supremacy. So, ma chere, 
 you are going to be married yourself, I hear?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why, how quietly you seem to take it! The news perfectly 
 electrified me this morning. I always said that young man 
 was 'un heros de romans!" Ma foil this is the prettiest little 
 episode I ever heard of. Just King Cophetua and the beggar- 
 maid only reversed. How do vou feel, my Queen Cophe- 
 tua?" 
 
 "I do not quite understand you, Caroline." 
 
 "Neither should I you, for the tale seems incredible. Only 
 you gave me such an honest 'yes,' and I know you never tell 
 even white lies. But it can't be true; at least, not certain. A 
 little affaire de coeur, maybe ah! I had several before I 
 was twenty very pleasant, chivalrous, romantic, and all that; 
 and such a brave young fellow, too! Helas! love is sweet at 
 your age!" with a little sigh "but marriage! My dear 
 child, you are not surely promised to this youth?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "How sharply you say it. Nay, don't be angry. I liked 
 him greatly. A very pretty fellow. But then he belongs to 
 the people." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 "Naughty child, you will not comprehend me. I mean the 
 lower orders, the bourgeoisie. My husband says he is a tan- 
 ner's 'prentice-boy." 
 
 "He was an apprentice; he is now partner in Mr. Fletcher's 
 tan-yard." 
 
 "That is nearly as bad. And so you are actually going to 
 marry a tanner!" 
 
 "I am going to marry Mr. Halifax. We will, if you please, 
 cease to discuss him, Lady Caroline." 
 
 "La belle sauvage!" laughed the lady; and, in the dusk, I 
 fancied I saw her reach over to pat Ursula's hand in her care- 
 less pretty way. "Nay; I meant no harm." 
 
 "I am sure you did not; but we will change the subject." 
 
 "Not at all. I came to talk about it. I couldn't sleep till 
 I had. Je t'aime Men, iu lasais, ma petite Ursula" 
 
 "Thank you," said Ursula gently. 
 
 "And I would like well to see you married. Truly, we wo- 
 men must marry or be nothing at all. But as to marrying for 
 love, as we used to think of, and as charming poets make be- 
 lieve my dear, nowadays, nous avons change tout cela."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 207 
 
 Ursula replied nothing. 
 
 "I suppose my young friend, the bourgeois, is very much in 
 love with you? With 'les beaux yeux de votre cassette,' Eich- 
 ard swears; but I know better. What of that? All men say 
 they love one; but it will not last. It burns itself out. It will 
 be over in a year, as we wives all know. Do we not, Mrs. Jes- 
 sop? Ah! she is gone away." 
 
 Probably they thought I was away, too, or else they took no 
 notice of me, and went talking on. 
 
 "Jane would not have agreed with you, Cousin Caroline; 
 vshe loved her husband very dearly when she was a girl. They 
 were poor, and he was afraid to marry; so he let her go. That 
 was wrong, I think." 
 
 "How wise we are growing in these things now!" laughed 
 Lady Caroline. "But come, I am not interested in old turtle- 
 doves. Say about yourself." 
 
 "I have nothing more to say." 
 
 "Nothing more? Mon Dieu! are you aware that Eichard 
 is furious; that he vows he will keep every sou he has of yours 
 law or no law for as long as ever he can? He declared so 
 this morning. Did young Halifax tell you?" 
 
 "Mr. Halifax has told me." 
 
 " 'Mr. Halifax!' how proudly she says it! And are you still 
 going to be married to him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What! a bourgeois, a tradesman? with no more money than 
 those sort of people usually have, I believe. You, who have 
 had all sorts of comforts, have always lived as a gentlewoman. 
 Truly, though I adore a love-marriage in theory, practically I 
 think you are quite mad quite mad, my dear." 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 "And he, too. Verily, what men are! Especially men in 
 love. All selfish together." 
 
 "Caroline!" 
 
 "Isn't it selfish to drag a pretty creature down and make 
 her a drudge, a slave, a mere poor man's wife?" 
 
 "She is proud of being such!" burst in the indignant young 
 voice. "Lady Caroline, you may say what you like to me; 
 you were kind always, and I was fond of you; but you shall not 
 say a word against Mr. Halifax. You do not know him how 
 could you?" 
 
 "And you do? Ah! ma petite, we all think that, till we 
 find out to the contrary. And so he urges you to be married
 
 208 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 at once, rich or poor, at all risks, at all costs? How lover-like, 
 how like a man! I guess it all. Half -beseeches, half -per- 
 suades " 
 
 "He does not!" And the girl's voice was sharp with pain. 
 "I would not have told you, but I must, for his sake. He 
 asked me this afternoon if I was afraid of being poor, if I 
 would like to wait and let him work hard alone till he could 
 give me a home like that I was born to? He did, Caroline." 
 
 "And you answered " 
 
 "No a thousand times, no! He will have a hard battle to 
 fight would I let him fight it alone, when I can help him 
 when he says I can?" 
 
 "Ah, child! you that know nothing of poverty, how can you 
 bear it?" 
 
 "I will try." 
 
 "You that never ruled a house in your life " 
 
 "I can learn." 
 
 "del! 'tis wonderful! Ana ihis young man nas no friends, 
 no connections, no fortune! only himself." 
 
 "Only himself,** said Ursula, with a proud contempt. 
 
 "Will you tell me, my dear, why you marry him?" 
 
 "Because" and Ursula spoke in low tones, that seemed 
 wrung out of her almost against her will "because I honor 
 him, because I trust him; and, young as I am, I have seen 
 enough of the world to be thankful that there is in it one man 
 whom I can trust, can honor, entirely. Also though I am 
 often ashamed lest this be selfish because when I was in 
 trouble he helped me; when I was misjudged he believed in 
 me; when I was sad and desolate, he loved me. And I am 
 proud of his love I glory in it. No one shall take it from me 
 no one will no one can, unless I cease to deserve it." 
 
 Lady Caroline was silent. Despite her will, you might hear 
 a sigh breaking from some deep corner of that light, frivolous 
 heart. 
 
 "B-ien! chacun a son gotit! But you have never stated one 
 trifle not unnecessary, perhaps, though most married folk 
 get on quite well without it. 'Honor,' 'trust,' pshaw! My 
 child, do you love Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "ISTay, why be shy? In England, they say, and among the 
 people no offense, ma petite one does sometimes happen 
 to care for the man one "marries. Tell me, for I must be gone, 
 do you love him? one word whether or no?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 209 
 
 Just then the light coming in, showed Ursula's face, beau- 
 tiful with more than happiness, uplifted even with a religious 
 thankfulness, as she said simply: 
 
 "John knows." 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 In the late autumn, John married Ursula March. He was 
 twenty-one, and she eighteen. It was very young too young, 
 perhaps, prudent folk might say; and yet sometimes I think a 
 double blessing falls on unions like this. A right and holy 
 marriage, a true love-marriage, be it early or late, is must be 
 sanctified and happy; yet those have the best chance of hap- 
 piness, who, meeting on the very threshold of life, enter upon 
 its duties together; with free, fresh hearts, easily molded the 
 one to the other, rich in all the riches of youth, acute to enjoy, 
 brave and hopeful to endure. 
 
 Such were these two God bless them! 
 
 They were married quite privately, neither having any near 
 kindred. Besides, John held strongly the opinion that so 
 solemn a festival as marriage is only desecrated by outward 
 show. And so, one golden autumn morning, Ursula walked 
 quietly up the Abbey aisle, in her plain white muslin gown; 
 and John and she plighted their faithful vows, no one being 
 present except the Jessops and I. They then went away for 
 a brief holiday went away without either pomp or tears, en- 
 tirely happy husband and wife together. 
 
 When I came home, and said what had happened, my good 
 father seemed little surprised. He had expressly desired not 
 to be told anything of the wedding till all was over he hated 
 marriages. 
 
 "But since it is done, maybe 'tis as well/' said he, grimly. 
 "She seems a kindly young thing; wise, even for a woman." 
 
 "And pleasant, too, father?" 
 
 "Ay, but favor is deceitful and beauty vain. So the lad's 
 gone;" and he looked round, as if missing John, who had lived 
 in our house eyer since his illness. "I thought as much, when 
 he bade me good-night, and asked my leave to take a journey. 
 So he's married and gone! Come, Phineas, sit thee down by 
 thy old father: I am glad thee wilt always remain a bachelor." 
 
 We settled ourselves, my father and I; and while the old 
 man smoked his meditative pipe, I sat thinking of the winter
 
 210 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 evenings when we two lads had read by the fireside; the sum- 
 mer days when we had lounged on the garden-wall. He was 
 a married man now, the head of a household; others had a 
 right the first, best, holiest right to the love that used to 
 be all mine; and though it was a marriage entirely happy and 
 hopeful, though all that day and every day I rejoiced both 
 with and for my brother, still it was rather sad to miss him 
 from our house, to feel that his boyish days were quite over 
 that his boyish place would know him no more. 
 
 But, of course, I had fully overcome, or at least suppressed 
 this feeling, when, John having brought his wife home, I went 
 to see them in their own house. 
 
 I had seen it once before; it was an old dwelling-house 
 which my father bought with the flour-mill, situated in the 
 middle of the town, the front windows looking on the street, 
 the desolate garden behind shut in by four brick walls. A 
 most unbridal-like abode. I feared they would find it so, 
 even though John had been busy there the last two months, in 
 early mornings and late evenings, keeping a comical secrecy 
 over the matter, as if he were jealous that any one but himself 
 should lend an eye, or put a finger to the dear task of making 
 ready for his young wife. 
 
 There could not be greater preparations, I kneAV, for the 
 third of my father's business promised but a small income. 
 Yet the gloomy outside being once passed, the house looked 
 wonderfully bright and clean; the walls and doors newly paint- 
 ed and delicately stencilled. ("Master did all that himsel'," 
 observed the proud little handmaid, Jenny Jem \Vatkins' 
 sweetheart. I had begged the place for her myself of Mistress 
 Ursula.) Though only a few rooms were furnished, and that 
 very simply, almost poorly, all was done with taste and care; 
 the colors were mingled, the wood-work graceful and good. 
 
 They were out gardening, John Halifax and his wife. 
 
 Ay, his wife; he was a husband now. They looked so young, 
 both of them, he kneeling, planting box-edging, she standing 
 by him with her hand on his shoulder the hand with the 
 ring on it. He was laughing at something she had said, thy 
 very laugh of old, David! Neither heard me come till I stood 
 close by. 
 
 "Phineas, welcome, welcome!" He wrung my hand fer- 
 vently many times; so did Ursula, blushing rosy red. They 
 both called me "brother," and both were as fond and warm as 
 any brother and sister could be.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 211 
 
 few minutes after Ursula "Mrs. Halifax," as I said I 
 ought to call her now slipped away into the house, and John 
 and I were left together. He glanced after his wife till she 
 was out of sight, played with the spade, threw it down, placed 
 his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hard in my face. 
 He was trembling with deep emotion. 
 
 "Art thou happy, David?" 
 
 "Ay, lad, almost afraid of my happiness. God make me 
 worthy of it and of her!" 
 
 He lifted his eyes upward; there was in them a new look, 
 sweet and solemn a look which expressed the satisfied con- 
 tent of a life now rounded and completed by that other dear 
 life which it had received into and united with its own, mak- 
 ing a full and perfect whole, which, however kindly and fond- 
 ly it may look on friends and kindred outside, has no absolute 
 need of any, but is complete in and sufficient to itself, as true 
 marriage should be. A look, unconsciously fulfilling the law 
 God's own law that a man shall leave father and mother, 
 brethren and companions, and shall cleave unto his wife, and 
 "they two shall become one flesh." 
 
 And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half-sadly, 
 for a moment, the vague, fine line of division which was thus 
 for evermore drawn between him and me of no fault on either 
 side, and of which he himself was unaware. It was but the 
 right and natural law of things, the difference between the 
 married and unmarried, which only the latter feel which, 
 perhaps, the Divine One meant them to feel; that out of their 
 great solitude of this world may grow a little inner Eden, 
 where they may hear His voice, "walking in the garden in the 
 cool of the day." 
 
 We went round John's garden; there was nothing Eden-like 
 about it, being somewhat of a waste still, divided between an- 
 cient cabbage-beds, empty flower-beds, and great old orchard- 
 trees, very thinly laden with fruit. 
 
 "We'll make them better next year," said John, hopefully. 
 "We may have a very decent garden here in time." He looked 
 round his little domain with the eye of a master, and put his 
 arm, half -proudly, half -shyly, round his wife's shoulders; she 
 had sidled up to him, ostensibly bringing him a letter, though 
 possibly only for an excuse, because in those sweet early days 
 they naturally liked to be in each other's sight continually. 
 It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meek, matron-
 
 212 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 liness had come over the high spirit of the "nut-browne 
 mayde." 
 
 "May I read?" she said, peeping oyer him. 
 
 "Of course you may, little one." A comical pet-name for 
 him to give her, who was anything but small. I could have 
 smiled, remembering the time when John Halifax bowed to 
 the stately and dignified young gentlewoman who stood at Mrs. 
 Tod's door. To think he should ever have come to call Miss 
 Ursula March "little one!" 
 
 But this was not exactly a time for jesting, since, on reading 
 the letter, I saw the young wife flush an angry red, then look 
 grave. Until John, crumbling up the paper, and dropping it 
 almost with a boyish frolic into the middle of a large rosemary 
 bush, took his wife by both her hands, and gazed down into 
 her troubled face, smiling. 
 
 "You surely don't mind this, love? We knew it all before. 
 It can make no possible difference." 
 
 "No! But it is so wrong so unjust. I never believed he 
 dared do it to you." 
 
 "Hear her, Phineas! She thinks nobody dare do anything 
 ill to her husband not even Eichard Brithwood." 
 
 "He is a " 
 
 "Hush, dear! we will not talk about him; since, for all his 
 threats, he can do us no harm; and, poor man! he never will 
 be half as happy as we." 
 
 That was true. So Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was 
 left to molder harmlessly away in the rosemary bush and we 
 all walked up and down the garden, talking over a thousand 
 plans for making ends meet in that little household. To their 
 young hopefulness even poverty itself became a jest, and was 
 met cheerfully, like an honest, hard-featured, hard-handed 
 friend, whose rough face was often kindly, and whose harsh 
 grasp made one feel the strength of one's own. 
 
 "We mean," John said, gayly, "to be two living Essays on 
 the Advantages of Poverty. We are not going to be afraid of 
 it, or ashamed of it. We don't care who knows it. We con- 
 sider that our respectability lies solely in our two selves." 
 
 "But our neighbors?" 
 
 "Our neighbors may think of us exactly what they like. Half 
 the sting of poverty is gone when one keeps house for one's 
 own comfort and not for the comments of one's neighbors." 
 
 "I should think not," Ursula cried, tossing back her head
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 213 
 
 in merry defiance. "Besides, we are young, we have few 
 wants, and we can easily reduce our wants to our havings." 
 
 "And no more gray silk gowns," said her husband, half- 
 fondly, half -sadly. 
 
 "You will not he so rude as to say I shall not look equally 
 well in a cotton one? And as for being as happy in it why I 
 know best." 
 
 He smiled at her once more that tender, manly smile, 
 which made all soft and lustrous the inmost depths of his 
 brown eyes; truly no woman need be afraid, with a smile like 
 that to be the strength, the guidance, the sunshine of her 
 home. 
 
 We w t ent in, and the young mistress showed us her new 
 house; we investigated and admired all, down to the very 
 scullery; then we adjourned to the sitting-room the only one 
 and, after tea, Ursula arranged her books, some on stained 
 shelves, which she proudly informed me were of John's own 
 making, and some on an old spinnet, which he had picked up, 
 and which, he said, was of no other use than to hold books, 
 since she was not an accomplished young lady, and could nei- 
 ther sing nor play. 
 
 "But you don't dislike the spinnet, Ursula? It caught my 
 fancy. Do you know I have a faint remembrance that once, 
 on such a thing as this, my mother used to play?" 
 
 He spoke in a low voice; Ursula stole up to him with a fond, 
 awed look. 
 
 "You never told me anything about your mother?" 
 "Dear, I had little to tell. Long ago you knew who you 
 were going to marry John Halifax, who had no friends, no 
 kindred, whose parents left him nothing but his name." 
 "And you cannot remember them?" 
 "My father, not at all; my mother, very little." 
 "And have you nothing belonging to them?" 
 "Only one thing. Should you like to see it?" 
 "Very much." She still spoke slowly and with slight hesi- 
 tation. "It was hard for him not to have known his parents," 
 she added, when John had left the room. "I should like to 
 
 have known them, too. But still when I know him " 
 
 She smiled, tossed back the coronet of curls from her fore- 
 head her proud, pure forehead, that would have worn a coro- 
 net of jewels more meekly than it now wore the unadorned 
 honor of being John Halifax's wife. I wish he could have 
 seen her.
 
 214 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 That minute he reappeared. 
 
 "Here, Ursula, is all I have of my parents. No one has 
 seen it, except Phineas there, until now." 
 
 He held in his hand the little Greek Testament which he 
 had shown me years before. Carefully, and with the same 
 fond, reverent look as when he was a boy, he undid the case, 
 made of silk, with ribbon strings doubtless a woman's work 
 it must have been his mother's. His wife touched it, softly 
 and tenderly. He showed her the fly-leaf; she looked over the 
 inscription, and then repeated it aloud. 
 
 " 'Guy Halifax, gentleman/ I thought I thought " 
 
 Her manner betrayed a pleased surprise; she would not have 
 been a woman, especially a woman reared in pride of birth, 
 not to have felt and testified the like pleasure for a moment. 
 
 "You thought that I was only a laborer's son; or nobody's. 
 Well, does it signify?" 
 
 "No," she cried, as clinging round his neck and throwing 
 her head back, she looked at him with all her heart in her 
 eyes. "No, it does not signify. Were your father the king 
 on his throne, or the beggar in the streets, it would be all the 
 same to me; you would still be yourself my husband my 
 John Halifax." 
 
 "God bless thee my own wife that He has given me!" John 
 murmured, through his close embrace. 
 
 They had altogether forgotten any one's presence, dear 
 souls! so I kept them in that happy oblivion by slipping out to 
 Jenny in the kitchen, and planning with her how we could at 
 least spare Jem Watkins two days a week to help in the gar- 
 den, under Mr. Halifax's orders. 
 
 "Only, Jenny," smiled I, with a warning finger, "no idling 
 and chattering. Young folk must work hard, if they want 
 to come to the happy ending of your master and mistress." 
 
 The little maid grew the color of her swain's pet peonies, 
 and promised obedience. Conscientious Jem there was no 
 fear of all the rosy-cheeked damsels in Christendom 
 would not have turned him aside from one iota of his duty to 
 Mr. Halifax. Thus there was love in the parlor, and love in 
 the kitchen. But, I verily believe, the young married couple 
 were served all the better for their kindness and sympathy to 
 the humble pair of sweethearts in the rank below them. 
 
 John walked home with me a pleasure I had hardly ex- 
 pected, but which was insisted upon both by him and Ursula. 
 For from the very first of her betrothal, there had been a thor-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 215 
 
 ough brother-and-sisterly bond established between her and 
 me. Her womanly, generous nature would have scorned to 
 do what, as I have heard, many young wives do seek to make 
 coldness between her husband and his old friends. No; se- 
 cure in her riches, in her rightful possession of his whole 
 heart, she took into hers everything that belonged to John, 
 every one he cared for; to be forever held sacred and beloved, 
 being his, and therefore her own. Thus, we were the very 
 best of friends, my sister Ursula and me. 
 
 John and I talked a little about her, of her rosy looks, 
 which he hoped would not fade in their town dwelling, and of 
 good Mrs. Tod's wonderful delight at seeing her, when, last 
 week, they had stayed two days in the dear old cottage at En- 
 defley. But he seemed slow to speak about his wife, or to 
 dilate on a joy so new that it was hardly to be breathed on, 
 lest it might melt into air. 
 
 Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage 
 passed, he looked after it with a smile. 
 
 "Gray ponies! she is so fond of long-tailed gray ponies. 
 Poor child! when shall I be able to give her a carriage? Per- 
 haps, some day who knows?" 
 
 He turned the conversation and began telling me about the 
 cloth-mill his old place of resort; which he had been over 
 once again, when they were at Eose Cottage. 
 
 "And do you know, while I was looking at the machinery, 
 a notion came into my head that, instead of that great water- 
 wheel you remember it it might be worked by steam." 
 
 "What sort of steam?" 
 
 "Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you for- 
 gotten my telling you how, last year, some Scotch engineer 
 tried to move boats by steam on the Forth and Clyde canal? 
 Why should not the same power be turned to account in a 
 cloth-mill? I know it could; I have got the plan of the ma- 
 chinery in my head already. I made a drawing of it last 
 night, and showed it to Ursula; and she understood it di- 
 rectly." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 "And I do believe, by common patience and skill, a man 
 might make his fortune with it at those Enderley cloth- 
 mills." 
 
 "Suppose you try!" I said, in half jest, and was surprised to 
 see how seriously John took it. 
 
 "I wish I could try; if it were only practicable. Once or
 
 216 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 twice I have thought it might be. The mill belongs to Lord 
 Luxmore. His steward works it. Now, if one could get to be 
 a foreman or overseer " 
 
 "Try you can do anything you try." 
 
 "No, I must not think of it she and I have agreed that I 
 must not/' said he, steadily. "It's my weakness my hobby, 
 you know. But no hobbies now. Above all, I must not, for a 
 mere fancy, give up the work that lies under my hand. What 
 of the tan-yard, Phineas?" 
 
 "My father missed you, and grumbled after you a good deal. 
 He looks anxious, I think. He vexes himself more than he 
 need about business." 
 
 "Don't let him. Keep him as much at home as you can. 
 I'll manage the tan-yard; you know and he knows too that 
 everything which can be done for us all I shall do." 
 
 I looked up, surprised at the extreme earnestness of his 
 manner. 
 
 "Surely, John " 
 
 "Nay, there is nothing to be uneasy about nothing more 
 than there has been for this year past. All trade is bad just 
 now. Never fear, we'll weather the storm. I'm not afraid." 
 
 Cheerfully as he spoke, I began to guess what he already 
 must have known that our fortunes were as a slowly leaking 
 ship, of which the helm had slipped from my old father's 
 feeble hand. But John had taken it; John stood firm at the 
 wheel. Perhaps, with God's blessing, he might yet guide us 
 safe to land. 
 
 I had not time to say more, when, with its pretty gray po- 
 nies, the curricle once more passed our way. Two ladies were 
 in it; one leaned out and bowed. Presently a lackey came to 
 beg Mr. Halifax to come and speak with Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood. 
 
 "Shall you go, John?" 
 
 "Certainly; why not?" And he stepped forward to the car- 
 riage-side. 
 
 "Ah! delighted to see mon lean cousin. This is he, Em- 
 ma," turning to the lady who sat by her oh, what a lovely 
 face that lady had! no wonder it drove men mad; ay, even that 
 brave man, in whose honest life can be chronicled only this 
 one sin, of being bewitched by her. 
 
 John caught the name perhaps, too, he recognized the face 
 it was only too public, alas! His own took a sternness such
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 217 
 
 as I had never before seen, and yet there was a trace of pity in 
 it, too. 
 
 "You are quite well. Indeed, he looks son'est-ce pas, ma 
 chere?" 
 
 John bore gravely the eyes of the two ladies fixed on him, 
 in rather too plain admiration very gravely, too, he bowed. 
 
 "And what of our young bride, our treasure that was stole 
 nay, it was quite fair quite fair. How is Ursula?" 
 
 "I thank you, Mrs. Halifax is well." 
 
 Lady Caroline smiled at the manner, courteous through all 
 its coldness, which not ill became the young man. But she 
 would not be repelled. 
 
 "I am delighted to have met you. Indeed, we must be 
 friends. One's friends need not always be the same to one's 
 husband's eh, Emma? You will be enchanted with our fair 
 bride. We must both seize the first opportunity and come as 
 disguised princesses to visit Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 "Again let me thank you, Lady Caroline. But " 
 
 "No 'but's.' I am resolved. Mr. Brithwood will never find 
 it out. And if he does why, he may. I like you both; I in- 
 tend us to be excellent friends, whenever I chance to be at 
 Xorton Bury. Don't be proud and reject me, there's good 
 people the only good people I ever knew who were not dis- 
 agreeable." 
 
 And leaning on her large ermine muff, she looked right into 
 John's face, with the winning sweetness which Nature, not 
 courts, lent to those fair features already beginning to fade, 
 already trying to hide by art their painful, premature decay. 
 
 John returned the look, half sorrowfully; it was so hard to 
 give back harshness to kindliness. But a light laugh from 
 the other lady caught his ear, and his hesitation if hesitation 
 he had felt was over. 
 
 "No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see your- 
 self that it cannot. Living, as we do, in the same neighbor- 
 hood, we may meet occasionally, by chance, and always, I 
 hope, with kindly feeling; but, under present circumstances, 
 indeed, under any circumstances, intimacy between your house 
 and ours would be impossible." 
 
 Lady Caroline shrugged her shoulders with a pretty air of 
 pique. "As you will! I never trouble myself to court the 
 friendship of any one. Lejeu ne vaut pas la chandeUe." 
 
 "Do not mistake me," John said, earnestly. "Do not sup- 
 pose I am ungrateful for your former kindness to my wife; but
 
 218 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the difference between her and you between your life and 
 hers is so extreme." 
 
 " Vraiment! 'with another shrug and smile rather a bitter 
 one. 
 
 "Our two paths lie wide apart wide as the poles; our house 
 and our society would not suit you; and that my wife should 
 ever enter yours," glancing from one to the other of those two 
 faces, painted with false roses, lit by false smiles. "5So, Lady 
 Caroline," he adder, firmly, "it is impossible." 
 
 She looked mortified for a moment, and then resumed her 
 gayety, which nothing could ever banish long. 
 
 "Hear him, Emma! So young and so unkindly! Mais 
 nous verrons. You will change your mind. Au revoir, mon 
 beau cousin." 
 
 They drove off quickly, and were gone. 
 
 "John, what will Mrs. Halifax say?" 
 
 "My innocent girl! thank God she is safe away from them 
 all safe in a poor man's honest breast." He spoke with 
 much emotion. 
 
 "Yet Lady Caroline " 
 
 "Did you see who sat beside her?" 
 
 "That beautiful woman?" 
 
 "Poor soul! alas for her beauty! Phineas, that was Lady 
 Hamilton." 
 
 He said no more, nor I. At my own door he left me, with 
 his old merry laugh, his old familiar grasp of my shoulder. 
 
 "Lad, take care of thyself, though I'm not by to see. Re- 
 member, I am just as much thy tyrant as if I were living here 
 still." 
 
 I smiled, and he went his way to his own quiet, blessed, 
 married home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The winter and spring passed calmly by. I had much ill 
 health, and could go out very little; but they came constantly 
 to me, John and Ursula, especially the latter. During this 
 illness, when I learned to watch longingly for her kind face, 
 and listen for her cheerful voice talking pleasantlv and sisterly 
 beside my chair, she taught me to give up "Mrs. Halifax" and 
 call her Ursula. It was only by slow degrees I did so, truly; 
 for she was not one of those gentle creatures whom, married
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 219 
 
 or single, one calls instinctively by their Christian names. Her 
 manner in girlhood was not exactly either "meek" or "gentle;" 
 except toward him, the only one who ever ruled her, and to 
 whom she was, through life, the meekest and tenderest of 
 women. To every one else she comported herself, at least in 
 youth, with a dignity and decision a certain stand-off -ishness 
 so that, as I said, it was not quite easy to think of her as 
 "Ursula." Afterward, when seen in the light of g, new char- 
 acter, for which Heaven destined and especially fitted her, and 
 in which she appeared altogether beautiful I began to give 
 her another name but it will come by-and-by. 
 
 In the long midsummer days, when our house was very quiet 
 and rather dreary, I got into the habit of creeping over to 
 John's home and sitting for hours under the apple trees in his 
 garden. It was now different from the wilderness he found it; 
 the old trees were pruned and tended, and young ones planted. 
 Mrs. Halifax called it proudly "'our orchard," though the top 
 of the tallest sapling could be reached with her hand. Then, 
 in addition to the indigenous cabbages, came long rows of 
 white-blossomed peas, big-headed cauliflowers, and all vege- 
 tables easy of cultivation. My father sent contributions from 
 his celebrated gooseberry bushes, and his wall fruit, the pride 
 of Norton Bury; Mrs. Jessop stocked the borders from her 
 great parterres of sweet-scented common flowers; so that, 
 walled in as it was, and in the midst of a town likewise, it was 
 growing into a very tolerable garden. Just the kind of garden 
 that I love half-trim, half-wild fruits, flowers, and vege- 
 tables living in comfortable equality and fraternity, none be- 
 ing too choice to be harmed by their neighbors, none esteemed 
 too mean to be restricted in their natural profusion. Oh, dear 
 old-fashioned garden! full of sweet-williams and white-nancies, 
 and larkspur and London-pride, and yard-wide beds of snowy 
 saxifrage, and tall, pale evening primroses, and hollyhocks six 
 or seven feet high, many-tinted, from yellow to darkest ruby- 
 color; while for scents, large blushing cabbage-roses, pinks, 
 gillyflowers, with here and there a great bush of southernwood 
 or rosemary, or a border of thyme, or a sweetbrier hedge a 
 pleasant garden, where all colors and perfumes were blended 
 together; ay, even a stray dandelion, that stood boldly up in 
 his yellow waistcoat, like a young country bumpkin, who feels 
 himself a decent lad in his way or a plant of wild marjoram 
 that had somehow got in, and kept meekly in the corner of the 
 bed, trying to turn into a respectable cultivated herb. Dear old
 
 220 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 garden such as one rarely sees nowadays I would give the 
 finest modern pleasure-ground for the like of thee! 
 
 This was what John's garden became; its every inch and 
 every flower still live in more memories than mine, and will for 
 a generation yet; but I am speaking of it when it was young, 
 like its gardeners. These were Mrs. Halifax and her husband, 
 Jem and Jenny. The master could not do much; he had long, 
 long hours in his business; but I used to watch TJrsula, morn- 
 ing after morning, superintending her domain, with her faith- 
 ful attendant Jem Jem adored his "missis." Or else, when 
 it was hot noon, I used to lie in their cool parlor, and listen to 
 her voice and step about the house, teaching Jenny, or learn- 
 ing from her for the young gentlewoman had much to learn, 
 and was not ashamed of it, either. She laughed at her own 
 mistakes, and tried again; she never was idle or dull for a min- 
 ute. She did a great deal in the house herself. Often she 
 would sit chatting with me, having on her lap a coarse brown 
 pan, shelling peas, slicing beans, picking gooseberries; her 
 fingers Miss March's fair fingers looking fairer for the con- 
 trast with their unaccustomed work. Or else, in the sum- 
 mer evenings, she would be at the window sewing always sew- 
 ing but so placed, that with one glance she could see down 
 the street where John was coming. Far, far off she always 
 saw him, and at the sight her whole face would change and 
 brighten, like a meadow when the sun comes out. Then she 
 ran to open the door, and I could hear his low "my darling!'' 
 and a long, long pause in the hall. 
 
 They were very, very happy in those early days those quiet 
 days of poverty; when they visited nobody, and nobody visited 
 them; when their whole world was bounded by the dark old 
 house and the garden, with its four high walls. 
 
 One July night, I remember, John and I were walking up 
 and down the paths by starlight. It was very hot weather, 
 inclining one to stay without doors half the night. Ursula 
 had been with us a good while, strolling about on her hus- 
 band's arm; then he had sent her in to bed, and we two re- 
 mained out together. 
 
 How soft they were, those faint, misty, summer stars! what 
 a mysterious, perfumy haze they let fall over us! A haze 
 through which all around seemed melting away in delicious in- 
 tangible sweetness, in which the very sky above our heads 
 the shining, world-besprinkled sky was a thing felt rather 
 than seen.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 221 
 
 "How strange all seems! how unreal!" said John, in a low 
 voice, when he had walked the length of the garden in silence. 
 "Phineas, how very strange it seems I" 
 
 "What seems?" 
 
 "What? oh, everything. He hesitated a minute. "No, 
 not everything but something which to me seems now to fill 
 and be mixed up with all I do, or think, or feel. Something 
 you do not know but to-night Ursula said I might tell you." 
 
 Nevertheless he was several minutes before he told me. 
 
 "This pear-tree is full of fruit is it not? How thick they 
 hang! and yet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and I were 
 standing here trying to count the blossoms." 
 
 He stopped touching a branch with his hand. His voice 
 sank so I could hardly hear it. 
 
 "Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare we 
 shall, if with God's blessing all goes well we shall have a 
 little child." 
 
 I wrung his hand in silence. 
 
 "You cannot imagine how strange it feels. A child hers 
 and mine little feet to go pattering about our house a little 
 
 voice to say . Think that by Christmas-time I shall be a 
 
 father." 
 
 He sat down on the garden-bench and did not speak for a 
 long time. 
 
 "I wonder," he said at last, "if when I was born, my father 
 was as young as I am; whether he felt as I do now. You can- 
 not think what an awful joy it is to be looking forward to a 
 child; a little soul of God's giving, to be made fit for His 
 eternity. How shall we do it we that are both so ignorant, 
 so young? She will be only just nineteen when, please God, 
 her baby is born. Sometimes of an evening we sit for hours 
 on this bench, she and I, talking of what we ought to do, and 
 how we ought to rear the little thing until we fall into si- 
 lence, awed at the blessing that is coming to us." 
 
 "God will help you both and make you wise." 
 
 "We trust He will; and then we are not afraid." 
 
 A little while longer I sat by John's side, catching the dim 
 outline of his face, half uplifted, looking toward those myriad 
 worlds, which we are taught to believe, and do believe, are not 
 more precious in the Almighty's sight than one living human 
 soul. 
 
 But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the 
 thoughts which, in the holy hush of that summer night, had
 
 222 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 risen out of the deep of his heart. And though, after this 
 time, they never again formed themselves into words, yet he 
 knew well that not a hope, or joy, or fear of his, whether un- 
 derstood or not, could be unshared by me. 
 
 In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the 
 little one came. 
 
 It was a girl I think they had wished for a son; but they 
 forgot all about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was 
 a pretty baby at least, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. 
 Jessop down to Jael, who left our poor house to its own de- 
 vices, and trod stately in Mrs. Halifax's, exhibiting to all be- 
 holders the mass of white draperies with the infinitesimal hu- 
 man morsel inside them, which she vehemently declared was 
 the very image of its father. 
 
 For that young father 
 
 But I what can I say? How should I tell of the joy of a 
 man over his first-born! 
 
 I did not see John till a day afterward, when he came into 
 our house, calm, happy, smiling. But Jael told me, that when 
 she first placed his baby in his arms, he had wept like a child. 
 
 The little maiden grew with the snow-drops. Winter might 
 have dropped her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, 
 and pure-looking was she. I had never seen, or at least never 
 noticed any young baby before; but she crept into my heart 
 before I was aware. I seem to have a clear remembrance of 
 all the data in her still and quiet infancy, from the time her 
 week-old fingers, with their tiny pink nails a ludicrous pic- 
 ture of her father's hand in little made me smile as they 
 closed over mine. 
 
 She was named Muriel, after the rather peculiar name of 
 John's mother. Her own mother would have it so; only wish- 
 ing out of her full heart, happy one! that there should be a 
 slight alteration made in the second name. Therefore the 
 baby was called Muriel Joy Muriel Joy Halifax. 
 
 That name beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten 
 among us I write it now with tears. 
 
 In December, 1802, she was born our Muriel. And on 
 February 9th alas! I have need to remember that date! she 
 formally received her name. We all dined at John's house; 
 Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father and I. 
 
 It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any 
 roof but his own for twenty years. We had not expected him;
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 223 
 
 since, when asked and entreated, he only shook his head; but 
 just when we were all sitting down to the table, Ursula at the 
 foot, her cheeks flushed and her lips dimpling with a house- 
 wifely delight that everything was so nice and neat, she start- 
 led us by a little cry of pleasure. ' And there, in the door-way, 
 stood my father! 
 
 His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth- 
 shaven face, withered, but of a pale brown still, with the hard 
 lines softening down, and the keen eyes kinder than they used 
 to be; dressed carefully in his First-day clothes, the stainless 
 white kerchief supporting his large chin, his Quaker's hat in 
 one hand, his stick in the other, looking in at us, a half- 
 amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his mouth thus 
 he stood thus I see thee, my dear old father. 
 
 The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome 
 him enough. He only said, "I thank thee, John," "I thank 
 thee, Ursula;" and took his place beside the latter, giving no 
 reason why he had changed his mind and come. Simple as 
 the dinner was, simple as befitted those who, their guests 
 knew, could not honestly afford luxuries, though there were no 
 ornaments save the center nosegay of laurestines and white 
 Christmas roses, I do not think King George himself ever sat 
 down to a nobler feast. 
 
 Afterward, we drew merrily round the fire, or watched out- 
 side the window the thickly-falling snow. 
 
 "It has not snowed these two months," said John; "never 
 since the day our little girl was born." 
 
 And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and 
 was indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little 
 maid upstairs set up a cry that unmistakable child's cry, 
 which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household. 
 
 My father gave a start he had never seen or expressed a 
 wish to see John's daughter. We knew he did not like ba- 
 bies. Again the little helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole 
 away Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expres- 
 sion, then began to say something about going back to the 
 tan-yard. 
 
 "Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ursula 
 wants to show you our little lady." 
 
 My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring 
 to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. 
 Still came faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping 
 into a soft coo of pleasure, like a wood-dove in its nest
 
 224 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.. 
 
 every mother knows the sound. And then Mrs. Halifax en- 
 tered, holding in her arms her little winter-flower, her baby 
 daughter. 
 
 Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her closed his eyes 
 against both, and looked no more. 
 
 Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the 
 general admiration of her treasure. 
 
 "She might well come in a snow-storm/' said Mrs. Jessop, 
 taking the child. "She is just like snow, so soft and white." 
 
 "And so soundless she hardly ever cries. She just lies in 
 this way half the day over, cooing quietly with her eyes shut. 
 There, she has caught your dress fast. Now, was there ever a 
 two-months'-old baby so quick at noticing things? and she 
 does it all with her fingers she touches everything ah! take 
 care, doctor!" the mother added, reproachfully, at a loud 
 slam of the door, which made the baby tremble all over. 
 
 "I never knew a child so susceptible of sound," said John, 
 as he began talking to it, and soothing it. How strange it 
 was to see him! and jet it seemed quite natural already. "I 
 think even now she knows the difference between her mother's 
 voice and mine; and any sudden noise always startles her in 
 this way." 
 
 "She must have astonishingly quick hearing," said the doc- 
 tor, slightly annoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of some- 
 thing else showed Muriel's eyelashes, very long for such a 
 baby and descanted on the color of her eyes, that fruitful and 
 never-ending theme of mothers and friends. 
 
 "I think they are like her father's; yes, certainly like her 
 father's. But we have not many opportunities of judging, for 
 she is such a lazy young damsel, she hardly ever opens them 
 we should often fancy her asleep, but for that little soft coo; 
 and then she will wake up all of a sudden. There now! do 
 you see her? Come to the window, my beauty! and show Dr. 
 Jessop your bonny brown eyes." 
 
 They were bonny eyes! lovely in shape and color, delicately 
 fringed; but there was something strange in their expression 
 or rather, in their want of it. Many babies have a round, 
 vacant stare but this was no stare, only a wide, full look a 
 look of quiet blankness an unseeing look. 
 
 It caught Dr. Jessop's notice. I saw his air of vexed dig- 
 nity change into a certain anxiety. 
 
 "Well, whose are they like her father's or mine? his I
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 225 
 
 hope it will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we'll excuse 
 all compliments/' 
 
 "I I can't exactly tell. I could judge better by candle- 
 light." 
 
 "We'll have candles." 
 
 "No no! Had we not better put it off altogether till an- 
 other day? I'll call in to-morrow and look at her eyes." 
 
 His manner was hesitating and troubled. John noticed it. 
 
 "Love give her to me. Go and get us lights, will you?" 
 
 When she was gone, John took his baby to the window, 
 gazed long and intently into her little face, then at Dr. Jes- 
 sop. "Do you think no it's not possible that there can 
 be anything the matter with the child's eyes?" 
 
 Ursula coming in, heard the last words. 
 
 "What was that you said about baby's eyes?" 
 
 No one answered her. All were gathered in a group at the 
 window, the child being held on her fathers lap, while Dr. 
 Jessop was trying to open the small white lids, kept so con- 
 tinually closed. At last the baby uttered a little cry of pain 
 the mother darted forward, and clasped it almost savagely to 
 her breast. 
 
 "I will not have my baby hurt! There is nothing wrong 
 with her sweet eyes. Go away; you shall not touch her, John." 
 
 "Love!" 
 
 She melted at that low, fond word; leaned against his 
 shoulder trying to control her tears. 
 
 "It shocked me so; the bare thought of such a thing. 0, 
 husband, don't let her be looked at again!" 
 
 "Only once again, my darling. It is best. Then we shall 
 be quite satisfied. Phineas, give me the candle." 
 
 The words caressing, and by strong constraint, made calm 
 and soothing were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, but 
 let him take Muriel little, unconscious, cooing dove! Lulled 
 by her father's voice, she once more opened her eyes wide. Dr. 
 Jessop passed the candle before them many times, once so close 
 that it almost touched her face, but the full, quiet eyes never 
 blanched nor closed. He set the light down. 
 
 "Doctor!" whispered the father, in a wild appeal against 
 ay, it was against certainty. He snatched the candle, and 
 tried the experiment himself. 
 
 "She does not see at all. Can she be blind?" 
 
 "Born blind." 
 
 Yes, those pretty baby eyes were dark quite dark. There 
 
 15
 
 226 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 was nothing painful nor unnatural in their look, save, per- 
 haps, the blankness of gaze which I have before noticed. Out- 
 wardly, their organization was perfect; but in the fine inner 
 mechanism was something wrong something wanting. She 
 never had seen never would see in this world. 
 
 "Blind!" The word was uttered softly hardly above a 
 breath, yet the mother heard it. She pushed every one aside, 
 and took the child herself. Herself, with a desperate incre- 
 dulity, she looked into those eyes, which never could look back 
 either her agony or her love. Poor mother! 
 
 "John! John, oh, John!" the name rising into a cry, as if 
 he could surely help her. He came and took her in his arms 
 took both, wife and babe. She laid her head on his shoul- 
 der in bitter weeping. "Oh, John! it is so hard! Our pretty 
 one our own little child!" 
 
 John did not speak, but only held her to him close and 
 fast. When she was a little calmer, he whispered to her the 
 comfort the sole comfort even her husband could give her 
 through Whose will it was that this affliction came. 
 
 "And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to her, 
 poor pet!" said Mrs. Jessop, as she wiped her friendly eyes. 
 "She will not miss what she never knew. She may be a happy 
 little child. Look, how she lies and smiles." 
 
 But the mother could not take that consolation yet. She 
 walked to and fro, and stood rocking her baby, mute indeed, 
 but with tears falling in showers. Gradually- her anguish 
 wept itself away, or was smothered down, lest it should dis- 
 turb the little creature asleep on her breast. 
 
 Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm-chair 
 gently. It was my father. He sat down by her, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 "Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was blind. 
 He was the happiest creature I ever knew." 
 
 My father sighed. We all marveled to see the wonderful 
 softness, even tenderness, which had come into him. 
 
 "Give me thy child for a minute." Ursula laid it across his 
 knees; he put his hand solemnly on the baby-breast. "God 
 bless this little one! Ay, and she shall be blessed." 
 
 These words, spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic 
 benediction of the departing patriarchs of old, struck us all. 
 "We looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon 
 her; as if the mysterious touch which had sealed up her eyes
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 227 
 
 forever, had left on her a sanctity like as of one who has been 
 touched by the finger of God. 
 
 "Now, children, I must go home," said my father. 
 
 They did not detain us: it was indeed best that the poor 
 young parents should be left alone. 
 
 "You will come again soon?" begged Ursula, tenderly clasp- 
 ing the hand which he had laid upon her curls as he rose, 
 with another murmured "God bless thee!" 
 
 "Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy hus- 
 band, my girl. And John, never be thou harsh to her, nor 
 too hard upon her little failings. She is but young but 
 young." 
 
 He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of 
 another than Ursula. 
 
 As we walked down the street, he spoke to me only once or 
 twice, and then of things which startled me by their strange- 
 ness things which had happened a long time ago; sayings 
 and doings of mine in my childhood, which I had not the 
 least idea he had either known of or remembered. 
 
 When we got in-doors, I asked if I should come and sit with 
 him till his bedtime. 
 
 "No, no; thee looks tired, and I have a business letter to 
 write. Better go to thy bed as usual." 
 
 "I bade him good-night and was going, when he called me 
 back. 
 
 "How old art thee, Phineas twenty-four or five?" 
 
 "Twenty-five, father." 
 
 "Eh! so much?" He put his hand on my shoulder, and 
 looked down on me kindly, even tenderly. "Thee art but 
 weakly still, but thee must pick up, and live to be as old a man 
 as thy father. Good-night. God be with thee, my son!" 
 
 I left him. I was happy. Once I had never expected my 
 old father and I would have got on together so well, or loved 
 one another so dearly. 
 
 In the middle of the night Jael came into my room, and sat 
 down on my bed's foot, looking at me. I had been dreaming 
 strangely, about my own childish days, and about my father 
 and mother when we were young. 
 
 What Jael told me by slow degrees, and as tenderly as 
 when she was my nurse years ago seemed at first so unreal 
 as to be like a part of the dream. 
 
 At ten o'clock, when she had locked up the house, she had 
 come as usual to the parlor-door to tell my father it was bed-
 
 228 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 time. He did not answer, being sitting with his back to the 
 door, apparently busy writing. So she went away. 
 
 Half an hour afterward she came again. He sat there still 
 he had not moved. One hand supported his head; the 
 other, the fingers stiffly holding the pen, lay on the table. He 
 seemed intently gazing on what he had written. It ran thus: 
 
 "Good Friend: To-morrow I shall be " 
 
 But there the hand had stopped forever. 
 
 Oh, dear father! on that to-morrow thou wert with God! 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 It was the year 1812. I had lived for ten years as a brother, 
 in my adopted brother's house, whither he had brought me on 
 the day of my father's funeral; entreating that I should never 
 leave it again. For, as was shortly afterward made clear, fate 
 say Providence was now inevitably releasing him from a 
 bond, from which, so long as my poor father lived, John would 
 never have released himself. It was discovered that the prof- 
 its of the tanning-trade had long been merely nominal that 
 of necessity, for the support of our two families, the tan-yard 
 must be sold and the business confined entirely to the flour 
 mill. 
 
 At this crisis as if the change of all things broke her stout 
 old heart, which never could bend to any new ways Jael died. 
 We laid her at my father's and mothers feet poor old Jael! 
 and that grave-yard in St. Mary's Lane now covered all who 
 ever loved me, all who were of my youth-day my very own. 
 
 So thought I or might have thought but that John and 
 Ursula then demanded with one voice, "Brother, come home." 
 
 I resisted long; for it is one of my decided opinions that 
 married people ought to have no one, be the tie ever so close 
 and dear, living permanently with them to break the sacred 
 duality no, let me say the unity of their home. 
 
 I wished to try and work for my living, if that were possible 
 if not, that out of the wreck of my father's trade might be 
 found enough to keep me, in some poor way. But John Hali- 
 fax would not hear of that. And Ursula she was sitting 
 sewing, while the little one lay on her lap, cooing softly
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 229 
 
 with shut eyes Ursula took my hand to play with Muriel's. 
 The baby-fingers closed over mine "See there Phineas; she 
 wants you, too/' So I stayed. 
 
 Perhaps it was on this account, that better than all his other 
 children, better than anything on earth except himself, I loved 
 John's eldest daughter, little blind Muriel. 
 
 He had several children now. The dark old house and the 
 square old garden were alive with their voices from morning 
 till night. First, and loudest always was Guy born the year 
 after Muriel. He was very like his mother, and her darling. 
 After him came two more, Edwin and Walter. But Muriel 
 still remained as "sister" the only sister either given or de- 
 sired. 
 
 If I could find a name to describe that child, it would be 
 not the one her happy mother gave her at her birth, but one 
 more sacred, more tender. She was better than Joy she was 
 an embodied Peace. 
 
 Her motions were slow and tranquil, her voice soft, every 
 expression of her little face extraordinarily serene. Whether 
 creeping about the house, with a footfall silent as snow, or 
 sitting among us, either knitting busily at her father's knee, 
 or listening to his talk and the children's play, everywhere 
 and always, Muriel was the same. No one ever saw her angr} r , 
 restless or sad. The soft dark calm in which she lived seemed 
 never broken by the troubles of this our troublous world. 
 
 She was, as I have said, from her very babyhood, a living 
 peace. And such she was to us, all during those ten strug- 
 gling years, when our household had much to contend with, 
 much to endure. If at night her father came home jaded 
 and worn, sickened to the soul by the hard battle he had 
 to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Muriel would 
 come softly and creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. 
 If, busying herself about, doing faithfully her portion too, 
 that the husband, when he came in of evenings might find 
 all cheerful, and never know how heavy had been the house- 
 hold cares during the day if, at times, Ursula's voice took 
 too sharp a tone at sight of Muriel it softened at once. Xo 
 one could speak any but soft and sweet words when the blind 
 child was by. 
 
 Yet, I think either parent would have looked amazed, had 
 any one pitied them for having a blind child. The loss 
 a loss only to them, and not to her, the darling became 
 familiar and ceased to wound! the blessedness was ever new.
 
 230 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Ay, and she shall be blessed," had said my dear father. So 
 she was. From her, or for her, her parents never had to en- 
 dure a single pain. Even the sickness of infancy and child- 
 hood, of which the three others had their natural share, al- 
 ways passed her by, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel. 
 
 The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our 
 family. Scarlet fever went through the house safely, but 
 leaving much care behind. When at last they all came round, 
 and we were able to gather our pale little flock to a garden 
 feast, under the big old pear-tree, it was with the trembling 
 thankfulness of those who have gone through great perils, 
 hardly dared to be recognized as such till they were over. 
 
 "Ay, thank God it is over!" said John, as he put his arm 
 round his wife, and looked in her worn face, where still her 
 own smile lingered her bright, brave smile, that nothing 
 could ever drive away. "And now we must try and make a 
 little holiday for you." 
 
 "Nonsense! I am as well as possible. Did not Dr. Jessop 
 tell me, this morning, I was looking younger than ever? I 
 a mother of a family, thirty years old? Pray, Uncle Phineas, 
 do I. look my age ?" 
 
 I could not say that she did not especially now. But 
 she wore it so gracefully, so carelessly, that I saw ay, and 
 truly her husband saw a sacred beauty about her faded 
 cheek, more lovely and lovable than all the bloom of her 
 youth. Happy woman! who was not afraid of growing old. 
 
 "Love," John usually called her "Love" putting it at 
 the beginning of a sentence, as if it had been her natural 
 Christian name, which, as in all infant households, had been 
 gradually dropped or merged into the universal title of 
 "mother." My name for her was always emphatically "The 
 Mother," the truest type of motherhood I ever knew. 
 
 "Love," her husband began again, after a long look in 
 her face ah, John, thine was altered too, but himself was 
 the last thing he thought of "say what you like, I know 
 what we'll do; for the children's sake. Ah, that's her weak 
 point! see, Phineas, she is yielding now. We'll go for three 
 months to Longfield." 
 
 Now Longfield was the Utopia of our family, old and 
 young. A very simple family we must have been, for this 
 Longfield was only a small farm-house, about six miles off, 
 where once we had been to tea, and where ever since we had 
 longed to live. For, pretty as our domain had grown, it was
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 231 
 
 still in the middle of a town, and the children, like all natur- 
 ally-reared children, craved ai'ter the freedom <xf the coun- 
 try; after cornfields, hay fields, nuttings, black berryings; de- 
 lights hitherto known only at rare intervals, when their father 
 could spare a whole long day, and be at once the defense and 
 cheer, the sun and the shield, of the happy little band. 
 
 "Hearken, children! father says we shall go for three whole 
 months to live at Longfield." 
 
 The three boys set up a shout of ecstacy. 
 "I'll swim boats down the stream, and catch and ride every 
 one of the horses. Hurrah!" shouted Guy. 
 
 "And I'll see after the ducks and chickens, and watch 
 all the threshing and winnowing," said Edwin, the practical 
 and grave. 
 
 "And I'll get a 'ittle 'amb to p'ay wid me," lisped Walter, 
 still "the baby," or considered such, and petted accordingly. 
 
 "But what does my little daughter say?" said the father, 
 turning, as he always turned, at the slightest touch of those 
 soft blind fingers creeping along his coat-sleeve. "^VTiat 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 "bless- 
 ing," which in truth she was. To see her now, leaning her 
 cheek against his, the small soft face, almost a miniature of 
 his own, the hair, a paler shade of the same bright color, 
 curling in the same elastic rings they looked less like or- 
 dinary father and daughter, than like a man and his good 
 angel; the visible embodiment of the best half of his soul. 
 So she was ever to him, this child of his youth, his first-born 
 and his dearest. 
 
 The Longfield plan being once started, father and mother 
 and I began to consult together as to ways and means, what 
 should be given up, and what increased, of our absolute lux- 
 uries in order that the children might this summer possibly 
 every summer have the glory of "living in the country." Of 
 these domestic consultations there was never any dread, for 
 they were always held in public. There were no secrets in our 
 house. Father and mother, though sometimes holding differ- 
 ent opinions, had but one thought, one aim the family good. 
 Thus, even in our lowest estate, there had been no bitterness 
 in our poverty; we met it, looked it in the face, often even 
 laughed at it. For it bound us all together, hand in hand; 
 it taught us endurance, self-dependence, and, best of all les-
 
 232 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 sons, self-renunciation. I think one's whole after-life is made 
 easier and more blessed by having known what it was to be 
 very poor when one was young. 
 
 Our fortunes were rising now, and any little pleasure did 
 not take near so much contrivance. We found we could 
 manage the Longfield visit ay, and a horse for John to ride 
 to and fro without any worse sacrifice than -that of leaving 
 Jenny now Mrs. Jem "Watkins, but our cook still in the 
 house at Norton Bury, and doing with one servant instead of 
 two. Also, though this was not publicly known till afterward, 
 by the mother's renouncing a long-promised silk dress the 
 only one since her marriage in which she had determined to 
 astonish John by choosing the same color as that identical 
 gray gown he had seen hanging up in the kitchen at Ender- 
 fey. 
 
 "But one would give up anything," she said, "that the 
 children might have such a treat, and that father might have 
 rides backward and forward through green lanes all summer. 
 Oh, I wish we could always live in the country!" 
 
 "Do you?" And John looked much as he had looked 
 at long-tailed gray ponies in his bridegroom days longing 
 to give her everything she desired. "Well, perhaps we may 
 manage it sometime." 
 
 "When our ship comes in namely that money which Rich- 
 ard Brithwood will not pay, and John Halifax will not go to 
 law to make him. Nay, father dear, I am not going to quarrel 
 with any one of your crotchets." She spoke with a fond pride, 
 as she did always, even when arguing against the too Quixotic 
 carrying out of the said crotchets. "Perhaps, as the reward 
 of forbearance, the money will come some day when we least 
 expect it; then John shall have his heart's desire, and start 
 the cloth-mills at Enderley." 
 
 John smiled half sadly. Every man has his hobby this 
 was his, and had been for fifteen years. Not merely the 
 making a fortune, as he still firmly believed it could be made, 
 but the position of useful power, the wide range of influence, 
 the infinite opportunities of doing good. 
 
 "No, love; I shall never be 'patriarch of the valley,' as 
 Phineas used to call it. The yew-hedge is too thick for me, 
 eh,Phineas?" 
 
 "No!" cried Ursula we had told her this little incident 
 of our boyhood "you have got half through it already. Ev- 
 erybody in Norton Bury knows and respects you. I am sure,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 233 
 
 Phineas, you might have heard a pin fall at the meeting last 
 night, when he spoke against hanging the Luddites. And 
 such a shout as rose when he ended oh, how proud I was!" 
 
 "Of the shout, love?" 
 
 "Nonsense! but of the cause of it. Proud to see my hus- 
 band defending the poor and the oppressed proud to see 
 him honored and looked up to, more and more every year, 
 till " 
 
 "Till it may come at last to the prophecy in your birth- 
 day verse 'Her husband is known in the gates; he sitteth 
 among the elders of the land.' '' 
 
 Mrs. Halifax laughed at me for reminding her of this, but 
 allowed that she would not dislike its being fulfilled. 
 
 "And it will be, too. He is already 'known in the gates;' 
 known far and near. Think how many of our neighbors come 
 to John to settle their differences, instead of going to law! 
 And how many poachers has he not persuaded out of their 
 dishonest " 
 
 "Illegal," corrected John. 
 
 "Well, their illegal ways, and made decent, respectable men 
 of them! Then, see how he is consulted, and his opinion fol- 
 lowed, by rich folk as well as poor folk, all about the neigh- 
 borhood. I am sure John is as popular, and has as much in- 
 fluence as many a member of Parliament." 
 
 John smiled with an amused twitch about his mouth, but 
 he said nothing. He rarely did say anything about himself 
 not even in his own household. The glory of his life was its 
 unconsciousness like our own silent Severn, however broad 
 and grand it current might be, that course seemed the natural 
 channel into which it flowed. 
 
 "There's Muriel," said the father, listening. 
 
 Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard 
 all over the house the sweet sounds of "Muriel's voice," as 
 some one had called the harpsichord. When almost a baby, 
 she would feel her way to it, and find out first harmonies, then 
 tunes, with that quickness and delicacy of ear peculiar to the 
 blind. 
 
 "How well she plays! I wish I could buy her one of those 
 new instruments they call 'piano-fortes;' I was looking into 
 the mechanism of one the other day." 
 
 "She would like an organ better. You should have seen 
 her face in the Abbey church this morning."
 
 234 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "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 parlor, one of whom had patted his head "such a 
 grand gentleman, a great deal grander than father!" 
 
 That was true as regarded the bright nankeens, the blue 
 coat with gold buttons, and the showiest of cambric kerchiefs 
 swathing him up to the very chin. To this "grand" person- 
 age John bowed formally, but his wife flushed up in surprised 
 recognition. 
 
 "It is so long since I have had the happiness of meeting 
 Miss March, that I conclude Mrs. Halifax has forgotten me ?" 
 
 "No, Lord Luxmore; allow me to introduce my husband." 
 
 And I fancied some of Miss March's old hauteur returned 
 to the mother's softened and matronly mien; pride, but not 
 for herself or in herself^ now. For, truly, as the two men 
 stood together though Lord Luxmore had been handsome 
 in his youth, and was universally said to have as fine manners 
 as the Prince Regent himself any woman might well have 
 held her head loftily, introducing John Halifax as "my hus- 
 band." 
 
 Of the two, the nobleman was least at his ease, for the 
 welcome of both Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, though courteous, 
 was decidedly cold. They did not seem to feel, and, if rumor 
 spoke truth, I doubt if any honest, virtuous, middle-class 
 fathers and mothers would have felt that their house was 
 greatly honored or sanctified by the presence of the Earl of 
 Luxmore. 
 
 But the nobleman was, as I have said, wonderfully fine- 
 mannered. He broke the ice at once. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, I have long wished to know you. Mrs. Hali- 
 fax, my daughter encouraged me to pay this impromptu visit." 
 
 Here ensued polite inquiries after Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood; we learned that she was just returned from abroad, 
 and was entertaining, at the Mythe House, her father and 
 brother. 
 
 "Pardon I was forgetting my son Lord Ravenel." 
 
 The youth thus presented merely bowed. He was about 
 eighteen or so, tall and spare, with thin features, and large 
 soft eyes. He soon retreated to the garden-door, where he 
 stood, watching the boys play, and shyly attempting to make 
 friends with Muriel. 
 
 "I believe Ravenel has seen you years ago, Mrs. Halifax.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 235 
 
 His sister made a great pet of him as a child. He has just 
 completed his education at the college of St. Omer, was it 
 not, William?" 
 
 "The Catholic college of St. Omer," repeated the boy. 
 
 "Tut what matters!" said the father, sharply. "Mr. Hali- 
 fax, do not imagine we are a Catholic family still. I hope 
 the next Earl of Luxmore will be able to take the oaths and 
 his seat, whether or no we get Emancipation. By-the-by, you 
 uphold the Bill?" 
 
 John assented; expressing his conviction, then uphappily 
 a rare one, that every one's conscience is free; and that all 
 men of blameless life ought to be protected by, and allowed 
 to serve the State, whatever be their religious opinions. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax I entirely agree with you. A wise man es- 
 teems all faiths alike worthless." 
 
 "Excuse me, my lord, that was the very last thing I meant 
 to say. I hold every man's faith so sacred, that no other 
 man has a right to interfere with it, or to question it. The 
 matter lies solely between himself and his Maker." 
 
 "Exactly! What facility of expression your husband has, 
 Mrs. Halifax! He must be indeed, I have heard he is a 
 first-rate public speaker." 
 
 The wife smiled, wife-like; but John said hurriedly: 
 
 "I have no pretension or ambition of the kind. I merely 
 now and then try to put plain truths, or what I believe to 
 be such, before the people, in a form they are able to under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Ay, that is it. My dear sir, the people have no more 
 brains than the head of my cane (his Royal Highness' gift, 
 Mrs. Halifax); they must be led or driven like a flock of sheep. 
 We" a lordly "we!" "are their proper shepherds. But, then, 
 
 we want a middle class, at least, an occasional voice from it, 
 a 
 
 "A shepherd's dog, to give tongue," said John, dryly. "In 
 short, a public orator. In the House, or out of it?" 
 
 "Both." And the earl tapped his boot with that royal cane, 
 smiling. "Yes; I see you apprehend me. But, before we 
 commence that somewhat delicate subject, there was another 
 on which I desired my agent, Mr. Brown, to obtain your 
 valuable opinion." 
 
 "You mean, when, yesterday, he offered me, by your lord- 
 ship's express desire, the lease, lately fallen in, of your cloth- 
 mills at Enderley?"
 
 236 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Now, John had not told us that! why, his manner too 
 plainly showed. 
 
 "And all will be arranged, I trust. Brown says you have 
 long wished to take the mills; I shall be most happy to have 
 you for a tenant." 
 
 "My lord, as I told your agent, it is impossible. "We will 
 iy no more about it." 
 
 John crossed over to his wife with a cheerful air. She S;H 
 looking grave and sad. 
 
 Lord Luxmore had the reputation of being a keen-witted 
 diplomatic personage; undoubtedly he owned or could assuuio, 
 that winning charm of manner which had descended in per- 
 fection to his daughter. Both qualities it pleased him to 
 exercise now. He rose, addressing with kindly frankness Hie 
 husband and wife. 
 
 "If I may ask being a most sincere well-wisher of yours, 
 and a sort of connection of Mrs. Halifax's too why is it im- 
 possible ?" 
 
 "I have no wish to disguise the reason; it is because I have 
 no capital." 
 
 Lord Luxmore looked surprised. "Surely excuse me, bul 
 1 had the honor of being well acquainted with the late Mr. 
 March surely your wife's fortune 
 
 Ursula rose, in her old impetuous way "His wife's for- 
 tune! (John, let me say it? I will, I must!) Of his wife's 
 fortune, Lord Luxmore, he has never received one farthing. 
 Richard Brithwood keeps it back, and my husband would 
 work day and night for me and our children, rather than go 
 to law." ' 
 
 "Oh! on principle I suppose. I have heard of such opin- 
 ions," said the earl, with the slightest perceptible sneer. "And 
 you agree with him?" 
 
 "I do, heartily. I would rather we lived poor all our days 
 than that he should wear his wife out, trouble his spirit, per- 
 haps even soil his conscience, by squabbling with a bad man 
 over money matters." 
 
 It was good to see Ursula as she spoke; good to see the look 
 that husband and wife interchanged husband and wife 
 different in many points, yet so blessedly, so safely one! Then 
 John said: 
 
 "Love, perhaps another subject than our own affairs would 
 be more interesting to Lord Luxmore." 
 
 "Not at all, not at all!" And the earl was evidently puzzled
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 237 
 
 and annoyed. "Such extraordinary conduct/' he muttered: 
 ''so very ahem! unwise. If the matter were known caught 
 up by these newspapers I must really have a little conversa- 
 tion with Brithwood." 
 
 The conversation paused, and John changed it entirely, 
 by making some remarks on the present minister, Mr. Perci- 
 val. 
 
 "I liked his last speech much. He seems a clear-headed, 
 honest man, for all his dogged opposition to the Bill." 
 
 "He will never oppose it more." 
 
 "Nay, I think he will, my lord to the death." 
 
 "That may be and yet " his lordship smiled. "Mr. 
 
 Halifax, I have just had news by a carrier-pigeon my birds 
 fly well most important news for us and our party. Yester- 
 day, in the lobby of the House of Commons, Mr. Percival was 
 shot." 
 
 We all started. An hour ago we had been reading his 
 speech. Mr. Percival shot! 
 
 "Oh, John," cried the mother, her eyes full of tears, "his 
 fatherless children!" 
 
 And for many minutes they stood, hearing the lamentable 
 history, and looking at their little ones at play in the garden; 
 thinking, as many an English father and mother did that day, 
 of the stately house in London, where the widow and orphans 
 bewailed their dead. He might or might not be a great 
 statesman, but he was undoubtedly a good man; many still 
 remember the shock of his untimely death, and how, whether 
 or not they liked him living, all the honest hearts of England 
 mourned for Mr. Percival. 
 
 Possibly that number did not include the Earl of Lux- 
 more. 
 
 "Requiescat in pace! I shall propose the canonization of 
 poor Bellingham. For now Percival in dead, there will be 
 an immediate election; and on that election depends Catholic 
 Emancipation. Mr. Halifax," turning quickly round to him, 
 "you would be of great use to us in Parliament." 
 
 "Should I?" 
 
 "Will you I like plain speaking will you enter it?" 
 
 Enter Parliament! John Halifax in Parliament! His wife 
 and I were both astounded by the suddenness of the possi- 
 bility; which, however, John himself seemed to receive as no 
 novel idea. 
 
 Lord Luxmore continued; "I assure you nothing is more
 
 238 JOHN HALIFAX; GENTLEMAN. 
 
 easy; I can bring you in at once for a borough near here 
 my family borough." 
 
 "Which you wish to be held by some convenient person 
 till Lord Ravenel comes of age? So Mr. Brown informed me 
 yesterday." 
 
 Lord Luxmore slightly frowned. Such transactions, as 
 common then in the service of the councry as they still are 
 in the service of the Church, were yet generally glossed over, 
 as if a certain discredit attached to them. The young lord 
 seemed to feel it; at sound of his name he turned round to 
 listen, and turned back again, blushing scarlet. Not so the 
 earl, his father. 
 
 "Brown is (may I offer you a pinch, Mr. Halifax? What! 
 not the Prince Eegent's own mixture?) Brown is indeed a 
 worthy fellow, but too hasty in his conclusions. As it happens, 
 my son is yet undecided between the church that is, the 
 priesthood and politics. But to our conversation Mrs. Hal- 
 ifax, may I not enlist you on my side? We could easily re- 
 move all difficulties, such as qualification, etc. Would you 
 not like to see your husband member for the old and honorable 
 borough of Kingswell?" 
 
 "Kingswell!" It was a tumble-down village where John 
 held and managed for me the sole remnant of landed property 
 which my poor father had left me. "Kingswell! Why there 
 are not half a dozen houses in the place." 
 
 "The fewer the better, my dear madam. The election would 
 cost me scarcely any trouble; and the country be vastly the 
 gainer by your husband's talents and probity. Of course, he 
 will give up the I forget what is his business now and live 
 independent. He is made to shine as a politician; it will be 
 both happiness and honor to myself to have in some way con- 
 tributed to that end. Mr. Halifax, you will accept my bor- 
 ough?" 
 
 "Not on any consideration your lordship could offer me." 
 
 Lord Luxmore scarcely credited his ears. "My dear sir 
 you are the most extraordinary may I again inquire your 
 reasons?" 
 
 "1 have several; one will suffice. Though I wish to gain 
 influence power, perhaps; still, the last thing I should desire 
 would be political influence." 
 
 "You might possibly escape that unwelcome possession," 
 returned the earl. "Half the House of Commons is made up 
 of harmless dummies who vote as we bid them."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 239 
 
 "A character, my lord, for which I am decidedly unfitted. 
 Until political conscience ceases to be a thing of traffic, until 
 the people are allowed honestly to choose their own honest 
 representatives, I must decline being of that number. Shall 
 we dismiss the subject?" 
 
 "With pleasure, sir." 
 
 And courtesy being met by courtesy, the question so mo- 
 mentous was passed over, and merged into trivialties. Perhaps 
 the earl, who, as his pleasure palled, was understood to be 
 fixing his keen wits upon the pet profligacy of old age, politics 
 saw, clearly enough, that in these chaotic days of contending 
 parties, when the maddened outcry of the "people" was just 
 being heard and listened to, it might be as well not to make 
 an enemy of this young man, who, with a few more, stood, 
 as it were, midway in the gulf, now slowly beginning to nar- 
 row, between the commonalty and the aristocracy. 
 
 He stayed some time longer, and then bowed himself away 
 with a gracious condescension worthy of the Prince of Wales 
 himself, carrying with him the shy gentle Lord Eavenel, who 
 had spoken scarcely six words the whole time. 
 
 When he was gone, the father and mother seemed both 
 relieved. 
 
 a Truly, John, he has gained little by his visit, and I hope 
 it may be long before we see an earl in our quiet house again. 
 Come in to dinner, my children." 
 
 But- his lordship had left an uncomfortable impression be- 
 hind him. It lasted even until that quiet hour often the 
 quietest and happiest of our day when, the children being 
 all in bed, we elders closed in round the fire. 
 
 Ursula and I sat there longer alone than usual. 
 
 "John is late to-night," she said more than once; and I 
 could see her start, listening to every foot under the window, 
 every touch at the door-bell; not stirring, though; she knew 
 his foot and his ring quite well always. 
 
 "There he is!" we both said at once, much relieved; and 
 John came in. 
 
 Brightness always came in with him. Whatever cares he 
 had without and they were heavy enough, God knows they 
 always seemed to slip of! the moment he entered his own 
 door; and whatever slight cares we had at home, we put them 
 aside, as they could not but be put aside, nay, forgotten, at 
 the sight of him.
 
 240 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Well, Uncle Phineas! Children all right, my darling? A 
 fire! I am glad of it. Truly, to-night is as cold as November." 
 
 "John, if you have a weakness, it is for fire. You're a 
 regular salamander." 
 
 He laughed warming his hands at the blaze. "Yes, I 
 would rather be hungry than cold, any day. Love, our one 
 extravagance is certainly coals. A grand fire this! I do like 
 it so!" 
 
 She called him "foolish;" but smoothed down with a quiet 
 kiss the forehead he lifted up to her as she stood beside him, 
 looking as if she would any day have converted the whole 
 house into fuel for his own private and particular benefit. 
 
 "Little ones all in bed, of course?" 
 
 "Indeed, they would have lain awake half the night 
 those naughty boys talking of Longfield. You never saw 
 children so delighted." 
 
 "Are they?" I thought the tone was rather sad, and that 
 the father sat listening with less interest than usual to the 
 pleasant little household chronicle, always wonderful nd 
 always new, which it was his custom to ask for and have, 
 night after night, when he came home saying it was to him, 
 after his day's toil, like a "babbling o' green fields." Soon it 
 stopped. 
 
 "John, dear, you are very tired?" 
 
 "Esther." 
 
 "Have you been very busy all day?" 
 
 "Very busy." 
 
 I understood, almost as well as his wife did, what those 
 brief answers indicated; so, stealing away to the table where 
 Guy's blurred copy-book and Edwin's astonishing addition- 
 sums were greatly in need of Uncle Phineas, I left the fire-side 
 corner to those two. Soon John settled himself in my cr.sv- 
 chair, and then one saw how very weary he was weary in body 
 and soul alike weary as we seldom beheld Jiim. It went to my 
 heart to watch the listless stretch of his large, strong frame 
 the sharp lines about his mouth lines which ought not to 
 have come there in his two-and-thirty years. And his eyes 
 they hardly looked like John's eyes, as they gazed in a sort of 
 dull quietude, too anxious to be dreamy, into the red coals 
 and nowhere else. 
 
 At last he roused himself, and took up his wife's work. 
 
 "More little coats! Love, you are always sewing." 
 
 "Mothers must, you know. And I think never did boys
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 241 
 
 outgrow their things like our boys. It is so pleasant, too. If 
 only clothes did not wear out so fast." 
 
 "Ah!" A sigh from the very depth of the father's heart. 
 
 "Xot a bit too fast for my clever fingers, though," said 
 Ursula, quickly. "Look, John, at this lovely braiding. But 
 I'm not going to do any more of it. I shall certainly have no 
 time to waste over fineries at Longfield." 
 
 Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and 
 laid it down again. After a pause he said: 
 
 "Should you be very much disappointed if if we do not 
 go to Longfield, after all?" 
 
 "Not go to Longfield!" The involuntary exclamation 
 showed how deep her longing had been. 
 
 "Because I'm afraid it's hard I know but I'm afraid we 
 cannot manage it. Are you very sorry?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, frankly and truthfully. "Not so much 
 for myself, but the children." 
 
 "Ay, the poor children." 
 
 Ursula stitched away rapidly for some moments, till the 
 grieved look faded out of her face; then she turned it, all 
 cheerful once more, to her husband. "Now, John, tell me. 
 Xevtr mind about the children. Tell me." 
 
 He told her, as was his habit at all times, of some losses 
 which had to-day befallen him bad debts in his business 
 which would make it, if not impracticable, at least imprudent 
 to enter on any new expenses that year. Nay, he must, if 
 possible, retrench a little. Ursula listened, without question, 
 comment, or complaint. 
 
 "Is that all?" she said at last, very gently. 
 
 "All." 
 
 "Then never mind. I do not. We will find some other 
 pleasures for the children. We have so many pleasures 
 ay. all of us, husband it is not so hard to give up this one." 
 
 He said, in a whisper, low almost as a lover's, "I could give 
 up anything in the world but them and thee." 
 
 So, with a brief information to me at supper-time "Uncle 
 Phineas, did you hear? we cannot go to Longfield" the re- 
 nunciation was made, and the subject ended. For this year, at 
 least, our Arcadian dream was over. 
 
 But John's troubled looks did not pass away. It seemed 
 as if this night his long toil had come to that crisis when the 
 strongest man breaks down or trembles within a hair's- 
 breadth of breaking down; conscious, too horribly conscious, 
 
 16
 
 242 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 that if so, himself will be the least part of the universal ruin. 
 His face was haggard, his movements irritable and restless; 
 he started nervously at every sound. Sometimes even a hasty 
 word, and uneasiness about trifles, showed how strong was 
 the effort he made at self-control. Ursula, usually by far the 
 most quick-tempered of the two, became to-night mild and 
 patient. She neither watched nor questioned him wise wom- 
 an as she was; she only sat still, busying herself over her work, 
 speaking now and then of little things, lest he should notice 
 her anxiety about him. He did at last. 
 
 "Nay, I am not ill; do not be afraid. Only my head aches 
 so let me lay it here, as the children do." 
 
 His wife made a place for it on her shoulder; there it rested 
 the pool tired head, until gradually the hard and painful 
 expression of the features relaxed, and it became John's own 
 natural face as quiet as any of the little faces on their pillows 
 upstairs, whence, doubtless, slumber had long banished all 
 anticipation of Longfield. At last, he too, fell asleep. 
 
 Ursula held up her finger, that I might not stir. The 
 clock in the corner, and the soft sobbing of the flame on the 
 hearth were the only sounds in the parlor. She sewed on 
 quietly to the end of her work; then let it drop on her lap, 
 and sat still. Her cheek leaned itself softly against John's hair, 
 and in her eyes, which seemed so intently contemplating the 
 little frock, 1 saw large bright tears gather fall. But her 
 look was serene, nay, happy; as if she thought of those beloved 
 ones, husband and children her very own preserved to her 
 in health and peace ay, and in that which is better than 
 either, the unity of love. For that priceless blessing, for the 
 comfort of being his comfort, for the sweetness of bringing 
 up these his children in the fear of God and in the honor of 
 their father she, true wife and mother as she was, would not 
 have exchanged the wealth of the whole world. 
 
 "What's that?" "We all started, as a sudden ring at the 
 bell pealed through the house, waking John, and frightening 
 the very children in their beds. All for a mere letter, too, 
 brought by a lackey of Lord Luxmore's. Having somewhat 
 indignantly ascertained this fact, the mother ran upstairs 
 to quiet her little ones. When she came down, John still 
 stood with the letter in his hand. He had not told me what 
 it was; when I chanced to ask, he answered in a low tone, 
 "Presently!" On his wife's entrance he gave her the letter 
 udthout a word.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 243 
 
 Well might it startle her into a cry of joy. Truly the deal- 
 ings of Heaven to us were wonderful! 
 
 "Mr. John Halifax. 
 
 "Sir: Your wife, Ursula Halifax, having some time since at- 
 tained the age fixed by her late father as her majority, I will, 
 within a month after date, pay over to your order all moneys, 
 principal and interest, accruing to her, and hitherto left in my 
 hands, as trustee, according to the will of the late Kenry March, 
 Esquire. I am, sir, yours, etc., RICHARD BRITHWOOD." 
 
 "Wonderful wonderful !" 
 
 It was all I could say. That one bad man, for his own 
 purposes, should influence another bad man to an act of jus- 
 tice and that their double evil should be made to work out 
 our good! Also, that this should come just in our time of 
 need when John's strength seemed ready to fail. 
 
 "Oh, John, John! now you need not work so hard!" 
 
 That was his wife's first cry, as she clung to him almost in 
 tears. 
 
 He too was a good deal agitated. This sudden lifting of 
 the burden made him feel how heavy it had been; how ter- 
 rible the responsibility; how sickening the fear. 
 
 "Thank God! In any case, you are quite safe now you 
 and the children!" , 
 
 He sat down, very pale. His wife knelt beside him, and 
 put her arms round his neck. I quietly went out of the room. 
 
 When I came in again, they were standing by the fireside 
 both cheerful, as two people to whom had happened such un- 
 expected good-fortune might naturally be expected to appear. 
 I offered my congratulations in rather a comical vein than 
 otherwise; we all of us had caught John's habit of putting 
 things in a comic light whenever he felt them keenly. 
 
 "Yes, he is a rich man now; mind you treat your brother 
 with extra respect, Phineas." 
 
 "And your sister, too 
 
 " 'For she sail walk in silk attire, 
 And siller hae to spare.' 
 
 She's quite young and handsome still, isn't she? How mag- 
 nificent she'll look in that gray silk gown!" 
 
 "John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You the 
 father of a family! You that are to be the largest mill- 
 owner at Enderley "
 
 244 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He looked at her fondly, half deprecatingly. "Not till I 
 have made you and the children all safe, as I said." 
 
 "We are safe, quite safe, when we have you. Oh, Phineas! 
 make him see it as I do. Make him understand that it will bo 
 the happiest day in his wife's life when she knows him happy 
 in his heart's desire." 
 
 We sat a little while longer, talking over the strange change 
 in our fortunes; for they wished to make me feel that now, 
 as ever, what was theirs was mine; then Ursula took her candle 
 to depart. 
 
 "Love!" John cried, calling her back as she shut the door, 
 and watching her stand there patient watching with some- 
 thing of the old mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Mrs. Hali- 
 fax, when shall I have the honor of ordering your long-tailed 
 gray ponies?" 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 Not many weeks afterward, we went to live at Longfield, 
 which henceforth became the family home for many years. 
 
 Longfield! happy Longfield! little nest of love, and joy, 
 and peace where the children grew up, and we grew old 
 where season after season brought some new change ripen- 
 ing in us and around us where summer and winter, day and 
 night, the hand of God's providence was over our roof, bless- 
 ing our goings out and comings in, our basket and our store; 
 crowning us with the richest blessing of all, that we were made 
 a household where "brethren dwelt together in unity." Be- 
 loved Longfield! my heart, slow pulsing as befits one near 
 the grave, thrills warm and young as I remember thee! 
 
 Yet how shall I describe it the familiar spot; so familiar 
 that it seems to need no description at all. 
 
 It was but a small place when we first came there. It led 
 out of the high-road by a field-gate the White Gate; from 
 which a narrow path wound down to a stream, thence up a 
 green slope to the house; a mere farm-house, nothing more. 
 It had one parlor, three decent bedrooms, kitchen, and out- 
 houses; we built extempore chambers out of the barn and 
 cheese-room. In one of these the boys, Guy and Edwin, slept; 
 against the low roof of which the father generally knocked 
 his head every morning when he came to call the lads. Its 
 windows were open all summer round, and birds and bats
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 245 
 
 used oftentimes to fly in, to the great delight of the youthful 
 inmates. 
 
 Another infinite pleasure to the little folk was that, for 
 the first year, the farm-house kitchen was made our dining- 
 room. There, through the open door, Edwin's pigeons, 
 Muriel's two doves, and sometimes a stately hen, walked in 
 and out at pleasure. Whether our live-stock, brought up in 
 the law of kindness, were as well-trained and well-behaved as 
 our children, I cannot tell; but certain it is that we never 
 found any harm from this system, necessitated by our early 
 straits at Longfield this "liberty, fraternity, and equality." 
 
 These words, in themselves true and lovely, but wrested 
 to such false meaning, whose fatal sound was now dying out 
 of Europe, merged in the equally false and fatal shout of 
 "Gloire! gloire!" remind me of an event which I believe was 
 the first that broke the delicious monotony of our new life. 
 
 It was one September morning. Mrs. Halifax, the children 
 and I were down at the stream, planning a bridge across it, and 
 a sort of stable, where John's horse might be put up the 
 mother had steadily resisted the long-tailed gray ponies. For 
 with all the necessary improvements at Longfield, with the 
 large settlement that John insisted upon making on his wife 
 and children, before he would use in his business any portion 
 of her fortune, we found we were by no means so rich as to 
 make any great change in our way of life advisable. And, 
 after all, the mother's best luxuries were to see her children 
 merry and strong, her husband's face lightened of its care, and 
 to know he was now placed beyond doubt in the position he 
 had always longed for; for was he not this very day gone to 
 sign the lease of Enderley Mills? 
 
 Mrs. Halifax had just looked at her watch, and she and 
 I were wondering, with quite a childish pleasure, whether he 
 were not now signing the important deed, when Guy came 
 running to say a coach-and-four was trying to enter the 
 White Gate. 
 
 "Who can it be? But they must be stopped, or they'll spoil 
 John's new gravel-road that he takes such pride in. Uncle 
 Phineas, would you mind going to see?" 
 
 Who should 1 see but almost the last person I expected 
 who had not been beheld, hardly spoken of, in our household 
 these ten years Lady Caroline Brithwood, in her traveling- 
 habit of green cloth, her velvet riding-hat, with its Prince of 
 Wales' feathers, gayer than ever though her pretty face was
 
 246 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 withering under the paint, and her lively manner grooving 
 coarse and bold. 
 
 "Is this Longfield? Does Mr. Halifax Mon Dieu, Mr. 
 Fletcher, is that you?" 
 
 She held out her hand with the frankest condescension and 
 in the brightest humor in the world. She insisted on sending 
 on the carriage, and accompanj'ing me down to the stream 
 for a "surprise" a "scene." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, seeing the coach drive on, had evidently for- 
 gotten all about it. She stood in the little dell which the 
 stream had made, Walter in her arms her figure thrown 
 back, so as to poise the child's weight. Her right hand kept 
 firm hold of Guy, who was paddling barefoot in the stream; 
 Edwin, the only one of the boys who never gave any trouble, 
 was soberly digging away beside little Muriel. 
 
 The lady clapped her hands. "JBrava! bravi-ssima! a charm- 
 ing family picture, Mrs. Halifax!" 
 
 "Lady Caroline!" 
 
 Ursula left her children and came to greet her old acquaint- 
 ance whom she had never once seen since she was Ursula 
 March. Perhaps that fact touched her, and it was with a 
 kind of involuntary tenderness that she looked into the sickly 
 face, where all the smiles could not hide the wrinkles. 
 
 "It is many years since we met; and we are both somewhat 
 altered, Cousin Caroline." 
 
 "You are, with those three great boys. The little girl yours 
 also? Oh, yes; I remember William told me poor little 
 thing!" And with uneasy awe she turned from our blind 
 Muriel, our child of peace. 
 
 "Will you. come up to the house? My husband has only 
 ridden over to Enderley; he will be home soon." 
 
 "And glad to see me, I wonder? For I am rather afraid 
 of that husband of yours eh, Ursula? Yet I should greatly 
 like to stay." 
 
 Ursula laughed, and repeated the welcome. She was so 
 happy herself, she longed to distribute her happiness. They 
 walked, the children following, toward the house. 
 
 Under the great walnut-tree, by the sunk fence which 
 guarded the flower-garden from the sheep and cows, Mrs. 
 Halifax stopped and pointed down the green slope of the field, 
 across the valley, to the wooded hills opposite. 
 
 "Isn't it a pretty view?" said Guy, creeping up and touch-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 247 
 
 ing the stranger's gown. Our children had lived too much in 
 an atmosphere of love to know either shyness or fear. 
 
 "Very pretty, my little friend." 
 
 "That's One-tree Hill. Father is going to take us all a 
 walk there this afternoon." 
 
 "Do you like going walks with your father?" 
 
 "Oh, don't we!" An electric smile ran through the whole 
 circle. It told enough of the blessed home-tale. 
 
 Lady Caroline laughed a sharp laugh. "Eh, my dear, I see 
 how things are. You don't regret having married John Hali- 
 fax, the tanner?" 
 
 "Regret!" 
 
 "Nay, be not impetuous. I always said he was a noble fel- 
 low, so does the earl now. And William, you can't think what 
 a hero your husband is to William." 
 
 "Lord Ravenel?" 
 
 "Ay, my little brother that was growing a young man 
 now a frightful bigot, wanting to make our house as Catholic 
 as when two or three of us lost our heads for King James. 
 But he is a good boy poor William! I had rather not talk 
 about him." 
 
 Ursula inquired courteously if her cousin Richard were 
 well. 
 
 "Bah! I suppose he is; he is always well. His late as- 
 tonishing honesty to Mr. Halifax cost him a fit of gout mais 
 n'importe. If they meet, I suppose all things will be smooth 
 between them?" 
 
 "My husband never had any ill-feeling to Mr. Brithwood." 
 
 "I should not bear him an undying enmity if he had. But 
 you see 'tis election-time, and the earl wishes to put in a 
 gentleman, a friend of ours, for Kingswell. Mr. Halifax owns 
 some cottages there, eh?" 
 
 "Mr. Fletcher does. My husband transacts business " 
 
 "Stop! stop!" cried Lady Caroline. "I don't understand 
 business; I only know that they want your husband to be 
 friendly with mine. Is this plain enough ?" 
 
 "Certainly; be under no apprehension. Mr. Halifax never 
 bears malice against any one. Was this the reason of your 
 visit, Lady Caroline?" 
 
 "Eh Mon Dieu! what would become of us if we were all 
 as straightforward as you, Mistress Ursula? But it sounds 
 charming in the country. No, my dear; I came nay, I 
 hardly know why. Probably because I liked to come my
 
 248 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 usual reason for most actions. Is that your salle-a-manger? 
 Won't you ask me to dinner, ma cousine?" 
 
 "Of course/' the mother said, though I fancied afterward 
 the invitation rather weighed upon her mind, probably from 
 the doubt whether or no John would like it. But in little 
 things, as in great, she had always this safe trust in him that 
 conscientiously to do what she felt to be right was the surest 
 \vay to be right in her husband's eyes. 
 
 So Lady Caroline was our guest for the day a novel guest 
 but she made herself at once familiar and pleasant. Guy, 
 a little gentleman from his cradle, installed himself her ad- 
 miring knight attendant everywhere; Edwin brought her to 
 see his pigeons; Walter, with sweet, shy blushes, offered her 
 "a 'ittle f'ower;" and the three, as the greatest of all favors, 
 insisted on escorting her to pay a visit to the beautiful calf 
 not a week old. 
 
 Laughing, she followed the boys; telling them how lately 
 in Sicily she had been presented to a week-old prince, son of 
 Louis Philippe, the young Duke of Orleans, and the Princess 
 Marie- Amelie. "And truly, children, he was not half so pretty 
 as your little calf. Ursula, I am sick of courts sometimes. I 
 would turn shepherdess myself, if we could find a tolerable 
 Arcadia." 
 
 "Is there any Arcadia like home?" 
 
 "Home!" Her face expressed the utmost loathing, fear, and 
 scorn. I remember hearing that the 'squire since his return 
 from abroad had grown just like his father; was drunk every 
 day and all day long. "Is your husband altered, Ursula ? He 
 must be quite a young man still. Oh, what it is to be young." 
 
 "John looks much older, people say; but I don't see it." 
 
 "Arcadia again! Can such things be? especially in Eng- 
 land, that paradise of husbands, where the first husband in 
 the realm sets such an illustrious example? How do you stay- 
 at-home British matrons feel toward my friend, the Princess of 
 Wales?" 
 
 "God help her, and make her as good a woman as she is a 
 wronged and miserable wife," said Ursula, sadly. 
 
 "Query, Can a 'good woman' be made out of a 'wronged 
 and miserable wife?' If so, Mrs. Halifax, you should cer- 
 tainly take out a patent for the manufacture." 
 
 The subject touched too near home. Ursula wisely avoided 
 it by inquiring if Lady Caroline meant to remain in England,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 249 
 
 "Cela depend." She turned suddenly grave. "Your fresh air 
 makes me feel weary. Shall we go in-doors?" 
 
 Dinner was ready laid out a plain meal; since neither the 
 father nor any of us cared for table dainties. But I think 
 if we had lived in a hut, and fed off wooden platters on pota- 
 toes and salt, our repast would have been fair and orderly, 
 and our hut the neatest that a hut could be. For the mother 
 of the family had in perfection almost the best genius a woman 
 can have the genius of tidiness. 
 
 We were not in the least ashamed of our simple dinner- 
 table, where no difference was ever made for anybody. We 
 had little place, but plenty of snow-white napery and pretty 
 china; and what with the scents of the flower-garden on one 
 side, and the green waving of the elm-tree on the other, it was 
 as good as dining out-of-doors. 
 
 The boys were still gathered round Lady Caroline, in the 
 little closet of the dining-room where lessons were learned; 
 Muriel sat as usual on the door-sill, petting one of her doves, 
 that used to come and perch on her head and her shoulder, 
 of their own accord, when I heard the child say to herself: 
 
 "Father's coming." 
 
 "Where darling?" 
 
 "Up the farm-yard way. There he is on the gravel-walk. 
 He has stopped; I dare say it is to pull some of the jasmine 
 that grows over the well. Now, fly away, dove! Father's 
 here." 
 
 And the next minute a general shout echoed "Father's 
 here!" 
 
 He stood in the door-way, lifting one after the other up 
 in his arms; having a kiss and a merry word for all this 
 good father! 
 
 Oh solemn name, which Deity himself claims and owns! 
 Happy these children, who in its fullest sense could under- 
 stand the word "father!" to whom from the dawn of their 
 little lives their father was what all fathers should be the 
 truest representative here on earth of that Father in heaven, 
 who is at once justice, wisdom and perfect love. 
 
 Happy, too most blessed among women the woman who 
 gave her children such a father! 
 
 Ursula came for his eye was wandering in search of her 
 and received the embrace without which he never left her or 
 returned. 
 
 "All rightly settled, John?"
 
 250 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Quite settled." 
 
 "I am so glad!" "With a second kiss, not often bestowed 
 in public, as congratulation. He was going to tell more, when 
 Ursula said, rather hesitatingly, "We have a visitor to-day." 
 
 Lady Caroline came out of her corner, laughing. "You 
 did not expect me, I see. Am I welcome?" 
 
 "Any welcome that Mrs. Halifax has given is also mine." 
 
 But John's manner though polite, was somewhat con- 
 strained; and he felt, as it seemed to my observant eye, more 
 surprise than gratification in this incursion on his quiet home. 
 Also I noticed that when Lady Caroline, in the height of her 
 condescension, would have Muriel close to her at dinner, he 
 involuntarily drew his little daughter to her accustomed place 
 beside himself. 
 
 "She always sits here, thank you." 
 
 The table-talk was chiefly between the lady and her host; 
 she rarely talked to women when a man was to be had. Con- 
 versation veered between the Emperor Napoleon and Lord 
 Wellington, Lord William Bentinck, and Sardinian policy, 
 the conjugal squabbles of Carlton House, and the one-absorb- 
 ing political question of this year Catholic emancipation. 
 
 "You are a stanch supporter of the bill, my father says. Of 
 course you aid him in the Kingswell election to-morrow ?" 
 
 "I can scarcely call it an election," returned John, He 
 had been commenting on it to us that morning rather severely. 
 An election! it was merely a talk in the King's Head parlor, a 
 nomination, and show of hands by some dozen poor laborers, 
 tenants of Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore, who got a few 
 pounds apiece for their services and the thing was done. 
 
 "Who is the nominee, Lady Caroline?" 
 
 "A young gentleman of small fortune, but excellent parts, 
 who returned with us from Naples." 
 
 The lady's manner being rather more formal than she gen- 
 erally used, John looked up quickly. 
 
 "The election being to-morrow, of course his name is no 
 secret?" 
 
 "Oh, no! Vermilye. Mr. Gerard Vermilye. Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 "I have heard of him." 
 
 As he spoke, either intentionally or no, John looked full at 
 Lady Caroline. She dropped her eyes, and began playing 
 with her bracelets. Both immediately quitted the subject of 
 Kingswell election.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. GENTLEMAN. 251 
 
 Soon after, \ve rose from table; and Guy, who had all dinner- 
 time fixed his admiring gaze upon the "pretty lady," insisted 
 on taking her down the garden and gathering for her a mag- 
 nificent arum lily, the mother's favorite lily. I suggested 
 gaining permission first; and was sent to ask the question. 
 
 I found John and his wife in serious, even painful conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Love," he was saying, "I have known it for very long; but 
 if she had not come here, I would never have grieved you by 
 telling it." 
 
 "Perhaps it is not true," cried Ursula, warmly. "The world 
 is ready enough to invent cruel falsehoods about us women." 
 
 "Us women! Don't say that, Ursula. I will not have my 
 wife named in the same breath with her." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 "I will not, I say. You don't know what it cost me even to 
 see her touch your hand." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 The soft tone recalled him to his better self. 
 
 "Forgive me ! but I would not have the least taint come near 
 this wife of mine. I could not bear to think of her holding 
 intercourse with a light woman a woman false to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 "I do not believe it. Caroline was foolish, she was never 
 wicked. Listen! if this were true, how could she be laughing 
 with our children now? Oh, John think she has no child- 
 ren!" 
 
 The deep pity passed from Ursula's heart to her husband's. 
 John clasped fondly the two hands that were laid on his shoul- 
 ders, as, looking up in his face, the happy wife pleaded silently 
 for one who all the world knew was so wronged and so un- 
 happy. 
 
 "We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a bet- 
 ter Christian than I." 
 
 All afternoon they both showed more than courtesy kind- 
 ness, to this woman, at whom, as any one out of our retired 
 household would have known, and as John did know well all 
 the world was already pointing the finger, on account of Mr. 
 Gerard Vermilye. She, on her part, with her chameleon 
 power of seizing and sunning herself in the delight of the mo- 
 ment, was in a state of the highest enjoyment. She turned 
 "shepherdess," fed the poultry with Edwin, pulled off her jew- 
 eled ornaments and gave them to Walter for playthings; nay,
 
 252 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 she even washed off her rouge at the spring, and came in with 
 faint natural roses upon her faded cheeks. So happy she 
 seemed, so innocently, childishly happy, that more than once I 
 saw John and Ursula exchange satisfied looks, rejoicing that 
 they had followed after the divine charity which "thinketh no 
 evil." 
 
 After tea all turned out, as was our wont on summer even- 
 ings; the children playing about; while the father and mother 
 sstrolled up and down the sloping field-path, arm-in-arm like 
 lovers, or sometimes he fondly leaning upon her. Thus they 
 would walk and talk together in the twilight for hours. 
 
 Lady Caroline pointed to them. Look! Adam and Eve 
 modernized; Baucis and Philemon when they were young. Bon 
 Dieu! what it is to be young?" 
 
 She said this in a gasp, as if wild with terror of the days that 
 were coming upon her the dark days. 
 
 "People are always young," I answered, "who love one an- 
 other as these do." 
 
 "Love! what an old-fashioned word. I hate it! It is so 
 what would you say in English? so dechirant. I would not 
 cultivate une grande passion for the world." 
 
 I smiled at the idea of the bond between Air. and Mrs. Hali- 
 fax taking the Frenchified character of "une grande passion." 
 
 "But home love, married love, love among children and at 
 the fireside you believe in that?" 
 
 She turned upon me her beautiful eyes; they had a scared 
 look, like a bird's driven right into the fowler's net. "C'est 
 impossible impossible!" 
 
 The word hissed itself out between her shut teeth "i>n - 
 possible." Then she walked quickly on and was her lively 
 self once more. 
 
 When the evening closed, and the younger children were 
 gone to bed, she became rather restless about the non-appear- 
 ance of her coach. At last a lackey arrived on foot. She an- 
 grily inquired "why a carriage had not been sent for her." 
 
 "Master didn't give orders, my lady," answered the man, 
 somewhat rudely. 
 
 Lady Caroline turned pale with anger or fear perhaps 
 both. ' 
 
 "You have not properly answered your mistress' question," 
 said Mr. Halifax. 
 
 "Master says, sir begging my lady's pardon for repeating it
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 263 
 
 but he says, 'My lady went out against his will, and she may 
 come home when and how she likes/ }: 
 
 "My lady" burst out laughing, and laughed violently and 
 long. 
 
 "Tell him I will. Be sure you tell him I will. It is the 
 last and the easiest obedience." 
 
 John sent the lackey out of the room; and Ursula said 
 something about "not speaking thus before a servant." 
 
 "Before a servant? Why, my dear, we furnish entertain- 
 ment for our whole establishment, my husband and I. We 
 are at the Mythe what the Prince Regent and the Princess oi' 
 Wales are to the county at large. We divide our people be- 
 tween us; I fascinate he bribes. Ha! ha! Well done, Eich- 
 ard Brithwood! I may come home 'when and how I like!' 
 Truly, I'll use that kind permission." 
 
 Her eyes glittered with an evil fire; her cheeks were hot and 
 red. 
 
 "Mrs. Halifax, I shall be thrown on your hospitality for an 
 hour or two longer. Could you send a letter for me?" 
 
 "To your husband? Certainly." 
 
 "My husband? Never! yes, to my husband." The first 
 part of the sentence was full of fierce contempt; the latter 
 smothered and slowly desperate. "Tell me, Ursula, what 
 constitutes a man one's husband? Brutality, tyranny the 
 tyranny which the law sanctions? Or kindness, sympathy, 
 devotion, everything that makes life beautiful everything 
 that constitutes happiness and " 
 
 "Sin." 
 
 The word in her ear was so low, that she started as if con- 
 science only had uttered it conscience, to whom only her in- 
 tents were known. 
 
 John came forward, speaking gravely, but not unkindly. 
 
 "Lady Caroline, I am deeply grieved* that this should have 
 happened in my house, and through your visiting us against 
 your husband's will." 
 
 "His will!" 
 
 "Pardon me; but I think a wife is bound to the very last to 
 obey in all things not absolutely wrong, her husband's will. 
 I am glad you thought of writing to Mr. Brithwood." 
 
 She shook her head, in mocking deniel. 
 
 "May I ask, then since I am to have the honor of sending 
 it to whom is this letter?" 
 
 ''To " I think she would have told a falsehood, if
 
 264 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 John's eyes had not been so keenly fixed upon her. "To a 
 friend." 
 
 "Friends are at all times dangerous to a lady who " 
 
 "Hates her husband ha! ha! Especially male friends." 
 
 "Especially male friends." 
 
 Here Guy, who had lingered out of his little bed most un- 
 lawfully hovering about, ready to do any chivalrous duty to 
 his idol of the day came up to bid her good-night, and held 
 up his rosy mouth, eagerly. 
 
 "I kiss a little child! I!" and from her violent laughter, 
 she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 The mother signed me to carry Guy away; she and John 
 took Lady Caroline into the parlor, and shut the door. 
 
 Of course, I did not then learn what passed but I did af- 
 terward. 
 
 Lady Caroline's tears were evanescent, like all her emotions. 
 Soon she became composed asked again for writing materials 
 then countermanded the request. 
 
 "No, I will wait till to-morrow. Ursula, you will take me 
 in for the night?" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax looked appealingly to her husband, but he 
 gave no assent. 
 
 "Lady Caroline you should willingly stay, were it not, as 
 you must know, so fatal a step. In your position, you should 
 be most careful to leave the world and your husband no single 
 handle against you." 
 
 "Mr. Halifax, what right have you " 
 
 "None, save that of an honest man, who sees a woman cruel- 
 ly wronged, and desperate with her wrong; who would thank- 
 fully save her if he could." 
 
 "Save me? From what or whom?" 
 
 "From Mr. Gerard Vermilye, who is now waiting down the 
 road, and whom, if Lady Caroline Brithwood once flies to, or 
 even sees, at this crisis, she loses her place among honorable 
 English matrons forever." 
 
 John said this, with no air of virtuous anger or contempt, 
 but as the simple statement of a fact. The convicted woman 
 dropped her face between her hands. 
 
 Ursula, greatly shocked, was some time before she spoke. 
 
 "Is it true, Caroline?" 
 
 "What is true?" 
 
 "That which my husband has heard of you?" 
 
 "Yes!" she cried springing up and dashing back her beauti-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 255 
 
 ful hair beautiful still, though she must have been five or 
 six and thirty at least. "Yes, it is true; it shall be true! I 
 shall break my bonds, and live the life I was made for. I 
 would have done it long ago, but for no matter. Why, Ur- 
 sula, he adores me; young and handsome as he is, he adores me. 
 He will give me my youth back again, ay, he will." 
 
 And she sang out a French chanson, something about "la 
 liberte et ses plaisirs, lajeunesse I' amour." 
 
 The mother grew sterner any such wife and mother would. 
 Then and there, compassion might have died out of even her 
 good heart, had it not been for the sudden noise overhead of 
 children's feet children's chattering. Once more the pitiful 
 thought came "She has no children." 
 
 "Caroline," she said, catching her gown as she ^passed, 
 "when I was with you, you had a child which only breathed 
 and died. It died spotless. When you die, how dare you 
 meet that little baby?" 
 
 The singing changed to sobbing. "I had forgotten. My 
 little baby! Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, taking in earnest those meaningless French 
 ejaculations, whispered something about Him who alone can 
 comfort and help us all. 
 
 "Him! I never knew Him, if indeed He be. No, no, there 
 is no after-life." 
 
 Ursula turned away in horror. "John, what shall we do 
 with her? No home! no husband! no God!" 
 
 "He never leaves Himself without a witness. Look, love." 
 
 The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro weeping and 
 wringing her hands. "It was cruel cruel! You should not 
 have spoken about my baby. Now " 
 
 "Tell me just one word I will not believe anybody's word 
 except your own. Caroline, are you still innocent?" 
 
 Lady Caroline shrank from her touch. "Don't hold me so. 
 You may have one standard of virtue, I another." 
 
 "Still, tell me." 
 
 "And if I did, you, an 'honorable English matron' was not 
 that your husband's word? would turn from me, most 
 likely?" 
 
 "She will not," John said. "She has been happy, and you 
 most miserable." 
 
 "Oh, most miserable." 
 
 That bitter groan went to both their hearts, Ursula leaned 
 over her herself almost in tears. "Cousin Caroline, John
 
 256 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 says true I will not turn from you. I know you have been 
 sinned against cruelly cruelly. Only tell me that you 
 yourself have not sinned." 
 
 "1 have 'sinned/ as you call it." 
 
 Ursula started drew closer to her husband. Neither 
 spoke. 
 
 "Mrs. Halifax why don't you take away your hand?" 
 
 "I? let me think. This is terrible. Oh, John!" 
 
 Again Lady Caroline said in her sharp, bold tone, "Take 
 away your hand!" 
 
 "Husband, shall I?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 For some minutes they stood together, both silent, with this 
 poor woman. I call her "poor," as did they; knowing that if 
 a sufferer needs pity, how tenfold more does a sinner. 
 
 John spoke first: "Cousin Caroline." She lifted up her 
 head in amazement. "We are your cousins, and we wish to be 
 your friends, my wife and I. Will you listen to us?" 
 
 She sobbed still, but less violently. 
 
 "Only, first you must promise to renounce forever guilt 
 and disgrace." 
 
 "I feel it none. He is an honorable gentleman he lovo? 
 me and I love him. That is the true marriage. No, I will 
 make you no such promise. Let me go." 
 
 "Pardon me, not yet. I cannot suffer my wife's kinswoman 
 to elope from my own house without trying to prevent it." 
 
 "Prevent! sir! Mr. Halifax! You forget who you arc 
 and who I am the daughter of the Earl of Luxmore." 
 
 "Were you the king's daughter it would make no difference. 
 I will save you in spite of yourself, if I can. I have already 
 spoken to Mr. Yermilye, and he has gone aAvay." 
 
 "Gone away the only living soul that loves me! Gone 
 away! I must follow him quick quick!" 
 
 "You cannot. He is miles distant by this time. He is 
 afraid lest this story should come out to-morrow at Kingswell; 
 and to be an M. P. and safe from arrest is better to Mr. Yer- 
 milye than even yourself, Lady Caroline." 
 
 John's wife, unaccustomed to hear him take that cool, 
 worldly, half-sarcastic tone, turned to him somewhat reproach- 
 fully; but he judged best. For the moment, this tone had 
 more weight with the woman of the world than any homilies. 
 She began to be afraid of Mr. Halifax. Impulse, rather than
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 257 
 
 resolution, guided her, and even these impulses were feeble 
 and easily governed. She sat down again, muttering: 
 
 "My will is free. You cannot control me." 
 
 "Only so far as my conscience justifies me in preventing a 
 crime." 
 
 "A crime?" 
 
 "It would be such. No sophistries of French philosophy on 
 your part, no cruelt} T on your husband's, can abrogate the one 
 law, which, if you disown it as God's, is still man's being 
 necessary for the peace, honor, and safety of society." 
 
 "What law?" 
 
 "Thou shalt not commit adultery." 
 
 People do not often utter this plain Bible word. It made 
 Ursula start, even when spoken solemnly by her own husband. 
 It tore from the self -convicted woman all the sentimental dis- 
 guises with which the world then hid, and still hides, its cor- 
 ruptions. Her sin arose and stared her blackly in the face 
 as sin. She cowered before it. 
 
 "Am I that? And William will know it. Poor William!" 
 She looked up at Ursula for the first time with the guilty 
 look; hitherto, it had been only one of pain or despair. "No- 
 body knows it, except you. Don't tell William. I would 
 have gone long ago, but for him. He is a good boy; don't let 
 him guess his sister was " 
 
 She left the word unspoken. Shame seemed to crush her 
 down to the earth; shame, the precursor of saving penitence 
 at least, John thought so. He quitted the room, leaving her 
 to the ministry of his other self, his wife. As he sat down 
 with me, and told me in a few words what indeed I had al- 
 ready more than half guessed, I could not but notice the ex- 
 pression of his own face. And I recognized how a man can be 
 at once righteous to judge, tender to pity, and strong to save; 
 a man, the principle of whose life is, as John's was that it 
 should be made "conformable to the image" of Him, who was 
 Himself on earth the image of God. 
 
 Ursula came out and called her husband. They talked for 
 *ome time together. I guessed, from what I heard, that she 
 wished Lady Caroline to stay the night here, but that he with 
 better judgment was urging the necessity of her retttrnmg to 
 the protection of her husband's home without an hour's delay. 
 
 "It is her only chance of saving her reputation. She must 
 do it, at least temporarily, till some better measure can be 
 taken. Tell her so, Ursula." 
 
 17
 
 258 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 After a few minutes Mrs. Halifax came out again. 
 
 "I have persuaded her at last. She says she will do what- 
 ever you think best. Only before she goes she wants to look 
 at the children. May she?" 
 
 "Poor soul! yes," John murmured, turning away. 
 
 Stepping out of sight, we saw the poor lady pass through 
 the quiet, empty house into the children's bedroom. We 
 heard her smothered sob, at times, the whole way. 
 
 Then I went down to the stream, and helped John to saddle 
 his horse, with Mrs. Halifax's old saddle; in her girlish days, 
 Ursula used to be very fond of riding. 
 
 "She can ride back again from the Mythe," said John. 
 
 "She wishes to go, and it is best she should; so that nothing 
 need be said, except that Lady Caroline spent a day at Long- 
 field, and that my wife and I accompanied her safe home." 
 
 While he spoke, the two ladies came down the field-path. I 
 fancied I heard, even now, a faint echo of that peculiarly sweet 
 and careless laugh, indicating how light were all impressions 
 on a temperament so plastic and weak so easily remolded by 
 the very next influence that fate might throw across her peril- 
 ous way. 
 
 John Halifax assisted her on horseback, took the bridle un- 
 der one arm and gave the other to his wife. Thus they passed 
 up the path, and out at the White Gate. 
 
 I delayed a little while, listening to the wind, and to the 
 prattle of the stream, that went singing along in daylight or 
 in darkness by our happy home at Longfield. And I sighed 
 to myself: "Poor Lady Caroline!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Midnight though it was I sat up until John and his wife 
 came home. They said scarcely anything but straightway re- 
 tired. In the morning all went on in the house as usual and 
 no one ever knew of this night's episode, except us three. 
 
 In the morning, Guy looked wistfully around him, asking 
 for the "pretty lady;" and being told that she was gone, and 
 that he would not be likely to see her again, seemed disap- 
 pointed for a minute; but soon he went down to play at the 
 stream, and forgot all. 
 
 Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 259 
 
 house was rarer than its wont; that her quick, active, cheerful 
 presence penetrating every nook, and visiting every creature, 
 as with the freshness of an April wind was this day softer 
 and sadder; but she did not say anything to me, nor I to her. 
 
 John had ridden off early to the flour-mill, which he still 
 kept on, together with the house at Norton Bury he always 
 disliked giving up any old associations. At dinner-time he 
 came home, saying he was going out again immediately. 
 
 Ursula looked uneasy. A few minutes after, she followed 
 me under the walnut-tree, where I was sitting with Muriel, 
 and asked me if I would go with John to Kingswell. 
 
 "The election takes place to-day, and he thinks it right to 
 be there. He will meet Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore; 
 and though there is not the slightest need my husband can 
 do all that he has to do alone still, for my own satisfaction, I 
 would like his brother to be near him." 
 
 They invariably called me their brother now; and it seemed 
 as if the name had been mine by right of blood always. 
 
 Of course, I went to Kingswell, riding John's brown mare, 
 he himself walking by my side. It was not often that we were 
 thus alone together, and I enjoyed it much. All the old days 
 seemed to come back again as we passed along the quiet roads 
 and green lanes, just as when we were boys together, when I 
 had none I cared for but David, and David cared only for me. 
 The natural growth of things had made a difference in this, 
 but our affection had changed its outward form only, not its 
 essence. I often think that all loves and friendships need a 
 certain three days' burial before we can be quite sure of their 
 truth and immortality. Mine it happened just after John's 
 marriage, and I may confess it now had likewise its entomb- 
 ment, bitter as brief. Many cruel hours sat I in darkness, 
 weeping at the door of its sepulcher, thinking that I should 
 never see it again; but, in the dawn of the morning it rose, and 
 I met it in the desolate garden, different, yet the very same. 
 And after that, it walked with me continually, secure and im- 
 perishable evermore. 
 
 I rode, and John sauntered beside me along the foot-path, 
 now and then plucking a leaf or branch off the hedge, and 
 playing with it, as was his habit when a lad. Often I caught 
 the old smile not one of his three boys, not even handsome 
 Guy, had their father's smile. 
 
 He was telling me about Enderley Mill, and all his plans 
 there, in the which he seemed very happy. At last his long
 
 260 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 life of duty was merging into the life he loved. He looked as 
 proud and pleased as a boy, in talking of the new inventions 
 he meant to apply in cloth-weaving; and how he and his wife 
 had agreed together to live for some years to come at little 
 Longfield, strictly within their settled income, that all the re- 
 mainder of his capital might go to the improvement of Ender- 
 ley Mills and mill people. 
 
 "I shall be master of nearly a hundred men and women. 
 Think what good we may do! She has half a dozen plans on 
 foot already bless her dear heart!" 
 
 It was easy to guess whom he referred to the one who 
 went hand-in-hand with him in everything. 
 
 "Was the dinner in the barn, next Monday, her plan, too?" 
 
 "Partly. I thought we would begin a sort of yearly festi- 
 val for the old tan-yard people, and those about the flour-mill, 
 and the Kingswell tenants ah, Phineas, wasn't I right about 
 those Kingswell folk?" 
 
 These were about a dozen poor families, whom, when our 
 mortgage fell in, he had lured out of Sally Watkins' miserable 
 alley to these old houses, where they had at least fresh coun- 
 try air, and space enough to live wholesomely and decently, 
 instead of herding together like pigs in a sty. 
 
 "You ought to be proud of your tenants, Phineas. 1 assure 
 you, they form quite a contrast to their neighbors, who are 
 Lord Luxmore's." 
 
 "And his voters, likewise, I suppose? the 'free and inde- 
 pendent burgesses' who are to send Mr. Vermilye to Parlia- 
 ment?" 
 
 "If they can," said John, biting his lip with that resolute 
 half -combative air which I now saw in him at times, roused by 
 things which continually met him in his dealings with the 
 world things repugnant alike to his feelings and his princi- 
 ples, but which he had still to endure, not having risen high 
 enough to oppose, single-handed, the great mass of social cor- 
 ruption which at this crisis of English history kept gathering 
 and gathering, until out of the very horror and loathsomeness 
 of it, an outcry for purification arose. 
 
 "Do you know, Phineas, I might last week have sold your 
 houses for double price? They are valuable, this election year, 
 since your five tenants are the only voters in Kingswell who 
 are not likewise tenants of Lord Luxmore. Don't you see how 
 the matter stands?" 
 
 It was not difficult, for that sort of game was played all over
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 261 
 
 England, connived at, or at least winked at, by those who had 
 political influence to sell or obtain, until the Keform Bill 
 opened up the election system in all its rottenness and enor- 
 mity. 
 
 "Of course I knew you would not sell your houses; and I 
 shall use every influence I have to prevent your tenants sell- 
 ing their votes. Whatever may be the consequence, the sort 
 of thing that this Kingswell election bids fair to be is what an 
 honest Englishman ought to set his face against and prevent if 
 he can." 
 
 "Can you?" 
 
 "I do not feel sure, but I mean to try. First, for simple 
 right and conscience; secondly, because if Mr. Vermilye is not 
 saved from arrest by being placed in Parliament, he will be 
 outlawed and driven safe out of the country. You see?" 
 
 Ay, I did, only too well. Though I foresaw that whatever 
 John was about to do, it must necessarily be something that 
 would run directly counter to Lord Luxmore and he had 
 only just signed the lease of Enderley Mills. Still, if right to 
 be done, he ought to do it at all risks, at all costs; and I knew 
 his wife would say so. 
 
 We came to the foot of Kingswell Hill and saw the little 
 hamlet, with its gray old houses, its small, ancient church, 
 guarded by enormous yew-trees, and clothed with ivy that in- 
 dicated centuries of growth. 
 
 A carriage overtook us; in it were two gentlemen, one of 
 whom bowed in a friendly manner to John. He returned it. 
 
 "This is well; I shall have one honest gentleman to deal with 
 to-day." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "Sir Ealph Oldtower, from whom I bought Longfield. An 
 excellent man I like him even his fine old Eoman face, like 
 one of his knightly ancestors on the tomb of KingsAvell church. 
 There's something pleasant about his stiff courtesy and his 
 stanch Toryism; for he fully believes in it, and acts up to his 
 belief. A true English gentleman, and I respect him." 
 
 "Yet, John, Norton Bury calls you a democrat/' 
 
 "So I am, for I belong to the people. But I nevertheless 
 uphold a true aristocracy the best men of the country: do 
 you remember our Greeks of old? These ought to govern, 
 and will govern, one day, whether their patent of nobility be 
 birth and titles, or only honesty and brains." 
 
 Thus he talked on, and I liked to hear him, for talking was
 
 262 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 rare in his busy life of constant action. I liked to observe 
 how during these ten years his mind had brooded over many 
 things; how it had grown, strengthened, and settled itself, en- 
 larging both its vision and its aspirations; as a man does, who, 
 his heart at rest in a happy home, has time and will to look out 
 from thence into the troublous world outside, ready to do his 
 work there likewise. That John was able to do it ay, beyond 
 most men few would doubt who looked into his face; strong 
 with the strength of an intellect which owed all its develop- 
 ment to himself alone; calm with the wisdom which, if a man 
 is ever to be wise, comes to him after he has crossed the line of 
 thirty years. In that face, where day by day Time was writ- 
 ing its fit lesson beautiful, because they were so fit I ceased 
 to miss the boyish grace, and rejoiced in the manhood present, 
 in the old age that was to be. 
 
 It seemed almost too short a journey, when, putting his 
 hand on the mare's bridle the creature loved him, and 
 turned to lick his arm the minute he came near John stopped 
 me to see the views from across Kingswell church-yard. 
 
 "Look, what a broad valley, rich in woods, and meadow- 
 land, and corn. How quiet and blue lie the Welsh hills far 
 away! It does one good to look at them. Nay, it brings back 
 a little bit of me which rarely comes uppermost now, as it 
 used to come long ago, when you read your namesake, and 
 Shakespeare, and that Anonymous Friend who has since made 
 such a noise in the world. I delight in him still! Think of 
 a man of business liking Coleridge." 
 
 "I don't see why he should not/' 
 
 "!N"or I. Well, my poetic tastes may come out more at En- 
 derley. Or perhaps when I am an old man, and have fought 
 the good fight, and halloo there! Matthew Hales, have they 
 made you drunk already?" 
 
 The man he was an old workman of ours touched his 
 hat, and tried to walk steadily past "the master," who looked 
 at once both stern and sad. 
 
 "I thought it would be so! I doubt if there is a voter in all 
 Kingswell who has not got a bribe." 
 
 "It is the same everywhere," I said. "What can one man 
 do against it single-handed?" 
 
 "Single-handed or not, every man ought to do what he can. 
 And no man knows how much he can do until he tries." 
 
 So saying he went into the large parlor of the Luxmore 
 Arms, where the election was going on.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 263 
 
 A very simple thing, that election! Sir Ealph Oldtower, 
 who was sheriff, sat at a table, with his son, the grave-looking 
 young man who had been with him in the carriage; near them 
 were Mr. Brithwood, of the Mythe, and the Earl of Luxmore. 
 
 The room was pretty well filled with farmers' laborers and 
 the like. We entered, making little noise; but John's head 
 was taller than most heads present; the sheriff saw him at 
 once, and bowed courteously. So did young Mr. Herbert Old- 
 tower, so did the Earl of Luxmore. Richard Brithwood alone 
 took no notice, but turned his back and looked another way. 
 
 It was now many years since I had seen the 'squire, Lady 
 Caroline's husband. He had fulfilled the promise of his 
 youth, and grown into a bloated, coarse-featured middle-aged 
 man; such a man as one rarely meets with nowadays; for even 
 I, Phineas Fletcher, have lived to see so great a change in 
 manners and morals, that intemperance, instead of being the 
 usual characteristic of a "gentleman," has become a rare fail- 
 ing, a universally contemned disgrace. 
 
 "Less noise there!" growled Mr. Brithwood. "Silence, you 
 fellows at the door! ISTow, Sir Ealph, let's get the business 
 over, and be back for dinner." 
 
 Sir Ralph turned his stately gray head to the light, put on 
 his gold spectacles, and began to read the writ of election. As 
 he finished, the small audience set up a feeble cheer. 
 
 The sheriff acknowledged it, then leaned over the table, 
 talking with rather frosty civility to Lord Luxmore. Their 
 acquaintance seemed solely that of business. People whis- 
 pered that Sir Ralph never forgot that the Oldtowers were 
 crusaders when the Ravenels were nobody. Also, the baro- 
 net, whose ancestors were all honorable men and stainless 
 women, found it hard to overlook a certain royal bar-sinister, 
 which had originated the Luxmore earldom, together with a 
 few other blots which had tarnished that escutcheon since. 
 So folks said; but probably Sir Ralph's high principle was at 
 least as strong as his pride, and that the real cause of his dis- 
 like was founded on the too well-known character of the Earl 
 of Luxmore. 
 
 They ceased talking; the sheriff rose and briefly stated that 
 Richard Brithwood, Esquire, of the Mythe, would nominate a 
 candidate. 
 
 The candidate was Gerard Vermilye, Esquire; at the men- 
 tion of whose name one Norton Bury man broke into a horse-
 
 264 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 laugh, which was quenched by his immediate ejection from 
 the meeting. 
 
 Then Mr. Thomas Brown, steward of the Earl of Luxmore, 
 seconded the nomination. 
 
 After a few words between the sheriff, his son, and Lord 
 Luxmore, the result of which seemed rather unsatisfactory 
 than otherwise, Sir Ealph Oldtower again rose. 
 
 "Gentlemen and electors, there being no other candidate 
 proposed, nothing is left me but to declare Gerard Vermilye, 
 Esquire " 
 
 John Halifax made his way to the table. "Sir Ralph, par- 
 don my interruption, but may I speak a few words?" 
 
 Mr. Brithwood started up with an angry oath. 
 
 "My good sir," said the baronet, with a look of reprehension 
 which proved him of the minority who thought swearing un- 
 gentlemanly. 
 
 "By , Sir Ralph, you shall not hear that low fellow!" 
 
 "Excuse me, I must, if he has a right to be heard. Mr. 
 Halifax, are you a freeman of Kingswell?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 This fact surprised none more than myself. 
 
 Brithwood furiously exclaimed that it was a falsehood. 
 "The fellow does not belong to this neighborhood at all. He 
 was picked up in Norton Bury streets a beggar, a thief, for 
 all I know." 
 
 "You do not know very well, Mr. Brithwood. Sir Ralph, I 
 was never either a beggar or a thief. I began life as a work- 
 ing lad a farm laborer until Mr. Fletcher, the tanner, took 
 me into his employ." 
 
 "So I have always understood," said Sir Ralph, courteously. 
 "And next to the man who is fortunate enough to boast a no- 
 ble origin, I respect the man who is not ashamed of an ignoble 
 one." 
 
 "That is not exactly my position, either," said John, with 
 a half smile. "But we are passing from the question in hand, 
 which is simply my claim to be a freeman of this borough." 
 
 "On what ground?" 
 
 "You will find in the charter, a clause seldom put in force, 
 that the daughter of a freeman can confer the freedom on her 
 husband. My wife's late father, Mr. Henry March, was a 
 burgess of Kingswell. I claimed my rights, and registered 
 this year. Ask your clerk, Sir Ralph, if I have not spoken 
 correctly."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 26G 
 
 The old white-headed clerk allowed the fact. 
 
 Lord Luxmore looked considerably surprised, and politely 
 incredulous still. His son-in-law broke out into loud abuse 
 of this "knavery." 
 
 "I will pass over this ugly word, Mr. Brithwood, . merely 
 stating that " 
 
 "We are quite satisfied," interrupted Lord Luxmore, bland- 
 ly. "My dear sir, may I request so useful a vote and so pow- 
 erful an interest as yours, for our friend, Mr. Vermilye?" 
 
 "My lord, I should be very sorry for you to misapprehend 
 me for a moment. It is not my intention, except at the last 
 extremity, to vote at all. If I do, it will certainly not be for 
 Mr. Brithwood's nominee. Sir Ralph, I doubt if, under some 
 circumstances, which by your permission I am about to state, 
 Mr. Gerard Vermilye can keep his seat even if elected." 
 
 A murmur arose from the crowd of mechanics and laborers, 
 who, awed by such propinquity to gentry and even nobility, 
 had hitherto hung sheepishly back; but now, like all English 
 crowds, were quite ready to "follow the leader," especially one 
 they knew. 
 
 "Hear him, hear the master!" was distinguishable on all 
 sides. Mr. Brithwood looked too enraged for words; but Lord 
 Luxmore, taking snuff with a sarcastic smile, said: 
 
 "Honores mutant mores! I thought, Mr. Halifax, you es- 
 chewed politics!" 
 
 "Mere politics I do, but not honesty, justice, morality; and 
 a few facts have reached my knowledge, though possibly not 
 Lord Luxmore's, which make me feel that Mr. Vermilye's 
 election would be an insult to all three; therefore, I oppose it." 
 
 A loud murmur rose. 
 
 "Silence, you scoundrels!" shouted Mr. Brithwood; adding 
 his usual formula of speech, which a second time extorted the 
 old baronet's grave rebuke. 
 
 "It seems, Sir Ralph, that democracy is rife in your neigh- 
 borhood. True, my acquaintance has not lain much among 
 the commonalty, but still I was not aware that the people 
 choose the member of Parliament." 
 
 "They do not, Lord Luxmore," returned the sheriff, some- 
 what haughtily. "But we always hear the people. Mr. Hali- 
 fax, be brief. What have you to allege against Mr. Brith- 
 wood's nominee?" 
 
 "First, his qualifications. He has not three hundred, nor 
 one hundred a year. He is deeply in debt, at Norton Bury
 
 266 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and elsewhere. Warrants are out against him; and only as an 
 M. P. he can be safe from outlawry. Add to this an offense 
 common as daylight, yet which the law dare not wink at when 
 made patent, that he has bribed, with great or small sums, 
 every one of the fifteen electors of Kingswell; and I think I 
 have said enough to convince any honest Englishman that 
 Mr. Gerard Vermilye is not fit to represent them in Parlia- 
 ment/' 
 
 Here a loud cheer broke from the crowd at the door and un- 
 der the open windows, where, thick as bees, the villagers had 
 now collected. They, the unvoting and consequently un- 
 bribable portion of the community began to hiss indignantly 
 at the fifteen unlucky voters. For though bribery was, as 
 John had truly said, "as common as daylight," still, if brought 
 openly before the public, the said virtuous public generally 
 condemned it, if they themselves had not been concerned 
 therein. 
 
 The sheriff listened uneasily to a sound, very uncommon at 
 elections, of the populace expressing an. opinion contrary to 
 that of the lord of the soil. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Brithwood, you must have been ignorant as I 
 was of the character of your nominee, or you would have 
 chosen some one else. Herbert" he turned to his son, who, 
 until the late dissolution, had sat for some years as a member 
 of Norton Bury "Herbert, are you acquainted with any of 
 these facts?" 
 
 Mr. Herbert Oldtower looked uncomfortable. 
 
 "Answer!" said his father. "No hesitation in a matter of 
 right and wrong. Gentlemen, and my worthy friends, will you 
 hear Mr. Oldtower, whom you all know? Herbert, are these 
 accusations true?" 
 
 "I am afraid so," said the grave young man, more gravely. 
 
 "Mr. Brithwood, I regret extremely that this discovery was 
 not made before. What do you propose doing?" 
 
 "By the Lord that made me, nothing! The borough is 
 Lord Luxmore's; I could nominate Satan himself if I chose. 
 My man shall stand." 
 
 "I think," Lord Luxmore said, with meaning, "it would be 
 better for all parties that Mr. Vermilye should stand." 
 
 "My lord," said the baronet; and one could see that not only 
 rigid justice, but a certain obstinacy, marked his character, 
 especially when anything jarred against his personal dignity 
 or prejudices; "you forget that, however desirous I am to sat-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 267 
 
 isfy the family to whom this borough belongs, it is impossible 
 for me to see with satisfaction even though I cannot prevent 
 the election of any person so unfit to serve his Majesty. If, 
 indeed, there were another candidate, so that the popular feel- 
 ing might decide this very difficult matter " 
 
 "Sir Ralph," said John Halifax, determinedly, "this brings 
 me to the purpose for which I spoke. Being a landlord, and 
 likewise a freeman of this borough, I claim the right of nomi- 
 nating a second candidate." 
 
 Intense, overwhelming astonishment struck all present. 
 Such a right had been so long unclaimed, that everybody had 
 forgotten it was a right at all. Sir Ralph and his clerk laid 
 their venerable heads together for some minutes, before they 
 could come to any conclusion on the subject. At last the 
 sheriff rose. 
 
 "I am bound to say that though very uncommon, this pro- 
 ceeding is not illegal." 
 
 "Not illegal?" almost screamed Richard Brithwood. 
 
 "Not illegal. I therefore wait to hear Mr. Halifax's nomi- 
 nation. Sir, your candidate is, I hope, no democrat?" 
 
 "His political opinions differ from mine, but he is the only 
 gentleman whom I in this emergency can name; and is ono 
 whom myself, and I believe all my neighbors, will be heartily 
 glad to see once more in Parliament. I beg to nominate Mr. 
 Herbert Oldtower." 
 
 A decided sensation at the upper half of the room. At the 
 lower half a unanimous, involuntary cheer; for among our 
 country families there were few so warmly respected as the 
 Oldtowers. 
 
 Sir Ralph rose, much perplexed. "I trust that no one pres- 
 ent will suppose I was aware of Mr. Halifax's intention. Nor, 
 I understand, was Mr. Oldtower. My son must speak for him- 
 self." 
 
 Mr. Oldtower with his accustomed gravity, accompanied by 
 a not unbecoming modesty, said, that in this conjuncture, and 
 being personally acquainted with both Mr. Brithwood and the 
 Earl of Luxmore, he felt no hesitation in accepting the honor 
 offered to him. 
 
 "This being the case," said his father, though evidently an- 
 noyed, "I have only to fulfill my duty as public officer to the 
 crown." 
 
 Amid some confusion, a show of hands was called for; and 
 then a cry rose of "Go to the poll!"
 
 268 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Go to the poll!" shouted Mr. Brithwood. "This is a fam- 
 ily borough. There has not been a poll here these fifty years. 
 Sir Ralph, your son's mad." 
 
 "Sir, insanity is not in the family of the Oldtowers. My 
 position here is simply as sheriff of the county. If a poll be 
 called for " 
 
 "Excuse me, Sir Ralph, it would be hardly worth while. 
 May I oif er you " 
 
 It was only his snuff-box. But the earl's polite and mean- 
 ing smile filled up the remainder of the sentence. 
 
 Sir Ralph Oldtower drew himself up haughtily, and the fire 
 of youth flashed indignantly from his grand old eyes. 
 
 "Lord Luxmore seems not to understand the duties and 
 principles of us country gentlemen," he said, coldly, and 
 turned away, addressing the general meeting. "Gentlemen, 
 the poll will be held this afternoon, according to the sugges- 
 tion of my neighbor here." 
 
 "Sir Ralph Oldtower has convenient neighbors," remarked 
 Lord Luxmore. 
 
 "Of my neighbor, Mr. Halifax," repeated the old baronet 
 louder, and more emphatically. "A gentleman" he paused 
 as if doubtful whether in that title he were awarding a right 
 or bestowing a courtesy, looked at John, and decided "a gen- 
 tleman for whom, ever since I have known him, I have enter- 
 tained the highest respect." 
 
 It was the first public recognition of the position which for 
 some time had been tacitly given to John Halifax in his own 
 neighborhood. Coming thus from this upright and honora- 
 ble old man, whose least merit was to hold, and worthily, a 
 baronetage centuries old, it made John's cheek glow with an 
 honest gratification and a pardonable pride. 
 
 "Tell her," he said to me, when the meeting having dis- 
 persed, he asked me to ride home and explain the reason of his 
 detention at Kingswell "Tell my wife all. She will be 
 pleased, you know." 
 
 Ay, she was. Her face glowed and brightened as only a 
 wife's can; a wife whose dearest pride is in her husband's 
 honor. 
 
 Nevertheless she hurried me back again as quickly as I 
 came. 
 
 As I once more rode up Kingswell Hill, it seemed as if the 
 whole parish were agog to see the novel sight. A contested 
 election! Truly such a thing had not been known within the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 269 
 
 memory of the oldest inhabitant. The fifteen voters I be- 
 lieve that was the number were altogether bewildered by a 
 sense of their own importance. Also by a new and startling 
 fact which I found Mr. Halifax trying to impress upon a few 
 of them, gathered under the great yew-tree in the church- 
 yard that a man's vote ought to be the expression of his own 
 conscientious opinion; and that for him to sell it was scarcely 
 less vile than to traffic in the liberty of his son or the honor of 
 his daughter. Among those who listened most earnestly, was 
 a man whom I had before seen to-day Jacob Baines, once the 
 ring-leader of the bread-riots, who had long worked steadily in 
 the tan-yard, and then at the flour-mill. He was the honest- 
 est and faithfulest of all John's people illustrating uncon- 
 sciously that Divine doctrine, that often they love most to 
 whom most has been forgiven. 
 
 The poll was to be held in the church a not uncommon 
 usage in country boroughs, but which from its rarity struck 
 great awe into the Kingswell folk. The church-warden was 
 placed in the clerk's desk to receive votes. Not far off the 
 sheriff sat in his family pew, bareheaded; by his grave and rev- 
 erent manner imposing due decorum, which was carefully ob- 
 served by all except Lord Luxmore and Mr. Brithwood. 
 
 These two, apparently sure of their cause, had recovered 
 their spirits, and talked and laughed loudly on the other side 
 of the church. It was a very small building, narrow and cruci- 
 form; every word said in it was distinctly audible throughout. 
 
 "My lord, gentlemen, and my friends," said Sir Ralph, ris- 
 ing gravely, "let me hope that every one will respect the sanc- 
 tity of this place." 
 
 Lord Luxmore, who had been going about with his dazzling 
 diamond snuff-box and equally dazzling smile, stopped in the 
 middle of the aisle, bowed, replied, "With pleasure cer- 
 tainly!" and walked inside the communion, as if believing 
 that his presence there conveyed the highest compliment ho 
 could pay the spot. 
 
 The poll began in perfect silence. One after the other, 
 three farmers went up and voted for Mr. Yermilye. There 
 was snuff under their noses probably something heavier than 
 snuff in their pockets. 
 
 Then came up the big, gray-headed fellow I have before 
 mentioned Jacob Baines. He pulled his forelock to Sir 
 Balph rather shyly; possibly in his youth he had made the
 
 270 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 sheriffs acquaintance under less favorable circumstances. But 
 he plucked up courage. 
 
 "Your honor, might a man say a word to 'ee?" 
 
 "Certainly! but be quick, my good fellow," replied the baro- 
 net, who was noted for his kindly manner to humble folk. 
 
 "Sir, I be a poor man. I lives in one o' my lord's houses. 
 I hanna paid no rent for a year. Mr. Brown zays to me, he 
 /ays: 'Jacob, vote for Vermilye, and I'll forgive 'ee the rent, 
 and here be two pound ten to start again wi'.' So, as I zays 
 to Matthew Hales (he be Mr. Halifax's tenant, your honor, 
 and my lord's steward ha' paid 'un nigh four pound for his 
 vote) I sure us be poor men, and his lordship a lord and all 
 that it's no harm, I reckon." 
 
 "Halloo! cut it short, you rascal; you're stopping the poll. 
 Vote, I say." 
 
 "Ay, ay, 'squire;" and the old fellow, who had some humor 
 in him, pulled his hair again civilly to Mr. Brithwood. "Wait 
 till I ha' got shut o' these." 
 
 And he counted out of his ragged pockets a handful of 
 guineas. Poor fellow! how bright they looked; those guineas, 
 that were food, clothing, life! 
 
 "Three was paid to I, two to Will Horrocks, and the rest to 
 Matthew Hales. But, sir, we has changed our minds; and 
 please, would'ee give back the money to them as owns it ?" 
 
 "Still, my honest friend" 
 
 "Thank'ee, Sir Ralph, that's it: we be honest; we couldn't 
 look the master in the face else. Twelve year ago, come 
 Michaelmas, he kept some on us from starving maybe worse. 
 We bean't going to turn rascals on's hands now. Now I'll 
 vote, sir and it won't be for Vermilye." 
 
 A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob, as 
 he marched back down the aisle, where on the stone benches 
 of the porch was seated a rural jury, who discussed not over- 
 f avorably the merits of Lord Luxmore's candidate. 
 
 "He owes a power o' money in Norton Bury he do." 
 
 "Why doesn't he show his face at the 'lection like a decent 
 gen'leman ?" 
 
 "Fear'd o' bailiffs!" suggested the one constable, old and 
 rheumatic, who guarded the peace of Kingswell. 'Tie's the 
 bigerest swindler in all England." 
 
 "Curse him!" muttered an old woman. "She was a benny 
 lass my ^ Sally. Curse him!" 
 
 All this while Lord Luxmore sat in lazy dignity in the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 271 
 
 communion-chair apparently satisfied that as things always 
 had been so they would continue to be; that despite the un- 
 heard-of absurdity of a contested election his pocket-borough 
 was quite secure. It must have been, to say the least, a great 
 surprise to his lordship when, the poll being closed, its result 
 was found thus: Out of the fifteen votes, six were for Mr. Ver- 
 milye, nine for his opponent. Mr. Herbert Oldtower was 
 therefore duly elected as member for the borough of Kings- 
 well. 
 
 The earl received the announcement with dignified, in- 
 credulous silence; but Mr. Brithwood never spared language. 
 
 "It's a cheat an infamous conspiracy! I will unseat him; 
 by my soul, I will!" 
 
 "You may find it difficult," said John Halifax, counting 
 out the guineas deposited by Jacob Baines, and laying them 
 in a heap before Mr. Brown, the steward. "Small as the num- 
 ber was, I believe any committee of the House of Commons 
 will decide that nine honester votes were never polled. But 
 I regret, my lord I regret deeply, Mr. Brithwood" and 
 there was a kind of pity in his eye "that in this matter I 
 have been forced, as it were, to become your opponent. Some 
 day, perhaps, you may both do me the justice that I now can 
 only look for from my own conscience." 
 
 "Very possibly," replied the earl, with a satirical bow. "I 
 believe, gentleman, our business is ended for to-day, and it 
 is a long drive to Xorton Bury. Sir Ralph, might we hope for 
 the honor of your company? No? Good-day, my friends. 
 Mr. Halifax, your servant." 
 
 "One word, my lord. Those workmen of mine, who are 
 your tenants I am aware what usually results when tenants 
 in arrear vote against their landlords if, without taking any 
 harsher measures, your agent will be so kind as to apply to 
 me for the rent " 
 
 "Sir, my agent will use his own discretion." 
 
 "Then I rely on your lordship's kindliness your sense of 
 honor." 
 
 "Honor is only spoken of between equals," said the earl, 
 haughtily. "But on one thing Mr. Halifax may always rely 
 my excellent memory." 
 
 With a smile and bow as perfect as if he were victoriously 
 quitting the field, Lord Luxmore departed. Soon not one 
 remained of all those who had filled the church and church- 
 yard, making there a tumult that is chronicled to this very
 
 272 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 d'ay by some ancient villagers, who still think themselves 
 greatly ill-used because the Reform Act has blotted out of the 
 list of English boroughs the "loyal and independent" borough 
 of Kingswell." 
 
 Sir Ralph Oldtower stood a good while talking with John; 
 and finally, having sent his carriage on, walked with him 
 down Kingswell Hill toward the manor-house. I, riding 
 alongside, caught fragments of their conversation. 
 
 "What you say is all true, Mr. Halifax; and you say it well. 
 But what can we do? Our English constitution is perfect 
 that is, as perfect as anything human can be. Yet corrup- 
 tions will arise; we regret, we even blame but we cannot re- 
 move them. It is impossible." 
 
 "Do you think, Sir Ralph, that the Maker of this world 
 which, so far as we can see, he means like all other of his 
 creations gradually to advance toward perfection do you 
 think he would justify us in pronouncing any good work 
 therein 'impossible?' " 
 
 "You talk like a young man," said the baronet, half sadly. 
 "Coming years will show you the world, and the ways of it, 
 in a clearer light." 
 
 "I earnestly hope so." 
 
 Sir Ralph glanced sideways at him, perhaps with a sort of 
 envy of the very youth which he thus charitably excused as a 
 thing to be allowed for till riper wisdom came. Something 
 might have smote the old man with a conviction, that in this 
 youth was strength and life, the spirit of the new generation 
 then arising, before which the old worn-out generation would 
 crumble into its natural dust. Dust of the dead ages, honor- 
 able dust, to be reverently inurned, and never parricidally 
 profaned by us the living age, who in our turn must follow 
 the same downward path. Dust, venerable and beloved, but 
 still only dust. 
 
 The conversation ended, we took our diverse ways; Sir 
 Ralph giving Mr. Halifax a hearty invitation to the manor- 
 house, and seeing him hesitate, adding that "Lady Old- 
 tower would shortly have the honor of calling upon Mrs. 
 Halifax." 
 
 John bowed. "But I ought to tell yon, Sir Ralph, that 
 my wife and I are very simple people that we make no 
 mere acquaintances, and only desire friends." 
 
 "It is fortunate that Lady Oldtower and myself snare
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 273 
 
 the same peculiarity." And shaking hands with a stately 
 cordiality, the old man took his leave. 
 
 "John, you have made a step in the world to-day." 
 
 "Have I?" he said, absently, walking in deep thought, and 
 pulling the hedge-leaves as he went along. 
 
 "What will your wife say?" 
 
 "My wife! bless her!" and he seemed to be only speaking 
 the conclusion of his thinking. "It will make no difference 
 to her though it might to me. She married me in my low 
 estate but some day, God willing, no lady in the land shall 
 be higher than my Ursula." 
 
 Thus, as in all things, each thought most of each other, and 
 both of Him whose will was to them beyond all human 
 love, ay, even such love as theirs. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, I watched the gray turrets of the manor- 
 house fade away in the dusk; the hills grew indistinct, and 
 suddenly we saw the little twinkling light that we knew was 
 the lamp in Longfield parlor shine out like a glow-worm across 
 the misty fields. 
 
 "I wonder if the children are gone to bed, Phineas?" 
 
 And the fatherly eyes turned fondly to that pretty wink- 
 ing light; the fatherly heart began to hover over the dear 
 little nest at home. 
 
 "Surely there's some one at the White Gate. Ursula!" 
 
 "John! Ah, it is you!" 
 
 The mother did not express her feelings after the fashion 
 of most women; but I knew by her waiting there, and by 
 the nervous tremble of her hand how great her anxiety had 
 been. 
 
 "Is all safe, husband?" 
 
 "I think so. Mr. Oldtower is elected he must fly the 
 country." 
 
 "Then she is saved?" 
 
 "Let us hope she is. Come, my darling!" and he wrapped 
 his arm round her, for she was shivering. "We have done 
 all we could, and must wait the rest. Come home. 0!" 
 with a lifted look and a closer strain, "thank God for home!"
 
 274 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 We always rose early at Longfield. It was lovely to 
 see the morning sun climbing over One-tree Hill, catching 
 the larch-wood, and creeping down the broad slope of our 
 field; thence up toward Redwood and Leckington until, 
 while the dews yet lay thick on our shadowed valley, Leck- 
 ington Hill was all in a glow of light. Delicious, too, to hear 
 the little ones running in and out, bright and merry as chil- 
 dren ought to be in the first wholesome hours of the day 
 to see them feeding their chickens and petting their doves 
 calling every minute on father or mother to investigate and 
 enjoy some wonder in farm-yard or garden. And either 
 was ever ready to listen to the smallest of these little mys- 
 teries knowing that nothing in childhood is too trivial for 
 the notice, too foolish for the sympathy, of those on whom 
 the Father of all men has bestowed the holy dignity of parent- 
 hood. 
 
 I could see them now, standing among the flower-beds, 
 out in the sunny morning, the father's tall head in the center 
 of the group for he was always the important person dur- 
 ing the brief hour or two that he was able to be at home. 
 The mother close beside him, and both knotted round with 
 an interlaced mass of little arms and little eager faces, each 
 wanting to hear everything and to look at everything every- 
 body to be first and nobody last. None rested quiet or mute 
 for a second, except the one who kept close as his shadow 
 to her father's side, and unwittingly was treated by him less 
 like the other children than like some stray spirit of another 
 world, caught and held jealously, but without much outward 
 notice, lest haply it might take alarm and vanish back again 
 unawares. Whenever he came home and did not see her wait- 
 ing at the door, his first question was always, "Where's Mu- 
 riel?" 
 
 Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning the 
 Monday morning after the election because her father was 
 going to be at home the whole day. It was the annual holi- 
 day he had planned for his work-people. This only "dinner- 
 part/' we had ever given was in its character not unlike that 
 memorable feast to which were gathered the poor, the lame,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 275 
 
 the halt, and the blind all who needed, and all who could not 
 return the kindness. There were great cooking preparations 
 everything that could make merry the heart of man tea, 
 to comfort the heart of woman, hard-working woman and 
 lots of bright pennies and silver groats to rejoice the very soul 
 of youth. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, Jem Watkins, and his Jenny, were as busy 
 as bees all morning. John did his best to help, but finally 
 the mother pleaded how hard it was that the children should 
 miss their holiday-walk with him; so we were all dismissed 
 from the scene of action, to spend a long, quiet two hours, ly- 
 ing under the great oak on One-tree Hill. The little ones 
 played about till they were tired; then John took out the 
 newspaper and read about Ciudad Kodrigo, and Lord Welling- 
 ton's entry into Madrid the battered eagles and the torn and 
 bloody flags of Badajoz, which were on their way home to the 
 Prince Eegent. 
 
 "I wish the fighting were over, and peace were come," said 
 Muriel. 
 
 But the boys wished quite otherwise; they already gloried 
 in the accounts of battles, played domestic games of French 
 and English, acted garden sieges and blockades. 
 
 "How strange and awful it seems, to sit on this green grass, 
 looking down our quiet valley, and then think of the fighting 
 far away in Spain perhaps this very minute, under this very 
 sky! Boys, I'll never let either of you be a soldier." 
 
 "Poor little fellows!" said I, "they can remember nothing 
 but war-time." 
 
 "What would peace be like?" asked Muriel. 
 
 "A glorious time, my child rejoicings everywhere, fathers 
 and brothers coming home, work thriving, poor men's food 
 made cheap, and all things prospering." 
 
 "I should like to live to see it. Shall I be a woman then, 
 father?" 
 
 He started. Somehow, she seemed so unlike an ordinary 
 child, that while all the boys' future was merrily planned out 
 the mother often said, laughing, she knew exactly what sort 
 of a young man Guy would be none of us ever seemed to 
 think of Muriel as a woman. 
 
 "Is Muriel anxious to be grown up? Is she not satisfied 
 with being my little daughter always?" 
 
 "Always."
 
 276 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Her father drew her to him, and kissed her soft, shut 
 blind eyes. Then, sighing, he rose, and proposed that we 
 should all go home. 
 
 This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day. The 
 men and their families came about noon. Soon after, they 
 all sat down to dinner; Jem Watkins' plan of the barn being 
 universally scouted in favor of an open-air feast, in the shelter 
 of a hay-rick, under the mild blue September sky. Jem 
 presided with a ponderous dignity which throughout the 
 day furnished great private amusement to Ursula, John and 
 me. 
 
 In the afternoon all rambled about as they liked many 
 under the circeroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, 
 who were very popular and grand indeed. Then the mother, 
 with Walter clinging shy-eyed to her gown, went among the 
 other poorer mothers there; talked to one, comforted another, 
 counselled a third, and invariably listened to all. There was 
 little of patronizing benevolence about her; she spoke freely, 
 sometimes even with some sharpness, when reproving com- 
 ment was needed; but her earnest kindness, her active good- 
 ness, darting at once to the truth and right of things, touched 
 the women's hearts. While a few were a little wholesomely 
 afraid of her, all recognized the influence of "the mistress," 
 penetrating deep and sure, extending far and wide. 
 
 She laughed at me when I told her so said it was all non- 
 sense that she only followed John's simple recipe, for mak- 
 ing his work-people feel that he was a friend as well as a 
 master. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "To pay attention and consideration to all they say; and 
 always to take care and remember to call them by their right 
 Christian names." 
 
 I could not help smiling it was an answer so like Mrs. 
 Halifax, who never indulged in any verbal sentimentalism. 
 Her part in the world was deeds. 
 
 It was already evening, when, having each contributed our 
 quota, great or small, to the entertainment, we all came and 
 sat on the long bench under the walnut-tree. The sun went 
 down red behind us, throwing a last glint on the upland field, 
 where, from top to bottom, the young men and women were 
 running in a long "thread-the-needle." Their voices and 
 laughter came faintly down to us.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 277 
 
 "I think they have had a happy day, John. They will work 
 all the better to-morrow/' 
 
 "I am quite sure of it." 
 
 "So am I," said Guy, who had heen acting the young master 
 all day, condescendingly stating his will and giving his opin- 
 ion on every subject, greatly petted and looked up to by all, 
 to the no small amusement of us elders. 
 
 "Why, my son?" asked the father, smiling. 
 
 But here Master Guy was posed, and everybody laughed at 
 him. He colored up with childish anger, and crept nearer 
 his mother. She made a place for him at her side, looking 
 appealingly at John. 
 
 "Guy has got out of his depth we must help him into 
 safe waters again," said the father. "Look here, my son, 
 this is the reason and it is well not to be 'quite sure' of a 
 thing unless one knows the reason. Our people will work the 
 better, because they will work from love. Not merely doing 
 their duty, and obeying their master in a blind way, but 
 feeling an interest in him and all that belong to him; knowing 
 that he feels the same in them. Knowing, too, that although, 
 being their superior in many things, he is their master and 
 they his servants, he never forgets that saying, which I read 
 out of the Bible, children, this morning: 'One is your master 
 even Christ, and all ye are brethren.' Do you understand?" 
 
 I think they did, for he was accustomed to talk with them 
 thus even beyond their years. Not in the way of preachify- 
 ing for these little ones had in their childish days scarcely 
 any so-called "religious instruction," save the daily chapter 
 out of the New Testament, and the father and mother's daily 
 life, which was a simple and literal carrying out of the same. 
 To that one test was brought all that was thought, or said, 
 or done, in our household, where it often seemed as if the 
 Master were as visibly obeyed and followed as in the household 
 which He loved at Bethany. 
 
 As to what doctrinal creed we held, or what sect we belonged 
 to, I can give but the plain answer which John gave to all 
 such inquiries that we were Christians. 
 
 After these words from the Holy Book (which the children 
 always listened to with great reverence, as to the Book which 
 their parents most loved and honored, the reading and learn- 
 ing of which was granted as a high reward and favor, and 
 never carelessly allowed, or horrible to think! inflicted as 
 a punishment), we ceased smiling at Guy, who in his turn
 
 278 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ceased to frown. The little storm blew over, as our domestic 
 storms usually did, leaving a clear free heaven. Loving one 
 another, of course we quarreled sometimes; but we always 
 made it up again, because we loved one another. 
 
 "Father, I hear the click of the gate. There's somebody 
 coming/' said Muriel. 
 
 The father paused in a great romp with his sons paused, 
 as he ever did when his little daughter's soft voice was heard. 
 " 'Tis only a poor boy who can he be?" 
 
 "One of the folk that come for milk, most likely but we 
 have none to give away to-day. What do you want, my lad?" 
 
 The lad, who looked miserable and scared, opened his mouth 
 with a stupid "Eh?" 
 
 Ursula repeated the question. 
 
 "I wants Jacob Baines." 
 
 "You'll find him with the rest, in front of that hay-rick, 
 over his pipe and ale." 
 
 The lad was off like a shot. 
 
 "He is from Kingswell, I think. Can anything be the 
 matter, John?" 
 
 "I will go and see. No, boys, no more games I will be 
 back presently." 
 
 He went, apparently rather anxious as was easy to find 
 out by only a glance at the face of Ursula. Soon she rose 
 and went after him. I followed her. 
 
 We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men angrily talk- 
 ing. The gossiping mothers were just joining them. Far off 
 in the field the younger folk were still dancing merrily down 
 their long line of "thread-the-needle." 
 
 As we approached, we heard sobbing from one or two wom- 
 en, and loud curses from the men. 
 
 "What's amiss?" said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the midst 
 and both curses and sobbings were silenced. All began a 
 confused tale of wrongs. "Stop, Jacob I can't make it 
 out." 
 
 "This lad ha* seen it all. And he bean't a liar in big 
 things speak up, Billy." 
 
 Somehow or other, we extracted the news brought by ragged 
 Billy, who on this day had been left in charge of the five 
 dwellings rented of Lord Luxmore. During the owners' ab- 
 sence there had been a distraint for rent; every bit of the 
 furniture was carried off; two or three aged and sick folk were
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 279 
 
 left lying on the bare floor; and the poor families here would 
 have to go home to nothing but their four walls. 
 
 Again, at repetition of the stcry, the women wept and the 
 men swore. 
 
 "Be quiet," said Mr. Halifax again. But I saw that his 
 honest English blood was boiling within him. "Jem" and 
 Jem Watkins started, so unusually sharp and commanding 
 was his master's tone "saddle the mare quick! I shall ride 
 to Kingswell, and thence to the sheriff's." 
 
 "God bless 'ee, sir!" sobbed Jacob Baines' widowed daugh- 
 ter-in-law, who had left, as I overheard her telling Mrs. Hali- 
 fax, a sick child to-day at home. 
 
 Jacob Baines took up a heavy knobbed stick which hap- 
 pened to be leaning against the hay-rick, and eyed it with 
 savage meaning. 
 
 "Who be they as has done this, master?" 
 
 "Put that bludgeon down, Jacob." 
 
 The man hesitated, met his master's determined eye, and 
 obeyed him, meek as a lamb. 
 
 "But what is us to do, sir?" 
 
 "Nothing. Stay here till I return; you shall come to no 
 harm. You will trust me, my men?" 
 
 They gathered round him those big, fierce-looking fel- 
 lows, in whom was brute force enough to attack or resist any- 
 thing yet he made them listen to reason. He explained 
 as much as he could of the injustice which had apparently 
 been done them injustice which had overstepped the law, 
 and could only be met by keeping absolutely within the 
 law. 
 
 "It is partly my fault that I did not pay the rent to-day. 
 I will do so at once. I will get your goods back to-night, if 
 I can. If not, you hale fellows can rough it, and we'll take 
 the women and children in till morning can we not, love?" 
 
 "Ay, readily!" said the mother. "Don't cry, my good wom- 
 en. Mary Baines, give me your baby. Cheer up; the master 
 will set all right!" 
 
 John smiled at her in fond thanks the wife who hindered 
 him by no selfishness or weakness, but was his right hand 
 and support in everything. As he mounted she gave him his 
 whip, whispering: 
 
 "Take care of yourself, mind. Come back as soon as 
 you can." 
 
 And lingeringly she watched him gallop down the field.
 
 280 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 It was a strange three hours we passed in his absence. The 
 misty night came down and round about the house crept wail- 
 ing the loud September wind. We brought the women into 
 the kitchen the men lit a fire in the farm-yard and sat sul- 
 lenly round it. It was as much as I could do to persuade 
 Guy and Edwin to go to bed instead of watching that "beau- 
 tiful blaze." There, more than once, I saw the mother stand- 
 ing, with a shawl over her head and her white gown blowing, 
 trying to reason into patience those poor fellows, savage with 
 their wrongs. 
 
 "How far have they been wronged, Phineas? What is the 
 strict law of the case? Will any harm come to John for 
 interfering?" 
 
 I told her no, so far as I knew. That the cruelty and il- 
 legality lay in the haste of the distraint, and in the goods hav- 
 ing been carried off at once, giving no opportunity of redeem- 
 ing them. It was easy to grind the faces of the poor, who 
 had no helper. 
 
 "Never mind; my husband will see them righted at all 
 risks." 
 
 "But Lord Luxmore is his landlord." 
 
 She looked troubled. "I see what you mean. It is easy to 
 make an enemy. No matter I fear not. I fear nothing 
 while John does what he feels to be right as I know he will. 
 The issue is in higher hands than ours or Lord Luxmore's. 
 But where's Muriel?" 
 
 For as we sat talking, the little girl whom nothing could 
 persuade to go to bed till her father came home had slipped 
 from my hand, and gone out into the blustering night. We 
 found her standing all by herself under the walnut-tree. 
 
 "I wanted to listen for father. When will he come?" 
 
 "Soon, I hope," answered the mother, with a sigh. "You 
 must not stay out in the cold and the dark, my child." 
 
 "I am not cold, and I know no dark," said Muriel, softly. 
 
 And thus so it was with her always. In her spirit, as in 
 her outward life, so innocent and harmless, she knew no dark. 
 No cold looks no sorrowful sights no winter no age. The 
 hand laid upon her dear eyes, pressed eternal peace down on 
 her soul. I believe she was, if ever human being was, purely 
 and entirely happy. It was always sweet for us to know this 
 it is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved! 
 
 We brought her within the house, but she persisted in 
 sitting in her usual place, on the door-sill, "waiting" for her
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 281 
 
 father. It was she who first heard the white gate swing, and 
 told us he was coming. 
 
 Ursula ran down to the stream to meet him. 
 
 When they came up the path, it was not alone John was 
 helping a lame old woman, and his wife carried in her arms 
 a sick child, on whom, when they entered the kitchen, Mary 
 Baines threw herself in a passion of crying. 
 
 '"What have they been doing to 'ee, Tommy? 'ee warn't 
 like this when I left 'ee. they've been killing my lad, they 
 have!" 
 
 "Hush!" said Mrs. Halifax; "we'll get him well again, please 
 God. Listen to what the master's saying." 
 
 He was telling to the men who gathered round the kitchen- 
 door the results of his journey. 
 
 It was as I had expected from his countenance the first 
 minute he appeared fruitless. He had found all things at 
 Kingswell as stated. Then he rode to the sheriff's; but Sir 
 Ralph was absent, sent for to Luxmore Hall on very painful 
 business. 
 
 "My friends," said the master, stopping abruptly in his 
 narrative, "for a few hours you must make up your minds 
 to sit still and bear it. Every man has to learn that lesson 
 at times. Your landlord has I would rather be the poorest 
 among you than Lord Luxmore this night. Be patient; we'll 
 lodge you all, somehow. To-morrow I will pay your rent, get 
 your goods back, and you shall begin the world again, as my 
 tenant, not Lord Luxmore's." 
 
 "Hurrah!" shouted the men, easily satisfied, as working 
 people are, who have been used all their days to live from 
 hand to mouth, and to whom the present is all in all. They 
 followed the master, who settled them in the barn, and then 
 came back to consult with his wife as to where the women 
 could be stowed away. So, in a short time, the five homeless 
 families were cheerily disposed of all but Mary Baines and 
 her sick boy. 
 
 "What can we do with them?" said John, questioningly, 
 to Ursula. 
 
 "I see but one course. We must take him in; his mother 
 says hunger is the chief thing that ails the lad. She fancies 
 that he has had the measles; but our children have had it too, 
 so there's no fear. Come upstairs, Mary Baines." 
 
 Passing, with a thankful look, the room where her own 
 boys slept, the good mother established this forlorn young
 
 282 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 mother and her two children in a little closet outside the 
 nursery door; cheered her with comforting words; helped her 
 ignorance with wise counsels for Ursula was the general 
 doctress of all the poor folk round. It was almost midnight 
 before she came down to the parlor where John and I sat, 
 he with little Muriel asleep in his arms. The child would 
 gladly have slumbered away all night there with the delicate, 
 pale profile pressed close into his breast. 
 
 "Is all right, love? How tired you must be!" John put 
 his left arm round his wife as she came and knelt by him, in 
 front of the cheerful fire. 
 
 "Tired? Oh, of course; but you can't think how com- 
 fortable they are upstairs. Only poor Mary Baines does noth- 
 ing but cry, and keep telling me that nothing ails her lad but 
 hunger. Are they so very poor?" 
 
 John did not immediately answer; I fancied he looked sud- 
 denly uneasy and imperceptibly pressed his little girl closer 
 to him. 
 
 "The lad seems very ill. Much worse than our children 
 were with measles." 
 
 "Yet how they suffered, poor pets! especially Walter. It 
 was the thought of them made me pity her so. Surely I have 
 not done wrong?" 
 
 "No, love; quite right and kind. Acting so, I think one 
 need not fear. See, mother, how soundly Muriel sleeps. It's 
 almost a pity to waken her, but we must go to bed now." 
 
 "Stay one minute," I said. "Tell us, John I quite forgot 
 to ask till now what is that 'painful business' you men- 
 tioned, which called the sheriff to Lord Luxmore's?" 
 
 John glanced at his wife, leaning fondly against him, her 
 face full of sweet peace, then at his little daughter asleep, then 
 round the cheerful fire-lit room, outside which the autumn 
 night-wind went howling furiously. 
 
 "Love, that we are so happy, we must not, dare not, con- 
 demn." 
 
 She looked at him with a shocked inquiry. "You don't 
 mean No; it is impossible!" 
 
 "It is true. She has gone away." 
 
 Ursula sank down, hiding her face. "Horrible! And only 
 two days since she was here, kissing our children." 
 
 We all three kept a long silence; then I ventured to ask 
 when she went away? 
 
 "This morning, early. They took at least Mr. Vermilye
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 283 
 
 did a ll the property of Lord Luxmore's that he could lay his 
 hands upon family jewels, and money to a considerable 
 amount. The earl is pursuing him now, not only as his daugh- 
 ter's seducer, but as a swindler and a thief/' 
 
 "And Richard Brithwood?" 
 
 "Drinks and drinks and drinks. That is the beginning 
 and the end of all." 
 
 There was no more to be said. She had dropped forever 
 out of her old life, as completely as a star out of the sky. 
 Henceforth for years and years, neither in her home, nor, 
 I believe, in any other, was there the slightest mention made 
 of Lady Caroline Brithwood. 
 
 All the next day John was from home, settling the Kings- 
 well affair. The ejected tenants our tenants now left us 
 at last, giving a parting cheer for Mr. Halifax, the best master 
 in all England. 
 
 Sitting down to tea with no small relief that all was over, 
 John asked his wife after the sick lad. 
 
 "He is very ill still, I think." 
 
 "Are you sure it is measles?" 
 
 "I imagine so; and I have seen nearly all childish diseases, 
 except no, that is quite impossible!" added the mother has- 
 tily. She cast an anxious glance on her little ones; her hand 
 slightly shook as she poured out their cups of milk. "Do you 
 think, John it was hard to do it when the child is so ill I 
 ought to have sent them away with the others?" 
 
 "Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course 
 Mary Baines would have told us. What are the lad's symp- 
 toms?" 
 
 As Ursula informed him, I thought he looked more and 
 more serious; but he did not let her see. 
 
 "Make your mind easy, love; a word from Dr. Jessop will 
 decide all. I will fetch him after tea. Cheer up! Please God, 
 no harm will come to our little ones!" 
 
 The mother brightened again; with her all the rest; and 
 the tea-table clatter went on, merry as ever. Then, it being a 
 wet night, Mrs. Halifax gathered her boys round her knee for 
 an evening chat over the kitchen-fire, while through the open 
 door, out of the dim parlor, came "Muriel's voice," as we called 
 the harpsichord. It seemed sweeter than ever this night, like 
 as her father once said, but checked himself, and never said 
 it afterward like Muriel talking with the angels.
 
 284 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He sat listening awhile, then, without any remark, put 
 on his coat and went out to fetch the good doctor. I fol- 
 lowed him down to the stream. 
 
 'Thineas," he said, "will you mind don't notice it to the 
 mother but mind and keep her and the children down- 
 stairs till I come back?" 
 
 I promised. "Are you uneasy about Mary Barnes' lad?" 
 
 "No; I have full trust in human means, and, above all, in 
 what I need not speak of. Still, precautions are wise. Do 
 you remember that day when, rather against Ursula's wish, 
 J vaccinated the children?" 
 
 I remembered. Also that the virus had taken effect with all 
 but Muriel; and we had lately talked of repeating the much- 
 blamed and miraculous experiment upon her. I hinted this. 
 
 "Phineas, you mistake," he answered, rather sharply. "She 
 is quite safe as safe as the others. I wrote to Dr. Jenner 
 himself. But don't mention that I spoke about this." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because to-day I heard that they have had the small-pox 
 at Kingswell." 
 
 I felt a cold shudder. Though inoculation and vaccination 
 had made it less fatal among the upper classes, this frightful 
 scourge still decimated the poor, especially children. Great 
 was the obstinacy in refusing relief; and loud the outcry in 
 Norton Bury, when Mr. Halifax, who had met and known Dr. 
 Jenner in London, finding no practitioner that would do it, 
 persisted in administering the vaccine virus himself to his 
 children. But still, with natural fear, he had kept them out 
 of all risk of taking the small-pox until now. 
 
 "John, do you think " 
 
 "No; I will not allow myself to think. Not a word of 
 this at home, mind. Good-bye!" 
 
 He walked away, and I returned up the path heavily, as 
 if a cloud of terror and dole were visibly hanging over our 
 happy Longfield. 
 
 The doctor appeared; he went up to the sick lad; then he 
 and Mr. Halifax were closeted together for a long time. After 
 he was gone, John came into the kitchen, where Ursula sat 
 with Walter on her knee. The child was in his little white 
 night-gown, playing with his elder brothers, and warming 
 his rosy toes. 
 
 The mother had recovered herself entirely: was content
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 285 
 
 and gay. I saw John's glance at her, and then and then I 
 feared. 
 
 "What does the doctor say? The child will soon be well?" 
 
 "We must hope so." 
 
 "John, what do you mean? I thought the little fellow 
 looked better when I went up to see him last. And there 
 I hear the poor mother upstairs crying." 
 
 "She may cry; she has need," said John, bitterly. "She 
 knew it all the while. She never thought of our children; 
 but they are safe. Be content, love please God, they are 
 quite safe. Very few take it after vaccination." 
 
 "It do you mean the small-pox? Has the lad got small- 
 pox? Oh, God help us! My children! my children!" 
 
 She grew white as death; long shivers came over her from 
 head to foot. The little boys, frightened, crept up to her; 
 she clasped them all together in her arms, turning her head 
 with a wild, savage look, as if some one were stealing behind 
 to take them from her. 
 
 Muriel, perceiving the silence, felt her way across the room, 
 and touching her mother's face, said, anxiously, "Has anybody 
 been naughty?" 
 
 "No, my darling; no." 
 
 "Then never mind. Father says, nothing will harm us 
 except being naughty. Did you not, father?" 
 
 John snatched his little daughter up to his bosom, and 
 called her for the hundredth time the name my poor old 
 father had named her, the "blessed" child. 
 
 We all grew calmer; the mother wept a little, and it did 
 her good; we comforted the boys and Muriel, telling them 
 that in truth nothing was the matter, only we were afraid 
 of their catching the little lad's sickness, and they must not 
 go near him. 
 
 "Yes; she shall quit the house this minute this very min- 
 ute!" said the mother sternly, but with a sort of wildness 
 too. 
 
 Her husband made no immediate answer; but as she rose 
 to leave the room, he detained her. "Ursula, do you know the 
 child is all but dying?" 
 
 "Let him die! The wicked woman! She knew it, and 
 she let me bring him among my children my own poor chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 "I would she had never come. But what is done is done.
 
 286 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Love, think if you were turned out of doors this bleak, rainy 
 night with a dying child." 
 
 "Hush ! hush !" She sank down with a sob. 
 
 "My darling!" whispered John, as he made her lean against 
 him her support and comfort in all things; "do you think 
 my heart is not ready to break, like yours? But I trust in 
 God. This trouble came upon us while we were doing right; 
 let us do right still and we need not fear. Humanly speaking, 
 our children are safe; it is only our own terror which exag- 
 gerates the danger. They may not take the disease at all. 
 Then, how could we answer it to our conscience if we turned 
 out this poor soul, and her child died?" 
 
 "No! no!" 
 
 "We will use all precautions. The boys shall be moved to 
 the other end of the house." 
 
 I proposed that they should occupy my room as I had had 
 small-pox, and was safe. 
 
 "Thank you, Phineas: and even should they take it, Dr. 
 Jenner has assured me that in every case after vaccination 
 it has been the very slightest form of the complaint. Be pa- 
 tient, love; trust in God and have no fear." 
 
 Her husband's voice gradually calmed her. At last she 
 turned and clung round his neck, silently and long. Then 
 she rose up and went about her usual duties, just as if this 
 horrible dread were not upon us. 
 
 Mary Baines and her children stayed in the house. Next 
 day, about noon, the little lad died. 
 
 It was the first death that had ever happened under our 
 roof. It shocked us all very much, especially the children. 
 We kept them far away on the other side of the house out 
 of the house when possible; but still they would be coming 
 back and looking up at the window, at which, as Muriel de- 
 clared, the little sick boy "had turned into an angel and flown 
 away." The mother allowed the fancy to remain; she thought 
 it wrong and horrible that a child's first idea of death should 
 be "putting into the pit-hole." Truer and more beautiful 
 was Muriel's instinctive notion of "turning into an angel and 
 flying away." So we arranged that the poor little body should 
 be coffined and removed before the children rose next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 287 
 
 the mother only answered after the simple manner of Scrip- 
 ture he "was not, for God took him." But when they saw 
 Mary Baines go crying down the field-path, Muriel asked "why 
 she cried? how could she cry, when it was God who had taken 
 little Tommy?" 
 
 Afterward she tried to learn of me, privately, what sort 
 of a place it was he had gone to, and how he went; whether 
 he had carried with him all his clothes, and especially the 
 great bunch of woodbine she sent to him yesterday; and, 
 above all, whether he had gone by himself, or if some of the 
 "angels," which held so large a place in Muriel's thoughts, 
 and of which she was ever talking, had come to fetch him 
 and take care of him. She hoped indeed, she felt sure 
 they had. She wished she had met them, or heard them about 
 in the house. 
 
 And seeing how the child's mind was running on the sub- 
 ject, I thought it best to explain to her as simply as I could 
 the solemn putting off of life and putting on of immortality. 
 I wished that my darling, who could never visibly behold 
 death, should understand it as no image of terror, but only 
 as a calm sleep and a joyful waking in another country, the 
 glories of which eye had not seen nor ear heard. 
 
 "Eye has not seen," repeated Muriel, thoughtfully; "can 
 people see there, Uncle Phineas?" 
 
 "Yes, my child. There is no darkness at all." 
 
 She paused a minute and said earnestly, "I want to go 
 I very much want to go. How long do you think it will be 
 before the angels come for me?" 
 
 "Many, many years, my precious one," said I shuddering; 
 for truly she looked so like them that I began to fear they were 
 close at hand. 
 
 But a few minutes afterward she was playing with her 
 brothers and talking to her pet doves so sweet and human- 
 like that the fear passed away. 
 
 We sent the children early to bed that night and sat 
 long by the fire, consulting how best to remove infection, and 
 almost satisfied that in these two days it could not have taken 
 any great hold on the house. John was firm in his belief in 
 Dr. Jenner and vaccination. "We went to bed greatly com- 
 forted, and the household sank into quiet slumbers, even 
 though under its roof slept in deeper sleep the little dead 
 child. 
 
 That small closet, which was next to the nursery I occu-
 
 288 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 pied, safely shut out by it from the rest of the house, seemed 
 very still now. I went to sleep thinking of it, and dreamed 
 of it afterward. 
 
 In the middle of the night a slight noise woke me, and 
 I almost fancied I was dreaming still; for there I saw a 
 little white figure gliding past my bed's foot, so softly and 
 soundlessly it might have been the ghost of a child, and it 
 went into the dead child's room. 
 
 For a moment that superstitious instinct which I believe 
 we all have paralyzed me. Then I tried to listen. There was 
 most certainly a sound in the next room a faint cry, quickly 
 smothered a very human cry. All the stories I had ever 
 heard of supposed death and premature burial rushed hor- 
 ribly into my mind. Conquering alike my superstitious dread 
 or fear of entering the infected room, I leaped out of bed, 
 threw on some clothes, got a light, and went in. 
 
 There lay the little corpse all safe and still, forever. And, 
 like its own spirit, watching in the night at the head of the 
 forsaken clay, sat Muriel. 
 
 I snatched her up and ran with her out of the room in an 
 agony of fear. 
 
 She hid her face on my shoulder, trembling. "I have not 
 done wrong, have I? I wanted to know what it was like 
 that which you said was left of little Tommy. I touched it 
 it was so cold! Oh! Uncle Phineas, that isn't poor little Tom- 
 my?" 
 
 "No, my blessed one no, my dearest child! Don't think 
 of it any more." 
 
 And, hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called 
 John, and told him where I had found his little daughter. He 
 never spoke, but snatched her out of my arms into his own, 
 took her in his room, and shut the door. 
 
 From that time our fears never slumbered. For one whole 
 week we waited, watching the children hour by hour, noting 
 each change in each little face; then Muriel sickened. 
 
 It was I who was to tell her father, when as he came home 
 in the evening I met him by the stream. It seemed to him 
 almost like the stroke of death. 
 
 "Oh, my God! not her! Any but her!" And by that I. 
 knew, what I had long guessed, that she was the dearest of all 
 his children. 
 
 Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though lightly. 
 No one was in absolute danger except Muriel. But for weeks
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 289 
 
 we had what people call "sickness in the house;" that terrible 
 overhanging shadow which mothers and fathers well know; 
 under which one must live and move, never resting night nor 
 day. This mother and father hore their portion, and bore it 
 well. When she broke down, which was not often, he sus- 
 tained her. If I were to tell of all he did how, after being 
 out all day, night after night he would sit up watching by and 
 nursing each little fretful sufferer, patient as a woman, and 
 pleasant as a child playmate 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 wait- 
 ing for him, as I always did, at the White Gate; and many a 
 time, as we walked down to the stream, I saw what no one 
 else saw but God. After such times I used often to ponder 
 over what great love His must be, who, as the clearest revela- 
 tion of it and of its nature, calls Himself "the Father." 
 
 And He brought us safe through our time of anguish: He 
 left us every one of our little ones. 
 
 One November Sunday when all the fields were in a mist, 
 and the rain came pouring softly and incessantly upon the pa- 
 tient earth, which had been so torn and dried up by east 
 winds that she seemed glad enough to put aside the mockery 
 of sunshine and melt in quiet tears, we once more gathered 
 our flock together in thankfulness and joy. 
 
 Muriel came down stairs triumphantly in her father's arms 
 and lay on the sofa smiling; the fire-light dancing on her small 
 white face white and unscarred. The disease had been kind 
 to the blind child; she was, I think, more sweet-looking than 
 ever. Older, perhaps; the round prettiness of childhood gone; 
 but her whole appearance wore that inexpressible expression in 
 which, for want of a suitable word, we all embody our vague 
 notions of the unknown world and call "angelic." 
 
 "Does Muriel feel quite well quite strong and well?" the 
 father and mother both kept saying every now and then as 
 they looked at her. She always answered, "Quite well." 
 
 In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitch- 
 en, and John and I were standing at the open door, listening 
 to the dropping of the rain in the garden, we heard, after its 
 long silence, Muriel's "voice." 
 
 "Father, listen!" whispered the mother, linking her arm 
 through his as he stood at the door. Soft and slow came the 
 notes of the old harpsichord she was playing one of the Ab- 
 
 19
 
 290 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 bey anthems. Then it melted away into melodies we knew 
 not sweet and strange. Her parents looked at one another 
 their hearts were full of thankfulness and joy. 
 "And Mary Baines' little lad is in the church-yard." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 "What a comfort! the daylight is lengthening. I think 
 this has been the very dreariest winter I ever knew. Has it 
 not, my little daughter? Who brought her these violets?" 
 
 And John placed himself on a corner of my own particular 
 arm-chair, where, somehow or other, Muriel always lay curled 
 up at tea-time now (ay, and many hours in the day-time, 
 though we hardly noticed it at first). Taking between his 
 hands the little face, which broke into smiles at the merest 
 touch of the father's fingers, he asked her "when she intended 
 to go a walk with him?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 "So we have said for a great many to-morrows, but it is al- 
 ways put off. What do you think, mother is the little maid 
 strong enough?" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax hesitated; said something about "east winds." 
 
 "Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east winds, 
 and played out-of-doors as the boys do. Would you not like 
 it, Muriel?" 
 
 The child shrank back with an involuntary "Oh no!" 
 
 "That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less strong 
 than the lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas?" continued 
 her father, hastily, for I was watching them. 
 
 "Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather comes. 
 We have had such a severe winter. Every one of the children 
 has suffered," said the mother, in a cheerful tone, as she 
 poured out a cup of cream for her daughter, to whom was 
 now given, by common consent, all the richest and rarest of 
 the house. 
 
 "I think every one has," said John, looking round on his 
 apple-cheeked boys. It must have been a sharp eye that de- 
 tected any decrease of health, or increase of suffering, there. 
 "But my plan will set all to rights. I spoke to Mrs. Tod yes- 
 terday. She will be ready to take us all in. Boys, shall you
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 291 
 
 like going to Enderley? You shall go as soon as ever the 
 larch-wood is green." 
 
 For, at Longlield, already we began to make a natural al- 
 manac and chronological table. "When the May was out" 
 "When Guy found the first robin's nest" "When the field 
 was all cowslips" and so on. 
 
 "Is it absolutely necessary we should go ?" said the mother, 
 who had a strong home-clinging, and already began to hold 
 tiny Longfield as the apple of her eye. 
 
 "I think so, unless you will consent to let me go alone to 
 Enderley." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "What! with those troubles at the mills? How can you 
 speak so lightly?" 
 
 "Not lightly, love only cheerfully. The troubles must be 
 borne; why not bear them with as good heart as possible? 
 They cannot last, let Lord Luxmore do what he will. If, as I 
 told you, we relet Longfield for this one summer to Sir Ealph, 
 we shall save enough to put the mill in thorough repair." If 
 my landlord will not do it, I will; and add a steam-engine, 
 too." 
 
 Now the last was a daring scheme, discussed many a winter 
 night by us three in Longfield parlor. At first Mrs. Halifax 
 had looked grave; most women would, especially wives and 
 mothers, in those days when every innovation was regarded 
 with horror, and improvement and ruin were held synony- 
 mous. She might have thought so, too, had she not believed 
 in her husband. But now, at mention of the steam-engine, 
 she looked up and smiled. 
 
 "Lady Oldtower asked me about it to-day. She said, f she 
 hoped you would not ruin yourself like Mr. Miller, of Glas- 
 gow!' I said I was not afraid." 
 
 Her husband returned a bright look. "It is easy to make 
 the world trust one, when one is trusted by one's own house- 
 hold." 
 
 "Ah! never fear; you will make your fortune yet, in spite of 
 Lord Luxmore/' 
 
 For, all winter, John had found out how many cares come 
 with an attained wish. Chiefly because, as the earl had said, 
 his lordship possessed an "excellent memory." The Kings- 
 well election had worked its results in a hundred small ways, 
 wherein the heavy hand of the landlord could be laid upon 
 the tenant. He bore up bravely against it; but hard was the
 
 292 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 struggle between might and right, oppression and stanch re- 
 sistance. It would have gone harder but for one whom John 
 now began to call his "friend;" at least, one who invariably 
 called Mr. Halifax so our neighbor, Sir Ealph Oldtower. 
 
 "How often has Lady Oldtower been here, Ursula?" 
 
 "She called first, you remember, after our trouble with the 
 children; she has been twice since, I think. To-day she 
 wanted me to bring Muriel and take luncheon at the Manor 
 House. I shall not go; I told her so." 
 
 "But gently, I hope? you are so very outspoken, love. You 
 made her clearly understand that it is not from incivility we 
 decline her invitations? Well, never mind. Some day we 
 will take our place, and so shall our children, with any gentry 
 in the land." 
 
 I think though John rarely betrayed it he had strongly 
 this presentiment of future power, which may often be no- 
 ticed in men who have carved out their own fortunes. They 
 have in them the instinct to rise; and as surely as water regains 
 its own level, so do they, from however low a source, ascend to 
 theirs. 
 
 Not many weeks after, we removed in a body to Enderley. 
 Though the chief reason was, that John might be constantly 
 on thu spot, superintending his mills, yet I fancied I could 
 detect a secondary reason, which he would not own even to 
 himself; but which peered out unconsciously in his anxious 
 looks. I saw it when he tried to rouse Muriel into energy by 
 telling her how much she would enjoy Enderley Hill; how 
 sweet the primroses grew in the beech-wood, and how wild and 
 fresh the wind swept over the common, morning and night. 
 His daily longing seemed to be to make her love the world and 
 the things therein. He used to turn away, almost in pain, 
 from her smile, as she would listen to all he said, then steal 
 off to the harpischord, and begin that soft, dreamy music 
 which the children called "talking to angels." 
 
 We came to Enderley through the valley, where was John's 
 cloth mill. Many a time in our walks he and I had passed it, 
 and stopped to listen to the drowsy fall of the miniature 
 Niagara, or watch the incessant turning, turning, of the great 
 water wheel. Little we thought he should ever own it, or that 
 John would be pointing it out to his own boys, lecturing them 
 on "undershot" and "overshot," as he used to lecture me. 
 
 It was sweet, though half melancholy, to see Enderley again; 
 to climb the steep meadows, and narrow mule-paths, up which
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 293 
 
 he used to help me so kindly. He could not now; he had his 
 little daughter in his arms. It had come, alas! to be a regular 
 thing that Muriel should be carried up every slight ascent, and 
 along every hard road. We paused half way up on a low wall, 
 where I had many a time rested, watching the sunset over 
 ISTunneley Hill watching for John to come home. Every 
 night at least after Miss March went away he usually found 
 me sitting there. 
 
 He turned to me and smiled. "Dost remember lad?" at 
 which appellation Guy widely stared. But, for a minute, how 
 strangely it brought back old times, when there were neither 
 wife nor children only he and I! This seat on the wall, 
 with its small twilight picture of the valley below the mill, and 
 jSTunneley heights, with that sentinel row of sunset trees, was 
 all mine mine solely for evermore. 
 
 "Enderley is just the same, Phineas. Twelve years have 
 made no change except in us." And he looked fondly at his 
 wife, who stood a little way off, holding firmly on the wall, in 
 a hazardous group, her three boys. "I think the chorus and 
 comment on all life might be included in two brief phrases 
 given by our friend Shakespeare, one to Hamlet, the other to 
 Othello ' 'Tis very strange,' and ' 'Tis better as it is.' " 
 
 "Ay, ay," said I, thoughtfully. "Better as it was; better, a 
 thousand times." 
 
 I went to Mrs. Halifax, and helped her to describe the pros- 
 pect to the inquisitive boys; finally coaxing the refractory Guy 
 up the winding road, where, just as if it had been yesterday, 
 stood my old friends, my four Lombardy poplars, three to- 
 gether and one apart. 
 
 Mrs. Tod descried us afar off, and was waiting at the gate; 
 a little stouter, a little rosier that was all. In her delight 
 she absolutely forgot herself as to address the mother as Miss 
 March; at which long-unspoken name Ursula started, her col- 
 or went and came, and her eyes turned restlessly toward the 
 church hard by. 
 
 "It is all right, Miss Ma'am, I mean. Tod bears in mind 
 Mr. Halifax's orders, and has planted lots o' flower-roots and 
 evergreens." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 And when she had put all her little ones to bed, we, won- 
 dering where the mother was went out toward the little 
 church-yard, and found her quietly sitting there. 
 
 We were very happy at Enderley. Muriel brightened up
 
 294 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 before she had been there many days. She began to throw off 
 her listlessness, and go about with me everywhere. It was 
 the season she enjoyed most the time of the singing of birds, 
 and the springing of delicate scented flowers. I myself never 
 loved the beech-wood better than did our Muriel. She used 
 continually to tell us, this was the happiest spring she had 
 ever had in her life. 
 
 John was much occupied now. He left his Norton Bury 
 business under efficient care and devoted himself almost 
 wholly to the cloth mill. Early and late he was there. Very 
 often Muriel and I followed him, and spent whole mornings 
 in the mill meadows. Through them the stream on which 
 the machinery depended was led by various contrivances, 
 checked or increased in its flow, making small ponds, or locks, 
 or water-falls. We used to stay for hours listening to its 
 murmur, to the sharp, strange cry of the swans that were kept 
 there, and the twitter of the water-hen to her young among 
 the reeds. Then the father would come to us and remain a 
 few minutes, fondling Muriel, and telling me how things went 
 on at the mill. 
 
 One morning as we three sat there, on the brick-work of the 
 little bridge underneath an elm-tree, round the roots of which 
 the water made a pool so clear that we could see a large pike 
 lying like a black shadow, half-way down, John suddenly said: 
 
 "What is the matter with the stream? Do you notice, Phin- 
 eas?" 
 
 "I have seen it gradually lowering, these two hours. I 
 thought you were drawing off the water." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind. I must look after it. Good-bye, 
 my little daughter. Don't cling so fast; father will be back 
 soon: and isn't this a sweet sunny place for a little maid to be 
 lazy in?" 
 
 His tone was gay, but he had an anxious look. He walked 
 rapidly down the meadows, and went to his mill. Then I saw 
 him retracing his steps, examining where the stream entered 
 the bounds of his property. Finally he walked off toward the 
 little town at the head of the valley, beyond which, buried in 
 the woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was twt> hours before we 
 saw him again. 
 
 Then he came toward us, narrowly watching the stream. 
 It had sunk more and more the muddy bottom was showing 
 plainly.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. JJ95 
 
 "Yes, that's it; it can be nothing else. I did not think he 
 would have dared to do it." 
 
 "Do what, John? Who?" 
 
 "Lord Luxmore." He spoke in the smothered tones of 
 violent passion. "Lord Luxmore has turned out of its course 
 the stream that works my mill." 
 
 I tried to urge that such an act was improbable; in fact, 
 against the law. 
 
 "Not against the law of the great against the little! Be- 
 sides, he gives a decent coloring; says he only wants the use 
 of the stream three days a week, to make fountains at Luxmore 
 Hall. But I see what it is; I have seen it coming a whole year. 
 He has determined to ruin me!" 
 
 John said this in much excitement. He hardly felt Mur- 
 iel's tiny creeping hands. 
 
 "What does 'ruin' mean? Is anybody making father an- 
 
 gry?" 
 
 "No, my sweet, not angry; only very, very miserable!" 
 
 He snatched her up and buried his head in her soft, childish 
 bosom. She kissed him and patted his hair. 
 
 "Never mind, dear father. You say nothing signifies, if we 
 are only good. And father is always good." 
 
 "I wish I were!" 
 
 He sat down with her on his knee; the murmur of the elm- 
 leaves and the slow dropping of the stream soothed him. By- 
 and-by his spirit rose, as it always did, the heavier it was 
 pressed down. 
 
 "No, Lord Luxmore shall not ruin me! I have thought of 
 a scheme. But first I must speak to my people; I shall have 
 to shorten wages for a time." 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "To-night. If it must be done better done at once, before 
 winter sets in. Poor fellows! it will go hard with them; 
 they'll be hard upon me. But it is only temporary; I must 
 reason them into patience, if I can. God knows, it is not they 
 alone who want it." 
 
 He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on the 
 far white wing of Luxmore Hall. 
 
 "Have you no way of righting yourself? If it is an unlaw- 
 ful act why not go to law ?" 
 
 "Phineas, you forget my principle only mine, however; I 
 do not force it upon any one else my firm principle, that I 
 will never go to law. Never. I would not like to have it
 
 296 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 said, in contradistinction to the old saying, 'See how these 
 Christians fight !"' 
 
 I urged no more; since, whether abstractedly the question 
 be right or wrong, there can be no doubt that what a man be- 
 lieves to be evil, to him it is evil. 
 
 "Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my 
 wife what has occurred say I will come to tea as soon as I 
 can. But I may have some little trouble with my people here. 
 She must not alarm herself." 
 
 No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerile 
 apprehensions it was not her nature; she had the rare femi- 
 nine virtue of never "fidgeting" at least externally. "What 
 was to be borne she bore; what was to be done she did; but 
 she rarely madte any "fuss" about either her doings or her suf- 
 ferings. 
 
 To-night, she heard all my explanation; understood it, I 
 think, more clearly than I probably from being better ac- 
 quainted with her husband's plans and fears. She saw at 
 once the position in which he was placed; a grave one, to judge 
 by her countenance. 
 
 "Then you think John is right?" 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 I had not meant it as a question, or even a doubt. But it 
 was pleasant to hear her thus answer. For, as I have said, Ur- 
 sula was not a woman to be led blindfold, even by her husband. 
 Sometimes they differed on minor points, and talked their dif- 
 ferences lovingly out; but on any great question she had al- 
 ways this safe trust in him that if one were right and the 
 other wrong, the erring one was much more likely to be her- 
 self than John. 
 
 She said no more, but put the children to bed; then came 
 down stairs with her bonnet on. 
 
 "Will you come with me, Phineas? or are you too tired? I 
 am going down to the mill." 
 
 She started, walking quickly, yet not so quick but that on 
 the slope of the common she stooped to pick up a crying child, 
 and send it home to its mother in Enderley village. 
 
 It was almost dark, and we met no one else except a young 
 man, whom I had occasionally seen about of evenings. He 
 was rather odd-looking, being invariably muffled up in a large 
 cloak and a foreign sort of hat. 
 
 "Who is that watching our mills?" said Mrs. Halifax hastily. 
 
 I told her all I had seen of the person,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 297 
 
 "A Papist, most likely I mean, a Catholic." (John ob- 
 jected to the opprobrious word, "Papist/') "Mrs. Tod says 
 there are a good many hidden hereabouts. They used to find 
 shelter at Luxmore." 
 
 And that name set both our thoughts anxiously wandering; 
 so that not until we reached the foot of the hill did I notice 
 that the person had followed us almost to the mill gates. 
 
 In his empty mill, standing beside one of its silenced looms, 
 we found the master. He was very much dejected. Ursula 
 touched his arm before he even saw her. 
 
 "Well, love, you know what has happened?" 
 
 "Yes, John. But never mind." 
 
 "I would not, except for my poor people." 
 
 "What do you intend doing? That which you have wished 
 to do all the year?" 
 
 "Our wishes come as a cross to us sometimes," he said, rath- 
 er bitterly. "It is the only thing I can do. The water-power 
 being so greatly lessened, I must either stop the mills, or work 
 them by steam." 
 
 "Do that, then. Set up your steam-engine." 
 
 "And have all the country down upon me for destroying 
 hand-labor? Have a new set of Luddites coming to burn my 
 mill and break my machinery? That is what Lord Luxmore 
 wants. Did he not say he would ruin me? Worse than this, 
 he is ruining my good name. If you had heard those poor 
 people whom I sent away to-night! What must they, who 
 will have short work these two months and after that ma- 
 chinery work, which they fancy is taking the very bread out 
 of their mouths what must they think of the master?" 
 
 He spoke as we rarely heard John speak: as worldly cares 
 and worldly injustice cause even the best of men 'to speak 
 sometimes. 
 
 "Poor people!" he added, "how can I blame them? I was 
 actually dumb before them to-night, when they said I must 
 take the cost of what I do they must have bread for their 
 children. But so must I for mine. Lord Luxmore is the 
 cause of all." 
 
 Here I heard, or fancied I heard, out of the black shadow 
 behind the loom, a heavy sigh. John and Ursula were too 
 anxious to notice it. 
 
 "'Could anything be done," she asked, "just to keep things 
 going till your steam-engine is ready? Will it cost much?" 
 
 t nan I like to think of. But it must be; nothing
 
 298 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 venture nothing have. You and the children are secure, 
 anyhow, that's one comfort. But oh, my poor people at En- 
 derley!" 
 
 Again Ursula asked if nothing could be done? 
 "Yes; I did not think of one plan, but " 
 
 "John, I know what you thought of." 
 She laid her hand on his arm, and looked straight up at 
 him eye to eye. Often it seemed that from long habit they 
 could read one another's minds in this way, clearly as a book. 
 At last John said: 
 
 "Would it be too hard a sacrifice, love?" 
 
 "How can you talk so? We could do it easily, by living in 
 a plainer way; by giving up one or two trifles only outside 
 things, you know. Why need we care for outside things?" 
 
 "Why, indeed?" he said, in a low, fond tone. 
 
 So I easily found out how they meant to settle the diffi- 
 culty; namely, by setting aside a portion of the annual income 
 which John, in his almost morbid anxiety lest his family 
 (should take harm by any possible non-success in his business, 
 had settled upon his wife. Three months of little renuncia- 
 tions three months of the old narrow way of living, as at 
 Norton Bury and the poor people at Enderley might have 
 full wages, whether or not there was full work. Then in our 
 quiet valley there would be no want, no murmurings, and, 
 above all, no blaming of the master. 
 
 They decided it all in fewer words than I have taken to 
 write it it was so easy to decide when both were of one mind. 
 
 "IsTow," said John, rising, as if a load were taken off his 
 breast "now, do what he will, Lord Luxmore cannot do me 
 any harm." 
 
 "Husband, don't let us speak of Lord Luxmore." 
 
 Again that sigh quite ghostly in the darkness. They 
 heard it likewise this time. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "Only I. Mr. Halifax don't be angry with me!" 
 
 It was the softest, mildest voice the voice of one long used 
 to oppression; and the young man whom Ursula had supposed 
 to be a Catholic appeared from behind the loom. 
 
 "I do not know you, sir. How came you to enter mv 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-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 299 
 
 candle we all recognized the face more wan than ever with 
 a sadder and more hopeless look in the large gray eyes. 
 
 "I am surprised to see you here, Lord Ravenel." 
 
 "Hush! I hate the very sound of the name. I would have 
 renounced it long ago. I would have hid myself away from 
 him and from the world if he would have let me/' 
 
 "He do you mean your father?" 
 
 The boy no, he was a young man now, but scarcely looked 
 more than a boy assented silently, as if afraid to utter the 
 name. 
 
 "Would not your coming here displease him?" said John, 
 always tenacious of trenching a hair's breadth upon any law- 
 ful authority. 
 
 "It matters not he is away. He has left me these six 
 months alone at Luxmore." 
 
 "Have you offended him?" asked Ursula who had cast kind- 
 ly looks on the thin face, which perhaps reminded her of an- 
 other now forever banished from our sight and his also. 
 
 "He hates me because I am a Catholic and wish to become 
 a monk." 
 
 The youth crossed himself, then started and looked round, 
 in terror of observers. "You will not betray me? You are a 
 good man, Mr. Halifax, and you spoke warmly for us. Tell 
 me I will keep your secret are you a Catholic, too?" 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "Ah! I hoped you were. But you are sure you will not be- 
 tray me?" 
 
 Mr. Halifax smiled at such a possibility. Yet, in truth, 
 there was some reason for the young man's fears; since, even 
 in those days, Catholics were hunted down both by law and by 
 public opinion as virulently as Protestant non-conformists. 
 All who kept out of the pale of the national Church were de- 
 nounced as schismatics, deists, atheists it was all one. 
 
 "But why do you wish to leave the world?" 
 
 "I am sick of it. There never was but one in it I cared for, 
 or who cared for me; and now Sancta Maria, or a pro nobis." 
 
 His lips moved in a paroxysm of prayer helpless, parrot- 
 learned, Latin prayer; yet, being in earnest, it seemed to do 
 him good. The mother, as if she heard in fancy that pitiful 
 cry, which rose to my memory too "Poor William!" "don't 
 tell William!" turned and spoke to him kindly, asking him if 
 he would go home with us.
 
 300 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He looked exceedingly surprised. "I you cannot mean it? 
 After Lord Luxmore has done you all this evil?"' 
 
 "Is that any reason why I should not do good to his son 
 that is if I could? Can I?" 
 
 The lad lifted up those soft gray eyes and then I remem- 
 bered what his sister had said of Lord Ravenel's enthusiastic 
 admiration of Mr. Halifax. "Oh, you could you could!" 
 
 "But I and mine are heretics, you know." 
 
 "I will pray for you. Only let me come and see you you 
 and your children." 
 
 "Come, and welcome." 
 
 "Heartily welcome Lord ' 
 
 "No not that name, Mrs. Halifax? Call me as they used 
 to call me at St. Omer Brother Anselmo." 
 
 The mother was half inclined to smile; but John never 
 smiled at any one's religious beliefs, howsoever foolish. He 
 held in universal sacredness that one rare thing sincerity. 
 
 So henceforward "Brother Anselmo" was almost domesti- 
 cated at Eose Cottage. What would the earl have said had a 
 little bird flown over to London and told him that his only 
 son, the heir-apparent to his title and political opinions, was 
 in constant and open association for clandestine acquaint- 
 ance was against all our laws and rules with John Halifax 
 the mill owner, John Halifax the radical, as he was still called 
 sometimes; imbibing principles, modes of life and of thought, 
 which, to say the least, were decidedly different from those of 
 the House of Luxmore! 
 
 Above all, what would that noble parent have said, had he 
 been aware that this, his only son, for whom, report whis- 
 pered, he was already planning a splendid marriage as grand 
 in a financial point of view as that he planned for his only 
 daughter that Lord Ravenel was spending all the love of his 
 loving nature in the half-paternal, half lover-like sentiment 
 which a young man will sometimes lavish on a mere child 
 upon John Halifax's little blind daughter, Muriel! 
 
 He said, "She made him good" our child of peace. He 
 would sit gazing on her almost as if she were his guardian 
 angel, his patron saint. And the little maid in her quiet way 
 was very fond of him; delighting in his company when her 
 father was not by. But no one ever was to her like her father. 
 
 The chief bond between her and Lord Ravenel or "An- 
 selmo," as he would have us call him was music. He taught 
 her to play on the organ, in the empty church close by. There,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 301 
 
 during the long midsummer evenings, they two would sit 
 down for hours in the organ-gallery, while I listened down 
 below; hardly believing that such heavenly sounds could 
 come from those small child-fingers; almost ready to fancy 
 she had called down some celestial harmonist to aid her in 
 playing; since, as we used to say but by some instinct never 
 said now Muriel was so fond of "talking with the angels." 
 
 Just at this time her father saw somewhat less of her than 
 usual. He Avas oppressed with business cares; daily, hourly 
 vexations. Only twice a week the great water-wheel, the de- 
 light of our little Edwin, as it had once been of his father, 
 might be seen slowly turning; and the water-courses along the 
 meadows, with their mechanically forced channels and their 
 pretty sham cataracts, were almost always low or dry. It ceased 
 to be a pleasure to walk in the green hollow, between the two 
 grassy hills which heretofore Muriel and I had liked even bet- 
 ter than the Flat. Xow she missed the noise of the water, the 
 cry of the water-hens, the stirring of the reeds. Above all, 
 she missed her father, who was too busy to come out of his 
 mill to us, and hardly ever had a spare minute even for his lit- 
 tle daughter. 
 
 He was setting up that wonderful novelty a steam engine. 
 He had already been to Manchester and elsewhere, and seen 
 how the new power was applied by Arkwright, Hargreaves, and 
 others; his own ingenuity and mechanical knowledge fur- 
 nished the rest. He worked early and late often with his 
 own hands aided by the men he brought with him from 
 Manchester. For it was necessary to keep the secret, espe- 
 cially in our primitive valley, until the thing was complete. 
 So the ignorant, simple mill people, when they came for their 
 easy Saturday's wages, only stood and gaped at the mass of 
 iron and the curiously-shaped brick-work, and wondered what 
 on earth "the master" was about. But he was so thoroughly 
 the "master," with all his kindness, than no one ventured 
 either to question or interfere. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Summer waned. Already the beech-wood began to turn 
 red and the little yellow autumn flowers to show themselves 
 all over the common, while in the midst of them looked up the 
 large purple eye of the ground-thistle. The mornings grew
 
 302 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ha/y and dewy. We ceased to take Muriel out with us in our 
 slow walk along John's favorite "terrace" before any one else 
 was stirring. Her father at first missed her sorely; but al- 
 ways kept repeating that "early walks were not good for 
 children." At last he gave up the walk altogether, and used 
 to sit with her on his knee in front of the cottage till break- 
 fast time. 
 
 After that, saying with a kind of jealousy "that every one 
 of us had more of his little daughter than he," he got into a 
 habit of fetching her down to the mill every day at noon, and 
 carrying her about in his arms, wherever he went, during the 
 rest of his work. 
 
 Many a time I have seen the rough, coarse, blue-handed, 
 blue-pinafored women of the mill stop and look wistfully after 
 "Master and little blind miss." I often think that the quiet 
 way in which the Enderley mill people took the introduction 
 of machinery, and the peaceableness with which they watched 
 for weeks the setting up of the steam engine, was partly ow- 
 ing to their strong impression of Mr. Halifax's goodness as a 
 father, and the vague, almost superstitious interest which at- 
 tached to the pale, sweet face of Muriel. 
 
 Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate 
 the cosy fireside of Longfield. 
 
 "The children will all go home looking better than they 
 came; do you not think so, Uncle Phineas? especially Muriel?" 
 
 To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent; after 
 which I was fain to rise and walk away, thinking how blind 
 love was all love save mine, which had a gift for seeing the 
 saddest side of things. 
 
 When I came back, I found the mother and daughter talk- 
 ing mysteriously apart. I guessed what it was about, for I 
 had overheard Ursula saying they had better tell the child; it 
 would be "something for her to look forward to something 
 to amuse her next winter." 
 
 "It is a great secret, mind/' the mother whispered, after its 
 communication. 
 
 "Oh yes!" The tiny face smaller than ever, I thought, 
 flushed brightly. "But I would much rather have a little 
 sister, if you please. Only" and the child suddenly grew 
 earnest "will she be like me?" 
 
 "Possibly; sisters often are alike." 
 
 "No, I don't mean that; but you know?" And Muriel 
 touched her own eyes., -
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 803 
 
 "I "cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else pray God 
 she may be like you, Muriel, my darling my child of peace!" 
 said L 1 rsula, embracing her with tears. 
 
 After this confidence, of which Muriel was very proud, and 
 only condescended, upon gaining express permission, to re- 
 confide it to me, she talked incessantly of the sister that was 
 coming, until "little Maud" the name she chose for her 
 became an absolute entity in the household. 
 
 The dignity and glory of being sole depository of this mo- 
 mentous fact seemed for a time to put new life bright human 
 life into this little maid of eleven years old. She grew 
 quite womanly, as it were; tried to help her mother in a thou- 
 sand little ways, and especially by her own solitary branch of 
 feminine industry poor darling! She set on a pair of the 
 daintiest elfin socks that ever were knitted. I found them 
 years after one finished, one with the needles (all rusty) 
 stuck through the fine worsted ball, just as the child had laid 
 it out of her hand. Ah, Muriel, Muriel! 
 
 The father took great delight in this change in her re- 
 suming her simple work, and going about constantly with her 
 mother. 
 
 "What a comfort she will be to Ursula one day; an eldest 
 daughter always is. So will she; will she not, Uncle Phin- 
 eas?" 
 
 I smiled assentingly. Alas! his burdens were heavy 
 enough! I think I did right to smile. 
 
 "We must take her down with us to see the steam engine 
 first worked. I wish Ursula would have gone home without 
 waiting for to-morrow. But there is no fear my men are so 
 quiet and good-humored. What in most mills has been a day 
 of outrage and dread, is with us quite a festival. Boys, shall 
 you like to come? Edwin, my practical lad, my lad that is to 
 carry on the mills will you promise to hold fast by Uncle 
 Phineas, if I let you see the steam engine work?" 
 
 Edwin lifted up from his slate bright, penetrating eyes. He 
 was quite an old man in his ways wise even from his baby- 
 hood, and quiet even when Guy snubbed him; but I noticed 
 he did not come to "kiss and make friends" so soon as Guy. 
 And though Guy was much the naughtiest, we all loved him 
 best. Poor Guy! he had the frankest, warmest, tenderest boy- 
 heart; always struggling to be good, and never able to accom- 
 plish it. 
 
 "Father," cried Guy, "I want to see the steam engine move;
 
 304 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 but I'll not be a baby like Edwin! I'll not hold Uncle Phineas* 
 hand." 
 
 Hereupon ensued one of those summer storms which some- 
 times swept across the family horizon, in the midst of which 
 Muriel and I stole out into the empty church, where, almost 
 in the dark which was no dark to her for a long hour she 
 sat and played. By-and-by the moon looked in, showing the 
 great gilt pipes of the organ and the little fairy figure sitting 
 below. 
 
 Once or twice she stooped from the organ-loft to ask me 
 where was Brother Anselmo, who usually met us in the church 
 of evenings, and whom to-night this last night before the 
 general household moved back to Longfield we had fully ex- 
 pected. 
 
 At last he came, sat down by me, and listened. She was 
 playing a fragment of one of his Catholic masses. When it 
 ended he called "Muriel!" 
 
 Her soft, glad answer came down from the gallery. 
 
 "Child, play the 'Miserere' I taught you." 
 
 She obeyed, making the organ wail like a tormented soul. 
 Truly, no tales I ever heard of young Wesley and the infant 
 Mozart ever surpassed the wonderful playing of our blind 
 child. 
 
 "Now the 'Dies Irae/ It will come," he muttered, "to us 
 all." 
 
 The child struck a few notes, heavy and dolorous, filling the 
 church like a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, and open- 
 ing the flute-stop, burst into altogether different music. "That 
 is Handel *I know that my Eedeemer liveth.' " 
 
 Exquisitely she played it, the clear treble notes seeming to 
 utter like a human voice, the very words: 
 
 "I know that my Redeemer liveth. 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?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 305 
 
 "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 Eavenel was rather sad that night; he was going away 
 from Luxmore for some time. We guessed why because the 
 earl was coining. Bidding us good-bye he said mournfully, to 
 his little pet: "I wish I were not leaving you. Will you re- 
 member me, Muriel?" 
 
 "Stoop down; I want to see you." 
 
 This was her phrase for a way she had of passing her ex- 
 tremely sensitive fingers over the faces of those she liked. 
 After which she always said she "saw" them. 
 
 "Yes; I shall remember you." 
 
 "And love me?" 
 
 "And love you, Brother Anselmo." 
 
 He kissed, not her cheek or mouth, but her little child- 
 hands, reverently, as if she had been the saint he worshiped, 
 or perhaps, the woman whom afterward he would learn to 
 adore. Then he went away. 
 
 "Truly," said the mother, in an amused aside to me, as with 
 a kind of motherly pride she watched him walk hastily down 
 between those chestnut trees known of old "truly, time flies 
 fast. Things begin to look serious eh, father?" 
 
 "Five years hence we shall have that young man falling in 
 love with Muriel." 
 
 But John and I looked at the still, soft face, half a child's 
 and half an angel's. 
 
 "Hush!" he said, as if Ursula's fancy were profanity: then 
 eagerly snatched it up and laughed, confessing how angry he 
 should be if anybody dared to "fall in love" with Muriel. 
 
 Next day was the one fixed for the trial of the new steam 
 engine; which trial being successful, we were to start at once 
 in a post-chaise for Longfield; for the mother longed to be at 
 home, and so did we all. 
 
 There was rather a dolorous good-bye and much lamenting 
 from good M.rs. Tod, who, her own bairns grown up, thought 
 there were no children worthy to compare with our children. 
 And truly, as the three boys scampered down the road their 
 few regrets soon over, eager for anything new three finer 
 lads could not be seen in the whole country. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax looked after them proudly mother-like, she 
 gloried in her sons; while John, walking slowly, and assuring 
 20
 
 $06 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Mrs. Tod over and over again that we should all come back 
 next summer, went down the steep hill, carrying, hidden un- 
 der many wraps and nestled close to his warm shoulder, his 
 little frail winter-rose his only daughter. 
 
 In front of the mill we found a considerable crowd; for the 
 time being ripe,, Mr. Halifax had made public the fact that he 
 meant to work his looms by steam, the only way in which he 
 could carry on the mill at all. The announcement had been 
 received with great surprise and remarkable quietness, both by 
 his own work people and all along the Enderley valley. Still 
 there was the usual amount of contemptuous scepticism, in- 
 cident on any new experiment. Men were peering about the 
 locked door of the engine room with a surly curiosity; and one 
 village oracle, to prove how impossible it was that such a thing 
 as steam could work anything, had taken the trouble to light 
 a fire in the yard and set thereon his wife's best tea-kettle, 
 which, as she snatched angrily away, scalded him slightly, and 
 caused him to limp away swearing, a painful illustration of the 
 adage, that "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing." 
 
 "Make way, my good people," said Mr. Halifax; and he 
 crossed the mill-yard, his wife on his arm, followed by an in- 
 voluntary murmur of respect. 
 
 "He be a fine fellow, the master; he sticks at nothing," was 
 the comment heard made upon him by one of his people, and 
 probably it expressed the feeling of the rest. There are few 
 things which give a man more power over his fellows than the 
 thoroughly English quality of daring. 
 
 Perhaps this was the secret why John had as yet passed 
 safely through the crisis which had been the destruction of so 
 many mill-owners, namely, the introduction of a power which 
 the mill people were convinced would ruin hand labor. Or 
 else the folk in our valley, out of their very primitiveness, 
 had more faith in the master, for certainly, as John passed 
 through the small crowd, there was only one present who 
 raised the old fatal cry of "Down with machinery." 
 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 At the master's voice at the flash of the master's eye the 
 little knot of work-people drew back, and the malcontent, 
 whoever he was, shrunk into silence. 
 
 Mr. Halifax walked past them, entered his mill, and un- 
 locked the door of the room which he had turned into an en- 
 gine room, and where, along with the two men he had 
 brought from Manchester, he had been busy almost night and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 307 
 
 day, for this week past, in setting up his machinery. They 
 worked as the Manchester fellows said they had often been 
 obliged to work under lock and key. 
 
 "Your folk be queer 'uns, Mr. Halifax. They say there's 
 six devils inside on her, theer." 
 
 And the man pointed to the great boiler which had been 
 built up in an out-house adjoining. 
 
 "Six devils, say they? Well, I'll be Maister Michael Scot, 
 eh, Phineas? and make my devils work hard/' 
 
 He laughed, but he was much excited. He went over, piece 
 by piece, the complicated but delicate machinery; rubbed here 
 and there at the brass-work, which shone as bright as a mir- 
 ror; then stepped back and eyed it with pride, almost with af- 
 fection. 
 
 "Isn't it a pretty thing? If only I have it set up right if 
 it will but work!"" 
 
 His hands shook, his cheeks were burning little Edwin 
 came peering about at his knee; but he pushed the child has- 
 tily away; then he found some slight fault with the machinery, 
 and while the workmen rectified it stood watching them 
 breathless with anxiety. His wife came to his side. 
 
 "Don't speak to medon't Ursula. If it fails I am ruined." 
 
 "John!" She just whispered his name, and the soft, firm 
 hold of her fingers closed round his, strengthening, cheering. 
 Her husband faintly smiled. 
 
 "Here!" He unlocked the door and called to the people 
 outside. "Come in, two of you fellows, and see how my dev- 
 ils work. Now, then! Boys, keep out of the way; my little 
 girl" his voice softened "my pet will not be frightened? 
 Now, my men ready?" 
 
 He opened the valve. 
 
 With a strange noise, that made the two Enderley men 
 spring back as if the six devils were really let loose upon them, 
 the steam came rushing into the cylinder. There was a slight 
 motion of the piston-rod. 
 
 "All's right! it will work!" 
 
 No, it stopped. 
 
 John drew a deep breath. 
 
 It went on again, beginning to move slowly up and down 
 like the strong right arm of some automaton giant. Greater 
 and lesser cog-wheels caught up the motive power, revolving 
 slowly and majestically, and with steady, regular rotation, or 
 whirling round so fast you could hardly see that they stirred
 
 308 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 at all. Of a sudden a soul had been put into that wonderful 
 creature of man's making, that inert mass of wood and metal, 
 mysteriously combined. The monster was alive. 
 
 Speechless John stood watching it. Their trial over, his 
 energies collapsed; he sat down by his wife's side, and taking 
 Muriel on his knee, bent his head over hers. 
 
 "Is all right, father?" the child whispered. 
 
 "All quite right, my own." 
 
 "You said you could do it, and you have done it," cried his 
 wife, her eyes glowing with triumph, her head erect and 
 proud. 
 
 John dropped liis lower, lower still. "Yes," he murmured ; 
 "yes, thank God." 
 
 Then he opened the door, and let all the people in to see 
 the wondrous sight. 
 
 They crowded in by dozens, staring about in blank won- 
 der, gaping curiosity, ill-disguised alarm. John took pains 
 to explain the machinery, stage by stage, till some of the more 
 intelligent caught up the principle, and made merry at the 
 notion of "devils." But they all looked with great awe at 
 the master, as if he were something more than man. They 
 listened open-mouthed to every word he uttered, cramming 
 the small engine room till it was scarcely possible to breathe, 
 but keeping at a respectful distance from the iron-armed 
 monster, that went working, working on, as if ready and able 
 to work on to everlasting. 
 
 John took his wife and children out into the open air. 
 Muriel, who had stood for the last few minutes by her father's 
 side, listening with a pleased look to the monotonous regular 
 sound, like the breathing of the demon, was unwilling to go. 
 
 "I am very glad I was with you to-day; very glad, father," 
 she kept saying. 
 
 He said, as often twice as often that next summer, when 
 he came back to Enderley, she should be with him at the 
 mills every day, and all day over, if she liked. 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to hasten as quickly and 
 merrily as possible to our well-beloved Longfield. 
 
 Waiting for the post-chaise, Mrs. Halifax and the boys sat 
 down on the bridge over the defunct and silenced water-fall, 
 on the muddy steps of which, where the stream used to dash 
 musically over, weeds and long grasses, mingled with the 
 drooping water-fern, were already beginning to grow,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 309 
 
 "It looks desolate, but we need not mind that now," said 
 Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 "No" her husband answered. "Steam-power once ob- 
 tained, I can apply it in any way I choose. My people will 
 not hinder; they trust me they like me." 
 
 "And, perhaps, are just a little afraid of you. No matter, 
 it is a wholesome fear. I should not like to have married a 
 man whom nobody was afraid of." 
 
 John smiled; he was looking at the horseman riding toward 
 us along the high road. "I do believe that is Lord Luxmore. 
 I wonder whether he has heard of my steam engine. Love, 
 will you go back into the mill or not?" 
 
 "Certainly not." The mother seated herself on the bridge, 
 her boys around her; John avouched with an air like the 
 mother of the Gracchi, or like the Highland woman who 
 trained one son after another to fight and slay their enemy, 
 their father's murderer. 
 
 "Don't jest," said Ursula. She was much more excited 
 than her husband. Two angry spots burned on her cheeks 
 when Lord Luxmore came up, and, in passing, bowed. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax returned it, haughtily enough. But at the 
 moment a loud cheer broke out from the mill hard by, and 
 "Hurrah for the master!" "Hurrah for Mr. Halifax!" was dis- 
 tinctly heard. The mother smiled right proudly. 
 
 Lord Luxmore turned to his tenant they might have been 
 on the best of terms imaginable, from his bland air. 
 
 "What is that rather harsh noise I hear, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "It is my men cheering me." 
 
 "Oh, how charming! so grateful to the feelings! And why 
 do they cheer you, may I ask?" 
 
 John briefly told him, speaking with perfect courtesy as he 
 was addressed. 
 
 "And this steam-engine I have heard of it before will 
 greatly advantage your mills?" 
 
 "It will, my Lord. It renders me quite independent of 
 your stream, of which the fountains at Luxmore can now 
 have the full monopoly." 
 
 It would not have been human nature if a spice of harm- 
 less malice even triumph had not sparkled in John's eye 
 as he said this. He was walking by the horse's side, as Lord 
 Luxmore had politely requested him. 
 
 They went a little way up the hill together, out of sight
 
 310 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 of Mrs. Halifax, who was busy putting the two younger boys 
 into the chaise. 
 
 "I. did not quite understand. Would you do me the favor 
 to repeat your sentence?' 
 
 "Merely, my lord, that your cutting off of the water- 
 course has been to me one of the greatest advantages I ever 
 had in my life; for which, whether meant or not, allow me to 
 thank you." 
 
 The earl looked full in John's face without answering; 
 then spurred his horse violently. The animal started off full 
 speed. 
 
 "The children! Good God the children!" 
 
 Guy was in the ditch-bank gathering flowers; but Muriel 
 for the first time in our lives we had forgotten Muriel. 
 
 She stood in the horse's path the helpless, blind child. 
 The next instant she was knocked down. 
 
 I never heard a curse on John Halifax's lips but once 
 that once. Lord Luxmore heard it too. The image of the 
 frantic father, snatching up his darling from under the 
 horse's heels, must have haunted the earl's good memory for 
 many a day. 
 
 He dismounted, saying, anxiously, "I hope the little girl 
 is not injured. It was accident, you see pure accident." 
 
 But John did not hear; he would scarcely have heard 
 heaven's thunder. He knelt with the child in his arms by 
 a little runnel in the ditch-bank. When the water touched 
 her she opened her eyes with that wide, momentary stare so 
 painful to behold. 
 
 "My little darling!" 
 
 Muriel smiled and nestled to him. "Indeed I am not 
 hurt, dear father." 
 
 Lord Luxmore, standing by, seemed much relieved, and 
 again pressed his apologies. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Go away!" sobbed out Guy, shaking both his fists in the 
 nobleman's face. "Go away, or I'll kill you, wicked man! 
 I would have done it, if you had killed my sister!" 
 
 Lord Luxmore laughed at the boy's fury threw him a 
 guinea, which Guy threw back at him with all his might, and 
 rode placidly away. 
 
 "Guy! Guy!" called the faint, soft voice which had more 
 power over him than any other, except his mother's. "Guy 
 must not be angry. Father, don't let him be angry."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 311 
 
 But the father was wholly occupied in Muriel looking in 
 her face, and feeling all her little fragile limbs, to make sure 
 that in no way she was injured. 
 
 It appeared not; though the escape seemed almost mirac- 
 ulous. John recurred, with a kind of trembling tenacity, 
 to the old saying in our house, that "nothing ever harmed 
 Muriel." 
 
 "Since it is safe over, and she can walk you are sure you 
 can, my pet? I think we will not say anything about this to 
 the mother; at least, not till we reach Longfield." 
 
 But it was too late. There was no deceiving the mother. 
 Every change in every face struck her instantaneously. The 
 minute we rejoined her, she said: 
 
 "John, something has happened to Muriel." 
 
 Then he told her; making as light of the accident as he 
 could; as, indeed, for the first ten minutes we all believed, 
 until alarmed by the extreme pallor and silence of the child. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax sat down by the road-side, bathed Muriel's 
 forehead and smoothed her hair; but still the little curls 
 lay motionless against the mothers breast; and still to every 
 question she only answered "that she was not hurt." 
 
 All this while the post-chaise was waiting. 
 
 "What must be done!" I inquired of Ursula; for it was no 
 use asking John anything. 
 
 "We must go back again to Enderley," she said, de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 So, giving Muriel into her father's arms, she led the 
 way, and, a melancholy procession, we again ascended the 
 hill to Rose Cottage door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Without any discussion, our plans were tacitly changed; 
 no more was said about going home to dear Longfield. Every 
 one felt, though no one trusted it to words, that the jour- 
 ney was impossible. For Muriel lay, day after day, on her 
 little bed in an upper chamber, or was carried softly down 
 in the middle of the day by her father, never complaining, 
 but never attempting to move or talk. When we asked her 
 if she felt ill, she always answered, "Oh no! only so very 
 tired." Nothing more.
 
 312 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "She is dull, for want of the others to play with her. The 
 boys should not run out and leave their sister alone," said 
 John, almost sharply, when one bright morning the lads' 
 merry voices came down from the Flat, while he and I were 
 sitting by MurielVsofa in the still parlor. 
 
 "Father, let the boys play without me, please. Indeed I do 
 not mind. I had rather lie quiet here." 
 
 "But it is not good for my little girl always to be quiet, and 
 it grieves father." 
 
 "Does it?" She roused herself, sat upright, and began to 
 move her limbs, but wearily. 
 
 "That is right, my darling. Now let me see how well 
 you can walk." 
 
 Muriel slipped to her feet and tried to cross the room, 
 catching at the table and chairs now, alas! not only for 
 guidance but actual support. At last she began to stagger, 
 and said, half crying: 
 
 "I can't walk, I am so tired! Oh, do take me in your 
 arms, dear father!" 
 
 Her father took her, looked long in her sightless face, then 
 buried his against her shoulder, saying nothing. But I 
 think in that moment he too saw, glittering and bare, the 
 long-veiled Hand which, for this year past, I had seen 
 stretched out of the immutable heavens, claiming that which 
 was Its own. Ever after, there was discernible in John's 
 countenance a something which all the cares of his anxious yet 
 happy life had never written there an ineffaceable record, 
 burned in with fire. 
 
 He held her in his arms all day. He invented all sorts of 
 tales and little amusements for her; and when she was tired 
 of these, he let her lie in his bosom and sleep. After her 
 bedtime he asked me to go out with him on the Flat. 
 
 It was a misty night. The very cows and asses stood up 
 large and spectral as shadows. There was not a single star 
 to be seen. 
 
 We took our walk along the terrace and came back again 
 without exchanging a single word. Then John said, hastily: 
 
 "I am glad her mother was so busy to-day too busy to 
 notice." 
 
 "Yes," I answered; unconnected as his words were. 
 
 "Do you understand me, Phineas? Her mother must not 
 on any account be led to imagine, or to fear anything. You
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 313 
 
 must not look as you looked this morning. You must not, 
 Phineas." 
 
 He spoke almost angrily. I answered in a few quieting 
 words. AVe were silent, until over the common we caught 
 sight of the light in Muriel's window. Then I felt rather 
 than heard the father's groan. 
 
 "0 God! my only daughter my dearest child!" 
 
 Yes, she was the dearest. I knew it. Strange mystery, 
 that He should so often take, by death or otherwise, the 
 dearest always the dearest. Strange, that He should hear 
 us cry us writhing in the dust, "0 Father, anything, any- 
 thing but this!" But our Father answers not; and meanwhile 
 the desire of our eyes, be it a life, a love, or a blessing slowly, 
 slowly goes is gone. And yet we have to believe in our 
 Father. Perhaps of all trials to human faith this is the 
 sorest. Thanks be to God if He puts into our hearts such 
 love toward Him, that even while He slays us we can trust 
 Him still. 
 
 This father this broken-hearted earthly father could. 
 
 When we sat at the supper-table, Ursula, John, and I, the 
 children being all in bed, no one could have told that there 
 was any shadow over us, more than the sadly-familiar pain of 
 the darling of the house being "not so strong as she used to 
 be." 
 
 "But I think she will be, John. "We shall have her quite 
 about again, before " 
 
 The mother stopped, slightly smiling. It was, indeed, an 
 especial mercy of Heaven which put that unaccountable blind- 
 ness before her eyes, and gave her other duties and other cares 
 to intercept the thought .of Muriel. While, from morning 
 till night it was the incessant secret care of her husband, 
 myself, and good Mrs. Tod, to keep her out of her little 
 daughter's sight, and prevent her mind from catching the 
 danger of one single fear. 
 
 Thus, within a week or two, the mother lay down cheer- 
 fully upon her couch of pain, and gave another child to the 
 household a little sister to Muriel. 
 
 Muriel was the first to whom the news was told. Her 
 father told it. His natural joy and thankfulness seemed for 
 the moment to efface every other thought. 
 
 "She is come, darling! little Maud is come. I am very 
 rich for I have two daughters now." 
 
 "Muriel is glad, father." But she showed her gladness in
 
 314 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 a strangely quiet, meditative way, unlike a child unlike 
 even her own self. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, my pet?" 
 
 ''That though father has another daughter, I hope he 
 will remember the first one sometimes." 
 
 ''She is jealous!" cried John, in the curious delight with 
 which he always detected in her any weakness, any fault, 
 \vhirh brought her down to the safe level of humanity. "Sec, 
 Uncle Phineas, our Muriel is actually jealous." 
 
 But Muriel only smiled. 
 
 That smile, so serene, so apart from every feeling or pas- 
 sion appertaining to us who are "of the earth, earthy," smote 
 the father to the heart's core. 
 
 He sat down by her, and she crept into his arms. 
 
 "What day is it, father?" 
 
 "The first of December." 
 
 "I am glad. Little Maud's birthday will be in the same 
 month as mine." 
 
 "But you came in the snow, Muriel, and now it is warm 
 and mild." 
 
 "There will be snow on my birthday, though. There 
 always is. The snow is fond of me, father. It would like me 
 to lie down and be all covered over, so that you could not 
 find me anywhere." 
 
 I heard John try to echo her weak, soft laugh. 
 
 "This month it will be eleven years since I was born, will 
 it not, father?" 
 
 "Yes, my darling." 
 
 Cf What a long time! Then, when my little sister is as 
 old as I am, I shall be that is, I should have been a 
 woman grown. Fancy me twenty years old, as tall as mother, 
 wearing a gown like her, talking and ordering, and busy 
 about the house. How funny!" And she laughed again. 
 "Oh, no, father, I couldn't do it. I had better remain always 
 your little Muriel, weak and small, who liked to creep close 
 to you, and go to sleep in this way." 
 
 She ceased talking very soon she was sound asleep. But 
 the father! 
 
 Muriel faded, though slowly. Sometimes she was so well 
 for an hour or two that the Hand seemed drawn back into 
 the clouds, till of a sudden we discerned it there. 
 
 One Sunday it was ten davs or so after Maud's birth, and 
 the weather had been so bitterly cold that the mother had her-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 315 
 
 self forbidden our bringing Muriel to the other side of the 
 house where she and the baby lay Mrs. Tod was laying the 
 dinner and John stood at the window playing with his three 
 boys. 
 
 He turned abruptly and saw all the chairs placed round the 
 table all save one. 
 
 "Where is Muriel's chair, Mrs. Tod?" 
 
 "Sir, she says she feels so tired-like she'd rather not come 
 down to-day," answered Mrs. Tod, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Not come down?" 
 
 "Maybe better not, Mr. Halifax. Look out at the snow. 
 It'll be warmer for the dear child to-morrow." 
 
 "You are right. Yes, I had forgotten the snow. She 
 shall come down to-morrow." 
 
 I caught Mrs. Tod's eyes; they were running over. She was 
 too wise to speak of it but she knew the truth as well as 
 we. 
 
 This Sunday I remember it well was the first day we 
 sat down to dinner with the one place vacant. 
 
 For a few days longer, her father, every evening when he 
 came in from the mills, persisted in carrying her down, as 
 he had said, holding her on his knee during tea, then amus- 
 ing her and letting the boys amuse her for half an hour or 
 so before bedtime. But at the week's end even this ceased. 
 
 "When Mrs. Halifax, quite convalescent, was brought tri- 
 umphantly to her old place at our happy Sunday dinner- 
 table, and all the boys came pressing about her, vying which 
 should get most kisses from little sister Maud, she looked 
 round, surprised amid her smiling, and asked: 
 
 "Where is Muriel?" 
 
 "She seems to feel this bitter weather a good deal," John 
 said. "And I thought it better she should not come down to 
 dinner." 
 
 "No," added Guy, wondering and dolefully, "sister has 
 not been down to dinner with us for a great many days." 
 
 The mother started; looked first at her husband, and then 
 at me. 
 
 "Why did nobody tell me this?" 
 
 "Love, there was nothing new to be told." 
 
 ''Has the child had any illness that I do not know of?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Has Dr. Jessop seen her?" 
 
 "Several times."
 
 316 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Mother," said Guy, eager to comfort, for, naughty as he 
 was sometimes, he was the most tender-hearted of all the 
 boys, especially to Muriel and to his mother, "sister isn't ill 
 a bit, I know. She was laughing and talking with me just 
 now saying she knows she could carry baby a great deal 
 better than I could. She is as merry as ever she can be." 
 
 The mother kissed him in her quick, eager way the sole 
 indication of that maternal love which was in her almost a 
 passion. She looked more satisfied. 
 
 Nevertheless, when Mrs. Tod came into the parlor, she 
 rose and put little Maud into her arms. 
 
 "Take baby, please, while I go up to see Muriel." 
 
 "Don't now don't, please, Mrs. Halifax," cried earnestly 
 the good woman. 
 
 Ursula turned very pale. "They ought to have told me," 
 she muttered; "John, you must let me go and see my child." 
 
 "Presently, presently. Guy, run up and play with Muriel. 
 Phineas, take the others with you. You shall go upstairs 
 in one minute, my darling wife!" 
 
 He turned us all out of the room and shut the door. How 
 he told her that which it was necessary she should know 
 that which Dr. Jessop himself had told us this very morning; 
 how the father and mother bore this first open revelation 
 of their unutterable grief, forever remained unknown. 
 
 I was sitting by Muriel's bed when they came upstairs. 
 The darling lay listening to her brother, who was squatted 
 on her pillow, making all sorts of funny talk. There was a 
 smile on her face; she looked quite rosy; I hoped Ursula 
 might not notice, just for the time being, the great change 
 the last few weeks had made. 
 
 But she did; who could ever blindfold a mother? For 
 a moment I saw her recoil, then turn to her husband with 
 a dumb, piteous, desperate look, as though to say, "Help me; 
 my sorrow is more than I can bear!" 
 
 But Muriel, hearing the step, cried with a joyful cry, 
 "Mother! it's my mother!" 
 
 The mother folded her to her breast. 
 
 Muriel shed a tear or two there, in a satisfied, peaceful 
 way; the mother did not weep at all. Her self-command, so 
 far as speech went, was miraculous. For her look but then 
 she knew the child was blind. 
 
 "Now," she said, "my pet will be good and not cry? It 
 would do her harm. We must be very happy to-day."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 317 
 
 "Oh yes." Then in a fond whisper, "Please, I do so want 
 to see little Maud." 
 
 "Who?" with an absent gaze. 
 
 "My little sister, Maud Maud that is to take my place 
 and be everybody's darling now." 
 
 "Hush, Muriel," said the father, hoarsely. 
 
 A strangely soft smile broke over her face and she was 
 silent. 
 
 The new baby was carried upstairs proudly by Mrs. Tod, 
 all the boys following. Quite a levee was held round the bed, 
 where, laid close beside her, her weak hands being guided 
 over the tiny face and form, Muriel first "saw" her little 
 sister. She was greatly pleased. With a grave elder-sister- 
 ly air she felt all over the baby-limbs, and when Maud set up 
 an indignant cry, began hushing her with so quaint an imi- 
 tation of motherliness that we were all amused. 
 
 "You'll be a capital nurse in a month or two, my pretty!" 
 said Mrs. Tod. 
 
 Muriel only smiled. "How fat she is and look how fast 
 her fingers take hold! And her head is so round and her 
 hair feels so soft as soft as my doves' necks at Longfield. 
 What color is it like mine?" 
 
 It was nearly the same shade. Maud bore, the mother 
 declared, the strongest likeness to Muriel. 
 
 "I am so glad. But these" touching her eyes anxious- 
 
 iy. 
 
 ''No, my darling. Not like you there," was the low an- 
 swer. 
 
 "I am very glad. Please, little Maud, don't cry it's only 
 sister touching you. How wide open your eyes feel! I won- 
 der" with a thoughtful pause "I wonder if you can see 
 me. Little Maud, I should like you to see sister." 
 
 "She does see, of course; how she stares!" cried Guy. And 
 then Edwin began to argue to the contrary, protesting that 
 as kittens and puppies could not see at first, he believed 
 little babies did not: which produced a warm altercation 
 among the children gathered^ round the bed, while Muriel 
 lay back quietly on her pillow, with her little sister fondly 
 hugged to her breast. 
 
 The father and mother looked on. It was such a picture 
 these five darlings, these children which God had given 
 thorn a group perfect and complete in itself, like a root of
 
 318 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 daisies, or a branch of ripening fruit, which not one could 
 be added to, or taken from. 
 
 No. I was sure, from the parents' smile, that one Mercy 
 had blinded their eyes, so that they saw nothing beyond the 
 present moment. 
 
 The children were wildly happy. All the afternoon they 
 kept up their innocent little games by Muriel's bedside; she 
 sometimes sharing, sometimes listening apart. Only once 
 or twice came that wistful, absent look, as if she were list- 
 ening partly to us, and partly to those we heard not; as if 
 through the wide-open orbs the soul were straining at sights 
 wonderful and new sights into which her eyes were the 
 clear-seeing, and ours the blank and blind. 
 
 It seems strange now, to remember that Sunday after- 
 noon, and how merry we all were; how we drank tea in the 
 queer bedroom at the top of the house; and now afterward 
 Muriel went to sleep in the twilight, with baby Maud in her 
 arms. Mrs. Halifax sat beside the little bed, a sudden blazing 
 up of the fire showing the intentness of her watch over these 
 two, her eldest and youngest, fast asleep; their breathing so 
 soft, one hardly knew which was frailest, the life slowly fad- 
 ing or the life but just begun. Their breaths seemed to mix 
 and mingle, and the two faces, lying close together, to grow 
 into a strange likeness each to each. At least we all fancied 
 so. 
 
 Meantime John kept the boys as still as mice, in the broad 
 window-seat, looking across the white snowy sheet, with black 
 bushes peering out here and there, to the feathery beech- 
 wood, over the tops of which the new moon was going down. 
 Such a little young moon; and how peacefully nay, smil- 
 ingly she set among the snows! 
 
 The children watched her till the very last minute, when 
 Guy startled the deep quiet of the room by exclaiming 
 "There she's gone!" 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 "N"o, mother, I am awake," said Muriel. "Who is gone, 
 Guy?" 
 
 "The moon such a pretty little moon." 
 
 "Ah, Maud will see the moon some day." She dropped her 
 cheek down again beside the baby sister, and was silent once 
 more. 
 
 This is the only incident I remember of that peaceful, 
 heavenly hour.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 319 
 
 Maud broke upon its quietude by her waking and wailing; 
 and Muriel very unwillingly let the little sister go. 
 
 "I wish she might stay with me just this one night, and 
 to-morrow is my birthday. Please, mother, may she stay?" 
 
 "We will both stay, my darling. I shall not leave you 
 again." 
 
 "I am so glad/' and once more she turned round, as if to go 
 to sleep. 
 
 "Are you tired, my pet?" said John, looking intently at 
 her. 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 "Shall I take your brothers down-stairs?" 
 
 "Not yet, dear father." 
 
 "What would you like, then?" 
 
 "Only to lie here, this Sunday evening, among you all." 
 
 He asked her if she would like him to read aloud as h,e 
 generally did on Sunday evenings. 
 
 "Yes, please; and Guy will come and sit quiet on the bed 
 beside me and listen. That will be pleasant. Guy was 
 always very good to his sister always." 
 
 "I don't know that," said Guy, in a conscience-stricken 
 tone. "But I mean to be when I grow a big man that I 
 do." 
 
 No one answered. John opened the large Book the Book 
 he had taught all his children to long for and to love, and 
 read out of it their favorite history of Joseph and his brethren. 
 The mother sat by him at the fireside, rocking Maud softly 
 on her knees. Edwin and Walter settled themselves on the 
 hearth-rug, with great eyes intently fixed on their father. 
 From behind him the candle-light fell softly down on the 
 motionless figure in the bed, whose hand he held, and whose 
 face he every now and then turned to look at then, satisfied, 
 continued to read. 
 
 In the reading, his voice had a fatherly, flowing calm 
 as Jacob's might have had, when "the children were tender, 1 ' 
 and he gathered them all round him under the palm-trees 
 of Succoth years before he cried unto the Lord that bitter 
 cry (which John hurried over as he read), "If I am bereaved 
 of my children, I am bereaved." 
 
 For an hour nearly, we all sat thus with the wind com- 
 ing up the valley, howling in the beech-wood, and shaking 
 the casement as it passed outside. Within, the only sound 
 was the father's voice. This ceased at last: he shut the Bible,
 
 320 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and put it aside. The group that last perfect house- 
 hold picture was broken up. It melted away into things 
 of the past, and became only a picture for evermore. 
 
 "Now, boys, it is full time to say good-night. There, go 
 and kiss your sister." 
 
 "Which?" said Edwin, in his funny way. "We've got two 
 now; and I don't know which is the biggest baby." 
 
 "I'll thrash you if you say that again," said Guy. "Which, 
 indeed? Maud is but the baby. Muriel will be always 
 'sister.' " 
 
 "Sister" faintly laughed, as she answered his fond kiss. 
 Guy was often thought to be her favorite brother. 
 
 "Now, off with you, boys; and go down-stairs quietly 
 mind, I say quietly." 
 
 They obeyed that is, as literally as boy-nature can obey 
 such an admonition. But an hour after I heard Guy and 
 Edwin arguing vociferously in the dark on the respective 
 merits and future treatment of their two sisters, Muriel and 
 Maud. 
 
 John and I sat up late together that night. He could not 
 rest even though he told me he had left the mother and her 
 two daughters as cosy as a nest of wood-pigeons. We listened 
 to the wild night, till it had almost howled itself away; then 
 our fire went out, and we came and sat over the last fagot in 
 Mrs. Tod's kitchen the only Debatable Land. We began 
 talking of the long-ago time, and not of this time at all. 
 The vivid present never out of either mind for an instant 
 we in our conversation did not touch upon by at least ten 
 years. Nor did we give expression to a thought which strongly 
 oppressed me, and I once or twice fancied I could detect in 
 John likewise how very like this night seemed to the night 
 when Mr. March died; the same silentness in the house the 
 same windy whirl without the same blaze of the wood-fire on 
 the same kitchen ceiling. 
 
 More than once I could almost have deluded myself that I 
 heard the faint moans and footsteps overhead that the 
 staircase door would open, and we should see there Miss 
 March, in her white gown, and her pale, steadfast look. 
 
 "I think the mother seemed very well and calm to-night," 
 I said, hesitatingly, as we were retiring. 
 
 "She is. God help her and us all!" 
 
 "He will." 
 
 This was all we said.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 321 
 
 He went upstairs the last thing, and br'ought down word 
 that mother and children were all sound asleep. 
 
 "I think I may leave them until daylight to-morrow. And 
 now, Uncle Phineas, go you to bed, for you look as tired as 
 tired can be." 
 
 I went to bed; but all night long I had disturbed dreams, 
 in which I pictured over and over again, first the night 
 when Mr. March died, then the night at Longfield, when 
 the little white ghost had crossed by my bed's foot into the 
 room where Mary Baines' dead boy lay. And continually, 
 toward morning, I fancied I heard through my window, 
 which faced the church, the faint, distant sound of the organ, 
 as when Muriel used to play it. 
 
 Long before it was light I rose. As I passed the boys' 
 room, Guy called out to me: 
 
 "Halloo! Uncle Phineas, is it a fine morning? for I want 
 to go down into the wood and get a lot of beech-nuts and 
 fir-cones for sister. It's her birthday to-day, you know." 
 
 It was, for her. But for us Oh, Muriel, our darling, 
 
 darling child! 
 
 Let me hasten over the story of that morning, for my old 
 heart quails before it still. 
 
 John went early to the room upstairs. It was very still. 
 Ursula lay calmly asleep, with baby Maud in her bosom; on 
 her other side, with eyes wide open to the daylight, lay that 
 which for more than ten years we had been used to call 
 "blind Muriel." She saw now! 
 
 The same day, at evening, we three were sitting in the 
 parlor; we elders only it was past the children's bed- 
 time. Grief had spent itself dry; we were all very quiet. 
 Even L T rsula, when she came in from fetching the boys' 
 candle, as had always been her custom, and though after- 
 ward I thought I had heard her going upstairs, likewise 
 from habit where there was no need to bid any mother's 
 good-night now even Ursula sat in the rocking-chair, nurs- 
 ing Maud, and trying to still her crying with a little foolish 
 baby-tune that had descended as a family lullaby from one to 
 the other of the whole five how sad it sounded! 
 
 John, who sat at the table, shading the light from his 
 eyes, an open book lying before him, of which he never 
 turned one page, looked up at her. 
 
 "Love, you must not tire yourself. Give me the child!" 
 21
 
 322 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "No, no! Let. me keep my baby she comforts me so!" 
 And the mother burst into uncontrollable weeping. 
 
 John shut his book and came to her. He supported her 
 on his bosom, saying a soothing word or two at intervals, 
 or, when the paroxysm of her anguish was beyond all bounds, 
 supporting her silently till it had gone by; never once let- 
 ting her feel that, bitter as her sorrow was, his was heavier 
 than hers. 
 
 Thus, during the whole of the day, had he been the stay and 
 consolation of the household. For himself the father's 
 grief was altogether dumb. 
 
 At last Mrs. Halifax became more composed. She sat be- 
 side her husband, her hand in his, neither, speaking, but gaz- 
 ing, as it were, into the face of this great sorrow and from 
 thence up to the face of God. They felt that He could 
 help them to bear it; ay, or anything else that it was His will 
 to send, if they might thus bear it together. 
 
 We all three sat thus, and there had not been a sound in 
 the parlor for ever so long, when Mrs. Tod opened the door 
 and beckoned to me. 
 
 "He will come in he's crazy-like, poor fellow! He has 
 only just heard " 
 
 She broke off with a sob. Lord Ravenel pushed her aside 
 and stood at the door. We had not seen him since the day of 
 that innocent jest about his "falling in love" with Muriel. 
 Seeing us all so quiet, and the parlor looking as it always did 
 when he used to come of evenings, the young man drew back 
 amazed. 
 
 "It is not true! No, it could not be true!" he muttered. 
 
 "It is true/' said the father. "Come in." 
 
 The mother held out her hand to him. "Yes, come in. 
 You were very fond of " 
 
 Ah, that name now nothing but a name! For a little 
 while we all wept sore. 
 
 Then we told him it was Ursula who did it chiefly all 
 particulars about our darling. She told him. but calmly, 
 as became one on whom had fallen the utmost sorrow, and 
 crowning consecration of motherhood that of yielding up 
 her child, a portion of her own being, to the corruption of the 
 grave of resigning the life which out of her own life had 
 been created unto the Creator of all. 
 
 Surely, distant and peculiar from every other grief, every 
 other renunciation, must be that of a woman who is thus
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 328 
 
 chosen to give her very flesh and blood, the fruit of her own 
 womb, unto the Lord! 
 
 This dignity, this sanctity, seemed gradually to fall upon 
 the mourning mother, as she talked about her lost one; re- 
 peating often, "I tell you this, because you were so fond of 
 Muriel." 
 
 He listened silently. At length he said, "I want to see 
 Muriel." 
 
 The mother lit a candle, and he followed her upstairs. 
 
 Just the same homely room, half -bedchamber, half -nursery, 
 the same little curtainless bed where, for a week past, we had 
 been accustomed to see the wasted figure and small pale face 
 lying, in smiling quietude, all day long. 
 
 It lay there still. In it, and in the room, was hardly any 
 change. One of Walter's playthings was in a corner of the 
 window-sill, and on the chest of drawers stood the nosegay of 
 Christmas roses which Guy had brought for his sister yester- 
 day morning. Nay, her shawl a white, soft, furry shawl, 
 that she was fond of wearing remained still hanging up be- 
 hind the door. One could almost fancy the little maid had 
 just been said "good-night" to, and left to dream the childish 
 dreams on her nursery pillow, where the small head rested so 
 peacefully, with that pretty babyish night-cap tied over the 
 pretty curls. 
 
 There she was, the child who had gone out of the number 
 of our children our earthly children forever. 
 
 Her mother sat down at the side of the i>ed, her father at 
 its foot, looking at her. Lord Eavenel stood by, motionless; 
 then stooping down, he kissed the small marble hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, good-bye, my little Muriel!" 
 
 And he left the room abruptly, in such an anguish of grief 
 that the mother rose and followed him. 
 
 John went to the door and locked it almost with a sort of 
 impatience; then came back and stood by his darling, alone. 
 Me he never saw no, nor anything in the world except that 
 little face, even in death so strangely like his own. The face 
 which had been for eleven years the joy of his heart, the very 
 apple of his e} r e. 
 
 For a long time he remained gazing, in a stupor of silence; 
 then sinking on his knees, he stretched out his arms across 
 the bed, with a bitter cry: 
 
 "Come back to me, my darling, my first-born! Come back 
 to me, Muriel, my little daughter my own little daughter 1" 
 
 But thou wert with the angels, Muriel Muriel!
 
 324 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 We went home, leaving all that was mortal of our darling 
 sleeping at Enderley underneath the snows. 
 
 For twelve years after that we lived at Longfield; in such 
 unbroken, uneventful peace, that looking back seems like 
 looking back over a level sea, whose leagues of tiny ripples 
 make one smooth glassy plain. 
 
 Let me recall, as the first wave that rose, ominous of change 
 a certain spring evening, when Mrs. Halifax and I were sit- 
 ting, as was our wont, under the walnut-tree. The same old 
 walnut tree, hardly a bough altered, though many of its neigh- 
 bors and kindred had grown from saplings into trees even 
 as some of us had grown from children almost into young 
 men. 
 
 "Edwin is late home from Norton Bury," said Ursula. 
 
 "So is his father." 
 
 "No this is just John's time. Hark! there are the car- 
 riage wheels!" 
 
 For Mr. Halifax, a prosperous man now, drove daily to and 
 from his mills, in as tasteful an equipage as any of the country 
 gentry between here and Enderley. 
 
 His wife went down to the stream to meet him as usual, and 
 they came up the field path together. 
 
 Both were changed from the John and Ursula of whom I 
 last wrote. She active and fresh-looking still, but settling 
 into that fair largeness which is not unbecoming a lady of 
 middle-age; he, inclined to a slight stoop, with the lines of his 
 face more sharply defined, and the hair wearing away off his 
 forehead up to the crown. Though still not a gray thread was 
 discernible in the crisp locks at the back, which successively 
 five little ones had pulled, and played with, and nestled in; 
 not a sign of age, as yet, in "father's curls." 
 
 As soon as he had spoken to me, he looked round as usual 
 for his children, and asked if the boys and Maud would be 
 home to tea? 
 
 "I think Guy and Walter never do come home in time when 
 they go over to the Manor House." 
 
 "The/re young let them enjoy themselves/' said the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 325 
 
 father, smiling. "And you know, love, of all our 'fine' friends, 
 there are none you so heartily approve of as the Oldtowers." 
 
 These were not of the former race. Good old Sir Ealph 
 had gone to his rest, and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead 
 Sir Herbert, who in his dignified gratitude never forgot a cer- 
 tain election-day, when he first made the personal acquaint- 
 ance of Mr. Halifax. The Manor House family brought sev- 
 eral other "country families" to our notice, or us to theirs. 
 These when John's fortunes grew rapidly as many another 
 fortune grew, in the beginning of the thirty years' peace, when 
 unknown petty manufacturers first rose into merchant princes 
 and cotton lords these gentry made a perceptible distinction, 
 often amusing enough to us, between John Halifax, the tanner 
 of Xorton Bury, and Mr. Halifax, the prosperous owner of 
 Enderley Mills. Some of them, too, were clever enough to 
 discover what a pleasant and altogether "visitable" lady was 
 Mrs. Halifax, daughter of the late Mr. March, a governor in 
 the West Indies, and cousin of Mr. Brithwood, of the Mythe. 
 But Mrs. Halifax, with quiet tenacity, altogether declined be- 
 ing visited as anything but Mrs. Halifax, wife of John Hali- 
 fax, tanner, or mill-owner, or whatever he might be. All hon- 
 ors and all civilities that did not come through him, and with 
 him, were utterly valueless to her. 
 
 To this her peculiarity was added another of John's own, 
 namely, that all his life he had been averse to what is called 
 "society;" had eschewed "acquaintances," and but most men 
 might easily count upon their fingers the number of those 
 who, during a lifetime, are found worthy of the sacred name 
 of "friend." Consequently, our circle of associations was far 
 more limited than that of many families holding an equal posi- 
 tion Avith us on which circumstance our neighbors com- 
 mented a good deal. But little we cared; no more than we 
 had cared for the chit-chat of Norton Bury. Our whole 
 hearts were bound up within our own home our happy Long- 
 field. 
 
 "I do think this place is growing prettier than ever," said 
 John, when, tea being over a rather quiet meal without a 
 single child we elders went out again to the walnut tree 
 bench. "Certainly, prettier than ever;" and his eye wandered 
 over the quaint, low house, all odds and ends for nearly every 
 year something had been built or something pulled down; then 
 crossing the smooth bit of lawn, Jem Watkins' special pride, 
 it rested on the sloping field, yellow with tall buttercups,
 
 326 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 wavy with growing grass. "Let me see how long have we 
 lived here? Phineas, you are the one for remembering dates. 
 What year was it we came to Longfield?" 
 
 "Eighteen hundred and twelve. Thirteen years ago." 
 
 "Ah, so long!" 
 
 "Not too long," said Mrs. Halifax, earnestly. "I hope we 
 may end our days here. Do not you, John?" 
 
 He paused a little before answering. "Yes, I wish it; but 
 I am not sure how far it would be right to do it." 
 
 "We will not open that subject again," said the mother, un- 
 easily. "I thought we had all made up our minds that little 
 Longfield was a thousand times pleasanter than Beechwood, 
 grand as it is. But John thinks he never can do enough for 
 his people at Enderley." 
 
 "Not that alone, love. Other reasons combined. Do you 
 know, Phineas," he continued, musingly, as he watched the 
 sun set over Leckington Hill, "sometimes I fancy my life is 
 too easy that I am not a wise steward of the riches that ha\e 
 multiplied so fast. By fifty, a man so blest as I have been, 
 ought to have done something of real use in the world and I 
 am forty-five. Once I hoped to have done wonderful things 
 ere I was forty-five. But somehow the desire faded." 
 
 His wife and I were silent. We both knew the truth; that 
 calm as had flowed his outer existence, in which was omitted 
 not one actual duty; still, for these twelve years, all the high 
 aims which make the glory and charm of life as duty make 
 its strength, all the active energies and noble ambitions .which 
 especially belong to the prime of manhood, in him had been, 
 not dead, perhaps, but sleeping. Sleeping, beyond the power 
 of any human voice to waken them, under the daisies of a 
 child's grave at Enderley. 
 
 I know not if this was right but it was scarcely unnatural. 
 In that heart, which loved as few men love, and remembered 
 as few men remember so deep a wound could never be thor- 
 oughly healed. A certain something in him seemed different 
 ever after, as if a portion of the father's own life had been 
 taken away with Muriel, and lay buried in the little dead bo- 
 som of his first-born, his dearest child. 
 
 "You forget," said Mrs. Halifax, tenderly, "you forget, 
 John, how much you have been doing, and intend to do. 
 What with your improvements at Enderley and your Catholic 
 Emancipation, your Abolition of Slavery and your Parliament-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 327 
 
 ary 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 blame yourself. Ask Phineas, there 
 our household Solomon." 
 
 "Thank you, Ursula," said I, submitting to the not rare for- 
 tune of being loved and laughed at. 
 
 "Uncle Phineas, what better could John have done in all 
 these years, than look after his mills, and educate his three 
 sons?" 
 
 "Have them educated, rather," corrected he, sensitive over 
 his own painfully-gained and limited acquirements. Yet this 
 feeling had made him doubly careful to give his boys every 
 possible advantage of study, short of sending them from home, 
 to which he had an invincible objection. And three finer 
 lads, or better educated, there could not be found in the whole 
 county. 
 
 "I think, John, Guy has quite got over his fancy of going to 
 Cambridge with Ralph Oldtower." 
 
 "Yes; college life would not have done for Guy," said the 
 father, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Hush! we must not talk about them, for here come the 
 children." 
 
 It was now a mere figure of speech to call them so, though, 
 in their home-talk, loving simplicity, they would neither have 
 been ashamed nor annoyed at the epithet these two tall lads, 
 who in the dusk looked as man-like as their father. 
 
 "Where is your sister, boys?" 
 
 "Maud stopped at the stream with Edwin," answered Guy, 
 rather carelessly. His heart had kept his childish faith; the 
 youngest, pet as she was, was never anything to him but "little 
 Maud." One whom the boys still talked of, softly and ten- 
 derty, in fireside evening talks, when the winter winds came 
 and the snow was falling one only was ever spoken of by 
 Guy as "sister." 
 
 Maud, or Miss Halifax, as from the first she was naturally 
 called as naturally as our lost darling was never called any- 
 thing else than Muriel came up, hanging on Edwin's arm, 
 which she was fond of doing, both because it happened to be 
 the only arm low enough to suit her childish nature, and be- 
 cause she was especially "Edwin's girl," and had been so al- 
 ways. She had grown out of the likeness that we longed for 
 in her cradle days, or else we had grown out of the perception
 
 328 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 of it; for though the external resemblance in hair and com- 
 plexion still remained, nothing could be more unlike in spirit 
 than this sprightly elf, at once the plague and pet of the fam- 
 ily, to our Muriel. 
 
 "Edwin's girl" stole away with him, merrily chattering. Guy 
 sat down beside his mother, and slipped his arm round her 
 waist. They still fondled her with a child-like simplicity 
 these her almost grown-up sons; who had never been sent to 
 school for a day, and had never learned from other sons of far 
 different mothers, that a young man's chief manliness ought 
 to consist in despising the tender charities of home. 
 
 "Guy, you foolish boy!" as she took his cap off and pushed 
 back his hair, trying not to look proud of his handsome face, 
 "what have you been doing all day?" 
 
 "Making myself agreeable, of course, mother." 
 
 "That he has," corroborated Walter, whose great object of 
 hero-worship was his eldest brother. "He talked with Lady 
 Oldtower, and he sang with Miss Oldtower and Miss Grace. 
 Never was there such a fellow as our Guy." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said his mother, while Guy only laughed, too 
 accustomed to this family admiration to be much disconcerted 
 or harmed thereby. 
 
 "When does Ralph return to Cambridge?" 
 
 "Not at all. He is going to leave college, and be off to help 
 the Greeks. Father, do you know everybody is joining the 
 Greeks? Even Lord Byron is off with the rest. I only wish 
 I were." 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" muttered the mother. 
 
 "Why not? I should have made a capital soldier, and liked 
 it, too, better than anything." 
 
 "Better than being my right hand at the mills, and your 
 mother's at home? Better than growing up to be our eldest 
 son, our comfort and our hope? I think not, Guy/' 
 
 "You are right, father," was the answer, with an uneasy 
 look. For this description seemed less what Guy was, than 
 what we desired him to be. With his easy, happy temper, 
 generous but uncertain, and his showy, brilliant parts, he was 
 not nearly so much to be depended on as the grave Edwin, 
 who was already a thorough man of business, and plodded be- 
 tween Enderley Mills and a smaller one which had taken the 
 place of the flour mill at Norton Bury, with indomitable per- 
 severance. 
 
 Guy fell into a brown study, not unnoticed by those anxious
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 329 
 
 eyes, which lingered oftener upon his face than on that of any 
 of her sons. Mrs. Halifax said, in her quick, decisive way, 
 that it was "time to go in." 
 
 So the sunset picture outside changed to the home-group 
 within; the mother sitting at her little table, where the tall 
 silver candlestick shed a subdued light on her work-basket, 
 that never was empty, and her busy fingers, that never were 
 still. The father sat beside her; he kept his old habit of lik- 
 ing to have her close to him; ay, even though he was falling 
 into the middle-aged comforts of an arm-chair and newspaper. 
 There he sat, sometimes reading aloud, or talking; sometimes 
 lazily watching her, with silent, loving eyes, that saw beauty 
 in his old wife still. 
 
 The young folk scattered themselves about the room. Guy 
 and Walter at the unshuttered window we had a habit of 
 never hiding our home-light were looking at the moon 
 and laying bets, sotto voce, upon how many minutes she 
 would be in climbing over the oak on the top of One-tree Hill. 
 Edwin sat reading hard, his shoulders up to his ears, and his 
 fingers stuck through his hair, developing the whole of his 
 broad, knobbed, knotted forehead, where, Maud declared, the 
 wrinkles had already begun to show. For Mistress Maud her- 
 self, she flitted about in all directions, interrupting everything 
 and doing nothing. 
 
 "Maud," said her father, at last, "I am afraid you give a 
 great deal of trouble to Uncle Phineas." 
 
 Uncle Phineas tried to soften the fact but the little lady was 
 certainly the most trying of his pupils. Her mother she had 
 long escaped from, for the advantage of both. For, to tell the 
 truth, while in the invisible atmosphere of moral training the 
 mother's influence was invaluable, in the minor branch of 
 lesson-learning there might have been found many a better 
 teacher than Ursula Halifax. So the children's education 
 was chiefly left to me; other tutors succeeding as was neces- 
 sary; and it had just begun to be considered whether a lady 
 governess ought not to "finish" the education of Miss Halifax. 
 But always at home. Not for all the knowledge and all the 
 accomplishments in the world would these parents have suf- 
 fered either son or daughter living souls intrusted them by 
 the Divine Father to be brought up anywhere out of their 
 own sight, out of the shelter and safeguard of their own nat- 
 ural home. 
 
 "Love, when I was waiting to-day in Jessop's bank "
 
 330 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 (Ah! that was another change, to which we were even yet 
 not familiar, the passing away of our good doctor and his 
 wife, and his brother and heir turning the old dining room 
 into a "County Bank open from ten till four.") 
 
 "While waiting there, I heard of a lady who struck me as 
 likely to be an excellent governess for Maud." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Mrs. Halifax, not over-enthusiastically. 
 Maud became eager to know "what the lady was like?" at the 
 same time inquiring "who she was?" 
 
 "Who? I really did not ask," John answered, smiling. 
 "But of what she is Jessop gave me first-rate evidence a good 
 daughter, who teaches in Norton Bury anybody's children for 
 any sort of pay, in order to maintain an ailing mother. Ur- 
 sula, you would let her teach our Maud, I know?" 
 
 "Is she an Englishwoman?" For Mrs. Halifax, prejudiced 
 by a certain French lady who had for a few months completely 
 upset the peace of the Manor House, and even slightly tainted 
 her own favorite, pretty Grace Oldtower, had received coldly 
 this governess plan from the beginning. "Would she have to 
 live with us?" 
 
 "I think so, decidedly." 
 
 "Then it can't be. The house will not accommodate her. 
 It will hardly hold even ourselves. No, we cannot take in 
 anybody else at Longfield." 
 
 "But we may have to leave Longfield." 
 
 The boys here turned to listen; for this question had al- 
 ready been mooted, as all family questions were. In our house 
 we had no secrets; the young folk, being trusted, were ever 
 trustworthy; and the parents, clean-handed and pure-hearted, 
 had nothing that they were afraid to tell their children. 
 
 "Leave Longfield!" repeated Mrs. Halifax; "surely surely 
 
 " But glancing at her husband, her tone of impatience 
 
 ceased. 
 
 He sat gazing into the fire with an anxious air. 
 
 "Don't let us discuss that question at least, not to-n?ght. 
 It troubles you, John. Put it off till to-morrow." 
 
 No, that was never his habit. He was one of the very few 
 who, a thing being to be done, will not trust it to uncertain 
 "to-morrows." His wife saw that he wanted to talk to her, 
 and listened. 
 
 "Yes, the question does trouble me a good deal. Whether, 
 now that our children are growing up, and our income is 
 doubling and trebling year by year, we ought to widen our
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 331 
 
 circle of usefulness, or close it up permanently within the 
 quiet bound of little Longfield. Love, which say you?" 
 "The latter, the latter because it is far the happiest." 
 "I am afraid not the latter, because it is the happiest." 
 He spoke gently, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder, and 
 looking down on her with that peculiar look which he always 
 had when telling her things that he knew were sore to hear. 
 I never saw that look on any living face save John's; but I 
 have seen it once in a picture of two Huguenot lovers. The 
 woman is trying to fasten round the man's neck the white 
 badge that will save him from the massacre (of St. Bartholo- 
 mew); he, clasping her the while, gently puts it aside not 
 stern, but smiling. That quiet, tender smile, firmer than any 
 frown, will, you feel sure, soon control the woman's anguish, 
 so that she will sob out any faithful woman would "Go, 
 die! Dearer to me than even thyself are thy honor and thy 
 duty!" 
 
 When I saw this noble picture, it touched to the core this 
 old heart of mine; for the painter, in that rare expression, 
 might have caught John's. Just as in a few crises of his life 
 I have seen it, and especially in this one, when he first told to 
 his wife that determination which he had slowly come to 
 that it was both right and expedient for us to quit Longfield. 
 our happy home for so many years, of which the mother loved 
 every ftower in the garden, every nook and stone in the walls. 
 "Leave Longfield!" she repeated again with a bitter sigh. 
 "Leave Longfield!" echoed the children, first the youngest 
 then the eldest but rather in curiosity than regret. Edwin's 
 keen, bright eyes were just lifted from his book, and fell again ; 
 he was not a lad of much speech, or much demonstration of 
 any kind. 
 
 "Boys, come and let us talk over the matter." 
 They came at once and joined in the circle; respectfully, yet 
 with entire freedom, they looked toward their father these, 
 the sons of his youth, to whom he had been from their birth 
 not only parent and head, but companion, guide, and familiar 
 friend. They honored him, they trusted him, they loved him; 
 not, perhaps, in the exact way that they loved their mother; 
 for it often seems Nature's own ordinance that a mother's in- 
 fluence should be strongest over her sons, while the father's is 
 greatest over his daughters. But even a stranger could not 
 glance from each to each of those attentive faces, so different, 
 yet with a curious "family look" running through them all,
 
 332 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 without seeing in what deep, reverent affection, such as nat- 
 urally takes the place of childish fondness, these youths held 
 their father. 
 
 "Yes, I am afraid, after much serious thought on the mat- 
 ter, and much consultation with your mother here, that we 
 ought to leave Longfield." 
 
 "So I think," said Mistress Maud, from her footstool; which 
 putting forward of her important opinion shook us all from 
 gravity to merriment that compelled even Mrs. Halifax to 
 join. Then, laying aside her work, and with it the saddened 
 air with which she had bent over it, she drew her chair closer 
 to her husband, slipping her hand in his, and leaning against 
 his shoulder. Upon which Guy, who had at first watched his 
 mother anxiously, doubtful whether or no his father's plan 
 had her approval, and therefore ought to be assented to, re- 
 lapsed into satisfied undivided attention. 
 
 "I have again been over Beechwood Hall. You all remem- 
 ber Beechwood?" 
 
 Yes. It was the "great house" at Enderley, just on the 
 slope of the hill, below Rose Cottage. The beech-wood itself 
 was part of its pleasure ground, and from its gardens honest 
 James Tod who had them in keeping, had brought many a 
 pocketful of pears for the boys, many a sweet-scented nosegay 
 for Muriel. 
 
 "Beechwood has been empty a great many years, father? 
 Would it be a safe investment to buy it?" 
 
 "I think so, Edwin, my practical lad," answered the father, 
 smiling. "What say you, children? Would you like living 
 there?" 
 
 Each one made his or her comment. Guy's countenance 
 brightened at the notion of "lots of shooting and fishing" 
 about Enderley, especially at Luxmore; and Maud counted on 
 the numerous visitors that would come to John Halifax, Es- 
 quire, of Beechwood Hall. 
 
 "Neither of which excellent reasons happen to be your 
 father's," said Mrs. Halifax, shortly. But John, often ten- 
 derer over youthful frivolities than she, answered: 
 
 "I will tell you, boys, what are my reasons. When I was a 
 young man, before your mother and I were married, indeed 
 before I had ever seen her, I had strongly impressed on my 
 mind the wish to gain influence in the world riches if I could 
 but, at all events, influence. I thought I could use it well, 
 better than most men; those can beet help the poor who un-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 333 
 
 derstand the poor. And I can; since, you know, when Uncle 
 Phineas found me, I was " 
 
 "Father," said Guy, flushing scarlet, "we may as well pass 
 over that fact. We are gentlefolks now." 
 
 "We always were, my son." 
 
 The rebuke, out of its very mildness, cut the youth to the 
 heart. He dropped his eyes, coloring now with a different 
 and a holier shame. 
 
 "I know that. Please, will you go on, father?" 
 
 "And now," the father continued, speaking as much out of 
 his own thoughts as aloud to his children; "now, twenty-five 
 years of labor have won for me the position I desired. That 
 is, I might have it for the claiming. I might take my place 
 among the men who have lately risen from the people to guide 
 and help the people the Cannings, Husldssons, Peels." 
 
 "Would you enter Parliament? Sir Herbert asked me to- 
 day if you ever intended it. He said there was nothing you 
 might not attain to if you would give yourself up entirely to 
 politics." 
 
 "No, Guy, no. Wisdom, like charity, begins at home. Let 
 me learn to rule in my own valley, among my own people, 
 before I attempt to guide the State. And that brings me 
 back again to the pros and cons about Beechwood Hall." 
 
 "Tell them, John; tell all out plainly to the children." 
 
 The reasons were first, the advantage of the boys them- 
 selves; for John Halifax was not one of those philanthropists 
 who would benefit all the world except their own household 
 and their own kin. He wished since the higher a man rises 
 the wider and nobler grows his sphere of usefulness not only 
 to lift himself, but his sons after him; lift them high enough 
 to help on the ever-advancing tide of human improvement, 
 among their own people first, and thence extending outward 
 in the world whithersoever their talents or circumstances 
 might call them. 
 
 "I understand," cried the eldest son, his eyes sparkling, 
 "you want to found a family. And so it shall be we will set- 
 tle at Beechwood Hall; all coming generations shall live to the 
 honor and glory of your name our name " 
 
 "My boy, there is only one Name to whose honor we should 
 all live. One Name 'in whom all the generations of the earth 
 are blessed.' In thus far only do I wish to 'found a family/ 
 as you call it, that our light may shine before men that we
 
 334 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 may be a city set on a hill that we may say plainly unto all 
 that ask us, 'For me and my house, we will serve the Lord.' " 
 
 It was not often that John Halifax spoke thus; adopting 
 solemnly the literal language of the Book his and our life's 
 guide, no word of which was ever used lightly in our family. 
 We all listened, as in his earnestness he rose, and, standing up- 
 right in the fire-light, spoke on. 
 
 "I believe, with His blessing, that one may 'serve the Lord' 
 as well in wealth as in poverty, in a great house as in a cottage 
 like this. I am not doubtful, even though my possessions are 
 increased. I am not afraid of being a rich man. Nor a great 
 man, neither, if I were called to such a destiny." 
 
 "It may be who knows?" said Ursula, softly. 
 
 John caught his wife's eyes, and smiled. 
 
 "Love, you were a true prophet once, with a certain *Yes, 
 
 you will;' but now . Children, you know when I married 
 
 your mother I had nothing, and she gave up everything for 
 me. I said I would yet make her as high as any lady in the 
 land in fortune, I then meant, thinking it would make her 
 happier; but she and I are wiser now. We know that we can 
 never be happier than we were in the old house at Norton 
 Bury, or in this little Longfield. By making her lady of 
 Beechwood, I should double her responsibilities and treble her 
 cares; give her an infinitude of new duties, and no pleasures 
 half so sweet as those we left behind. Still, of herself and for 
 herself, my wife shall decide." 
 
 Ursula looked up at him; tears stood in her eyes, though 
 through them shone all the steadfastness of faithful love. 
 "Thank you, John. I have decided. If you wish it, if you 
 think it right, we will leave Longfield and go to Beechwood." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her forehead, saying only, "We will 
 
 go." 
 
 Guy looked up, half -reproachfully, as if the father were ex- 
 acting a sacrifice; but I question whether the greater sacrifice 
 were not his who took, rather than hers who gave. 
 
 So all was settled we were to leave beloved Longfield. It 
 was to be let, not sold; let to a person we knew, who would 
 take jealous care of all that was ours, and we might come back 
 and see it continually; but it would be ours, our own home, no 
 more. 
 
 Very sad sadder even than I had thought was the leav- 
 ing all the familiar things; the orchard and the flower garden, 
 the meadow and the stream, the woody hills beyond, every line
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 335 
 
 and wave of which was pleasant and dear almost as our chil- 
 dren's faces. Ay, almost as that face which for a year, one little 
 year, had lived in sight of but never beheld, their beauty; the 
 child who one spring day had gone away merrily out of the 
 white gate with her three brothers, and never came back to 
 Longfield any more. 
 
 Perhaps this circumstance, that her fading away and her de- 
 parture happened away from home, was the cause why her 
 memory the memory of our living Muriel, in her human 
 childhood afterward clung more especially about the house 
 at Longfield. The other children altered, imperceptibly, yet 
 so swiftly, that from year to year we half forgot their old like- 
 nesses. But Muriel's never changed. Her image, only a 
 shade, yet often more real than any of these living children, 
 seemed perpetually among us. It crept through the house at 
 dusk; in winter fire-light it sat smiling in dim corners; in 
 spring mornings it moved about the garden borders, with tiny 
 soft footsteps, neither seen nor heard. The others grew up 
 would be men and women shortly but the one child "that 
 was not," remained to us always a child. 
 
 I thought, even the last evening the very last evening that 
 John returned from Enderley, and his wife went down to the 
 stream to meet him, and they came up the field together, as 
 they had done for so many, many years ay, even then 1 
 thought I saw his eyes turn to the spot where a little pale fig- 
 ure used to sit on the door-sill, listening and waiting for him, 
 with her dove in her bosom. "We never kept doves now. 
 
 And the same night, when all the household was in bed 
 even the mother, who had gone about with restless activity, 
 trying to persuade herself that there would be at least no possi- 
 bility of accomplishing the flitting to-morrow the last night, 
 when John went as usual to fasten the house-door, he stood a 
 long time outside, looking down the valley. 
 
 "'How quiet everything is! You can almost hear the tinkle 
 of the stream. Poor old Longfield!" And I sighed, thinking 
 we should never again have such another home. 
 
 John did not answer. He had been mechanically bending 
 aside and training into its place a long shoot of wild clematis 
 virgin's-bower which Guy and Muriel had brought in 
 from the fields and planted, a tiny root; it covered the whole 
 front of the house now. Then he came and leaned beside me 
 over the wicket-gate, looking fixedly up into the moonlight 
 blue.
 
 236 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "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 
 tip and down the gravel walk (alas! the pretty field-path be- 
 longed to days that were!) up and down the broad sunshiny 
 walk, in front of the breakfast-room windows of Beechwood 
 Hall. 
 
 It was early little past eight o'clock; but we kept Long- 
 field hours and Longfield ways still. And besides this was a 
 grand day the day of Guy's coming of age. Curious it 
 seemed to watch him, as he walked along by his father, looking 
 every inch "the young heir;" and perhaps not unconscious 
 that he did so; curious enough, remembering how meekly the 
 boy had come into the world at a certain old house at Norton 
 Bury, one rainy December morning twenty-one years ago. 
 
 It was a bright day to-day bright as all our faces were, I 
 think, as we gathered round the cosy breakfast-table. There, 
 as heretofore, it was the mother's pride and the father's pleas- 
 ure that not one face should be missing that, summer and 
 winter, all should assemble for an hour of family fun and 
 family chat, before the busy cares of the day; and by general 
 consent, which had grown into habit, every one tried to keep 
 unclouded this little bit of early sunshine, before the father 
 and brothers went away. No sour or dreary looks, no painful 
 topics were ever brought to the breakfast-table. 
 
 Thus it was against all custom, when Mr. Halifax, laying 
 down his newspaper with a grave countenance, said: 
 
 "This is very ill news. Ten bank failures in the Gazette to- 
 day." 
 
 "But it will not harm us, father." 
 
 "Edwin is always thinking of 'us' and 'our business,' " re- 
 marked Guy, rather sharply. It was one of the slight the 
 very slight jars in our household, that these two lads, excel- 
 lent lads both, as they grew into manhood, did not exactly 
 "pull together." 
 
 "Edwin is scarcely wrong in thinking of 'us,' since upon us 
 depend so many," observed the father, in that quiet tone with 
 which, when he did happen to interfere between his sons, he
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 337 
 
 generally smoothed matters down and kept the balance even. 
 "Yet, though we are ourselves secure, I trust, the losses every- 
 where around us make it the more necessary that we should not 
 parade our good fortune by launching out into any of Guy's 
 magnificences; eh, my boy?" 
 
 The youth looked down. It was well known in the family, 
 that since we came to Beechwood his pleasure-loving tempera- 
 ment had wanted all sorts of improvements on our style of liv- 
 ing fox-hounds, dinner parties, balls; that the father's ways, 
 which, though extended to liberal hospitalities, forbade out- 
 ward show, and made our life a thorough family life still 
 were somewhat distasteful to that most fascinating young 
 gentleman, Guy Halifax, Esquire, heir of Beechwood Hall. 
 
 "You may call it 'magnificence/ or what you choose; but I 
 know I should like to live a little more as our neighbors do. 
 And I think we ought to we that are known to be the wealth- 
 iest family " 
 
 He stopped abruptly for the door opened; and Guy had 
 too much good taste and good feeling to discuss our riches be- 
 fore Maud's poor governess the tall, grave, sad-looking, sad- 
 clothed Miss Silver; the same whom John had seen at Mr. Jes- 
 sop's bank; and who had been with us four months ever 
 since we came to Beechwood. 
 
 One of the boys rose and offered her a chair; for the parents 
 set the example of treating her with entire respect nay, 
 would gladly have made her altogether one of the family had 
 she not been so very reserved. 
 
 Miss Silver came forward with the daily nosegay which 
 Mrs. Halifax had confided to her superintendence. 
 
 "They are the best I can find, madam. I believe Watkins 
 keeps all his greenhouse flowers for to-night." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. These will do very well. Yes, Guy, 
 persuade Miss Silver to take your place by the fire. She looks 
 so cold/' 
 
 But Miss Silver, declining the kindness, passed on to her 
 own seat opposite. 
 
 Ursula busied herself over the breakfast equipage rather 
 nervously. Though an admirable person, Miss Silver, in her 
 extreme and all but repellent quietness, was one whom the 
 mother found it difficult to get on with. She was scrupu- 
 lously kind to her; and the governess was as scrupulously ex- 
 act in all courtesy and attention; still that impassible, self -con-
 
 338 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tained demeanor, that great reticence it might be shyness, it 
 might be pride sometimes, Ursula privately admitted, "fidg- 
 eted" her. 
 
 To-day was to be a general holiday for both masters and 
 servants; a dinner at the mills; and in the evening something 
 which, though we called it a tea-drinking, began to look, I 
 was amused to see, exceedingly like "a ball." But on this oc- 
 casion both parents had yielded to their young people's wishes, 
 and half the neighborhood had been invited by the universally 
 popular Mr. Guy Halifax to celebrate his coming of age. 
 
 "Only once in the way," said the mother, half-ashamed of 
 herself for thus indulging the boy as, giving his shoulder a 
 fond shake, she called him "a foolish fellow." 
 
 Then we all dispersed; Guy and Walter to ride to the Manor 
 House, Edwin vanishing with his sister, to whom he was giv- 
 ing daily Latin lessons in the school room. 
 
 John asked me to take a walk on the hill with him. 
 
 "Go, Phineas," whispered his wife, "it will do him good. 
 And don't let him talk too much of old times. This is a hard 
 week for him." 
 
 The mother's eyes were mournful, for Guy and "the child" 
 had been born within a year and three days of each other; but 
 she never hinted it never would have struck her to hint 
 "this is a hard week for me." 
 
 That grief the one great grief of their life, had come 
 to her more wholesomely than to her husband; either be- 
 cause men, the very best of men, can only suffer, while 
 women can endure; or because in the mysterious ordinance of 
 nature Maud's baby lips had sucked away the bitterness of 
 the pang from the bereaved mother, while her loss was yet 
 new. It had never been left to rankle in that warm heart, 
 which had room for every living child, while it cherished, 
 in tenderness above all sorrow, the child that was no more. 
 
 John and I, in our walk, stood a moment by the low church- 
 yard wall and looked over at that plain white stone, where 
 was inscribed her name, "Muriel Joy Halifax" a line out of 
 that New Testament miracle-story she delighted in, "Whereas 
 I was blind, now I see" and ihe date when she saw. Noth- 
 ing more; it was not needed. 
 
 "December 5th, 1813," said the father, reading the date. 
 "She would have been quite a woman now. How strange! 
 My little Muriel!" 
 
 And he walked thoughfully along, almost in the same foot-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 339 
 
 prints where he had been used to carry his darling up the 
 nill-side to the brow of Enderley Flat. He seemed in fancy 
 to bear her in his arms still this little one, whom, as I have 
 before said, Heaven, in its compensating mercy, year by year, 
 through all changes, had made the one treasure that none 
 could take away the only child left to be a child forever. 
 
 I think, as we rested in the self-same place, the sunshiny 
 nook where we used to sit with her for hours together, the 
 father's heart took this consolation so closely and surely into 
 itself, that memory altogether ceased to be pain. He began 
 talking about the other children especially Maud and then 
 of Miss Silver, her governess. 
 
 "I wish she were more likeable, John. It vexes me some- 
 times to see how coldly she returns the mother's kindness." 
 
 "Poor thing! she has evidently not been used to kindness. 
 You should have seen how amazed she looked yesterday when 
 we paid her a little more than her salary, and my wife gave 
 her a pretty silk dress to wear to-night. I hardly knew 
 whether she would refuse it, or burst out crying, in girlish 
 fashion." 
 
 "Is she a girl? Why, the boys say she looks thirty at least. 
 Guy and Walter laugh amazingly at her dowdy dress and her 
 solemn, haughty ways." 
 
 "That will do. Phineas. I must speak to them. They 
 ought to make allowances for poor Miss Silver, of whom I 
 think most highly." 
 
 "I know you do; but do you heartily like her?" 
 
 "For most things, yes. And I sincerely respect her, or, of 
 course, she would not be here. I think people should be as 
 particular over choosing their daughter's governess as their 
 son's wife; and having chosen, should show her almost equal 
 honor." 
 
 "You'll have your sons choosing themselves wives soon, 
 John. I fancy Guy has a soft place in his heart for that pretty 
 Grace Oldtower." 
 
 But the father made no answer. He was always tenacious 
 over the lightest approach to such jests as these. And be- 
 sides, just at this moment Mr. Brown, Lord Luxmore's stew- 
 ard, passed riding solemnly along. He barely touched his 
 hat to Mr. Halifax. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Brown! He has a grudge against me for those 
 Mexican speculations I refused to embark in; he did, and 
 lost everything but what he gets from Lord Luxmore. I do
 
 340 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 think, Phineas, the country has been running mad this year 
 after speculation. There is sure to come a panic afterward, 
 and, indeed, it seems already beginning." 
 
 "But you are secure? You have not joined in the mania, 
 and the crash cannot harm you? Did I not hear you say that 
 you were not afraid of losing a single penny?" 
 
 "Yes unfortunately," with a troubled smile. 
 
 "John, what do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that to stand upright while one's neighbors are fall- 
 ing on all sides, is a most trying position. Misfortune makes 
 people unjust. The other day at the sessions I got cold looks 
 enough from my brother magistrates looks that would have 
 set my blood boiling twenty years ago. And you saw in 
 the Norton Bury Mercury that article about 'grasping plebeian 
 millionaires' 'wool-spinners, spinning out of their country's 
 vitals/ That's meant for me, Phineas. Don't look incred- 
 ulous. Yes for me." 
 
 "How disgraceful!" 
 
 "Perhaps so but to them more than to me. I feel sorry, 
 because of the harm it may do me especially among working 
 people, who know nothing but what they hear, and believe 
 everything that is told them. They see I thrive and others 
 fail that my mills are the only cloth-mills in full work, and 
 I have more hands than I can employ. Every week I am 
 obliged to send new-comers away. Then they raise the old cry 
 that my machinery has ruined labor. So, you see, for all that 
 Guy says about our prosperity, his father does not sleep ex- 
 actly upon a bed of roses." 
 
 "It is wicked atrocious!" 
 
 "Not at all. Only natural the penalty one has to pay for 
 success. It will die out most likely; meantime, we will mind 
 it as little as we can." 
 
 "But are you safe? your life " For a sudden fear 
 
 crossed me a fear not unwarranted by more than one event 
 of this year this terrible 1825. 
 
 "Safe? yes" and his eyes were lifted. "I believe my life 
 is safe if I have work to do. Still, for others' sake, I have 
 carried this month past whenever I go to and from the Colt- 
 ham bank besides my cash-box this." 
 
 He showed me, peering out of his breast-pocket, a small 
 pistol. 
 
 I was greatly startled. 
 
 "Does your wife know?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 341 
 
 "Of course. But she knows, too, that nothing but the last 
 extremity would force me to use it: also that my carrying it, 
 and its being noised about that I do so, may prevent my ever 
 having occasion to use it. God grant I never may! Don't let 
 us talk about this." 
 
 He stopped, gazing with a sad abstraction down the sun- 
 shiny valley, most part of which was already his own prop- 
 erty. For whatever capital he could spare from his busi- 
 ness he never sunk in speculation, but took a patriarchal pleas- 
 ure in investing it in land, chiefly for the benefit of his mills 
 and those concerned therein. 
 
 "My poor people they might have known me better! But 
 I suppose one never attains one's desire without its being 
 leavened with some bitterness. If there was one point I was 
 anxious over in my youth, it was to keep up through life a 
 name like the Chevalier Bayard how folk would smile to 
 hear of a tradesman emulating Bayard 'Sans peur et sans re- 
 proche!' And so things might be ought to be. So per- 
 haps they shall be yet, in spite of this calumny." 
 
 "How shall you meet it? What shall you do?" 
 
 "Nothing. Live it down." 
 
 He stood still, looking across the valley to where the frosty 
 line of the hill-tops met the steel-blue, steadfast sky. 
 
 Yes, I felt sure he would "live it down." 
 
 We dismissed the subject, and spent an hour or more in 
 pleasant chat about many things. Passing homeward through 
 the beech-wood, where through the bare tree-tops a light 
 snow was beginning to fall, John said, musingly: 
 
 "It will be a hard winter we shall have to help our poor 
 people a great deal. Christmas dinners will be much in re- 
 quest." 
 
 "There's a saying that the way to an Englishman's heart 
 is through his stomach. So, perhaps, you'll get justice by 
 spring." 
 
 "Don't be angry, Phineas. As I tell my wife, it is not worth 
 while. Half the wrongs people do to us are through sheer 
 ignorance. We must be patient. 'In your patience possess 
 ye your souls.' '' 
 
 He said this more to himself than aloud, as if carrying out 
 the thread of his own thought. Mine following it, and ob- 
 serving him, involuntarily turned to another passage in our 
 Book of books, about the blessedness of some men, even when 
 reviled and persecuted.
 
 342 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Ay, and for all his many cares, John Halifax looked like a 
 man who was "blessed." 
 
 Blessed, and happy too, throughout that day, especially in 
 the midst of the mill-yard dinner which reminded me forci- 
 bly of that feast at which guests were gathered out of the 
 highways and hedges guests, such as John Halifax liked to 
 have guests who could not, by any possibility, "recompense" 
 him. Yet it did one's heart good to hear the cheer that 
 greeted the master, ay, and the young master too, who was 
 to-day for the first time presented as such a& the firm hence- 
 forth was to be "Halifax & Son." 
 
 And full of smiling satisfaction was the father's look, when 
 in the evening he stood in the midst of his children, waiting 
 for "Guy's visitors," as he pertinaciously declared them to be 
 these fine people, for whose entertainment our house has been 
 these three days turned upside down; the sober old dining- 
 room converted into a glittering ball-room, and the entrance- 
 hall a very "bower of bliss" all green boughs and Chinese- 
 lanterns. John protested he should not have knoAvn his own 
 study again; and that, if these festive transformations were 
 to happen frequently, he should soon not even know him- 
 self! 
 
 Yet for all that, and in spite of the comical horror he testi- 
 fied at this first bouleversement of our quiet home ways, I 
 think he had a real pleasure in his children's delight; in 
 wandering with them through the decorated rooms, tapestried 
 with ivy, and laurel, and arbor- vitae: in making them all 
 pass in review before him, and admiring their handiwork and 
 themselves. 
 
 A goodly group they made our young folk: there were no 
 "children" now; for even Maud, who was tall and woman- 
 ly for her age, had bloomed out in a ball-dress, all white mus- 
 lin and camelias, and appeared every inch "Miss Halifax." 
 Walter, too, had lately eschewed jackets, and began to bor- 
 row razors; while Edwin, though still small, had a keen, old- 
 man-like look, which made him seem as he was, indeed,' in 
 character the eldest of the three. Altogether, they were 
 "a fine family," such as any man might rejoice to see growing 
 or grown up around him. 
 
 But my eyes naturally sought the father, as he stood among 
 his boys, taller than any of them, and possessing far more than 
 they that quality for which John Halifax had always been re- 
 markabledignity. True, Nature had favored him beyond
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 343 
 
 most men, giving him the stately, handsome presence befit- 
 ting middle age, throwing a kind of apostolic grace over the 
 high, half-bald crown, and touching with a softened gray the 
 still curly locks behind. But these were mere accidents; the 
 true dignity lay in himself and his own personal character, 
 independent of a'ny exterior. 
 
 It was pleasant to watch him, and note how advancing years 
 had given rather than taken away from his outward mien. 
 As ever, he was distinguishable from other men, even to his 
 dress, which had something of the Quaker about it still, 
 and its sober color, its rarely-changed fashion, and its 
 exceeding neatness. Mrs. Halifax used now and then to 
 laugh at him for being so particular over his daintiest of 
 cambric and finest of lawn, but secretly she took the greatest 
 pride in his appearance. 
 
 "John looks well to-night," she said, coming in and sitting 
 down by me, her eyes following mine. One would not have 
 guessed from her quiet gaze that she knew what John had 
 told me she knew, this morning. But these two in their per- 
 fect union had a wonderful strength a wonderful fearless- 
 ness. And she had learned from him, what perhaps originally 
 was foreign to her impressible and sometimes anxious mind 
 that steadfast faith, which, while ready to meet every ill when 
 the time comes, until the time waits cheerfully, and will not 
 disquiet itself in vain. 
 
 Thus, for all their cares, her face as well as his was calm 
 and bright. Bright, even with the prettiest girlish blush, when 
 John came to his wife and admired her as indeed was not 
 surprising. 
 
 She laughed at him, and declared she always intended to 
 grow lovely in her old age. "I thought I ought to dress my- 
 self grandly, too, on Guy's birthday. Do you like me, John?'* 
 
 "Very much: I like that black velvet gown, substantial, soft 
 and rich, without any show. And that lace frill round your 
 throat what sort of lace is it?" 
 
 "Valenciennes. When I was a girl, if I had a weakness, it 
 was for black velvet and Valenciennes." 
 
 John smiled, with visible pleasure that she had even a 
 "weakness" gratified now. "And you have put on my brooch 
 at last, I see." 
 
 "Yes; but" and she shook her head "remember your 
 promise." 
 
 "Phineas, this wife of mine is a vain woman. She knows
 
 344 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 her own price is 'far above rubies' or diamonds either. No, 
 Mrs. Halifax, be not afraid; I shall give you no more jewels/' 
 She did not need them. She stood amid her three sons 
 with the smile of a Cornelia. She felt her husband's eyes rest 
 on her, with that quiet perfectness of love, better than any 
 lover's love 
 
 "The fulness of a stream that knew no fall" 
 
 the love of a husband who has been married nearly twenty- 
 five years. 
 
 Here a troop of company arrived, and John left me to 
 assume his duty as host. 
 
 No easy duty, as I soon perceived; for times were hard, and 
 men's minds troubled. Every one, except the light-heeled, 
 light-hearted youngsters, looked grave. 
 
 Many yet alive remember this year, 1825 the panic year. 
 War having ceased, commerce, in its worst form, started into 
 sudden and unhealthy overgrowth. Speculations of all kinds 
 sprung up like fungi, out of dead-wood, flourished a little, 
 and dropped away. Then came ruin, not of hundreds, but thou- 
 sands, of all ranks and classes. This year, and this month in 
 this year, the breaking of many established firms, especially 
 bankers, foretold that the universal crash had just begun. 
 
 It was felt even in our retired country neighborhood, and 
 among our friendly guests this night, both gentle and simple 
 and there was a mixture of both as only a man in Mr. Hali- 
 fax's position could mix such heterogeneous elements towns- 
 people and country-people, dissenters and church-folk, pro- 
 fessional men and men of business. John dared to do it and 
 did it. But though through his own personal influence, many 
 of different ranks whom he liked and respected, meeting in 
 his house, learned to like and respect one another, still, even 
 to-night, he could not remove the cloud which semed to hang 
 over all a cloud so heavy, that none present liked referring 
 to it. They hit upon all sorts of extraneous subjects, keeping 
 far aloof from the one which evidently pressed upon all minds 
 the universal distress abroad, and the fear that was knock- 
 ing at almost every man's door but ours. 
 
 Of course, the talk fell on our neighbors country talk 
 always does. I sat still, listening to Sir Herbert Oldtower, 
 who was wondering that Lord Luxmore suffered the hall to
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 345 
 
 drop into disgraceful decay, and had begun cutting down the 
 pine-woods round it. 
 
 "Woods older than his title by many a century down- 
 right sacrilege! And the property being entailed, too actual 
 robbery of the heir! But I understand anybody may do any- 
 thing with Lord Kavenel a mere selfish, cynical, idle volupt- 
 uary!" 
 
 "Indeed you are mistaken, Sir Herbert!" cried Mr. Jessop, 
 of Norton Bury a very honest fellow was Josiah Jessop. 
 "He banks with me that is, there are some poor Catholics 
 in this neighborhood whom I pay but bless me! he told me 
 not to tell. No, indeed. Cynical he may be; idle, perhaps 
 most men of fashion are but Lord Ravenel is not the least 
 like his father, is he, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "I have not seen Lord Ravenel for many years." 
 
 And as if, even to this day, the mention of the young man's 
 name brought back thoughts of the last day we had seen him 
 a day which, its sadness having gone by, still kept its un- 
 spoken sacredness, distinct from all other days John moved 
 away and went and talked to a girl whom both he and the 
 mother liked above most young girls we knew simple, 
 sunny-faced Grace Oldtower. 
 
 Dancing began. Spite of my Quaker education, or perhaps 
 for that very reason, I delighted to see dancing. Dancing, 
 such as was then, when young folk moved breezily and light- 
 ly, as if they loved it; skimming like swallows down the long 
 lines of the Triumph gracefully winding in and out through 
 the graceful country dance lively always, but always decor- 
 ous. In those days people did not think it necessary to the 
 pleasures of dancing that any stranger should have liberty to 
 snatch a shy, innocent girl round the waist, and whirl her 
 about in mad waltz or awkward polka, till she stops, giddy 
 and breathless, with burning cheeks and tossed hair, looking 
 as I would not have liked to see our pretty Maud look. 
 
 No; though while watching the little lady to-night, I was 
 inclined to say to her: 
 
 "When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that." 
 
 And in her unwearied spirits she seemed as if she would 
 readily have responded to the wish. 
 
 We did not see Guy among the dancers who were now
 
 346 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 forming in a somewhat confused square, in order to execute 
 a new dance called quadrilles, of which Miss Grace Oldtower 
 was to be the instructress. 
 
 "Where is Guy?" said the mother, who would have missed 
 him among a room full of people. "Have you seen Guy any- 
 where, Miss Silver?" 
 
 Miss Silver, who sat playing tunes she had declined danc- 
 ing turned, coloring visibly. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen him; he is in the study." 
 
 "Would you be so kind as to fetch him?" 
 
 The governess rose and crossed the room with a stately 
 walk statelier than usual. Her silk gown, of some rich soft 
 color, fashioned after Mrs. .Halifax's taste, and the chaplet of 
 bay-leaves, which Maud had insisted upon putting in her dark 
 hair, made an astonishing change in Miss Silver. I could not 
 help noticing it to Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, she looks well. John says her features are 
 fine; but, for my part, I don't care for your statuesque faces; 
 I like color expression. See that bright little Grace Old- 
 tower a thoroughly English rose; I like her. Poor Miss 
 Silver! I wish " 
 
 What, out of compunction for a certain sharpness with 
 which she had spoken, Mrs. Halifax was about to wish, re- 
 mained undeclared. For just at this minute Guy entered, and 
 leaning his handsome head and his tender petits soins over 
 the "English rose," as his mother called her, led her out to 
 the dancing. 
 
 We sat down and looked on. 
 
 "Guy dances lazily; he is rather pale too, I fancy." 
 
 "Tired, probably. He was out far too long on the ice to- 
 day with Maud and Miss Silver. What a pretty creature his 
 partner is!" added Ursula, thoughtfully. 
 
 "The children are growing up fast," I said. 
 
 "Ay, indeed. To think that Guy is actually twenty-one 
 the age when his father was married!" 
 
 "Guy will be reminding you of that fact some day soon." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax smiled. "The sooner the better, if only he 
 makes a worthy choice if only he brings me a daughter 
 whom I can love." 
 
 And I fancied there was love motherly love in the eyes 
 that followed through the graceful mazes of her dancing the 
 bonny English rose. 
 
 Guy and his partner sat down beside us. His mother
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 347 
 
 noticed that he had turned very pale again, and the lad 
 owned to be in some pain; he had twisted his foot that morn- 
 ing in helping Maud and Miss Silver across the ice; but it 
 was a mere trifle not worth mentioning. 
 
 It passed over, with one or two anxious inquiries on the 
 mother's part, and a soft, dewy shadow over the down-dropped 
 cheek of the little Rose, who evidently did not like to think 
 of any harm coming to her old playfellow. Then Sir Herbert 
 appeared to lead Mrs. Halifax in to supper, Guy limped along 
 with pretty Grace on his arm, and all the guests, just enough 
 co fill our longest table in John's study, came thronging round 
 in a buzz of mirthf ulness. 
 
 Either the warm, hospitable atmosphere, or the sight of 
 the merry youngsters, or the general influence of social pleas- 
 antness, had for the time being dispelled the cloud. But cer- 
 tainly it was dispelled. The master of the feast looked down 
 two long lines of happy faces his own as bright as theirs 
 down to where, at the foot of the table, the mother and mis- 
 tress sat. She had been slightly nervous at times during the 
 evening, but now she appeared thoroughly at ease and glad 
 glad to see her husband take his place at the head of his own 
 hospitable board, in the midst of his own friends and his own 
 people, honored and beloved. It seemed a good omen an 
 omen that the bitter things outside would pass away. 
 
 How bitter they had been, and how sore the wife's heart 
 still felt, I could see from the jealous way in which, smiling 
 and cheerful as her demeanor was, she caught every look, 
 every word of those around her, which might chance to bear 
 reference to her husband; in her quick avoidance of every 
 topic connected with these disastrous times, and, above all, 
 in her hurried grasp of a newspaper that some careless serv- 
 ant brought in fresh from the night-mail, wet with sleet and 
 snow. 
 
 "Do you get your country paper regularly?" asked some 
 one at the table. And then some others appeared to recollect 
 the Norton Bury Mercury, and its virulent attacks on their 
 host for there ensued an awkward pause, during which I saw 
 Ursula's face beginning to burn. But she conquered her 
 wrath. 
 
 "There is often much interest in our provincial papers. Sir 
 Herbert. My husband makes a point of taking them all in 
 bad and good of every shade of politics. He believes it is
 
 348 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 only by hearing all sides that you can truly judge of the state 
 of the country." 
 
 "Just as a physician must hear all symptoms before he de- 
 cides on the patient's case. At least, so our good old friend 
 Dr. Jessop used to say." 
 
 "Eh?" said Mr. Jessop, the banker, catching his own nairn-. 
 and waking up from a brown-study, in which he had seemed 
 to see nothing except, perhaps, the newspaper, which, in its 
 printed cover, lay between himself and Mrs. Halifax. "Eh? 
 did any one Oh, I beg pardon beg pardon Sir Her- 
 bert," hastily added the old man, who was a very meek and 
 worthy soul, and had been, perhaps, more subdued than usual 
 this evening. 
 
 "I was referring," said Sir Herbert, with his usual pon- 
 derous civility, "to your excellent brother, who was so much 
 respected among us for which respect, allow me to say, he 
 did not leave us without an inheritor." 
 
 The old banker answered the formal bow with a kind of 
 nervous hurry; and then Sir Herbert, with a loud premise 
 of his right as the oldest friend of our family, tried to ob- 
 tain silence for the customary speech, prefatory to the cus- 
 tomary toast of "Health and prosperity to the heir of Beech- 
 wood." 
 
 There was great applause and filling of glasses; great 
 smiling and whispering; everybody glanced at poor Guy, who 
 turned red and white, and evidently wished himself a hundred 
 miles off. In the confusion, I felt my sleeve touched, and 
 saw leaning toward me, hidden by Maud's laughing, happy 
 face, the old banker. He held in his hand the newspaper, 
 which seemed to have so fascinated him. 
 
 "It's the London Gazette. Mr. Halifax gets it three hours 
 before any of us. I may open it? It is important to me. Mrs. 
 Halifax would excuse, eh?" 
 
 Of course she would. Especially if she had seen the old 
 man's look, as his trembling fingers vainly tried to unfold the 
 sheet without a single rustle's betraying his surreptitious 
 curiosity. 
 
 Sir Herbert rose, cleared his throat, and began. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I speak as a father myself, and as 
 the son of a father whom whom I will not refer to here, ex- 
 cept to say that his good heart would have rejoiced to see this 
 day. The high esteem in which Sir Ralph always held Mr. 
 Halifax has descended, and will descend "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 349 
 
 Here some one called out, 
 
 "Mr. Jessop! Look at Mr. Jessop!" 
 
 The old man had suddenly sunk back with a sort of chok- 
 ing groan. His eyes were staring blankly, his cheek was the 
 color of ashes. But when he saw every one looking at him, 
 he tried desperately to recover himself. 
 
 " "Pis nothing. Nothing of the slightest moment. Eh?" 
 clutching tightly at the paper which Mrs. Halifax was kindly 
 removing out of his hand. "There's no news in it none, I 
 assure you." 
 
 But from his agitation from the pitiful effort he made 
 to disguise it it was plain enough that there was news. 
 Plain, also, as in these dangerous and critical times men were 
 only too quick to divine in what that news consisted. Tid- 
 ings which now made every newspaper a sight of fear 
 especially this the London Gazette. 
 
 Edwin caught and read the fatal page the fatal column 
 known only too well. 
 
 "W 's have stopped payment." 
 
 W 's was a great London house, the favorite banking- 
 house in our county, with which many provincial banks, and 
 Jessop's especially, were widely connected, and would be no 
 one knew how widely involved. 
 
 "W 's stopped payment!" 
 
 A murmur a hush of momentary suspense, as the Gazette 
 was passed hurriedly from hand to hand; and then our guests, 
 one and all, sat looking at one another in breathless fear, sus- 
 picion, or assured dismay. For, as every one was aware (we 
 knew our neighbors' affairs so well about innocent Enderley), 
 there was not a single household of that merry little company 
 upon whom, near or remote, the blow would not fall except 
 ours. 
 
 No polite disguise could gloss over the general consterna- 
 tion. Few thought of Jessop only of themselves. Many a 
 father turned pale; many a mother melted into smothered 
 tears. More than one honest countenance that five minutes 
 before had beamed like the rising sun, all friendliness and 
 jocularity, I saw shrink into a wizened, worldly face, with 
 greedy selfishness peering out of the corners of its eyes, eager 
 to conceal its own alarms, and dive as far as possible into the 
 terrors of its neighbors. 
 
 "There will be a run on Jessop's bank to-morrow," I heard 
 one person say, glancing to where the poor old banker still sat,
 
 860 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 with a vacant, stupefied smile, assuring all around him that 
 "nothing had happened; really nothing." 
 
 "A run? I suppose so. Then it will be 'Sauve qui peut,' 
 and the devil take the hindmost." 
 
 "What say you to all this, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 John still kept his place. He sat perfectly quiet, and had 
 never spoken a syllable. 
 
 When Sir Herbert, who was the first to recover from the 
 shock of these ill-tidings, called him by his name, Mr. Hali- 
 fax looked quickly up. It was to see, instead of those two 
 lines of happy faces, faces already gathering in troubled 
 groups, faces angry, sullen, or miserable, all of which, with a 
 vague distrust, seemed instinctively turned upon him. 
 
 "Mr. Halifax," said the baronet and one could see how, 
 in spite of his steadfast politeness, he too was not without 
 his anxieties "this is an unpleasant breaking-in upon your 
 kindly hospitalities. I suppose through this unpropitious 
 event, each of us must make up our minds to some loss. Let 
 me hope yours will be trifling." 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 "Or, perhaps though I can hardly hope anything so for- 
 tunate perhaps this failure will not affect you at all?" 
 
 He waited, as did many others, for Mr. Halifax's reply; 
 which was long in coming. However, since all seemed to ex- 
 pect it, it did come at last; but grave and sad, as if it were the 
 announcement of some great misfortune. 
 
 "No, Sir Herbert; it will not affect me at all." 
 
 Sir Herbert, and not he alone, looked surprised uneasily 
 surprised. Some mutters there were of "congratulation." 
 Then arose a troubled murmur of talking, in which the master 
 of the house was forgotten; until the baronet said, "My friends, 
 I think we are forgetting our courtesy. Allow me to give 
 you, without more delay, the toast I was about to propose 
 'Health, long life and happiness to Mr. Guy Halifax.' " 
 
 And so poor Guy's birthday toast was drunk, almost in 
 silence; and the few words he said in acknowledgment were 
 just listened to, scarcely heard. Every one rose from table, 
 and the festivities were over. 
 
 One by one all our guests began to make excuse. One by 
 one, involuntarily perhaps, yet not the less painfully and 
 plainly they all shrunk away from us, as if in the universal 
 trouble we, who had nothing to fear, had no part nor lot. 
 Formal congratulations, given with pale lips and wandering
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 351 
 
 eyes; brusque adieus, as some of the more honest or less 
 courteous showed, but too obviously how cruelly, even resent- 
 fully, they felt the inequalities of fortune; hasty departures, 
 full of dismay that rejected angrily every shadow of consola- 
 tion all things John had to meet and to bear. 
 
 He met them with composure; scarcely speaking a word, as 
 indeed what was there to say? To all the friendly speeches, 
 real or pretended, he listened with a kind of sad gravity: of 
 all harsher words than these and there were not a few he 
 took not the least notice, but held his place as master of the 
 house; generously deaf and blind to everything that it were as 
 well the master of the house should neither hear nor see. 
 
 At last he was left, a very Pariah of prosperity by his own 
 hearth, quite alone. 
 
 The last carriage had rolled away; the tired household had 
 gone to bed; there was not one in the study but me. John 
 came in and stood leaning with both his arms against the fire- 
 place, motionless and silent. He leaned there so long that at 
 last I touched him. 
 
 "Well, Phineas!" 
 
 I saw this night's events had wounded him to the core. 
 
 "Are you thinking of these honest, friendly, disinterested 
 guests of ours. Don't! They are not worth a single thought." 
 
 "Not an angry thought, certainly." And he smiled at my 
 wrath a sad smile. 
 
 "Ah, Phineas! now I begin to understand what is meant by 
 the curse of prosperity." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A great, eager, but doggedly-quiet crowd, of which each had 
 his or her for it was half women individual terror to hide, 
 his or her individual interest to fight for, and cared not a straw 
 for that of any one else. 
 
 It was market-day, and this crowd was collected and collect- 
 ing every minute before the bank at Norton Bury. It includ- 
 ed all classes, from the stout farmer's wife, or market-woman, 
 to the pale, frightened lady of "limited income" who had 
 never been in such a throng before; from the aproned mechan- 
 ic, to the gentleman who sat in his carriage at the street cor- 
 ner, confident that whatever poor chance there was, his would 
 be the best.
 
 352 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Everybody was, as I have said, extremely quiet. You heard 
 none of the jokes that always rise in and circulate through a 
 crowd; none of the loud outcries of a mob. All were intent 
 on themselves and their own business; on that fast-bolted red- 
 baize door, and on the green blind of the windows, which 
 informed them that it was "open from ten till four." 
 
 The Abbey clock struck three-quarters. Then there was a 
 slight stirring, a rustling here and there of paper as some one 
 drew out and examined his bank-notes openly, with small f ear 
 of theft they were not worth stealing. 
 
 John and I, a little way off, stood looking on, where we had 
 once watched a far different crowd; for Mr. Jessop owned the 
 doctor's former house, and in sight of the green bank blinds 
 were my dear old father's known windows, 
 
 Guy's birthday had fallen on a Saturday. This was Mon- 
 day morning. We had driven over to Norton Bury, John and 
 I, at an unusually early hour. He did not exactly tell me 
 why, but it was not difficult to guess. Not difficult to per- 
 ceive how strongly he was interested, even affected as any 
 man, knowing all the circumstances, could not but be affected 
 by the sight of that crowd, all the sadder for its being such 
 a patient, decent, respectable crowd, out of which so large a 
 proportion was women. 
 
 I noticed this latter fact to John. 
 
 "Yes, I was sure it -would be so. Jessop's bank has such a 
 number of small depositors, and issues so many small notes. 
 He cannot cash above half of them without some notice. If 
 there comes a run, he may have to stop payment this very day; 
 and then, how wide the misery would spread among the poor, 
 God knows." 
 
 His eye wandered pitifully over the heaving mass of anxious 
 faces, blue with cold, and growing more and more despondent 
 as every minute they turned with a common impulse from the 
 closed bank door to the Abbey clock, glittering far up in the 
 sunshiny atmosphere of morning. 
 
 Its finger touched the one heel of the great striding X 
 glided on to the other the ten strokes fell leisurely and regu- 
 larly upon the clear, frosty air; then the chimes Norton Bury 
 was proud of its Abbey chimes burst out in the tune of 
 <r Life let us cherish." 
 
 The bells went through all the tune to the very last note; 
 then ensued silence. The crowd was silent, too almost
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 353 
 
 breathless with intent listening, but alas! not to the merry Ab- 
 bey chimes. 
 
 The bank door remained closed not a rattle at the bolts, 
 not a clerk's face peering out above the blind. The house was 
 as shut up and desolate as if it were entirely empty. 
 
 Five whole minutes, by the Abbey clock, did that poor, pa- 
 tient crowd wait on the pavement. Then a murmur arose. 
 One or two men hammered at the door; some frightened wo- 
 men, jostled in the press, began to scream. 
 
 John could bear it no longer. "Come along with me," he 
 said, hurriedly. "I must see Jessop we can get in at the 
 garden door." 
 
 This was a little gate round the corner of the street, well 
 known to us both in those brief "courting days," when we 
 came to tea of evenings and found Mrs. Jessop and Ursula 
 March in the garden watering the plants and tying up the 
 roses. Nay, we passed out of it into the same summer parlor, 
 where I cannot tell if John ever knew of the incident, at all 
 events he never mentioned it to me there had been transacted 
 a certain momentous event in Ursula's life and mine. Enter- 
 ing by the French window, there rose up to my mental vision, 
 in vivid contrast to all present scenes, the picture of a young 
 girl I had once seen sitting there, with head drooped, knitting. 
 Could that day be twenty-five years ago? 
 
 No summer parlor now its atmosphere was totally 
 changed. It was a dull, dusty room, of which the only lively 
 object was a large fire, the under half of which had burned 
 itself away unstirred into black dingy caverns. Before it, 
 with breakfast untasted, sat Josiah Jessop, his feet on the fen- 
 der, his elbows on his knees, the picture qf 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 ac- 
 count to close? You don't hold any notes of mine, do you?" 
 
 John put his hand on the old man's shoulder, and repeated 
 that lie only came as a friend. 
 
 "Not the first 'friend' I have received this morning. I 
 knew I should be early honored with visitors;" and the banker 
 attempted a. dreary smile. ''Sir Herbert and half a dozen 
 more are waiting for me upstairs. 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! 
 
 23
 
 354 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Speak to them, Mr. Halifax tell them I'm an old man that 
 I was always an honest man always. If only they would give 
 me time hark! just hark! Heaven help me! do they want to 
 tear me in pieces?" 
 
 John went out for a few moments, then came back and sat 
 down beside Mr. Jessop. 
 
 "Compose yourself" the old man was shaking like an as- 
 pen leaf. "Tell me, if you have no objection to give me this 
 confidence, exactly how your affairs stand." 
 
 With a gasp of helpless thankfulness, looking up in John's 
 face, while his own quivered like a frightened child's, the 
 banker obeyed. It seemed that great as was his loss by 
 
 W 's failure, it was not absolute ruin to him. In effect, 
 
 he was at this moment perfectly solvent, and by calling in 
 mortgages, etc., could meet both the accounts of the gentry 
 who banked with him, together with all his own notes now 
 afloat in the county, principally among the humbler ranks, 
 petty tradespeople, and such-like if only both classes of cus- 
 tomers would give him time to pay them. 
 
 "But they will not. There will be a run upon the bank, 
 and then all's over with me. It's a hard case solvent as I 
 am ready and able to pay every farthing if only I had a 
 week's time. As it is, I must stop payment to-day. Hark! 
 they are at the door! Mr. Halifax, for God's sake, quiet 
 them!" 
 
 "I will; only tell me first what sum, added to the cash you 
 have available, would keep the bank open just for a day or 
 two." 
 
 At once guided and calmed, the old man's business faculties 
 seemed to return. He began to calculate, and soon stated the 
 sum he needed; I think it was three or four thousand pounds. 
 
 "Very well; I have thought of a plan. But first those 
 poor fellows outside. Thank Heaven, I am a rich man, and 
 everybody knows it. Phineas, that inkstand, please." 
 
 He sat down and wrote; curiously the attitude and manner 
 reminded me of his sitting down and writing at my father's 
 table after the bread riot years and years ago. Soon, a no- 
 tice signed by Josiah Jessop, and afterward by himself, to the 
 effect that the bank would open, "without fail," at one o'clock 
 this day, was given by John to the astonished clerk, to be post- 
 ed at the window. 
 
 A responsive cheer outside showed how readily those out- 
 side had caught at even this gleam of hope. Also, how im-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 355 
 
 plicitly they trusted in the mere name of a gentleman who all 
 over the county was known for "his word being as good as his 
 bond" John Halifax. 
 
 The banker breathed freer; but his respite was short; an 
 imperative message came from the gentlemen above stairs, de- 
 siring his presence. With a kind of blind dependence, he 
 looked toward John. 
 
 "Let me go in your stead. You can trust me to manage 
 matters to the best of my power?" 
 
 The banker overwhelmed him with gratitude. 
 
 "Nay, that ought to be my word, standing in this house, 
 
 and remembering " His eyes turned to the two portraits 
 
 grim-colored daubs, yet with a certain apology of likeness, 
 too, which broadly smiled at one another from opposite walls 
 the only memorials now remaining of the good doctor and 
 his cheery little old wife. "Come, Mr. Jessop, leave the mat- 
 ter with me; believe me, it is not only a pleasure, but a duty/' 
 
 The old man melted into senile tears. 
 
 I do not know how John managed the provincial magnates, 
 who were sitting in council considering how best to save, first 
 themselves, then the bank, lastly. If the poor public outside 
 had been made acquainted with that ominous "lastly!" Or if 
 to the respectable conclave above stairs, who would have re- 
 coiled indignantly at the vulgar word "jobbing," had been 
 hinted a phrase which ran oddly in and out of the nooks of 
 my brain, keeping time to the murmur in the street, "Vox 
 populi, vox Dei" truly I should have got little credit for my 
 Latinity. 
 
 John came out in about half an hour, with a cheerful coun- 
 tenance; told me he was going over to Coltham for an hour or 
 two would I wait his return ? 
 
 "And all is settled?" I asked. 
 
 "Will be soon, I trust. I can't stay to tell you more now. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 I was no man of business, and I could assist in nothing. So 
 I thought the best I could do was to pass the time in wander- 
 ing up and down the familiar garden, idly watching the hoar- 
 frost on the arbutus leaves, and on the dry stems of what had 
 been dear little Mrs. Jessop's favorite roses the same roses I 
 had seen her among on that momentous evening the even- 
 ing when Ursula's bent neck flushed more crimson than the 
 sunset itself, as I told her John Halifax was "too noble to die 
 for any woman's love."
 
 356 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No, he had lived for it, earned it, won it. And musing 
 over these long-ago times, my heart melted foolish old heart 
 that it was with a trembling joy to think that Providence 
 had in some way used my poor useless hand to give to him this 
 blessing, a man's chiefest blessing of a virtuous and loving 
 wife, which had crowned his life for all these wonderful years. 
 
 As it neared one o'clock I could see my ancient friend the 
 Abbey clock, with not a wrinkle in his old face, staring at me 
 through the bare Abbey trees. I began to feel rather anxious. 
 I went into the deserted office, and thence, none forbidding, 
 ensconced myself behind the sheltering bank blinds. 
 
 The crowd had scarcely moved; a very honest, patient, weary 
 crowd, dense in the center, thinning toward the edges. On 
 its extreme verge, waiting in a curricle, was a gentleman, who 
 seemed observing it with a lazy curiosity. I, having like him- 
 self apparently nothing better to do, observed this gentleman. 
 
 He was dressed in the height of the mode, combined with a 
 novel and eccentric fashion, which had been lately set by that 
 extraordinary young nobleman whom everybody talked about 
 my Lord Byron. His neckcloth was loose, his throat bare, 
 and his hair fell long and untidy. His face, that of a man 
 about thirty I fancied I had seen it before, but could not re- 
 call where was delicate, thin, with an expression at once 
 cynical and melancholy. He sat in his carriage, wrapped in 
 furs, or looked carelessly out on the scene before him, as if 
 lie had no interest therein as if there was nothing in life 
 worth living for. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said I to myself, recalling the bright, busy, 
 laughing faces of our gro wing-up lads, recalling especially 
 their father's full of all that active energy and wise cheerful- 
 ness which gives zest to existence; God forbid any man should 
 die till he has lived to learn it! "poor fellow! I wish his 
 moodiness could take a lesson from us at home!" 
 
 But the gentleman soon retired from my observation under 
 his furs! for the sky had gloomed over, and snow began to fall. 
 .Those on the pavement shook it drearily off, and kept turning 
 every minute to the Abbey clock. I feared it would take the 
 patience of Job to enable them to hold out another quarter of 
 an hour. 
 
 At length some determined hand again battered at the door. 
 
 I fancied I heard a clerk speaking out of the first floor win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Gentlemen" how tremblingly polite the voice
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 357 
 
 "Gentlemen, in five minutes positively five minutes the 
 bank will " 
 
 The rest of the speech was drowned and lost. Dashing 
 "round the street corner, the horses all in a foam, came our 
 Beech wood carriage. Mr. Halifax leaped out. 
 
 Well might the crowd divide for him well might they 
 cheer him. For he carried a canvas bag a great, ugly, grim- 
 ly-colored bag a precious, precious bag, with the consolation 
 perhaps the life of hundreds in it! 
 
 I knew, almost by intuition, what he had done what, in 
 one or two instances, was afterward done by other rich and 
 generous Englishmen, during the crisis of this year. 
 
 The bank door flew open like magic. The crowd came 
 pushing in; but when John called out to them, "Good people, 
 pray let me pass," they yielded and suffered him to go in first. 
 Pie went right up to the desk, behind which, flanked by a tol- 
 erable array of similar canvas bags, full of gold but never- 
 theless waiting in mortal fear, and as white as his own neck- 
 cloth the old banker stood. 
 
 "Mr. Jessop," John said, in a loud, distinct voice, that all 
 might hear him, "I have the pleasure to open an account with 
 you. I feel satisfied that in these dangerous times no credit is 
 more safe than yours. Allow me to pay in to-day the sum of 
 five thousand pounds." 
 
 "Five thousand pounds!" 
 
 The rumor of it was repeated from mouth to mouth. In a 
 small provincial bank, such a sum seemed unlimited. It gave 
 universal confidence. Many who had been scrambling, swear- 
 ing, almost fighting, to reach the counter and receive gold for 
 their notes, put them again into their pockets uncashed. Oth- 
 ers, chiefly women, got them cashed with a trembling hand; 
 nay, with tears of joy. A few who had come to close accounts 
 changed their minds, and even paid money in. All were sat- 
 isfied; the run upon the bank ceased. 
 
 Mr. Halifax stood aside, looking on. After the first mur- 
 mur of surprise and pleasure, no one seemed to take any notice 
 of him, or of what he had done. Only one old widow woman, 
 as she slipped three bright guineas under the lid of her market 
 basket, dropped him a courtesy in passing by. 
 
 "It's your doing, Mr. Halifax. The Lord reward you, sir." 
 
 "Thank you," he said, and shook her by tke hand. 1 
 thought to myself, watching the many that came and went, 
 unmindful "only this Samaritan!"
 
 358 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No one person more, standing by, addressed him by name. 
 "This is indeed your doing, and an act of benevolence which I 
 believe no man alive would have done except Mr. Halifax." 
 And the gentleman who spoke the same I had seen outside 
 in his curricle held out a friendly hand." 
 
 "I see you do not remember me. My name is Ravenel." 
 
 "Lord Ravenel!" 
 
 John uttered this exclamation and no more. I saw that 
 this sudden meeting had brought back, with a cruel tide of 
 memory, the last time they met by the small nursery bed in 
 that upper chamber at Enderley. 
 
 However, this feeling shortly passed away, as must needs be; 
 and we all three began to converse together. 
 
 While he talked something of the old "Anselmo" came back 
 into Lord Ravenel's face; especially when John asked him if 
 he would drive over with us to Enderley. 
 
 "Enderley how strange the word sounds yet I should like 
 to see the place again. Poor old Enderley!" 
 
 Irresolutely all his gestures seemed dreamy and irresolute 
 he drew his hand across his eyes the same white, long-fin- 
 gered, womanish hand which had used to guide Muriel's over 
 the organ keys. 
 
 "Yes; I think I will go back with you to Enderley. But 
 first I must speak to Mr. Jessop here." 
 
 It was about some poor Catholic families, who, as we had 
 before learned, had long been his pensioners. 
 
 "You are a Catholic still, then?" I asked. "We heard the 
 contrary." 
 
 "Did you? Oh, of course. One hears such wonderful facts 
 about one's self. 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 sin- 
 cere Catholic?" 
 
 "If you take Catholic in its original sense, certainly. I am 
 a Universalist. I believe everything and nothing. Let us 
 change the subject." The contemptuous scepticism of his 
 manner altered, as he inquired after Mrs. Halifax and the 
 children. "No longer children now, I suppose?" 
 
 "Scarcely. Guy and Walter are as tall as yourself; and my 
 daughter " 
 
 "Your daughter?" with a start "oh, yes, I recollect. Baby 
 Maud. Is she at all like like "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 369 
 
 "No." 
 
 Neither said more than this; but it seemed as if their hearts 
 warmed to one another, knitted by the same tender remem- 
 brance. 
 
 We drove home. Lord Eavenel muffled himself up in his 
 furs, complaining bitterly of the snow and sleet. 
 
 "Yes, the winter is setting in sharply," John replied, as he 
 reined in his horses at the turnpike gate. "This will be a 
 hard Christmas for many." 
 
 "Ay, indeed, sir," said the gate-keeper, touching his hat. 
 "And if I might make so bold it's a dark night, and the 
 road's lonely" he added in a mysterious whisper. 
 
 "Thank you, my friend. I am aware of all that." But as 
 John drove on, he remained for some time very silent. 
 
 On, across the bleak country, with the snow pelting in our 
 faces along roads so deserted that our carriage-wheels made 
 the only sound audible, and that might have been heard dis- 
 tinctly for miles. 
 
 All of a sudden the horses were pulled up. Three or four 
 ill-looking figures had started out of a ditch-bank, and caught 
 hold of the reins. 
 
 "Halloo there! what do you want?" 
 
 "Money." 
 
 "Let go my horses! They're spirited beasts. You'll get 
 trampled on." 
 
 "Who cares?" 
 
 This brief colloquy passed in less than a minute. It showed 
 at once our position miles away from any house on this 
 desolate moor; showed plainly our danger John's danger. 
 
 He himself did not seem to recognize it. He stood upright 
 on the box-seat, the whip in his hand. 
 
 "Get away, you fellows, or I must drive over you!" 
 
 "Thee'd better!" With a yell, one of the men leaped up 
 and clung to the neck of the plunging mare then was dashed 
 to the ground between her feet. The poor wretch uttered one 
 groan and no more. John sprang out of his carriage, caught 
 the mare's head, and backed her. 
 
 "Hold off! the poor fellow is killed, or may be in a minute. 
 Hold off, I say." 
 
 If ever these men, planning perhaps their first ill deed, 
 were struck dumb with astonishment, it was to see the gentle- 
 man they were intending to rob take up their comrade in his 
 arms, drag him toward the carriage-lamps, rub snow on his
 
 360 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 face and chafe his heavy hands. But all in vain. The blood 
 trickled down from a wound in his temples the head, with 
 its open mouth dropping, fell back upon John's knee. 
 
 "He is quite dead." 
 
 The others gathered round in silence, watching Mr. Halifax, 
 as he still knelt, with the dead man's head leaning against him, 
 mournfully regarding it. 
 
 "I think I know him. Where does his wife live?" 
 
 Some one pointed across the moor to a light, faint as a glow- 
 worm. "Take that rug out of my carriage wrap him in it." 
 The order was at once obeyed. "Now carry him home. I 
 will follow presently." 
 
 "Surely not," expostulated Lord Ravenel, who had got out 
 of the carriage and stood, shivering and much shocked, beside 
 Mr. Halifax. "You would not surely put yourself in the pow- 
 er of these scoundrels. What brutes they are the lower or- 
 ders!" 
 
 "Not altogether when you know them. Phineas, will you 
 drive Lord Ravenel on to Beechwood?" 
 
 "Excuse me certainly not," said Lord Ravenel, with dig- 
 nity. "We will stay to see the result of the affair. What a 
 singular man Mr. Halifax is, and always was," he added, 
 thoughtfully, as he muffled himself up again in his furs, and 
 relapsed into silence. 
 
 Soon, following the track of those black figures across the 
 snow, we came to a cluster of peat huts, along-side of the 
 moorland road. John took one of the carriage lamps in his 
 hand, and went in without saying a word. To my surprise 
 Lord Ravenel presently dismounted and followed him. I was 
 left with the reins in my hand, and two or three of those ill- 
 visaged men hovering about the carriage; but no one at- 
 tempted to do me any harm. Nay, when John reappeared, 
 after a lapse of some minutes, one of them civilly picked up 
 the whip and put it into his hand. 
 
 "Thank you. Now, my men, tell me what did you want 
 with me just now?" 
 
 "Money," cried one. "Work," shouted another. 
 
 "And a likely way you went about to get it! Stopping me 
 in the dark, on a lonely road, just like common robbers. I 
 did not think any Enderley men would have done a thing so 
 cowardly." 
 
 "We bean't cowards/'' was the surly answer, "Thee carries 
 pistols, Mr. Halifax."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 361 
 
 "You forced me to do it. My life is as precious to my wife 
 and children as as that poor fellow's is to his." John 
 stopped. "God help us, my men! it's a hard world for us all 
 sometimes. Why did you not know me better? Why not 
 come to my house, and ask honestly for a dinner and a half 
 crown? You should have both, any day." 
 
 "Thank'ee, sir," was the general cry. "And, sir," begged 
 one old man, "you'll hush up the 'crowner's 'quest you and 
 this gentleman here? You won't put us in jail for taking to 
 the road, Mr. Halifax?" 
 
 "No; unless you attack me again. But I am not afraid. I'll 
 trust you. Look here!" He took the pistol out of his breast- 
 pocket, cocked it, and fired its two barrels harmlessly into the 
 air. "Now, good-night, and if ever I carry fire-arms again, 
 it will be your fault, not mine." 
 
 So saying, he held the carriage-door open for Lord Eavenel, 
 who took his place with a subdued and thoughtful air; then 
 mounting the box-seat, John drove, in somewhat melancholy 
 silence, across the snowy starlit moors to Beechwood. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 In the home-light. 
 
 It was a scene glowing almost as those evening pictures at 
 Longfield. Those pictures, photographed on memory by the 
 summer sun of our lives, and which no paler after-sun could 
 have power to reproduce. Nothing earthly is ever reproduced 
 in the same form. I suppose Heaven meant it to be so; that 
 in the perpetual progression of our existence, we should be 
 reconciled to loss, and taught that change itself is but another 
 form for aspiration. Aspiration, which never can rest, or 
 ought to rest, in anything short of the One absolute Perfec- 
 tion the One all-satisfying Good, "in whom is no variable- 
 ness, neither shadow of turning." 
 
 I say this to excuse myself for thoughts which at times made 
 me grave even in the happy home-light of John's study: 
 where, for several weeks after the last incident I 'have recorded, 
 the family were in the habit of gathering every evening. For 
 poor Guy was a captive. The "mere trifle" had turned out to 
 be a sprained foot, which happening to a tall and strong young 
 man became serious. He bore his imprisonment restlessly
 
 362 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 enough at first, but afterward grew more reconciled took to 
 reading, drawing and society and even began to interest him- 
 self in the pursuits of his sister Maud, who every morning had 
 her lessons in the study. 
 
 Miss Silver first proposed this. She had evinced more feel- 
 ing than was usual to her since Guy's accident; showed him 
 many little feminine kindnesses out of compunction it 
 seemed; and altogether was much improved. Of evenings, as 
 now, she always made one of the "young people," who were 
 generally grouped together round Guy's sofa Edwin, Wal- 
 ter, and little Maud. The father and mother sat opposite 
 as usual, side by side, he with his newspaper, she with her 
 work. Or sometimes falling into pleasant idleness, they would 
 slip hand in hand, and sit talking to one another in an under- 
 tone, or silently and smilingly watch the humors of their chil- 
 dren. 
 
 For me, I generally took to my nook in the chimney-corner 
 it was a very ancient fire-place, with settles on each side, 
 and dogs instead of a grate, upon which many a fagot hissed 
 and crackled its merry brief life aAvay. Nothing could be 
 more cheery and comfortable than this old-fashioned, low- 
 roofed room, three sides of which were peopled with books 
 all the books which John had gathered up during the course 
 of his life. Perhaps it was their long familiar, friendly faces, 
 which made this his favorite room his own especial domain. 
 But he did not keep it tabooed from his family; he liked to 
 have them about him, even in his studious hours. 
 
 So, of evenings, we all sat together as now, each busy, and 
 none interrupting the rest. At intervals, flashes of talk or 
 laughter broke out, chiefly from Guy, Walter, or Maud, when 
 Edwin would look up from his everlasting book, and even the 
 grave governess relax into a smile. Since she had learned to 
 smile, it became more and more apparent how very handsome 
 Miss Silver was. "Handsome," is, I think, the fittest word 
 for her; that correctness of form and color, which attracts the 
 eye chiefly, and perhaps the eye of men rather than of women; 
 at least, Mrs. Halifax could never be brought to see it. But 
 then her peculiar taste was for slender, small brunettes, like 
 Grace Oldtower; whereas Miss Silver was large and fair. 
 
 Fair, in every sense, most decidedly. And now that she 
 evidently began to pay a little more attention to her dress and 
 her looks, we found out that she was also young.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 363 
 
 "Only twenty-one to-day, Guy says," I remarked one day to 
 Ursula. 
 
 "How did Guy know it?" 
 
 "I believe he discovered the wonderful secret from Maud." 
 
 "Maud and her brother Guy have grown wonderful friends 
 since his illness. Do you not think so?" 
 
 ""Yes, I found the two of them and even Miss Silver as 
 merry as possible when I came into the study this morning." 
 
 "Did you?" said the mother, with an involuntary glance at 
 the group opposite. 
 
 There was nothing particular to observe. They all sat in 
 most harmless quietude, Edwin reading, Maud at his feet, 
 playing with the cat, Miss Silver busy at a piece of that deli- 
 cate muslin-work with which young women then used to orna- 
 ment their gowns. Guy had been drawing a pattern for it, 
 and now leaned back upon his sofa, shading off the fire with 
 his hand, and from behind it gazing, as I had often seen him 
 gaze lately, with a curious intentness, at the young governess. 
 
 "Guy," said his mother (and Guy started), "what were you 
 thinking about?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing; that is " Here, by some accident, Miss 
 
 Silver quitted the room. "Mother, come over here, I want 
 }'our opinion. There, sit down though it's nothing of the 
 least importance." 
 
 Nevertheless it was with some hesitation that he brought 
 out the mighty question, namely, that it was Miss Silver's 
 birthday to-day; that he thought we ought to remember it, 
 and give her some trifle as a present. 
 
 "And I was considering, this large 'Flora' I ordered from 
 London she would like it extremely; she is so fond of bot- 
 any." 
 
 "What do you know about botany?" said Edwin, sharply, 
 and rather irrelevantly as it seemed, till I remembered how 
 he plumed himself upon his knowledge of this science, and 
 how he had persisted in taking Maud, and her governess also, 
 along wintry walks across the country "in order to study the 
 cryptogamia." 
 
 Guy vouchsafed no answer to his brother; he was too much 
 absorbed in turning over the pages of the beautiful "Flora" 
 on his knee. 
 
 "'What do you say, all of you? Father, don't you think 
 she would like it? Then suppose you give it to her?" 
 
 At this inopportune moment Miss Silver returned.
 
 364 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 She might have been aware that she was under discussion 
 at least so much of discussion as was implied by Guy's eager 
 words and his mother's silence, for she looked around her un- 
 easily, and was about to retire. 
 
 "Do not go," Guy exclaimed, anxiously. 
 
 "Pray, do not," his mother added; "we were just talking 
 about you, Miss Silver. My son hopes you will accept this 
 book from him, and from us all, with all kind birthday wish- 
 es." 
 
 And rising, with a little more gravity than was her wont, 
 Mrs. Halifax touched the girl's forehead with her lips, and 
 gave her the present. 
 
 Miss Silver colored and drew back. "You are very good, 
 but indeed I would much rather not have it." 
 
 "Why so? Do you dislike gifts, or this gift in particular?" 
 
 "Oh, no; certainly not." 
 
 "Then," said John, as he too came forward and shook hands 
 with her with an air of hearty kindness, "pray take the book. 
 Do let us show how much we respect you; how entirely we re- 
 gard you as one of the family." 
 
 Guy turned a look of grateful pleasure to his father; but 
 Miss Silver coloring more than ever, still held back. 
 
 "No, I cannot; indeed, I cannot." 
 
 "Why can you not?" 
 
 "For several reasons." 
 
 "Give me only one of them as much as can be expected 
 from a young lady," said Mr. Halifax, good-humoredly. 
 
 "Mr. Guy ordered the 'Flora' for himself. I must not allow 
 him to renounce his pleasure for me." 
 
 "It would not be renouncing it if you had it," returned the 
 lad, in a low tone, at which once more his younger brother 
 looked up angrily. 
 
 "What folly about nothing! how can one read with such a 
 clatter going on?" 
 
 "You old bookworm! you care for nothing and nobody but 
 yourself," Guy answered, laughing. But Edwin, really in- 
 censed, rose and settled himself in the far corner of the room. 
 
 "p]dwin is right," said the father, in a tone which indicated 
 his determination to end the discussion, a tone which even 
 Miss Silver obeyed. "My dear young lady, I hope you will 
 like your book; Guy, write her name in it at once." 
 
 Guy willingly obeyed, but was a good while over the task; 
 his mother came and looked over his shoulder.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 365 
 
 "Louise Eugenie how did you know that, Guy? Louise 
 Eugenie Sil , is that your name, my dear?" 
 
 The question simple as it was, seemed to throw the govern- 
 ess into much confusion, even agitation. At last she drew 
 herself up with the old repulsive gesture, which of late had 
 been slowly wearing off. 
 
 "No I will not deceive you any longer. My right name is 
 Louise Eugenie d' Argent." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax started. "Are you a Frenchwoman?" 
 
 "On my father's side yes." 
 
 "Why did you not tell me so?" 
 
 "Because if you remember, at our first interview, you said no 
 Frenchwoman should educate your daughter. And I was 
 homeless friendless." 
 
 "Better starve than tell a falsehood," cried the mother, in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 "I told no falsehood. You never asked me of my parent- 
 age." 
 
 "Nay," said John, interfering, "you must not speak in that 
 manner to Mrs. Halifax. Why did you renounce your father's 
 name?" 
 
 "Because English people would have scouted my father's 
 daughter. You knew him everybody knew him he was 
 D' Argent the Jacobin D' Argent the Rouge." 
 
 She threw out these words defiantly, and quitted the room. 
 
 "This is a dreadful discovery. Edwin, you have seen most 
 of her did you ever imagine " 
 
 "I knew it, mother," said Edwin, without lifting his eyes 
 from his book. "After all, French or English, it makes no 
 difference." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed!" cried Guy, angrily. "What- 
 ever her father is, if any one dared to think the worse of her 
 )> 
 
 "Hush till another time," said the father, with a glance at 
 Maud, who, with wide-open eyes, in which the tears were just 
 springing, had been listening to all these revelations about her 
 governess. 
 
 But Maud's tears were soon stopped, as well as this painful 
 conversation, by the entrance of our daily, or rather nightly, 
 visitor for these six weeks past, Lord Ravenel. His presence, 
 always welcome, was a great relief now. We never discussed 
 family affairs before people. The boys began to talk to Lord 
 RaveneJ: and Maud took her privileged place on a foot-stool
 
 366 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 beside him. From the first sight she had been his favorite, he 
 said, because of her resemblance to Muriel. But I think, more 
 than any fancied likeness to that sweet lost face, which he 
 never spoke of without tenderness inexpressible, there was 
 something in Maud's buoyant youth just between childhood 
 and girlhood, having the charms of one and the immunities of 
 the other which was especially attractive to this man, who, 
 at three-and-thirty, found life a weariness nnd a burden at 
 least he said so. 
 
 Life was never either weary or burdensome in our house 
 not even to-night, though our friend found us less lively than 
 usual though John maintained more than his usual silence, 
 and Mrs. Halifax fell into troubled reveries. Guy and Ed- 
 win, both considerably excited, argued and contradicted one 
 another more warmly than even the Beechwood liberty of 
 speech allowed. For Miss Silver, she did not appear again. 
 
 Lord Ravenel seemed to take these slight de&agrt/mens 
 very calmly. He stayed his customary time, smiling languid- 
 ly as ever at the boys' controversies, or listening with a half- 
 pleased, half-melancholy laziness to Maud's gay prattle, his 
 eye following her about the room with the privileged tender- 
 ness that twenty years' seniority allows a man to feel and show 
 toward a child. At his wonted hour he rode away, sighingly 
 contrasting pleasant Beechwood with dreary and solitary Lux- 
 rnore. 
 
 After his departure, we did not again close round the fire. 
 Maud vanished; the younger boys also; Guy settled himself on 
 his sofa, having first taken the pains to limp across the room 
 and fetch the "Flora," which Edwin had carefully stowed 
 away in the book-case. Then making himself comfortable, as 
 the pleasure-loving lad liked well enough to do. he lay dream- 
 ily gazing at the title-page, where was written her name, and 
 "From Guy Halifax, with " 
 
 "What are you going to add, my son?" 
 
 He, glancing up at his mother, made her no answer, and 
 hastily closed the book. 
 
 She looked hurt; but saying nothing more, began moving 
 about the room, putting things in order before retiring. John 
 sat in the arm-chair meditative. She asked him what he 
 was thinking about? 
 
 "About that man, Jacques d' Argent." 
 
 "You have heard of him, then?" 
 
 had not, twenty years ago. He was one of the most
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 367 
 
 ^blatant beasts,' of the Eeign of Terror. A fellow without 
 honesty, conscience, or even common decency." 
 
 "And that man's daughter we have had in our house, teach- 
 ing our innocent child!" 
 
 Alarm and disgust were written on every feature of the 
 mother's face. It was scarcely surprising. Now that the fer- 
 ment which had convulsed society in our younger days was 
 settling down, though we were still far from that ultimate 
 calm which enables posterity to judge fully and fairly such a 
 remarkable historical crisis as the French Eevolution, most 
 English people looked back with horror on the extreme opin- 
 ions of that time. If Mrs. Halifax had a weak point, it was 
 her prejudice against anything French or Jacobinical. Partly 
 from that tendency to moral conversation which in most per- 
 sons, especially women, strengthens as old age advances; 
 partly, I believe, from the terrible warning given by the fate 
 of one, of whom for years we had never heard, whose very 
 name was either unknown to, or forgotten by, our children. 
 
 "John, can't you speak? Don't you see the frightful dan- 
 ger?" 
 
 "Love, try and be calmer." 
 
 "How can I? Eemember remember Caroline." 
 
 "Nay, we are not talking of her, but of a girl whom we 
 know, and have had good opportunity of knowing a girl who, 
 whatever may have been her antecedents, has lived for six 
 months blamelessly in our house." 
 
 "Would to Heaven she had never entered it. But it is not 
 too late. She may leave she shall leave immediately." 
 
 "Mother!" burst out Guy. Never since she bore him, had 
 his mother heard her name uttered in such a tone. 
 
 She stood petrified. 
 
 "Mother, you are unjust, heartless, cruel! She shall not 
 leave; she shall not, I say!" 
 
 "Guy, how dare you speak to your mother in that way?" 
 
 "Yes, father, I dare. I'll dare anything rather than " 
 
 "Stop. Mind what you are saying or you may repent 
 it." 
 
 And Mr. Halifax, speaking in that low tone to which his 
 voice fell in serious displeasure, laid a heavy hand on the 
 lad's shoulder. Father and son exchanged fiery glances. 
 The mother, terrified, rushed between them. 
 
 "Don't, John. Don't be angry with him. He could not 
 help it my poor boy!"
 
 368 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 At her piteous look, Guy and his father both drew back. 
 John put his arm round his wife, and made her sit down. 
 She was trembling exceedingly. 
 
 "You see, Guy, how wrong you have been. How could 
 you wound your mother so?" 
 
 "I did not mean to wound her/' the lad answered. "I only 
 wished to prevent her from being unjust and unkind to one 
 to whom she must show all justice and kindness. One 
 Avhom 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 differ- 
 ent from the usual impetuosity of his character. It was easy 
 to perceive that a great change had come over him; that in 
 this passion, the silent growth of which no one had sus- 
 pected, he was most thoroughly in earnest. From the boy, 
 he had suddenly started up into the man; and his parents saw 
 it. 
 
 They looked at him, and then mournfully at one another. 
 The father was the first to speak. 
 
 "All this is very sudden. You should have told us of it 
 before." 
 
 "I did not know of it myself till till very lately," the 
 youth answered more softly, lowering his head and blushing. 
 
 "Is Miss Silver is the lady aware of it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That is well," said, the father, after a pause. "In this 
 .silence you have acted as an honorable lover should, toward 
 her; as a dutiful son should act toward his parents." 
 
 Guy looked pleased. He stole his hand nearer his 
 mother's, but she neither took it nor repelled it; she seemed 
 quite stunned. 
 
 At this point I noticed that Maud had crept into the room; 
 I sent her out again as quickly as I could. Alas! this was the 
 first secret that needed to be kept from her; the first painful 
 mystery in our happy, happy home! 
 
 In any such home the first "falling in love," whether of 
 son or daughter, necessarily makes a great change. Greater 
 if the former than the latter. There is often a pitiful truth 
 I know not why it should be so, but so it is in the foolish
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 369 
 
 rhyme, which the mother had laughingly said over to me 
 this morning: 
 
 "My son's my son till he gets him a wife, 
 My daughter's my daughter all her life." 
 
 And when, as in this case, the son wishes to marry one 
 whom his father may not wholly approve, whom his mother 
 does not heartily love, surely the pain is deepened tenfold. 
 
 Those who in the dazzled vision of youth see only the 
 beauty and splendor of love first love, who deem it com- 
 prises the whole of life, beginning, aim, and end may mar- 
 vel that I, who have been young, and now am old, see as I 
 saw that night, not only the lover's, but the parents' side of 
 the question. I felt overwhelmed with sadness, as viewing 
 the three, I counted up in all its bearings and consequences, 
 near and remote, this attachment of poor Guy's. 
 
 "Well, father," he said at last, guessing by intuition that 
 the father's heart would best understand his own. 
 
 "Well, my son," John answered, sadly. 
 
 "You were young once." 
 
 "So I was," with a tender glance upon the lad's heated and 
 excited countenance. "Do not suppose I cannot feel with 
 you. Still, I wish you had been less precipitate." 
 
 "You were little older than I am when you married?" 
 
 "But my marriage was rather different from this projected 
 one of yours. I knew your mother well, and she knew me. 
 Both of us had been tried by trouble which we shared to- 
 gether, by absence, by many and various cares. We chose 
 one another, not hastily or blindly, but with free-will and 
 open eyes. No, Guy," he added, speaking earnestly and 
 softly, "mine was no sudden fancy, no frantic passion. I hon- 
 ored your mother above all women. I loved her as my own 
 soul." 
 
 "So do I love Louise. I would die for her any day." 
 
 At the son's impetuosity the father smiled; not incredu- 
 lously, only sadly. 
 
 All this while the mother had sat motionless, never utter- 
 ing a sound. Suddenly, hearing a footstep and a light 
 knock at the door, she darted forward and locked it, cry- 
 ing, in a voice that one could have hardly recognized as hers: 
 
 "$0 admittance! Go away." 
 
 24
 
 370 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 A note was pushed in under the door. Mrs. Halifax picked 
 it up, opened it, read it mechanically, and sat down agaiu, 
 taking no notice even when Guy, catching sight of the hand- 
 writing, eagerly seized the paper. 
 
 It was merely a line, stating Miss Silver's wish to leave 
 F>eechwood immediately; signed with her full name her 
 right name "Louise Eugenie d'Argent." 
 
 A postscript added: "Your silence I shall take as permis- 
 sion to depart; and shall be gone early to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow! Gone to-morrow! And she does not even 
 know that that I love her. Mother, you have ruined my 
 happpiness. I will never forgive you never!" 
 
 Never forgive his mother. His mother, who had borne 
 him, nursed him, reared him; who had loved him with that 
 love like none other in the world the love of a woman for 
 her first-born son, all these twenty-one years! 
 
 It was hard. I think the most passionate lover, in reas- 
 onable moments, would allow that it was hard. No marvel 
 that even her husband's clasp could not remove the look of 
 heart-broken, speechless suffering which settled stonily down 
 in Ursula's face, as she watched her boy storming about, 
 furious with uncontrollable passion and pain. 
 
 At last, mother-like, she forgot the passion in pity of the 
 pain. 
 
 "He is not strong yet; he will do himself harm. Let me 
 go to him! John, let me!" Her husband released her. 
 
 Faintly, with a weak, uncertain walk, she went up to Guy 
 and touched his arm. 
 
 "You must keep quiet, or you will be ill. I cannot have my 
 son ill not for any girl. Come, sit down here, beside your 
 mother." 
 
 She was obeyed. Looking into her eyes, and seeing no anger 
 there, nothing but grief and love, the young man' right spir- 
 its came back into him again. 
 
 "0, mother, mother, forgive me! I am so miserable so 
 miserable!" 
 
 He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed and clasped 
 him close her boy who never could be wholly hers again, 
 who had learned to love some one else dearer than his 
 mother. 
 
 After a while she said, "Father, shake hands with Guy.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 871 
 
 Tell him that we forgive his being angry with us; thai per- 
 haps some day " 
 
 She stopped, uncertain as to the father's mind, or seeking 
 strength for her own. 
 
 'Some day," John continued, "Guy will find out that we 
 can have nothing in the world, except our children's good, 
 so dear to us as their happiness." 
 
 Guy looked up, beaming with hope and joy. "0, father! 
 0. mother! will you, indeed " 
 
 "We will indeed say nothing," the father answered, smil- 
 ing; "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 last night, as .1 sat up pondering over all that had hap- 
 pened, Mrs. Halifax came into my room. 
 
 She looked round, asked rne, according to her wont, if there 
 was anything I wanted before she retired for the night? 
 Ursula was as good to me as any sister then stood by my 
 easy-chair. I would not meet her eyes, but I saw her hands 
 fluttering in their restless way. 
 
 I pointed to her accustomed chair. 
 
 "No, I can't sit down. I must say good-night." Then 
 coming at once to the point "Phineas, you are always up first 
 in the morning. Will you John thinks it had better be 
 from you will you give a message from us to Maud's gov- 
 erness?" 
 
 "Yes. What shall I say?" 
 
 "Merely, that we request she will not leave Beechwood un- 
 til we have seen her." 
 
 If Miss Silver had overheard the manner and tone of that 
 "request," I doubt if it would not have hastened rather than 
 delayed her departure. But God help the poor mother! her 
 wounds were still fresh. 
 
 "Would it not be better," I suggested, "if you were to 
 write to her?" 
 
 "I can't; no, I can't" spoken with the sharpness of ex-
 
 372 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ceeding pain. Soon after, as in a faint apology, she added, 
 1 "I am so tired; we are very late to-night." 
 
 "Yes; it is almost morning. I thought you were both in 
 bed." 
 
 "No; we have been sitting talking in Guy's room. His fa- 
 ther thought it would be better." 
 
 "And is all settled?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Having told me this, and having, as it were, by such a 
 conclusion confessed it was right the question should be thus; 
 "settled," Guy's mother seemed more herself. 
 
 "Yes," she repeated, "John thinks it ought to be. At 
 least, that she should know Guy's the feeling with which Guy 
 regards her. If, after the probation of a year, it still remains, 
 and he is content to begin life on a small income, we have 
 given our consent to our son's marriage." 
 
 It struck me how the mother's mind entirely dwelt on the 
 one party in this matter "Guy's feelings" "Our son's mar- 
 riage" and so on. The other side of the question, or the 
 possibility of any hinderance there, never seemed to enter 
 her imagination. Perhaps, it would not, even into mine, for 
 I shared the family faith in its best-beloved Guy, but for Mrs. 
 Halifax's so entirely ignoring the idea that any consent ex- 
 cept her son's and his parents' was necessary to this mar- 
 riage. 
 
 "It will not part him from us so very much, you see, Phin- 
 eas," she said, evidently trying to view the bright side "and 
 she has no relatives living not one. For income Guy will 
 have the entire profit of the Norton Bury mills; and they 
 might begin, as we did, in the old Norton Bury house the 
 dear old house." 
 
 The thought of her own young days seemed to come, 
 soothingly and sweet, taking the sting out of her pain, show- 
 ing her how it was but right and justice that Nature's holy 
 law should be fulfilled that children, in their turn, should 
 love, and marry, and be happy, like their parents. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, as I gently hinted this; "I know 
 you are right; all is quite right, and as it should be, though 
 it was a shock at first. No matter; John esteems her John 
 likes her. For me oh, I shall make a capital what is it? 
 a capital mother-in-law in time!" 
 
 "With that smile, which was almost cheerful, she bade me
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 373 
 
 good-night rather hastily, perhaps, as if she wished to leave 
 me while her cheerfulness lasted. Then I heard her step 
 along the passage, pausing once most likely at Guy's room 
 door; her own closed, and the house was in silence. 
 
 I rose earl}' in the morning not one whit too early, for 
 I met Miss Silver in the hall, bonneted and shawled, carrying 
 down with her own hands a portion of her chattels. She 
 evidently contemplated an immediate departure. It was with 
 the greutest difficulty that, without betraying my reasons, 
 which, of course, was impossible, I could persuade her to 
 change her determination. 
 
 Poor girl! last night's events had apparently shaken her 
 from that indifference which she seemed to think the best 
 armor of a helpless, proud governess against the world. She 
 would scarcely listen to a word. She was in extreme agita- 
 tion: half a dozen times she insisted on leaving, and then sat 
 down again. 
 
 I had not given her credit for so much wholesome irreso- 
 lution so much genuine feeling. Her manner almost con- 
 vinced me of a fact which every one else seemed to hold as 
 certain, but which I myself should have liked to see proved; 
 namely, that Guy, in asking her love, would have what in 
 every right and happy marriage a man ought to have the 
 knowledge that the love was his before he asked for it. 
 
 Seeing this, my heart warmed to the girl. I respected 
 her brave departure. I rejoiced that it was needless. Will- 
 ingly I would have quieted her distress with some hopeful, 
 ambiguous word, but that would have been trenching, as 
 no one ever ought to trench, on the lover's sole right. So 
 I held my tongue, watching with an amused pleasure ihe 
 color hovering to and fro over that usually impassive face. 
 
 At last, at the opening of the study door we stood in the 
 hall still those blushes rose up to her forehead in one in- 
 voluntary tide. 
 
 But it was only Edwin, who had lately taken to a habit of 
 getting up very early to study mathematics. He looked sur- 
 prised at seeing me with Miss Silver. 
 
 "What is that box? She is not going?" 
 
 "No; I have been entreating her not. Add your persua- 
 sions, Edwin." 
 
 For Edwin, with all his quietness, was a lad of much wis- 
 dom, great influence, and no little penetration. 1 felt in-
 
 874 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 clined to believe that though as yet he had not been let into 
 the secret of last night, he guessed it pretty well already. 
 
 He might have done, by the peculiar manner in which he 
 went up to the governess and took her hand. 
 
 "Pray stay; I beg of you." 
 
 She made no more ado, but stayed. 
 
 I left her with Edwin, and took my usual walk, up and 
 down the garden, till breakfast-time. 
 
 A strange and painful breakfast it was, even though the 
 most important element of its painfulness Guy was hap- 
 pily absent. The rest of us kept up a fragmentary, awkward 
 conversation, every one round the room looking, as, indeed, 
 one might have expected they would look, with one excep- 
 tion. 
 
 Miss Silver, who, from her behavior last night and her 
 demeanor to me this morning, I had supposed would now 
 have gathered up all her haughtiness to resist Guy's parents 
 as, ignorant both of his feelings and their intentions 
 toward her, a young lady of her proud spirit might well resist 
 was, to my astonishment, as mild and meek as this soft 
 spring morning. Nay, like it, seemed often on the very verge 
 of the melting mood. More than once her drooping eyelashes 
 were gemmed with tears. And when, the breakfast-table 
 being quickly deserted Edwin, indeed, had left it almost 
 immediately she, sitting absently in her place, was gently 
 touched by Mrs. Halifax; she started up, with the same vivid 
 rush of color that I had before noticed. It completely altered 
 the expression of her face; made her look ten years younger 
 ten years happier, and, being happier, ten times more 
 amiable. 
 
 This expression I was not the only one to notice it 
 was, by some intuition, reflected on the mother's. It made 
 softer than any speech of hers to Miss Silver, the few words: 
 
 "My dear, will you come with me into the study?" 
 
 "To lessons? Yes. I beg your pardon! Maud where 
 is Maud?" 
 
 "Never mind lessons just yet. We will have a little chat 
 with my son. Uncle Phineas, you'll come? Will you come, 
 too, my dear?" 
 
 "If you wish it." And with an air of unwonted obedi- 
 ence, she followed Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 Poor Guy! Confused young lover, meeting for the first
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 375 
 
 time after his confession the acknowledged object of his 
 preference, I really felt sorry for him! And, except that 
 women have generally twice as much self-control in such 
 cases as men and Miss Silver proved it I might even have 
 been sorry for her. But then her uncertainties would soon be 
 over. She had not to make all her family being aware she 
 was then and there making it that terrible "offer of mar- 
 riage," which, I am given to understand, is, even under the 
 most favorable circumstances, as formidable as going up to 
 the cannon's mouth. 
 
 I speak of it jestingly, as we all jested uneasily that morn- 
 ing save Mrs. Halifax, who scarcely spoke a word. At length, 
 when Miss Silver, growing painfully restless, again referred 
 to "lessons," she said: 
 
 , "Not yet. I want Maud for half an hour. Will you be 
 so kind as to take my place, and sit with my son, the while?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly!" 
 
 I was vexed with her really vexed for that ready assent; 
 but then, who knows the ins and outs of women's ways? At 
 any rate, for Guy's sake, this must be got over the quicker 
 the better. His mother rose. 
 
 "My son, my dear boy!" She leaned over him, whispering 
 I think she kissed him then slowly, quietly, she walked 
 out of the study. I followed. Outside the door we parted, 
 and I heard her go upstairs to her own room. 
 
 It might have been half an hour afterward, when Maud 
 and I, coming in from the garden, met her standing in the 
 hall. No one was with her, and she was doing nothing; two 
 very remarkable facts in the daily life of the mother of the 
 family. 
 
 Maud ran up to her with some primroses. 
 
 "Very pretty, very pretty, my child." 
 
 "But you don't look at them; you don't care for them; 
 I'll go and show them to Miss Silver." 
 
 "No," was the hasty answer. "Come back, Maud, Miss 
 Silver is occupied." 
 
 Making some excuse, I sent the child away, for I saw that 
 even Maud's presence was intolerable to her mother. That 
 poor mother, whose suspense was growing into positive 
 agony! 
 
 She waited, standing at the dining-room window, listen- 
 ing, going in and out of the hall, for another ten minutes.
 
 376 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "It is very strange, very strange indeed. He promised to 
 come to tell me; surely at least he ought to come and tell me 
 first me, his mother " 
 
 She stopped at the word, oppressed by exceeding pain. 
 
 "Hark! was that the study door?" 
 
 "I think so; one minute more and you will be quite cer- 
 tain." 
 
 Ay! one minute more, and we were quite certain. The 
 young lover entered, his bitter tidings written on his face. 
 
 "She has refused me, mother. I never shall be happy 
 more!" 
 
 Poor Guy! I slipped out of his sight and left the lad alone 
 with his mother. 
 
 Another hour passed of this strange, strange day. The 
 house seemed painfully quiet. Maud, disconsolate and cross, 
 had taken herself away to the beech-wood with Walter; the 
 father and Edwin were busy at the mills, and had sent word 
 that neither would return to dinner. I wandered from room 
 to room, always excepting that shut-up room where, as I took 
 care, no one should disturb the mother and son. 
 
 At last I heard them both going upstairs Guy was still too 
 lame to walk without assistance. I heard the poor lad's fret- 
 ful tones, and the soothing, cheerful voice that answered 
 them. "Verily," thought I, "if, since he must fall in love, 
 Guy had only fixed his ideal standard of womanhood a little 
 nearer home if he had only chosen for his wife a woman 
 little more like his mother!" But I suppose that would have 
 been expecting impossibilities. 
 
 Well, he had been refused! our Guy, whom we all would 
 have imagined irresistible our Guy, "whom to look on was 
 to love." Some harsh folk say this might be a good lesson for 
 the lad nay, for most lads; but I deny it. I doubt if any 
 young man, meeting at the outset of life a rejection like this, 
 which either ignorance or heedlessness on the woman's part 
 had made totally unexpected, ever is the better for it: per- 
 haps, for many years, cruelly the worse. For, most women 
 being quick-sighted about love, and most men especially 
 young men blind enough in its betrayal any woman who 
 willfully allows an offer only to refuse it, lowers not only 
 herself, but her whole sex, for a long, long time after in the 
 lover's eyes. At least I think so as I was thinking, in the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 377 
 
 way old bachelors are prone to moralize over suck things, 
 when, coming out of Guy's room, I met Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 She crossed the passage, hastily but noiselessly, to a small 
 anteroom which Miss Silver had for her own private study 
 out of which half a dozen stairs led to the chamber where 
 she and her pupil sat. The anteroom was open, the bed- 
 chamber door closed. 
 
 "She is in there?" 
 
 "I believe she is." 
 
 Guy's mother stood irresolute. Her knit brow and nervous 
 manner betrayed some determination she had come to, which 
 had cost her hard: suddenly she turned to me. 
 
 "Keep the children out of the way, will you, Phineas? 
 Don't let them know don't let anybody know about Guy." 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "There is some mistake there must be some mistake. 
 Perhaps she is not sure of our consent his father's and 
 mine; very right of her very right! I honor her for her 
 indecision. But she must be assured to the contrary; my 
 boy's peace must not be sacrificed. You understand, Phin- 
 eas?" 
 
 Ay, perhaps better than she did herself, poor mother! 
 
 Yet, when in answer to the hasty knock, I caught a 
 glimpse of Miss Silver opening the door Miss Silver, with 
 hair all falling down dishevelled, and features swollen with 
 crying, I went away completely at fault, as the standers-by 
 seem doomed to be in all love affairs. I began to hope that 
 this would settle itself somehow in all parties understand- 
 ing one another after the good old romantic fashion, and 
 "living very happy to the end of their lives." 
 
 I saw nothing more of any one until tea-time: when Mrs. 
 Halifax and the governess came in together. Something in 
 their manner struck me one being subdued and gentle, 
 the other tender and kind. Both, however, were exceed- 
 ingly grave nay, sad; but it appeared to be that sadness 
 which is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from 
 anger or resentment. 
 
 Neither Guy nor Edwin, nor the father, were present. 
 When John's voice was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had just 
 risen to retire with Maud. 
 
 "Good-night," the mother answered, in the same whisper 
 rose, kissed her kindly, and let her go.
 
 378 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked, 
 remarkably grave as grave as if they had known by intui- 
 tion all the trouble in the house. Of course, no one referred 
 to it. The mother merely noticed how late they were, and 
 how tired they both looked. Supper passed in silence, ami 
 then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed. 
 
 His father called him back. "Edwin, you will remembor:'" 
 
 "I will, father." 
 
 "Something is amiss with Edwin," said the mother, when 
 the two younger boys had closed the door behind them. 
 "What did you wish him to remember?" 
 
 Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with 
 that peculiarly tender gaze which she knew well to be tliL j 
 forewarning of trouble; trouble he could not save her from 
 could only help her to bear. Ursula laid her head on his 
 shoulder with one deep sob of long-smothered pain. 
 
 "I suppose you know all. I thought you would soon guess. 
 Oh, John, our happy days are over! Our children are chil- 
 dren no more." 
 
 "But ours still, love always will be ours." 
 
 "What of that, when we can no longer make them happy? 
 When they look for happiness to others and not to us? My 
 own poor boy I To think that his mother can neither give 
 him comfort, nor save him pain, any more!" 
 
 She wept bitterly. 
 
 When she was somewhat soothed John, making her sit 
 down by him, but turning a little from her, bade her tell 
 him all that had happened to-day. A few words explained 
 the history of Guy's rejection and its cause. 
 
 "She loves some one else. When I as his mother went 
 and asked her the question, she confessed this." 
 
 "And what did you say?" 
 
 "What could I say? 1 could not blame her. I was even 
 sorry for her. She cried so bitterly and begged me to for- 
 give her. I said I did, freely, and hoped she would be happy." 
 
 "That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell 
 you who he this lover was?" 
 
 "No. She said she could not until he gave her permis- 
 sion. That whether they would ever be married she did 
 not know. She knew nothing save that he was good and 
 kind, and the only creature in the world who had ever cared 
 for her."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 379 
 
 "Poor girl!" 
 
 "John," startled by his manner, "you have something to 
 tell me? You know who this is this man who has stood 
 between my son and his happiness?" 
 
 "Yes, I do know/'' 
 
 I cannot say how far the mother saw what, as if by a 
 flash of lightning, I did; but she looked up in her husband's 
 face, with a sudden speechless dread. 
 
 "Love, it is a great misfortune, but it is no one's blame 
 neither ours, nor theirs they never thought of Guy's lov- 
 ing her. He says so Edwin himself." 
 
 "Is it Edwin?" in a cry as if her heart was breaking. "His 
 own brother his very own brother! Oh my poor Guy!" 
 
 Well might the mother mourn! Well might the father 
 look as if years of care had been added to his life that day! 
 For a disaster like this happening in any household especi- 
 ally a household where love is recognized as a tangible truth, 
 neither to be laughed at, passed carelessly over, nor lectured 
 down makes the family cease to be a family, in many things, 
 from henceforward. The two strongest feelings of life clash; 
 the bond of brotherly unity, in its perfectness, is broken 
 forever. 
 
 For some minutes we sat, bewildered as it were, think- 
 ing of the tale as if it had been told of some other family 
 than ours. Mechanically the mother raised her eyes; the 
 first object they chanced to meet was a rude waiter-color 
 drawing, kept, coarse daub as it was, because it was the only 
 reminder we had of what never could be recalled one red- 
 cheeked child with a hoop, staring at another red-cheeked 
 child with a nosegay supposed to represent little Edwin and 
 little Guy. 
 
 "Guy taught Edwin to walk. Edwin made Guy learn his 
 letters. How fond they were of one another those two boys. 
 Now, brother will set against brother! They will never feel 
 like brothers never again." 
 
 "Love " 
 
 "Don't, John! don't speak to me just yet. It is so ter- 
 rible to think of. Both my boys both my two noble boys! 
 to be miserable for that girl's sake. Oh that she had never 
 darkened our doors! Oh that she had never been born!" 
 
 "Nay, you must not speak thus. Remember Edwin loves 
 her she will be Edwin's wife."
 
 380 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Never!" cried the mother, desperately; "I will not allow 
 it. Guy is the eldest. His brother has acted meanly. So 
 has she. No, John, I will not allow it." 
 
 "You will not allow what has already happened what 
 Providence has permitted to happen? Ursula, you forget 
 they love one another." 
 
 This one fact this solemn upholding of the pre-eminent 
 right and law of love-~-which law John believed in, they 
 both believed in, so sacredly and firmly appeared to force 
 itself upon Mrs. Halifax's mind. Her passion subdued. 
 
 "I cannot judge clearly. You can always. Husband 
 help me." 
 
 "]?oor wife! poor mother!" he uttered, caressing her, 
 and in that caress himself all but giving way. "Alas! that 
 I should have brought thee into such a sea of trouble." 
 
 Perhaps he referred to the circumstance of his bringing 
 Miss Silver into our house; perhaps to his own blindness, 
 or want of parental caution, in throwing the young people 
 continually together. However, John was not one to lament 
 over things inevitable; or by overweening blame of his own 
 want of foresight, to imply a doubt of the foreseeing of Prov- 
 idence. 
 
 "Love," he said, "I fear we have been too anxious to play 
 Deus ex machind with our children, forgetting in Whose 
 hands are marrying and giving in marriage life's crosses 
 and life's crowns. Trouble has come when we looked not 
 for it. We can but try to see the right course, and, seeing 
 it, to act upon it." 
 
 Ursula assented with a bursting heart it seemed but 
 still she assented, believing even as in her young days that 
 her husband's will was wisest, best. 
 
 He told her, in few words, that Edwin had that day con- 
 fessed to his father; how these two, being much together, 
 had become attached to one another, as young folks will- 
 couples whom no one would ever think suited each for each 
 except Nature, and the instincts of their own hearts. Ab- 
 sorbed in this love which Edwin solemnly declared was 
 never openly declared till this morning they neither of 
 them thought of Guy. And thus things had befallen things 
 which no earthly power could remove or obliterate things 
 in which, whatever way we looked, all seemed darkness. We 
 could but walk blindly on, a step at a time, trusting to that
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 381 
 
 Faith, of which all our lives past had borne confirmation 
 the firm faith that evil itself is to the simple and God-fearing 
 but the disguised messenger of good. 
 
 Something like this John said, talking as his wife loved 
 to hear him talk every quiet, low word dropping like balm 
 upon her grieved heart; not trying to deceive her into the 
 notion that pain is not pain, but showing her how best to 
 bear it. At length she looked up, as if with God's help and 
 her husband's comforting she could bear it. 
 
 "Only one thing Guy does not know. He need not know 
 just yet not till he is stronger. Surely Edwin will not tell 
 him/' 
 
 "No; he promised me he would not. Do not start so. In- 
 deed, there is no fear." 
 
 But that very assurance seemed to rouse it. She began 
 straining her ears to catch the least noise in the rooma over- 
 head the boys' rooms. Guy and Walter shared one; Edwin 
 had his to himself. 
 
 "They surely will not meet. Yet Guy sometimes likes 
 sitting over Edwin's fire. Hark! was not that the creaking* 
 of Guy's room-door?" 
 
 "Love " detaining her. 
 
 "I know, John. I am not thinking of going. Guy might sus- 
 pect something. No, indeed, I am not afraid. They were 
 always fond of one another my boys." 
 
 She sat down, violently forcing herself not to listen, not 
 to fear. But the truth was too strong for her. 
 
 "Hark! I am sure they are talking. John, you said Ed- 
 win promised?" 
 
 "Faithfully promised." 
 
 "But if, by some accident, Guy found out the truth? Hark! 
 they are talking very loud. That is a chair fallen. Oh, John 
 don't keep me! My boys my boys!" And she ran up- 
 stairs in an agony. 
 
 What a sight for a mother's eye. Two brothers of whom 
 it had been our boast that from babyhood they had never 
 been known to lift a hand against each other now strug- 
 gling together like Cain and Abel. And, from the fury in 
 their faces, the quarrel might have had a similar ending. 
 
 "Guy! Edwin!" But the motner might as well have 
 ?hrieked to the winds. 
 
 The father came and parted them, "Boys, are you gone
 
 382 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 mad! fighting like brutes in this way. Shame, Guy, Edwin, 
 I trusted you/' 
 
 "I could not help it, father. He had no right to steal 
 into my room; no right to snatch her letter from me." 
 
 "It was her letter, then?" cried Guy, furiously. "She 
 writes to you? You were writing back to her?" 
 
 Edwin made no answer; but held out his hand for the 
 letter, with that look of white passion in him so rarely seen 
 perhaps not thrice since his infancy. Guy took no heed. 
 
 "Give it me back, Guy; I warn you!" 
 
 "Not till I have read it. I have a right." 
 
 "You have none. She is mine." 
 
 "Yours?" Guy laughed in his face. 
 
 "Yes, mine. Ask my father ask my mother. They 
 know." 
 
 "Mother!" the letter fell from the poor lad's hand. 
 "Mother, you would not deceive me. He only says it to vex 
 me. I was in a passion, I know. Mother, it isn't true?" 
 
 His piteous tone the almost childish way in which he 
 caught at her sleeve, as she turned from him ah, poor Guy! 
 
 "Edwin, is it my brother Edwin? Who would have thought 
 it?" Half-bewildered, he looked from one to the other of us 
 all; but no one spoke, no one contradicted him. 
 
 Edwin, his passion quite gone, stooped in a sorrowful and 
 humble way to pick up his betrothed's letter. Then Guy 
 flew at him and caught him by the collar. 
 
 "You coward! how dared you No, I won't hurt him; 
 
 she is fond of him. Go away, every one of you. Oh, mother, 
 mother, mother!" 
 
 He fell on her neck, sobbing. She gathered him in her 
 arms, as she had used to do in his childhood: and so we left 
 them. 
 
 "As one whom his mother comforteth." 
 
 Ay, prophet of Israel, thou wert wise. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 John and I sat over the study fire till long after mid- 
 night. 
 
 Many an anxious watch I had kept with him, but none
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 383 
 
 sadder than this. Because now, for the first time, our house 
 was divided against itself. A sorrow had entered it, not 
 from without, but from within a sorrow which we could 
 not meet and bear as a family. Alas! darker and darker had 
 the bitter truth forced itself upon us, that neither joy nor 
 affliction would ever find us as a family again. 
 
 I think all parents must feel cruelly a pang like this 
 the first trouble in which they cannot help their children 
 the first time when those children must learn to stand alone, 
 each for himself, compelled to carry his own burden, and 
 work out, well or ill, his individual life. When the utmost 
 the wisest or tenderest father can do is to keep near with 
 outstretched hand that the child may cling to, assured of 
 finding sympathy, counsel, and love. 
 
 If this father had stood aloof all his life, on some pinnacle 
 of paternal "pride," paternal "dignity" if he had not made 
 himself his boys' companion, counsellor, and friend, how 
 great would have been his terrors now! 
 
 For, as we both knew well too well to trust ourselves 
 to say it if there was one thing in the world that ruins a 
 lad, drives him to desperation, shuts the door upon him, and 
 opens many another door, of which the entrance is the very 
 gate of hell it is such a disappointment as this which had 
 happened to our Guy. 
 
 His father saw it all. Saw it clearer, crueller, than even 
 his mother could see. Yet, when, very late, almost at dawn, 
 she came in, with tidings that Guy was himself again now 
 sleeping as quietly as a child her husband was able to 
 join in her deep thankfulness, and give her hope for the days 
 to come. 
 
 "But what is to be done with Guy?" 
 
 "God knows," John answered. But his tone expressed a 
 meaning different from that generally conveyed in the words; 
 a meaning which the mother caught at once and rested on. 
 
 "Ay you are right. He knows!" And so they went away 
 together, almost content. 
 
 Next morning I woke late; the sunshine falling across iny 
 bed, and the sparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had been 
 dreaming, with a curious pertinacity, of the old days at Eose 
 Cottage, the days when John first fell in love with Ursula. 
 
 "Uncle Phineas!" I heard myself called. 
 
 It was John's son, who sat opposite, with wan, wild eyes,
 
 384 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and a settled anguish on his mouth that merry, handsome 
 mouth the only really handsome mouth in the family. 
 
 "You are up early, my boy." 
 
 "What was the good of lying in bed? I am not ill. Be- 
 sides I wish to go about as usual. I don't wish anybody to 
 think that that I care." 
 
 He stopped evidently fighting hard against himself. A 
 new lesson, alas! for our Guy. 
 
 "Was I too violent last night ? I did not mean it. I mean 
 to be a man. Not the first man whom a lady has refused 
 eh?" And braving it out, he began to whistle; but the lips 
 fell, the frank brow grew knotted with pain. The lad broke 
 into a passion of misery. 
 
 The chief business was, that he had been deceived. Un- 
 wittingly, we well believed but still deceived. Many little 
 things he told me Guy's was a nature that at once spent 
 and soothed itself by talking of Miss Silver's extreme gen- 
 tleness and kindness toward him; a kindness which seemed 
 so like, so cruelly like love. 
 
 "Love! Oh, she loved me. She told me so. Of course! 
 I was Edwin's brother." 
 
 Ay, there was the sting, which never could be removed, 
 which might rankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not 
 only lost his love, but what is more precious than love 
 faith in womankind. He began to make light of his losings 
 to think the prize was not so great after all. He sat on 
 my bed, singing Guy had a fine voice and ear singing, out 
 of mockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to 
 light songs written by an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, 
 about girls and wine, and being "far from the lips we love," 
 but always ready enough "to make love to the lips we are 
 near." Then, laughing at me, he threw up the window and 
 looked out. 
 
 I think it was wrong of those two, wrong and selfish, as 
 all lovers are young lovers in the flush of their happiness; 
 I think it was cruel of Edwin and Louise to walk up and 
 down there, in the elder brother's very eyes. 
 
 For a moment he struggled against his passion. 
 
 "Uncle Phineas, just look here. How charming! Ha! 
 ha! Did you ever see such a couple of fools?" 
 
 Fools, maybe, but happy; happy to the very core thor-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 385 
 
 oughly engrossed in their happiness. The elder brother 
 was almost maddened by it. 
 
 "He must mind what he does tell him so, Uncle Phineas 
 it will be safer. He must mind, or I will not answer for 
 myself. I was fond of Edwin I was indeed but now it 
 seems sometimes as if I hated him." 
 
 "Guy!" 
 
 "Oh, if it had been a stranger, and not he! If it had been 
 any one in the world except my brother!" 
 
 And in that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again; it was 
 such a tender heart his mother's heart. 
 
 After a time he recovered himself and came down with 
 me 'to breakfast, as he had insisted upon doing; met them 
 all, even Miss Silver and Edwin, who had placed himself 
 by her side with an air of right. These lovers, however 
 deeply grieved they looked and, to do them justice, it was 
 really so needed not to be grieved over by any of us. 
 
 Nor, looking at the father, and the mother, would we have 
 dared to grieve over them. In the silent watches of the night, 
 heart to heart, husband and wife had taken counsel together; 
 together had carried their sorrow to the only Lightener of 
 burdens. It seemed that theirs was lightened; that even 
 in this strange entanglement of fate they were able to wait 
 patiently trusting unto the Almighty mercy not only them- 
 selves, but the children he had given them. 
 
 When, breakfast being over, John, according to his cus- 
 tom, read the chapter and the prayer no one rose up or 
 went out; no one refused, even in this anguish of strife, jeal- 
 ousy and disunion, to repeat after him the "Our Father" of 
 their childhood. 
 
 1 believe every one of us remembered for years, with an 
 awe that was not altogether pain, this morning's chapter and 
 prayer. 
 
 When it was ended worldly troubles closed round us 
 again. 
 
 Nothing seemed natural. We hung about in twos and 
 threes, uncertain what to do. Guy walked up and down 
 alone. His mother asked him if, seeing his foot was so well, 
 he would like to go down to the mills as usual; but he de- 
 clined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about "lessons," 
 which Edwin jealously negatived immediately, and proposed 
 that she and Maud should take a drive somewhere.
 
 386 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax eagerly assented. "Lady Oldtower has been 
 wanting them both for some time. You would like to go, 
 would you not, for a day or two?" said she, addressing the 
 governess. 
 
 Guy caught at this. "Going away, are you? When?" 
 
 He put the question to Miss Silver direct his eyes blaz- 
 ing right into her own. She made some confused reply about 
 "leaving immediately." 
 
 "In the carriage, of course? Shall I have the honor of 
 driving you?" 
 
 "No," said Edwin decisively. 
 
 A fierce vindictive look passed between the brothers a 
 look terrible in itself more terrible in its warning of days 
 to come. No wonder the mother shuddered; no wonder the 
 young betrothed, pale and alarmed, slipped out of the room. 
 Edwin followed her. Then Guy, snatching up his sister, 
 lifted her roughly on his knee. 
 
 "Come along, Maud. You'll be my girl now. Nobody else 
 wants you. Kiss me, child." 
 
 But the little lady drew back. 
 
 "So you hate me too? Edwin has been teaching you? 
 Very well. Get away, you cheat!" 
 
 He pushed her violently aside. Maud began to cry. 
 
 Her father looked up from his book the book he had 
 not been reading, though he had seemingly thought it best 
 to take no notice of what was passing around him. 
 
 "Come here, Maud, my child. Guy, you should not be 
 unkind to your little sister. Try and command yourself, 
 my dear boy." 
 
 The words, spoken gently, almost in a whisper, were more 
 than the lad's chafed spirit could brook. 
 
 "Father, you insult me! I will not bear it! I will quit the 
 room!" 
 
 He went out, shutting the door passionately after him. 
 His mother rose up to follow him; then sat down again. The 
 eyes that she lifted to her husband were deprecating, be- 
 seeching, heavy with a speechless pain. 
 
 For John he said nothing. Not though, as was plain to 
 see, this, the first angry or disreepectful word he had ever re- 
 ceived from any one of his children, struck him like an ar- 
 row; for a moment stirred him even to wrath holy wrath 
 the just displeasure of a father who feels that the least por-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 387 
 
 tion of his child's sin is the sin against him. Perhaps this very 
 feeling, distinct from, and far beyond all personal indigna- 
 tion, all sense of offended dignity, made the anger strangely 
 brief so brief, that when the other children, awed and start- 
 led, looked for some ebullition of it, lo! it was all gone. In 
 its stead was something at which the children, more awed 
 still, crept out of the room. 
 
 Ursula even, alarmed, looked in his face as if for the first 
 time she could not comprehend her husband. 
 
 "John, you should forgive poor Guy; he did not intend any 
 harm." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "And he is so very miserable. Never before did he fail 
 in his duty to you." 
 
 "But what if I have failed in mine to him? What if 
 you used to say I could not understand Guy what if I have 
 come short toward him? I, that am accountable to God for 
 every one of my children." 
 
 "John, John;" she knelt down and put her arms round 
 his neck. "Husband, do not look unhappy. I did not mean 
 to blame you we may be wrong, both of us all of us. But 
 we will not be afraid. We know Who pities us, even as we 
 pity our children." 
 
 Thus she spoke, and more to the same purport; but it 
 was a long time before her words brought any consolation. 
 Then the parents talked together, trying to arrange some 
 plan whereby Guy's mind might be occupied and soothed, 
 or else Edwin removed out of his sight for a little while. 
 Once I hinted at the advantage of Guy's leaving home, but 
 Mrs. Halifax seemed to shrink from this project as though 
 it were a foreboding of perpetual exile. 
 
 "No, no; anything but that. Besides Guy would not wish 
 it. He has never left me in his life. His going would seem 
 like the general breaking up of the family." 
 
 Alas! she did not, would not see that the family was al- 
 ready "broken." Broken more than either absence, mar- 
 riage, or death itself could have effected. 
 
 One thing more we had to consider a thing at once nat- 
 ural and right in any family, namely, how to hide its wounds 
 from the chattering, scandalous world. And so, when by 
 a happy chance there came over that morning our good 
 friend Lady Oldtower and her carriage full of daughters,
 
 388 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax communicated with a simple dignity that 
 quelled all comment, the fact of "my son Edwin's engage- 
 ment," and accepted the invitation for Maud and Miss Sil- 
 ver, which was willingly repeated and pressed. 
 
 One thing I noticed, that in speaking of or to the girl who 
 in a single day from merely the governess had become, and 
 was sedulously treated as our own, Mrs. Halifax invariably 
 called her, as heretofore, "Miss Silver/' or "my dear," never 
 by any chance "Louise," or "Mademoiselle D'Argent." 
 
 Before she left Beechwood, Edwin came in and hurriedly 
 spoke to his mother. What he said was evidently painful to 
 both. 
 
 "I am not aware of it, Edwin; I had not the slightest in- 
 tention of offending her. Is she already made your judge 
 and referee as to the actions of your mother?" 
 
 Edwin was a good lad, though perhaps a little less loving 
 than the rest of the boys. His self-restraint, his exceeding 
 patience, lulled the threatened storm. 
 
 "But you will be kind to her, mother I know you will." 
 
 "Did I not say so?" 
 
 "And may I bring her to you here?" 
 
 "If you choose." 
 
 It was the first open recognition between the mother and 
 her son's betrothed. Their other meeting had been in public, 
 when, with a sedulous dread, both had behaved exactly as 
 usual, and no word or manner had betrayed their altered re- 
 lations. Now, when for the first time it was needful for 
 Miss Silver to be received as a daughter elect, with all the 
 natural sympathy due from one woman to another under 
 similar circumstances, all the warmth of kindness due from 
 a mother to her son's chosen wife then the want, the mourn- 
 ful want, made itself felt. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying 
 vainly to regain self-control. 
 
 "If I could only love her. If only she had made me love 
 her!" she muttered over and over again. 
 
 I hoped from the bottom of my soul that Edwin had not 
 heard her had not seen her involuntarily recoil, as he led to 
 his mother his handsome girl that he seemed so proud of, his 
 happy affianced wife. Happiness melts some natures like 
 spring and sunshine. Louise looked up with swimming eyes,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 389 
 
 "Oh, be kind to me! Nobody was ever kind to me till 
 I came here!" 
 
 The good heart gave way. Mrs. Halifax opened her arms. 
 
 "Be true to Edwin love Edwin, and I shall love you 
 I am sure I shall." 
 
 Kissing her once or twice, the mother let fall a few tears; 
 then sat down, still keeping the girl's hand, and busying her- 
 self with various little kindnesses about her. 
 
 "Are you sure you are well wrapped up? Edwin, see that 
 she has my fur cloak in the carriage. What cold fingers! 
 Have some wine before you start, my dear." 
 
 Miss Silver altogether melted; sobbing, she murmured 
 something about forgiveness. 
 
 "Nay, did I say a word about forgiveness? Then do not 
 you. Let us be patient we shall all be happy in time." 
 
 "And Guy?" 
 
 "Guy will be himself soon," returned the mother, rather 
 proudly. "We will not mention him, if you please, my dear." 
 
 At this moment Guy must have heard the carriage wheels 
 and guessed Miss Silver was going, for he appeared at the 
 parlor door. He found his mother toying with Miss Silver's 
 hand Edwin standing by, proud and glad, with his arm 
 clasped round Louise. 
 
 He did not remove it. In his brother's very face per- 
 haps because of the expression of that face the lover held 
 fast his own. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax rose up, alarmed. "She is just going, Guy. 
 Shake hands and bid her good-by." 
 
 The girl's hand, which was sorrowfully and kindly ex- 
 tended, Guy snatched and held fast. 
 
 "Let her pass," cried Edwin, angrily. 
 
 "Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. 
 Good-by! A pleasant journey!" And still keeping her hand, 
 he gazed with burning eyes on the features he had so loved 
 as boys do love with a wild, imaginative passion, kindled 
 by beauty alone. "I shall claim my right, just for once may 
 I, sister Louise?" 
 
 With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his 
 brother's betrothed round the waist and kissed her once 
 twice savagely. 
 
 It was done so suddenly and under such an ingenious dis- 
 guise of "right," that open vengeance was impossible. But
 
 390 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 as Edwin hurried Louise away, the look that passed between 
 the two young men was enough to blot out henceforward 
 all friendship, all brotherhood. That insult would never be 
 forgotten. 
 
 She was gone the house was free of her and Edwin too. 
 Guy was left alone with me and his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of 
 his comings and goings, his restless starts, his fits of dark 
 musing, when his face grew like the face of some stranger, 
 some one whom she would have shrunk from any one but 
 our own merry Guy. 
 
 "Mother" the voice startled me such irritable, intoler- 
 able bitterness marred its once pleasant tones. "When do 
 they come back!" 
 
 "Do you mean " 
 
 "I mean those people." 
 
 "In a week or so. Your brother returns to-night, of 
 course." 
 
 "My brother, eh? Better not say it it's an ugly word." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax attempted no reproof; she knew that it would 
 have been useless worse than useless then. 
 
 "Mother," Guy said at last, coming up and leaning against 
 her chair, "you must let me go." 
 
 "Where, my son?" 
 
 "Anywhere out of their sight those two. You see, I 
 cannot bear it. It maddens me makes me wicked makes 
 me not myself. Or rather makes me truly myself, which is 
 altogether wicked." 
 
 "No, Guy no, my own boy. Have patience all this will 
 pass away." 
 
 "It might, if I had anything to do. Mother," kneeling 
 down by her with a piteous gaze, "mother, you need not 
 look so wretched. I wouldn't harm Edwin would not take 
 from him his happiness; but to live in sight of it day after 
 day, hour after hour I can't do it! Do not ask me let me 
 get away." 
 
 "But where?" 
 
 "Anywhere, as I said; only let me go far away from them, 
 where no possible news of them can reach me. In some 
 place, oh, mother darling! where I can trouble no one and 
 make no one miserable."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 391 
 
 The mother feebly shook her head. As if such a spot could 
 be found on earth, while she lived! 
 
 But she saw that Guy was right. To expect him to re- 
 main at home was cruelty. As he had said, he could not bear 
 it few could; few even among women of men much fewer. 
 One great renunciation is possible, sometimes easy, as death 
 may be; but to "die daily?" In youth, too, with all the pas- 
 sions vehement, the self-knowledge and the self-control 
 small? No; Nature herself, in that universal desire to es- 
 cape, which comes with such a trial, hints at the unnatural- 
 ness of the ordeal; in which, soon or late, the weak become 
 paralyzed or callous; the strong God help them! are apt 
 to turn wicked. 
 
 Guy's instinct of flight was, his mother felt, wisest, safest, 
 best. 
 
 "My boy, you shall have your desire; you shall go." 
 
 I had not expected it of her at least, not so immediately. 
 I had thought, bound up in him as she was, accustomed to his 
 daily sight, his daily fondness for he was more with her, and 
 "petted" her more than any other of the children I had 
 thought to have seen some reluctance, some grieved entreaty 
 but no! Not even when, gaining her consent, the boy 
 looked up as if her allowing him to quit her was the greatest 
 kindness she had ever in his life bestowed. 
 
 "And when shall I go?" 
 
 "Whenever you choose." 
 
 "To-day, perhaps, I might get away to-day?" 
 
 "You can, if you wish, my dear boy." 
 
 But no sooner had she said it, than the full force and mean- 
 ing of the renunciation seemed to burst upon her. Her fin- 
 gers, which had been smoothing Guy's hand as it lay on her 
 lap, tightly closed round it; with the other hand she put back 
 his hair, gazing gazing as if it were impossible to part with 
 them. 
 
 "Guy oh, Guy, my heart is breaking! Promise that you 
 will try to be yourself again that you will never be anything 
 other than my own good boy if I agree to let you go?" What 
 he answered, or what further passed between them, was not 
 for me either to hear or know. I left the room immediately. 
 
 When, sometime after John's hour for returning from the 
 mills, I also returned to the house, I found that everything 
 was settled for Guy's immediate departure.
 
 392 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 There was some business in Spain something about An- 
 dalusian wool which his father made the ostensible reason 
 for the journey. It would occupy him and distract his mind, 
 besides giving him constant necessity of change. And they 
 say travel is the best cure for the heartache. We hoped it 
 might prove so. 
 
 Perhaps the sorest point, and one that had been left un- 
 decided till both parents saw that in Guy's present mood any 
 opposition was hurtful, even dangerous, was the lad's obsti- 
 nate determination to depart alone. He refused his mother's 
 companionship to London, even his father's across the coun- 
 try to the nearest point where one of those new and dangerous 
 things called railways tempted travelers to their destruction. 
 But Guy would go by it the maddest and strangest way of 
 locomotion pleased him best. So it was settled he should go, 
 as he pleaded, this very day. 
 
 A strange day it seemed long and yet how short! Mrs. 
 Halifax was incessantly busy. I caught sight of her now and 
 then, flitting from room to room, with Guy's books in her 
 hand, Guy's linen thrown across her arm. Sometimes she 
 stood a few minutes by the window, doing a few stitches of 
 necessary work, which, when even nurse Watkins offered to 
 do Jenny, who had been a rosy lass when Guy was born she 
 refused abruptly, and went stitching on. 
 
 There were no regular meals that day; better not, perhaps. 
 I saw John come up to his wife as she stood sewing, and 
 "bring her a piece of bread and a glass of wine, but she could 
 not touch either. 
 
 "Mother, try/' whispered Guy, mournfully. "What will 
 become of me if I have made you ill?" 
 
 "Oh, no fear, no fear!" She smiled, took the wine and 
 swallowed it broke off a bit of the bread, and went on with 
 her work. 
 
 The last hour or two passed so confusedly that I do not well 
 remember them. I can only call to mind seeing Guy and his 
 mother everywhere side by side, doing everything together as 
 if grudging each instant remaining till the final instant came. 
 I have also a vivid impression of her astonishing composure, 
 of her calm voice when talking to Guy about indefinite trifles, 
 or, though that was seldom, to any other of us. It never fal- 
 tered never lost its rich, round, cheerfulness of tone: as if
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 393 
 
 she wished him to carry it as such, and no other the familiar 
 mother's voice in his memory across the seas. 
 
 Once only it grew sharp, when Walter, who hovered about 
 disconsolately, knelt down to fasten his brother's portman- 
 teau. 
 
 "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- 
 by Mr. Guy, whom everybody was so fond of. They be- 
 lieved which was all that any one, save ourselves, ever knew 
 that sudden business h#d called him away on a long and 
 anxious journey. They lingered about him, respectful!!) 7 , 
 with eager, honest blessings, such as it was good the lad should 
 have good that he should bear away with him from England 
 and from home. _ 
 
 Finally, Guy, his father and his mother, went into the study 
 by themselves. Soon even his father came out and shut the 
 door, that there should not be a single witness to the last 
 words between mother and son. These being over, they 
 both came into the hall together, brave and calm which 
 calmness was maintained even to the last good-by. 
 
 Thus we sent our Guy away, cheerfully and with blessings 
 away into the wide, dangerous world; alone, with no guard 
 or restraint, except (and in that except lay the whole mystery 
 of our cheerfulness) the fear of God, his father's counsels, and 
 his mother's prayers. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Two years rolled over Beechwood two eventful years. 
 The last of the children ceased to be a child; and we pre- 
 pared for that great era in all household history, the first 
 marriage in the family. It was to be celebrated very quietly, 
 as Edwin and Louise both desired. Time had healed over 
 many a pang, and taught many a soothing lesson; still, it 
 could not be supposed that this marriage was without its 
 painfulness. 
 
 Guy still remained abroad; his going had produced the 
 happy result intended. Month after month his letters came, 
 each more hopeful than the last, each bringing balm to the 
 mother's heart. Then he wrote to others beside his mother;
 
 394 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Maud and Walter replied to him in long home histories, and 
 began to talk without hesitation nay, with great pride and 
 pleasure "of my brother who is abroad." 
 
 The family wound was closing, the family peace about to 
 be restored; Maud even fancied Guy ought to come home to 
 "our wedding;" but then she had never been told the whole 
 of past circumstances; and, besides, she was still too 
 young to understand love-matters. Yet so mercifully had 
 time smoothed down all things that it sometimes appeared 
 even to us elders as if those three days of bitterness were a 
 mere dream as if the year we dreaded had passed as calmly 
 as any other year. Save that in this interval Ursula's hair had 
 begun to turn from brown to gray; and John first mentioned, 
 so cursorily that I cannot even now remember when or where, 
 that slight pain, almost too slight to complain of, which he 
 said warned him in climbing Enderley Hill that he could not 
 climb so fast as when he was young. And I returned his 
 smile, telling him we were evidently growing old men, and 
 must soon set our faces to descend the hill of life. Easy 
 enough I was in saying this, thinking as 1 often did, with 
 great content, that there was not the faintest doubt which of 
 us would reach the bottom first. 
 
 Yet I was glad to have safely passed my half century of 
 life glad to have seen many of John's cares laid to rest, more 
 especially those external troubles which I have not lately re- 
 ferred to for, indeed, they were absorbed and forgotten in 
 the home-troubles that came after. He had lived down all 
 slanders, as he said he would. Far and near traveled the 
 story of the day when Jessop's bank was near breaking; far 
 and near, though secretly for we found it out chiefly by its 
 results poor people whispered the tale of a gentleman who 
 had been attacked on the high-roads, and whose only attempt 
 at bringing the robbers to justice was to help the widow of one 
 and send the others safe out of the country at his own ex- 
 pense, not government's. None of these were notable or 
 showy deeds scarcely one of them got, even under the dis- 
 guise of asterisks, into the newspaper; the Norton Bury Mer- 
 cury, for its last dying sting, still complained (and very 
 justly), that there was not a gentleman in the county whose 
 name so seldom headed a charity subscription as that of John 
 Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood. But the right made its 
 way, as, soon or late, the right always does; he believed his
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 395 
 
 good name was able to defend itself, and it did defend itself; 
 he had faith in the only victory worth having the universal 
 victory of Truth; and truth conquered at last. 
 
 To drive him across the country he never carried pistols 
 now or to walk with him, as one day before Edwin's wed- 
 ding we walked, a goodly procession, through the familiar 
 streets of Xorton Bury, was a perpetual pleasure to the rest 
 of the family. Everybody knew him, everybody greeted him, 
 everybody smiled as he passed as though his presence and 
 his recognition were good things to have and to win. His 
 wife often laughed, and said she doubted whether even Mr. 
 O'Connell of Derryname, who was just now making a com- 
 motion in Ireland, lighting the fire of religious and political 
 discord from one end to the other of County Clare she 
 doubted if even Daniel O'Connell had more popularity among 
 his own people than John Halifax had in the primitive neigh- 
 borhood where he had lived so long. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax herself was remarkably gay this morning. 
 She had had letters from Guy; together with a lovely pres- 
 ent, for which he said he had ransacked all the magasins dex 
 modes in Paris a white embroidered China shawl. It had 
 arrived this morning Lord Raveiiel being the bearer. This 
 was not the first time by many that he had brought us news 
 of our Guy, and thereby made himself welcome at Beech- 
 wood. More welcome than he might have been otherwise: 
 for his manner of_life was so different from ours. Not that 
 Lord Ravenel could be accused of any liKeness to his father; 
 but blood is blood, and education and habits are not to be 
 easily overcome. The boys laughed at him for his aristocratic, 
 Janguid ways; Maud teased him for his mild cynicism and 
 the little interest he seemed to take in anything; while the 
 mother herself was somewhat restless about his coming, won- 
 dering what possible good his acquaintance could do to us, or 
 ours to him, seeing we moved in totally different spheres. 
 But John himself was invariably kind, nay, tender over him 
 we all guessed Avhy. And perhaps even had not the young 
 man had so many good points, while his faults were more 
 negations than positive ill qualities, we likewise should have 
 been tender over him for Muriel's sake. 
 
 He had arrived at Beechwood this morning, and falling 
 as usual into our family routine, had come with us to Nor- 
 ton Bury. He looked up with more interest than usual in
 
 396 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 his pensive eyes as he crossed the threshold of our old house, 
 and told Maud how he had come there many years ago with 
 his father. 
 
 "That was the first time I ever met your father," I over- 
 heard him say to Maud, not without feeling; as if he thought 
 he owed fate some gratitude for the meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, in the casual civil inquiry which was all the 
 old earl ever won in our house, asked after the health of Lord 
 Luxmore. 
 
 "He is still at Compiegne. Does not Guy mention him? 
 Lord Luxmore takes the greatest pleasure in Guy's society." 
 
 By her start this was evidently new and not welcome tid- 
 ings to Guy's mother. No wonder. Any mother in England 
 would have shrunk from the thought that her best-beloved 
 son especially a young man of Guy's temperament, and un- 
 der Guy's present circumstances was thrown into the socie- 
 ty which now surrounded the debauched dotage of the too 
 notorious Earl of Luxmore. 
 
 "My son did not mention it. He has been too much oc- 
 cupied in business matters to write home frequently since 
 he reached Paris. However, his stay there is limited;" and 
 this seemed to relieve her. "I doubt if he will have much 
 time left to visit Compiegne." 
 
 She said no more than this, of course, to Lord Luxmore's 
 son; but her disquiet was sufficiently apparent. 
 
 "It was I who brought your son to Compiegne where he 
 is a universal favorite, from his Wit and liveliness. I know 
 no one who is a more pleasant companion than Guy." 
 
 Guy's mother bowed, but coldly. 
 
 "I think, Mrs. Halifax, you are aware that the earl's tastes 
 and mine differ widely have always differed. But he is an 
 old man, and I am his only son. He likes to see me some- 
 times, and I go; though, I must confess, I take little pleas- 
 ure in the circle he has around him." 
 
 "In which circle, as I understand, my son is constantly in- 
 cluded?" 
 
 "Why not? It is a very brilliant circle. The whole court 
 of Charles Dix can afford none more amusing. For the rest, 
 what matters? One learns to take things as they seem, with- 
 out peering below the surface. One wearies of impotent 
 Quixotism against unconquerable evils." 
 
 "That is not our creed at Beechwood," said Mrs. Halifax,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 397 
 
 abruptly, as she ceased the conversation. But ever and anon 
 it seemed to recur to her mind; ay, through all the mirth 
 of the young people, all the graver pleasure which the father 
 took in the happiness of his son Edwin; his good son, who 
 had never given him a single care. He declared that this set- 
 tling of Edwin had been to him almost like the days when 
 he himself used to come of evenings, hammer in hand, to 
 put up shelves in the house, or nail the currant-bushes 
 against the wall, doing everything con amore, and with the 
 utmost care, knowing it would come under the quick, observ- 
 ant eye of Ursula March. 
 
 "That is, of Ursula Halifax for I don't chink I let her 
 see a single one of my wonderful doings until she was Ursula 
 Halifax. Do you remember, Phineas, when you came to 
 visit us the first time, and found us gardening?" 
 
 "And she had on a white gown and a straw hat with blue 
 ribbons. What a young thing she looked! Hardly older than 
 Mistress Maud here." 
 
 John put his arm round his wife's waist not so slender 
 as it had been, but comely and graceful still, repeating 
 with something of the musical cadence of his boyish readings 
 of poetry a line or two from the sweet old English song: 
 
 "And when with envy Time transported 
 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 
 You'll in your girls again be courted, 
 
 And I'll go wooing with my boys." 
 
 Ursula laughed, and for the time being the shadow passed 
 from her countenance. Her husband had happily not no- 
 ticed it, and apparently she did not wish to tell him her trou- 
 ble. She let him spend a happy day, even grew happy her- 
 self in response to his care to make her so, by the resolute 
 putting away of all painful present thoughts, and calling 
 back of sweet and soothing memories belonging to the old 
 married home. John seemed determined that, if possible, 
 the marriage that was to be should be as sacred and as hope- 
 ful as their own. 
 
 So full of it were we all, that not until the day after, when 
 Lord Ravenel Had left us longing apparently to be asked 
 to stay for the wedding, but John did not ask him I remem- 
 berecl what he had said about Guy's association with
 
 398 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Luxmore's set. . It was recalled to me by the mother's anx- 
 ious face as she gave me a foreign letter to post. 
 
 "Post it yourself, will you, Phineas? I would not have it 
 miscarry, or be late in its arrival, on any account." 
 
 No, for I saw it was to her son at Paris. 
 
 "It will be the last letter I shall need to write," she add- 
 ed, again lingering over it, to be certain that all was correct 
 the address being somewhat illegible for that free, firm hand 
 of hers. "My boy is coming home." 
 
 "Guy coming home! To the wedding?" 
 
 "No; but immediately after. He is quite himself now. 
 He longs to come home." 
 
 "And his mother?" 
 
 His mother could not speak. Like light to her eyes, like 
 life to her heart, was the thought of Guy's coming home. 
 All that week she looked ten years younger. With a step 
 buoyant as any girl's she went about the marriage prepara- 
 tions; together with other preparations, perhaps dearer still 
 to the motherly heart, where, if any preference did lurk, it 
 was for the one for whom possibly from whom she had 
 suffered most, of all her children. 
 
 John too, though the father's joy was graver and not un- 
 mixed with some anxiety anxiety which he always put aside 
 in his wife's presence seemed eager to have his son at home. 
 
 "He is the eldest son," he repeated more than once, when 
 talking to me of his hope that Guy would now settle perma- 
 nently at Beechwood. "After myself, the head of the fam- 
 ily." 
 
 After John! It was almost ridiculous to peer so far into 
 the future as that. 
 
 Of all the happy faces I saw the .day before the marriage, I 
 think the happiest was Mrs. Halifax's as I met her coming 
 out of Guy's room, which, ever since he left, had been locked 
 up, unoccupied. Now his mother threw open the door with a 
 cheerful air. 
 
 "You may go in if you like, Uncle Phineas. Does it not 
 look nice?" 
 
 It did indeed, with the fresh white curtains; the bed laid 
 all in order; the book-shelves arranged, and even the fowl- 
 ing-piece and fishing-rod put in their right places. 
 
 The room looked very neat, I said, with an amused doubt 
 as to how long it was to remain so.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 399 
 
 "That is true, indeed. How he used to throw his things 
 about! A sad untidy boy!" And his mother laughed, but I 
 saw all her features were trembling with emotion. 
 
 "He will not be exactly a boy now. I wonder if we shall 
 find him much changed." 
 
 "Very likely. Brown, with a great beard; he said so in 
 one of his letters. I shall hardly know my boy again." With 
 a lighting-up of the eye that furnished a flat contradiction to 
 the mother's statement. 
 
 "Here are some of Mrs. Tod's roses, I see." 
 
 "She made me take them. She said Master Guy always 
 used to stop and pick a bunch as he rode past. She hopes 
 she shall see him ride past on Sunday next. Guy must pay 
 her one of his very first visits; the good old soul!" 
 
 I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over the 
 country, to judge by the number of invitations I had heard 
 of. 
 
 "Yes. Everybody wants to steal my boy. Everybody has 
 a welcome for him. How bright old Watkins has polished 
 that gun! Sir Herbert says Guy must come over to the shoot- 
 ing next week. He used to be exceedingly fond of going to 
 the Manor-house." 
 
 I smiled to see the innocent smile of this good mother, 
 who would have recoiled at the accusation of match-making. 
 Yet I knew she was thinking of her great favorite, pretty 
 Grace Oldtower, who was Grace Oldtower still, and had re- 
 fused, gossip said, half the brilliant matches in the county, 
 to the amazement and strong disapprobation of all her friends 
 excepting Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 "Come away, Phineas!" slightly sighing, as if her joy 
 weighed her down; or as if conscious that she was letting 
 fancy carry her too far into the unknown future. "His room 
 is quite ready now, whatever time the boy arrives. Come 
 away." 
 
 She shut and locked the door. To be opened when? 
 
 Morning broke, and none could have desired a brighter 
 marriage-morning. Sunshine out-of-doors sunshine on all 
 the faces within; only family faces for no other guests had 
 been invited, and we had kept the day as secret as we could; 
 there was nothing John disliked more than a show wedding. 
 Therefore it was with some surprise that while they were all 
 upstairs adorning themselves for church, Maud and I, stand-
 
 400 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ing at the hall-door, saw Lord Ravenel's traveling-carriage 
 drive up to it, and Lord Ravenel himself, with a quicker and 
 more decided gesture than was natural to him, spring out. 
 
 Maud ran into the porch, startling him much, apparently; 
 for indeed she was a sweet vision of youth, happiness, and 
 grace, in her pretty bridesmaid's dress. 
 
 "Is this the wedding morning? I did not know, I will 
 come again to-morrow;" and he seemed eager to escape back 
 to his carriage. 
 
 This action relieved me from a vague apprehension of ill 
 tidings, and made less painful the first question which rose 
 to my lips, "Had he seen Guy?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "We thought for the moment it might be Guy come 
 home," Maud cried. "We are expecting him. Have you 
 heard of him since we saw you? Is he quite well?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 I thought the answer brief; but then he was looking in- 
 tently upon Guy's sister, who held his hands in her childish, 
 affectionate way; she had not yet relinquished her privilege 
 of being Lord Ravenel's "pet." When, hesitatingly, he pro- 
 posed returning to Luxmore, unwilling to intrude upon the 
 marriage, the little lady would not hear of it for a moment. 
 She took the unexpected guest to the study, left him there 
 with her father, explained to her mother all about his ar- 
 rival and his having missed seeing Guy appearing entirely 
 delighted. 
 
 I came into the drawing-room and sat watching the sun 
 shining on marriage-garments and marriage-faces, all as 
 bright as bright could be including the mother's. It had 
 clouded over for a few moments, when the postman's ring 
 was heard; but she said at once that it was most unlikely Guy 
 would write; she had told him there was no need to write. 
 So she stood content, smoothing down the soft folds of her 
 beautiful shawl, which Guy meant her to wear to-day. This, 
 together with his fond remembrance of her, seemed almost 
 as comfortable as the visible presence of her boy. Her boy, 
 who was sure to come to-morrow. 
 
 "John, is that you? How softly you came in! And Lord 
 Ravenel? He knows we are glad to see him. Shall we make 
 him one of our own family for the time being, and take him 
 with us to see Edwin married?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 401 
 
 Lord Eavenel bowed. 
 
 "Maud tells us you have not seen Guy. I doubt if he will 
 be able to arrive to-day; but we fully expect him to-morrow." 
 
 Lord Eavenel bowed again. Mrs. Halifax said something 
 about this unexpected arrival of his. 
 
 "He came on business/' John answered quickly, and Ur- 
 sula made no more inquiries. 
 
 She stood talking with Lord Eavenel as I could see her 
 stand now, playing with the deep fringe of her shawl; the 
 sun glancing on that rich silk dress of her favorite silver- 
 gray; a picture of matronly grace and calm content, as 
 charming as even the handsome, happy bride. 
 
 I was still looking at her when John called me aside. I 
 followed him into the study. 
 
 "Shut the door." 
 
 By his tone and look I knew in a moment that something 
 had happened. 
 
 "Yes. I'll tell you presently if there's time." 
 
 While he was speaking, some violent pain physical or 
 mental, or both seemed to seize him. I had my hand on 
 the door to call Ursula, but he held me fast, with a kind of 
 terror. 
 
 "Call no one. I am used to it. Water!" 
 
 He drank a glassful, which stood by, breathed once or 
 twice heavily, and gradually recovered himself. The color 
 had scarcely come back into his face when we heard Maud 
 run laughing through the hall. 
 
 "Father, where are you? We are waiting for you." 
 
 "I will come in two minutes, my child." 
 
 Having said this, in his own natural voice, he closed the 
 door again, and spoke to me rapidly. 
 
 "Phineas, I want you to stay away from church; make 
 some excuse, or I will for you. Write a letter for me to this 
 address in Paris. Say Guy Halifax's father will be there 
 without fail, within a week, to answer all demands." 
 
 "All demands!" I echoed, bewildered. 
 
 He repeated the sentence word for word. "Can you re- 
 member it? Literally, mind! And post it at once, before we 
 return from church." 
 
 Here the mother's call was heard. "John, are you com- 
 ing?" 
 
 "In a moment, love," for her hand was on the door out- 
 
 26
 
 402 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 side; but her husband held the other handle fast. He then 
 went on, breathlessly. '"You understand, Phineas? And 
 you will be careful very careful? She must not know 
 not till to-night." 
 
 "One word. Guy is alive and well?" 
 
 "Yet yes." 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 But Guy's father was gone while I spoke. Heavy as the 
 news might be this ill news, which had struck me with ap- 
 prehension the moment I saw Lord Ravenel it was still en- 
 durable. I could not conjure up any grief so bitter as the 
 boy's dying. 
 
 Therefore, with a quietness that came naturally under the 
 compulsion of such a necessity as the present, I rejoined the 
 rest, made my excuses, and answered all objections. I 
 watched the marriage party leave the house. A simple pro- 
 cession the mother first, leaning on Edwin; then Maud, 
 Walter, and Lord Eavenel; John walked last, with Louise 
 upon his arm. Thus I saw them move up the garden and 
 through the beech-wood, to the little church on the hill. 
 
 I then wrote the letter and sent it off. That done, I went 
 back into the study. Knowing nothing, able to guess noth- 
 ing, a dull patience came over me, the patience with which 
 we often wait for unknown, inevitable misfortunes. Some- 
 times I almost forgot Guy in my startled remembrance of his 
 father's look as he called me away, and sat down or rather 
 dropped down into his chair. Was it illness? yet he had 
 not complained; he hardly ever complained, and scarcely had 
 a day's sickness from year to year. And as I watched him 
 and Louise up the garden, I had noticed his free, firm gait, 
 without the least sign of unsteadiness or weakness. Besides, 
 he was not one to keep any but a necessary secret from those 
 who loved him. He could not be seriously ill, or we should 
 have known it. 
 
 Thus I pondered, until I heard the church bells ring out 
 merrily. The marriage was over. 
 
 I was just in time to meet them at the front gates, which 
 they entered our Edwin and his wife through a living line 
 of smiling faces, treading upon the carpet of strewn flowers. 
 Enderley would not be defrauded of its welcome; all the 
 village escorted the young couple in triumph home. I have 
 a misty recollection of how happy everybody looked, how the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 403 
 
 sun was shining, and the bells ringing, and the people cheer- 
 ing a mingled phantasmagoria of sights and sounds, in 
 which I only saw one person distinctly John. 
 
 He waited while the young folks passed in stood on the 
 hall-steps in a few words thanked his people, and bade them 
 to the general rejoicing. They, uproarious, answered in loud 
 hurrahs, and one energetic voice cried out: 
 
 "One cheer more for Master Guy!" 
 
 Guy's mother turned, delighted; her eyes shining with 
 proud tears. 
 
 "John, thank them; tell them that Guy will thank them 
 himself to-morrow." 
 
 The master thanked them, but either he did not explain, 
 or the honest, rude voices drowned all mention of the latter 
 fact that Guy would be home to-morrow. 
 
 All this while, and at the marriage-breakfast likewise, Mr. 
 Halifax kept the same calm demeanor. Once only, when the 
 rest were all gathered round the bride and bridegroom, he 
 said to me: 
 
 "Phineas, is it done?" 
 
 "What is done?" asked Ursula, suddenly pausing. 
 
 "A letter I asked him to write for me this morning." 
 
 Now I had all my life been proud of John's face that it 
 was a safe face to trust in that it could not, or, if it could, 
 it would not, boast that stony calm under which some men 
 are so proud of disguising themselves and their emotions 
 from those nearest and dearest to them. If he were sad, we 
 knew it; if he were happy, we knew it too. It was his prin- 
 ciple, that nothing but the strongest motive should make a 
 man stoop to even the smallest hypocrisy. 
 
 Therefore, hearing him thus speak to his wife, I was struck 
 with great alarm. Mrs. Halifax herself seemed uneasy. 
 
 "A business letter, I suppose?" 
 
 "Partly on business. I will tell you all about it this even- 
 ing." 
 
 She looked reassured. "Just as you like; you know I am 
 not curious." But passing on, she turned back. "John, if 
 it was anything important to be done anything that I ought 
 to know at once, you would not keep me in ignorance?" 
 
 "No, my dearest! No!" 
 
 Then what had happened must be something in which no 
 help availed? something altogether past and irremediable;
 
 404 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 something which he rightly wished to keep concealed, for a 
 few hours at least, from his other children, so as not to mar 
 the happiness of this day, of which there could be no second, 
 this crowning day of their lives this wedding-day of Edwin 
 and Louise. 
 
 So he sat at the marriage-table; he drank the marriage- 
 health; he gave them both a marriage-blessing. Finally he 
 sent them away smiling and sorrowful as is the bounden 
 duty of young married couples to depart Edwin pausing 
 on the carriage-step to embrace his mother with especial ten- 
 derness, and whisper her to "give his love to Guy." 
 
 "It reminds one of Guy's leaving," said the mother, hastily 
 brushing back the tears that would spring and roll down her 
 smiling face. She had never, until this moment, reverted to 
 that miserable day. "John, do you think it possible the boy 
 can be at home to-night?" 
 
 John answered emphatically, but very softly, "No." 
 
 "Why not? My letter would reach him in full time. Lord 
 Eavenel has been to Paris and back since then. But," turn- 
 ing full upon the young nobleman, "I think you said you 
 had not seen Guy?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did you hear anything of him?" 
 
 "I Mrs. Halifax " 
 
 Exceedingly distressed, almost beyond his power of self- 
 restraint, the young man looked appealingly to John, who 
 replied for him: 
 
 "Lord Eavenel brought me a letter from Guy this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "A letter from Guy and you never told me! How very 
 strange!" 
 
 Still, she seemed only to think it "strange." Some diffi- 
 culty or folly, perhaps you could see by the sudden flushing 
 of her cheeks and her quick, distrustful glance at Lord Eave- 
 nel, what she imagined it was that the boy had confessed 
 to his father. With an instinct of concealment the moth- 
 er's instinct for the moment she asked no questions. 
 
 We were all still standing at the hall-door. Unresisting, 
 she suffered her husband to take her arm in his and bring 
 her into the study. 
 
 "Now the letter, please! Children, go away; I want to 
 speak to your father. The letter, John?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 405 
 
 Her hand, which she held out, shook much. She tried to 
 unfold the paper stopped, and looked up piteously. 
 
 "It is not to tell me he is not coming home? I can bear 
 anything, you know; but he must come home." 
 
 John only answered "Read/' and took firm hold of her 
 hand while she read as we hold the hand of one undergoing 
 great torture, which must be undergone, and which no hu- 
 man love can either prepare for, remove, or alleviate. 
 
 The letter, which I saw afterward, was thus: 
 
 "Dear Father and Mother: I have disgraced you all. I have 
 been drunk in a gambling-house. A man insulted me it was 
 about my father but you will hear all the world will hear pres- 
 ently. I struck him there was something in my hand, and the 
 man was hurt. 
 
 "He may be dead by this time. I don't know. 
 
 "I am away to America to-night. I shall never come home any 
 more. God bless you all. GUY HALIFAX. 
 
 "P. S. I got my mother's letter to-day. Mother I was not in 
 my right senses, or I should not have done it. Mother, darling! 
 forget me. Don't let me have broken your heart." 
 
 Alas, he had broken it! 
 
 "Never come home any more never come home any 
 more!'' 
 
 She repeated this over and over again vacantly: nothing 
 but these five words. 
 
 Nature refused to bear it; or rather, Nature mercifully 
 helped her to bear it. When John took his wife in his arms 
 she was insensible; and remained so, with intervals, for 
 hours. 
 
 This was the end of Edwin's wedding-day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Lord Ravenel knew as all Paris did by this time the 
 whole story. Though, as he truly said, he had not seen Guy. 
 The lad was hurried off immediately, for fear of justice; but 
 he had written from shipboard to Lord Ravenel, begging 
 him himself to take the letter and break the news to us at 
 Beechwood. 
 
 The man he had struck was not one of Lord Luxmore's
 
 406 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 set though it was through some of his "noble" friends Guy 
 had fallen into his company. He was an Englishman, lately 
 succeeded to a baronetcy and estate; his name how we start- 
 ed to hear it, though by Lord Ravenel and by us for his sake, it 
 was both pronounced and listened to, as if none of us had 
 ever heard it before Sir Gerard Vermilye. 
 
 As soon as Ursula recovered, Mr. Halifax and Lord Rave- 
 nel went to Paris together. This was necessary, not only to 
 meet justice, but to track the boy to whose destination we 
 had no clue but the wide word, America. Guy's mother hur- 
 ried them away his mother, who rose from her bed, and 
 moved about the house like a ghost upstairs and down- 
 stairs everywhere excepting in that room, which was now 
 once more locked, and the outer blind drawn down, as if 
 death himself had taken possession there. 
 
 Alas! we learned now that there may be sorrows bitterer 
 even than death. 
 
 Mr. Halifax went away. Then followed a long season of 
 torpid gloom days or weeks, I hardly remember during 
 which we, living shut up at Beech wood, knew' that our name 
 John's stainless, honorable name was in everybody's 
 mouth parroted abroad in every society, canvassed in every 
 newspaper. We tried, Walter and I, to stop them at first, 
 dreading lest the mother might read in some foul print or 
 other scurrilous tales about her boy; or, as long remained 
 doubtful, learned that he was proclaimed through France 
 and England as a homicide, an assassin. But concealments 
 were idle she would read everything hear everything 
 meet everything even those neighbors who, out 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 Old- 
 tower. 
 
 "Come often," I heard her say to this girl, whom she was 
 fond of; they had sat talking a whole morning idly and 
 pensively; of little things around them, never once referring 
 to things outside. "Come often, though the house is dull. 
 Does it not feel strange, with Mr. Halifax away?" 
 
 Ay, this was the change stranger at first than what had 
 befallen Guy for that long seemed a thing we could not 
 realize; like a story told" of some other family than ours. The
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 407 
 
 present tangible blank was the house with its head and mas- 
 ter away. 
 
 Curiously enough, but from his domestic habits easily ac- 
 countable, he had scarcely ever been more than a few days 
 absent from home before. We missed him continually; in his 
 place at the head of the table; in his chair by the fire; his 
 quick ring at the hall-bell., when he came up from the mills; 
 his step, his voice, his laugh. The life and soul of the house 
 seemed to have gone out of it from the hour the father went 
 away. 
 
 I think in the wonderful working of things, as we know 
 all things do work together for good, this fact was good for 
 Ursula. It taught her that in losing Guy she had not lost 
 all her blessings. It showed her what in the passion of her 
 mother-love she might have been tempted to forget many 
 mothers do that beyond all maternal duty is the duty that 
 a woman owes to her husband; beyond all loves is the love 
 that was hers before any of them were born. 
 
 So, gradually, as every day John's letters came and she 
 used to watch for them and seize them as if they had been 
 love-letters as every day she seemed to miss him more, and 
 count more upon his return, referring all decisions and all 
 little pleasures planned for her to the time "when your father 
 comes home;" hope and comfort began to dawn in the heart 
 of the mourning mother. 
 
 And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back, 
 I saw Ursula tying up the small bundle of his letters his 
 letters, of which in all her happy life she had had so few 
 tender, comforting, comfortable letters. 
 
 "I hope I shall never need to have any more," she said, 
 half-smiling the faint smile which began to dawn in her 
 poor face, as if she must accustom it to look bright again in 
 time for her husband's coming. 
 
 And when the day arrived, she put all the house in trim 
 order, dressed herself in her prettiest gown, sat patient while 
 Maud brushed and curled her hair how white it had turned 
 of late! and then waited, with a flush on her cheek like 
 that of a young girl waiting for her lover for the sound of 
 carriage-wheels. 
 
 All that had to be told about Guy and it was better news 
 than any one of us had hoped for John had already told in 
 his letters. When he came back, therefore, he was burdened
 
 408 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 with no trouble undisclosed greeted with no anguish of 
 fear or bitter remembrance. As he sprung out of the post- 
 chaise, it was to find his wife standing at the door, and his 
 home smiling for him its brightest welcome. No blessing on 
 earth could be like the blessing of the father's return. 
 
 John looked pale, but not paler than might have been ex- 
 pected. Grave too but it was a soft seriousness altogether 
 free from the restlessness of keen anxiety. The first shock 
 of this heavy misfortune was over. He paid all his son's 
 debts; he had, as far as was possible, saved his good name; 
 he had made a safe home for the lad, and heard of his safely 
 reaching it, in the New World. Nothing more was left but 
 to cover over the inevitable grief, and hope that time would 
 blot out the intolerable shame. That since Guy's hand was 
 clear of blood and since his recovery Sir Gerard Vermilye 
 had risen into a positive hero of society men's minds would 
 gradually lose the impression of a deed committed in the heat 
 of youth, and repented of with such bitter atonement. 
 
 So the father took his old place and looked round on the 
 remnant of his children, grave indeed, but not weighed down 
 by incurable suffering. Something, deeper even than the 
 hard time he had recently passed through, seemed to have 
 made his home more than ever dear to him. He sat in his 
 arm-chair, never weary of noticing everything pleasant about 
 him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked, and how de- 
 licious it was to be at home. And perpetually, if any chance 
 unlinked it, his hand would return to its clasp of Ursula's; 
 the minute she left her place by his side, his restless "Love, 
 where are you going?" would call her back again. And once, 
 when the children were out of the room, and I, sitting in a 
 dark corner, was probably thought absent likewise, I saw 
 John take his wife's face between his two hands and look in 
 it the fondest, most lingering, saddest look! then fold her 
 tightly to his breast. 
 
 "I must never be away from her again. Mine for as long 
 as I live, mine my wife, my Ursula!" 
 
 She took it all naturally, as she had taken every expression 
 of his love these nine-and-twenty years. I left them, stand- 
 ing 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 
 bej, for, before breakfast, came Edwin and Louise. And after
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 409 
 
 breakfast the father and mother and I walked up and down 
 the garden for an hour, talking over the prospects of the 
 young couple. Then the post came, but we had no need to 
 watch for it now. It only brought a letter from Lord Rave- 
 nel. 
 
 John read it somewhat more seriously than he had been 
 used to read these letters which for the last year or so had 
 come often enough the boys usually quizzing, and Mistress 
 Maud vehemently defending, the delicate small handwriting, 
 the exquisite paper, the coroneted seal and the frank in the 
 corner. John liked to have them, and his wife also she be- 
 ing not indifferent to the fact, confirmed by many other 
 facts, that if there was one man in the world whom Lord 
 Ravenel honored and admired, it was John Halifax, of 
 Beechwood. But this time her pleasure was apparently 
 dampened; and when Maud, claiming the letter as usual, 
 spread abroad, delightedly, the news that "her" Lord Rave- 
 nel was coming shortly, I imagined this visit was not so wel- 
 come as usual to the parents. 
 
 Yet still, as many a time before, when Mr. Halifax closed 
 the letter, he sighed, looked sorrowful, saying only, "Poor 
 Lord Ravenel!" 
 
 "John," asked his wife, speaking in a whisper, for by tacit 
 consent all public allusion to his doings at Paris was avoided 
 
 in the family, "did you, by any chance, hear anything of 
 
 You know whom I mean?" 
 
 "Not one syllable." 
 
 "You inquired?" He assented. "I knew you would. 
 She must be almost an old woman now, or perhaps she is 
 dead. Poor Caroline!" It was. the first time for years and 
 years that this name had been breathed in our household. 
 Involuntarily it carried me back perhaps others besides me 
 to the day at Longfield when little Guy had devoted him- 
 self to his "pretty lady;" when we first heard that other name 
 which by a curious conjuncture of circumstances had since 
 become so fatally familiar, and which would henceforward be 
 like the sound of a dead-bell in our family Gerard Vermilye. 
 
 On Lord Ravenel's reappearance at Beechwood and he 
 seemed eager and glad to come I was tempted to wish him 
 away. He never crossed the threshold but his presence 
 brought a shadow over the parents' looks, and no wonder. 
 The young people were gay and friendly as ever; made him
 
 410 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 always welcome with us; and he rode over daily from desolate, 
 long-uninhabited Luxmore, where, in all its desolation, he 
 appeared so fond of abiding. 
 
 He wanted to take Maud and Walter over there one day, 
 to see some magnificent firs that were being cut down in a 
 wholesale massacre, leaving the grand old hall as bare as a 
 work-house front. But the father objected; he was clearly 
 determined that all the hospitalities between Luxmore and 
 Beechwood should be on the Beechwood side. 
 
 Lord Ravenel apparently perceived this. "Luxmore is not 
 Compiegne," he said to me, with his dreary smile, half sad, 
 half-cynical. "Mr. Halifax might indulge me with the so- 
 ciety of his children." 
 
 And as he lay on the grass it was full summer now 
 watching Maud's white dress flit about under the trees, I saw, 
 or fancied I saw, something different to any former expres- 
 sion that had ever lighted up the soft languid mien of Wil- 
 liam Lord Ravenel. 
 
 "How tall that child has grown lately! She is about nine- 
 teen, I think?" 
 
 "Not seventeen till December." 
 
 "Ah, so young? Well, it is pleasant to be young! Dear 
 little Maud!" 
 
 He turned on one side, hiding the sun from his eyes with 
 those delicate ringed hands, which many a time our boys had 
 laughed at, saying they were mere lady's hands, fit for no 
 work at all. 
 
 Perhaps Lord Ravenel felt the cloud that had come over 
 our intercourse with him; a cloud which, considering late 
 events, was scarcely unnatural; for when evening came, his 
 leave-taking, always a regret, seemed now as painful as his 
 blase indifference to all emotions, pleasant or unpleasant, 
 could allow. He lingered he hesitated he repeated many 
 times how glad he should be to see Beechwood again; how all 
 the world was to him "flat, stale and unprofitable," except 
 Beechwood. 
 
 John made no special answer, except that frank smile, not 
 without a certain kindly satire, under which the young noble- 
 man's Byronic affections generally melted away like mists in 
 the morning. He kindled up into warmth and manliness. 
 
 "I thank you, Mr. Halifax I thank you heartily for all 
 you and your household have been to me. I trust I shall
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 411 
 
 enjoy your friendship for many years. And if, in any way, 
 I might offer mine, or any small influence in the world " 
 
 "Your influence is not small," John returned, earnestly. 
 "I have often told you so. I know no man who has wider op- 
 portunities than you have." 
 
 "But I have let them slip forever." 
 
 "No, not forever. You are young still; you have half a life- 
 time before you." 
 
 "Have I?" And for the moment one would hardly have 
 recognized the sallow, spiritless face, that, with all the deli- 
 cacy of boyhood still, at times looked so exceedingly old. 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Halifax, who ever heard of a man beginning 
 life at seven-and-thirty?" 
 
 "Are you really seven-and-thirty?" asked Maud. 
 
 "Yes yes, my girl. Is it so very old?" 
 
 He patted her on the shoulder, took her hand, gazed at it 
 the round, rosy, girKsh hand with a melancholy tender- 
 ness; then bade "Good-by" to us all generally, and rode off. 
 
 It struck me then, though I hurried the thought away 
 it struck me afterward, and does now with renewed surprise 
 how strange it was that the mother never noticed or took into 
 account certain possibilities that would have occurred natur- 
 ally to any worldly mother. I can only explain it by remem- 
 bering the unworldliness of our lives at Beechwood, the heavy 
 cares which now pressed upon us from without, and the nota- 
 ble fact which our own family experience ought to have 
 taught us, yet did not that in cases like this, often those 
 whom one would have expected to be most quick-sighted, are 
 the most strangely, irretrievably, mournfully blind. 
 
 When, the very next day, Lord Eavenal, not on horseback, 
 but in his rarely-used, luxurious coroneted carriage, drove up 
 to Beechwood, every one in the house except myself was in- 
 conceivably astonished to see him back again. 
 
 He said that he had delayed his journey to Paris, but gave 
 no explanation of that delay. He joined as usual in our 
 mid-day dinner; and after dinner, still as usual, took a walk 
 with me and Maud. It happened to be through the beech- 
 wood, almost the identical path that I remembered taking 
 years and years ago, with John and Ursula. I was surprised 
 to hear Lord Eavenel allude to the fact, a well-known fact in 
 our family; for I think all fathers and mothers like to relate,
 
 412 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and all children to hear, the slightest incidents of the parents' 
 courting days. 
 
 "You did not know father and mother when they; were 
 young?" said Maud, catching our conversation and flashing 
 back her innocent, merry face upon us. 
 
 "No, scarcely likely." And he smiled. "Oh, yes, it might 
 have heen; I forget, I am not a young man now. How old 
 were Mr. and Mrs. Halifax when they were married?" 
 
 "Father was twenty-one and mother was eighteen; only a 
 year older than I." And Maud, half-ashamed of this sugges- 
 tive remark, ran away. Her gay candor proved to me, per- 
 haps to others besides me, the girl's entire free-heartedness. 
 The frank innocence of childhood was still hers. 
 
 Lord Ravenel looked after her and sighed. "It is good to 
 marry early; do you not think so, Mr. Fletcher?" 
 
 I told him (I was rather sorry after I had said it, if one 
 ought to be sorry for having, when questioned, given one's 
 honest opinion) I told him that I thought those happiest 
 who found their happiness early, but that I did not see why 
 happiness should be rejected because it was the will of Provi- 
 dence that it should not be found till late. 
 
 "I wonder, he said, dreamily, "I wonder whether I shall 
 ever find it." 
 
 I asked him it was by an impulse irresistible why he had 
 never married. 
 
 "Because I never found any woman either to love or to be- 
 lieve in. Worse," he added, bitterly, "I did not think there 
 lived the woman who could be believed in." 
 
 We had come out of the beech-wood and were standing by 
 the low church-yard wall; the sun glittered on the white mar- 
 ble headstone on which was inscribed, "Muriel Joy Halifax." 
 
 Lord Ravenel leaned over the wall, his eyes fixed upon that 
 little grave. After a while, he said, sighing: 
 
 "Do you know I have thought sometimes that, had she 
 lived, I could have loved I might have married that 
 child!" 
 
 Here Maud sprung toward us. In her playful tyranny, 
 which she loved to exercise and he to submit to, she insisted 
 on knowing what Lord Ravenel was talking about. 
 
 "I was saying," he answered, taking both her hands, and 
 looking down into her bright, unshrinking eyes I was say- 
 ing how dearly I loved your sister Muriel."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 413 
 
 "I know that/' and Maud became grave at once. "I know 
 you care for me because I am like my sister Muriel." 
 
 "If it were so, would you be sorry or glad?" 
 
 "Glad, and proud too. But you said, or you were going to 
 say, something more. What was it?" 
 
 He hesitated long, then answered: 
 
 "I will tell you another time." 
 
 Maud went away rather cross and dissatisfied, but evidently 
 suspecting nothing. For me, I began to be seriously uneasy 
 about her and Lord Eavenel. 
 
 Of all kinds of love, there is one which common-sense and 
 romance have often combined to hold obnoxious, improbable, 
 or ridiculous, but which has always seemed to me the most 
 real and pathetic form that the passion ever takes I mean, 
 love in spite of great disparity of age. Even when this is on 
 the woman's side, I can imagine circumstances that would 
 make it far less ludicrous and pitiful; and there are few things 
 to me more touching, more full of sad earnest, than to see an 
 old man in love with a young girl. 
 
 Lord Eavenel's case would hardly come under this cate- 
 gory; yet the difference between seventeen and thirty-seven 
 was sufficient to warrant in him a trembling uncertainty, an 
 eager catching at the skirts of that vanishing youth whose 
 preciousness he never seemed to have recognized till now. It 
 was with a mournful interest that all day I watched him fol- 
 low the child about, gather her posies, help her to water her 
 flowers, and accommodate himself to those whims and fancies, 
 of which, as the pet and the youngest, Mistress Maud had 
 her full share. 
 
 When, at her usual hour of half -past nine, the little lady 
 was summoned away to bed, "to keep up her roses," he looked 
 half resentful of the mother's interference. 
 
 "Maud is not a child now, and this may be my last night 
 " he stopped, sensitively, at the involuntary foreboding. 
 
 "Your last night? Nonsense! you will come back soon 
 again. You must you shall!" said Maud, decisively. 
 
 "I hope I may I trust in Heaven I may!" 
 
 He spoke low, holding her hand distantly and reverently, 
 not attempting to kiss it, as in all his former farewells he had 
 invariably done. 
 
 "Maud, remember me! However or whenever I come back, 
 dearest child, be faithful, and remember me!"
 
 414 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Maud flew away with a sob of childish paiii partly anger, 
 the mother thought and slightly apologized to the guest for 
 her daughter's "naughtiness." 
 
 Lord Ravenel sat silent for a long time. 
 
 Just when we thought he proposed leaving, he said, ab- 
 ruptly, "Mr. Halifax, may I have five minutes' speech with 
 you in the study?" 
 
 The five minutes extended to half an hour. Mrs. Halifax 
 wondered what on earth they were talking about. I held my 
 peace. At last the father came in alone. 
 
 "John, is Lord Eavenel gone?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "What could he have wanted to say to you?" 
 
 John sat down by his wife, picked up the ball of her knit- 
 ting, rolled and unrolled it. She saw at once that something 
 had grieved and perplexed him exceedingly. Her heart shrunk 
 back that still sore heart recoiled with a not unnatural 
 fear. 
 
 "Oh, husband, is it any new misfortune?" 
 
 "No, love," cheering her with a smile; "nothing that fathers 
 and mothers in general would consider as such. He has asked 
 me for our Maud." 
 
 "What for?" was the mother's first exceedingly simple ques- 
 tion and then she guessed its answer. "Impossible! Bidic- 
 ulous absolutely ridiculous! She is only a child." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Lord Eavenel wishes to marry our little 
 Maud." 
 
 "Lord Eavenel wishes to marry our Maud!" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax repeated this to herself more than once before 
 she was able to entertain it as a reality. When she did, the 
 first impression it made upon her mind was altogether pain. 
 
 "Oh, John! I hoped we had done with these sort of things; 
 I thought we should have been left in peace with the rest of 
 our children." 
 
 John smiled again; for, indeed, there was a comical side to 
 her view of the subject; but its serious phase soon returned; 
 doubly so, when, looking up, they both saw Lord Eavenel 
 standing before them. Firm his attitude was, firmer than 
 usual; and it was with something of his father's stately air; 
 mingled with a more chivalric and sincerer grace, that he 
 stooped forward and kissed the hand of Maud's mother,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 415 
 
 "Mr, Halifax has told you all, I believe?" 
 
 "He has." 
 
 "May I, then, with entire trust in you both, await my an- 
 swer?" 
 
 He waited it, patiently enough, with little apparent doubt 
 as to what it would be. Besides, it was only the prior ques- 
 tion of parental consent, not the vital point of Maud's prefer- 
 ence. And, with all his natural humility, Lord Eavenel 
 might be forgiven, if, brought up in the world, he was aware 
 of his position therein; nor quite unconscious that he was not 
 merely William Eavenel, but the only son and heir of the 
 Earl of Luxmore, who came a-wooing. 
 
 Not till after a long pause, and even a whispered word or 
 two between the husband and wife, who knew each other's 
 minds so well that no more consultation was needed did the 
 suitor again, with a more formal air, ask for an answer. 
 
 "It is difficult to give. I find that my wife, like myself, 
 had no idea of your feelings. The extreme suddenness " 
 
 "Pardon me; my intention has not been sudden. It is the 
 growth of many months years I might almost say." 
 
 "We are the more grieved." 
 
 "Grieved?" 
 
 Lord Ravenel's extreme surprise startled him from the mere 
 suitor into the lover; he glanced from one to the other in un- 
 disguised alarm. John hesitated; the mother said something 
 about the "great difference between them." 
 
 "In age, do you mean? I am aware of that," he answered, 
 with some sadness. "But twenty years is not an insuperable 
 bar in marriage." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Halifax, thoughtfully. 
 
 "And for any other disparity in fortune or rank " 
 
 "I think, Lord Eavenel," and the mother spoke with her 
 "dignified" air, "you know enough of my husband's character 
 and opinions to be assured how lightly he would hold such a 
 disparity if you allude to that supposed to exist between the 
 son of the Earl of Luxmore and the daughter of John Hali- 
 fax." 
 
 The young nobleman colored, as if with ingenuous shame 
 at what he had been implying. "I'm glad of it. Let me as- 
 sure you there will be no impediments on the side of my fam- 
 ily. The earl has long wished me to marry. He knows well
 
 416 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 enough that I can marry whom I please and shall marry 1'or 
 love only. Give me your leave to win your little Maud." 
 
 A dead silence. 
 
 "Again pardon me/' Lord Kavenel said, with some hauteur; 
 "I cannot have clearly explained myself. Let me repeat, 
 Mr. Halifax, that I ask your permission to win your daughter's 
 affection, and, in due time, her hand." 
 
 "I would that you had asked of me anything that it could 
 be less impossible to give you." 
 
 "Impossible! What do you mean? Mrs. Halifax- 
 He turned instinctively to the woman the mother. 
 
 Ursula's eyes were full of a sad kindness the kindness any 
 mother must feel toward one who worthily woos her daughter 
 but she replied distinctly: 
 
 "I feel, with my husband, that such a marriage would be 
 impossible." 
 
 Lord Ravenel grew scarlet, sat down, rose again, and stood 
 facing them, pale and haughty. 
 
 "If I may ask your reasons?" 
 
 "Since you ask, certainly," John replied. "Though, believe 
 me, I give them with the deepest pain. Lord Eavenel, do 
 you not yourself see that our Maud " 
 
 "Wait one moment," he interrupted. "There is not, there 
 cannot be, any previous attachment?" 
 
 The supposition made the parents smile. "Indeed, noth- 
 ing of the kind; she is a mere child." 
 
 "You think her too young for marriage, then?" was the 
 eager answer. "Be it so. I will wait, though my youth, 
 alas! is slipping from me; but I will wait two years, three 
 any time you choose to name." 
 
 John needed not to reply. The very sorrow of his decision 
 showed how inevitable and irrevocable it was. 
 
 Lord BavenePs pride rose against it. 
 
 "I fear in this my novel position I am somewhat slow of 
 comprehension. Would it be so great a misfortune to your 
 daughter if I made her Viscountess Bavenel, and in course of 
 time Countess of Luxmore?" 
 
 "I believe it would. Her mother and I ;vould rather see 
 our little Maud lying beside her sister Muriel than see her 
 Countess of Luxmore." 
 
 These words, hard as they were, John uttered so softly and 
 with such infinite grief and pain, that they struck the young
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 417 
 
 man, not with anger, but with an indefinite awe, as if a ghost 
 from his youth, his wasted youth, had risen up to point out 
 that truth, and show him that what seemed insult or ven- 
 geance, was only a bitter necessity. 
 
 All he did was to repeat, in a subdued manner "Your 
 reasons?" 
 
 "Ah, Lord Kavenel!" John answered, sadly, "do you not 
 see yourself that the distance between us and you is wide as 
 the poles? Not in worldly things, but in things far deeper 
 personal things, which strike at the root of love, home nay, 
 honor." 
 
 Lord Ravenel started. "Would you imply that anything in 
 my past life, aimless and useless as it may have been, is un- 
 worthy of my honor the honor of our house?" 
 
 Saying this, he stopped recoiled as if suddenly made 
 aware by the very words himself had uttered what con- 
 trasted with the unsullied dignity of the tradesman's life, the 
 spotless innocence of the tradesman's daughter what a foul 
 tattered rag, fit to be torn down by an honest gust, was that 
 flaunting emblazonment, the so-called "honor" of Luxmore! 
 
 "I understand you now. 'The sins of the fathers shall be 
 visited upon the children,' as your Bible says your Bible, 
 that I had half begun to believe in. Be it so. Mr. Halifax, 
 I will detain you no longer." 
 
 John intercepted the young man's departure. 
 
 "No, you do not understand me. I hold no man account- 
 able for any errors, any shortcomings, except his own." 
 
 "I am to conclude, then, that it is to myself you refuse your 
 daughter?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 Lord Ravenel once more bowedj with sarcastic emphasis. 
 
 "I entreat you not to mistake me," John continued, most 
 earnestly. "I know nothing of you that the world would con- 
 demn, much that it would even admire; but your world is not 
 our world, nor your aims our aims. If I gave you my little 
 Maud, it would confer on you no lasting happiness, and it 
 would be thrusting my child, my own flesh and blood, to the 
 brink of that whirlpool where, soon or late, every miserable 
 life must go down." 
 
 Lord Eavenel made no answer. His new-born energy, his 
 pride, his sarcasm, had successively vanished; dead, passive 
 
 27
 
 418 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 melancholy resumed its empire over him. Mr. Halifax re- 
 garded him with mournful compassion. 
 
 "Oh, that I had forseen this! I would have placed the 
 breadth of all England between you and my child." 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 "Understand me. Not because you do not possess our 
 warm interest, our friendship; both will always be yours. 
 But these are external ties, which may exist through many 
 differences. In marriage there must be perfect unity; one 
 aim, one faith, one love, or the marriage is incomplete, un- 
 holy a mere civil contract, and no more." 
 
 Lord Ravenel looked up amazed at this doctrine, then sat 
 awhile, pondering drearily. 
 
 "Yes, you may be right," at last he said. Your Maud is 
 not for me, nor those like me. Between us and you is that 
 'great gulf fixed;' what did the fable say? I forget Che 
 sard, sara! I am but as others; I am but what I was born to 
 be." 
 
 "Do you recognize what you were born to be? Not only a 
 nobleman, but a gentleman; not only a gentleman, but a man 
 man, made in the image of God. How can you, how dare 
 you, give the lie to your Creator?" 
 
 "What has he given me? What have I to thank him for?" 
 
 "First, manhood; the manhood His Son disdained not to 
 wear; worldly gifts, such as rank, riches, influence, things 
 which others have to spend half an existence in earning; life 
 in its best prime, with much of youth yet remaining with 
 grief endured, wisdom learned, experience won. Would to 
 Heaven, that by any poor word of mine I could make you feel 
 all that you are all that you might be!" 
 
 A gleam, bright as a boy's hope, wild as a boy's daring, 
 flashed from those listless eyes then faded. 
 
 "You mean, Mr. Halifax, what I might have been. Now it 
 is too late." 
 
 "There is no such word as 'too late/ in the wide world 
 nay, not in the universe. What! shall we, whose atom of time 
 is but a fragment out of an ever-present eternity shall we, 
 so long as we live, or even at our life's ending, dare to cry out 
 to the Eternal One, 'It is too late!' * 
 
 As John spoke, in much more excitement than was usual 
 to him, a sudden flush or rather spasm of color flushed his 
 face, then faded away, leaving him pallid to the very lips. He
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 419 
 
 sat down hastily, in his frequent attitude, with the left arm 
 passed across his breast. 
 
 "Lord Eavenel " His voice was faint, as though speech 
 
 was painful to him. 
 
 The other looked up, the old look of reverent attention, 
 which I remembered in the boy-lord who came to see us at 
 Norton Bury; in the young "Anselmo," whose enthusiastic 
 hero-worship had fixed itself, with an almost unreasoning 
 trust, on Muriel's father. 
 
 "Lord Eavenel, forgive anything I have said that may have 
 hurt you. It would grieve me inexpressibly if we did not part 
 as friends." 
 
 "Part?" 
 
 "For a time, we must. I dare not risk further either your 
 happiness or my child's." 
 
 "No, not hers. Guard it. I blame you not. The lovely, 
 innocent child! God forbid she should ever have a life like 
 mine!" 
 
 He sat silent, his clasped hands listlessly dropping, his 
 countenance dreamy; yet, it seemed to me, less hopelessly sad; 
 then with a sudden effort rose. 
 
 "I must go now." 
 
 Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her, with much 
 emotion, for all her kindness. 
 
 "For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as per- 
 haps I may prove some day. If not, try to believe the best of 
 me you can. Good-by." 
 
 They both said good-by, and bade God bless him; with 
 scarcely less tenderness than if things had ended as he de- 
 sired, and, instead of this farewell, sad and indefinite beyond 
 most farewells, they were giving the parental welcome to a 
 newly-chosen son. 
 
 Ere finally quitting us, Lord Ravenel turned back to speak 
 to John once more, hesitatingly and mournfully. 
 
 "If she if the child should ask or wonder about my ab- 
 sence she likes me in her innocent way, you know you will 
 tell her What shall you tell her?" 
 
 "Nothing. It is best not." 
 
 "Ay, it is, it is." 
 
 He shook hands with us all three, without saying anything 
 else; then the carriage rolled away, and we saw his face that 
 pale, gentle, melancholy face no more.
 
 420 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 It was years and years before any one beyond ourselves 
 knew what a near escape our little Maud had had of becoming 
 Viscountess Ravenel future Countess of Luxmore. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 It was not many weeks after this departure of Lord Ra- 
 venel's the pain of which was almost forgotten in the com- 
 fort of Guy's first long home letter, which came about this 
 time that John one morning, suddenly dropping his news- 
 paper, exclaimed: 
 
 "Lord Luxmore is dead." 
 
 Yes, he had returned to his dust, this old bad man; so old 
 that people had begun to think he would never die. He was 
 gone; the man who, if we owned an enemy in the world; had 
 certainly proved himself that enemy. Something peculiar is 
 there in a decease like this of one whom living, we have al- 
 ways felt ourselves justified in condemning, avoiding per- 
 haps hating. Until death, stepping in between, removes him 
 to another tribunal than this petty justice of ours, and laying 
 a solemn finger upon our mouths, forbids us either to think or 
 utter a word of hatred against that which is now what? a 
 disembodied spirit a handful of corrupting clay. 
 
 Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account; it 
 was not ours to judge him. We never knew I believe no one 
 except his son ever fully knew the history of his death-bed. 
 
 John sat in silence, the paper before him, long after we 
 had passed the news and discussed it, not without awe, all 
 round the breakfast table. 
 
 Maud stole up, hesitatingly, and asked to see the announce- 
 ment of the earl's decease. 
 
 "No, my child; but you shall hear it read aloud, if you 
 choose." 
 
 I guessed the reason of his refusal; when looking over him 
 as he read, I saw, after the long list of titles owned by the new 
 Earl of Luxmore, one bitter line; how it must have cut to the 
 heart of him whom we first heard of as "poor William!" 
 
 "Had likewise issue, Caroline, married in 17 , to Rich- 
 ard Brithwood, Esquire, afterward divorced."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 421 
 
 And by a curious coincidence, about twenty lines further 
 down I read among the fashionable marriages: 
 
 "At the British Embassy, Paris, Sir Gerard Vermilye, Bart., 
 to the youthful and beautiful daughter of " 
 
 I forget who. I only saw that the name was not her name, 
 of whom the "youthful and beautiful" bride had most likely 
 never heard. He had not married Lady Caroline. 
 
 This morning's intelligence brought the Luxmore family 
 so much to our thoughts that, driving out after breakfast, 
 John and I involuntarily recurred to the subject. Nay, talk- 
 ing on, in the solitude of our front seat for Mrs. Halifax, 
 Miss Halifax, and Mrs. Edwin Halifax, in the carriage behind, 
 were deep in some other subject we fell upon a topic which 
 by tacit consent had been laid aside, as in our household we 
 held it good to lay aside, any inevitable regret. 
 
 "Poor Maud, how eager she was to hear the news to-day! 
 She little thinks how vitally it might have concerned her." 
 
 "No," John answered, thoughtfully; then asked me with 
 some abruptness: "Why did you say 'poor Maud?" : 
 
 I really could not tell; it was a mere accident, the unwrit- 
 ten indication of some crotchets of mine, which had often 
 come into my mind lately. Crotchets, perhaps peculiar to 
 one who, never having known a certain possession, found him- 
 self rather prone to overrate its value. But it sometimes 
 struck me as hard, considering how little honest and sincere 
 love there is in the world, that Maud should never have 
 known of Lord Ravenel's. 
 
 Possibly, against my will, my answer implied something of 
 tins; for John was a long time silent. Then he began to talk 
 of various matters; telling me of many improvements he was 
 planning and executing on his property, and among his peo- 
 ple. In all his plans, and in the carrying out of them, I no- 
 ticed one peculiarity, strong in him throughout his life, but 
 latterly grown stronger than ever namely, that whatever 
 he found to do, he did immediately. Procrastination had 
 never been one of his faults; now, he seemed to have a horror 
 of putting anything off even for a single hour. Nothing that 
 could be done did he lay aside until it was done; his business 
 affairs were kept in perfect order; each day's work being com- 
 pleted with the day. And in the thousand-and-one little 
 things that were constantly arising from his position as magis- 
 trate <xnci land-owner, and his general interest in the move-
 
 422 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ments of the time, the same system was invariably pursued. 
 In his relations with the world outside, as in his own little 
 valley, he seemed determined to "work while it was day." If 
 he could possibly avoid it, no application was ever unattended 
 to; no duty left unfinished; no good unacknowledged; no 
 evil unremedied, or at least unf orgiven. 
 
 "John," I said, as to-day this peculiarity of his struck me 
 more than usual, "thou art certainly one of the faithful ser- 
 vants whom the Master when He cometh will find watching." 
 
 "I hope so. It ought to be thus with all men but espe- 
 cially with me." 
 
 I imagined from his tone, that he was thinking of his re- 
 sponsibility as father, master, owner of large wealth. How 
 could I know how could I guess beyond this!" 
 
 "Do you think she looks pale, Phineas?" he asked, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Who your wife?" 
 
 "No Maud. My little Maud." 
 
 It was but lately that he called her "his" little Maud; since 
 with that extreme tenacity of attachment which was a part of 
 his nature refusing to put any one love in another love's place 
 his second daughter had never been to him like the first. 
 Now, however, I had noticed that he took Maud nearer to his 
 heart, made her more often his companion, watching her with 
 a sedulous tenderness it was easy to guess why. 
 
 "She may have looked a little paler of late, a little more 
 thoughtful. But I am sure she is not unhappy." 
 
 "I believe not thank God!" 
 
 "Surely," I said, anxiously, "you have never repented what 
 you did about Lord Ravenel?" 
 
 "No not once. It cost me so much that I know it was 
 right to be done." 
 
 "But if things had been otherwise if you had not been so 
 sure of Maud's feelings " 
 
 He started painfully; then answered "I think I should 
 have done it still." 
 
 I was silent. The paramount right, the high prerogative 
 of love, which he held as strongly as I did, seemed attacked 
 in its liberty divine. For the moment, it was as if he too had 
 in his middle-age gone over to the cold-blooded ranks of harsh 
 parental prudence, despotic paternal rule; as if Ursula March's
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 423 
 
 lover and Maud's father were two distinct beings. One finds 
 it so, often enough, with men. 
 
 "John," I said, "could you have done it? could you have 
 broken the child's heart?" 
 
 "Yes, if it were to save her peace, perhaps her soul, I could 
 have broken my child's heart." 
 
 He spoke solemnly, with an accent of inexpressible pain, as 
 if this were not the first time by many that he had pondered 
 over such a possibility. 
 
 "I wish, Phineas, to make clear to you, in ease of of any 
 future misconceptions my mind on this matter. One right 
 alone I hold superior to the right of love duty. It is a fa- 
 ther's duty, at all risks, at all costs, to save his child from any- 
 thing which he believes would peril her duty so long as she 
 is too young to understand fully how beyond the claim of any 
 human being, be it father or lover, is God's claim to herself 
 and her immortal soul. Anything which would endanger 
 that should be cut off though it be the right hand the right 
 eye. But, thank God, it was not thus with my little Maud." 
 
 "Nor with him, either. He bore his disappointment well." 
 
 "Nobly. It may make a true nobleman of him yet. But, 
 being what he is, and for as long as he remains so, he must 
 not be trusted with my little Maud. I must take care of her 
 while I live; afterward " 
 
 His smile faded, or rather was transmitted into that grave 
 thoughtfulness which I had lately noticed in him. when, as 
 now, he fell into one of his long silences. There was nothing 
 sad about it; rather a serenity which reminded me of that 
 sweet look of his boyhood, which had vanished during the 
 manifold cares of his middle life. The expression of his 
 mouth, as I saw it in profile close and calm almost inclined 
 me to go back to the fanciful follies of our youth, and call 
 him "David." 
 
 We drove through Norton Bury, and left Mrs. Edwin there. 
 Then on, along the familiar road toward the Manor-house; 
 past the white gate, within sight of little Longfield. 
 
 "It looks just the same; the tenant takes good care of it." 
 And John's eyes turned fondly to his old home. 
 
 "Ay, just the same. Do you know your wife was saying to 
 me this morning that when Guy comes back, when all the 
 young folks are married, and you retire from business and 
 settle into the otium cum dignitate, the learned leisure you
 
 424 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 used to plan, she would like to give up Beech wood? She 
 said she hopes you and she will end your days together at little 
 Longfield." 
 
 "Did she? Yes, I know that has been always her dream." 
 
 "Scarcely a dream, or one that is not unlikely to be ful- 
 filled. I like to fancy you both two old people sitting on 
 either side the fire, or on the same side, if you like it best; 
 very cheerful you will make such a merry old man, John, 
 with all your children round you, and indefinite grand-chil- 
 dren about the house continually. Or else you two will sit 
 alone together, just as in your early married days you ami 
 your old wife the dearest and handsomest old lady that was 
 ever seen." 
 
 "Phineas, don't don't!" I was startled by the tone in 
 which he answered the lightness of mine. "I mean don't 
 be planning out the future. It is foolish; it is almost wrong. 
 God's will is not as our will; and He knows best." 
 
 I would have spoken, but just then we reached the Manor- 
 house gate, and plunged at once into present life, and into 
 the hospitable circle of the Oldtowers. 
 
 They were all in the excitement of a wonderful piece of 
 gossip gossip so strange, sudden, and unprecedented that it 
 absorbed all lesser matters. It burst out before we had been 
 in the house five minutes. 
 
 "Have you heard this extraordinary report about the Lux- 
 more family?" 
 
 I could see Maud turn with eager attention, fixing her eyes 
 wistfully on Lady Oldtower. 
 
 "About the earl's death? Yes, we saw it in the news- 
 paper." And John passed on to some other point of conver- 
 sation. In vain. 
 
 "This news relates to the present earl. I never heard of 
 such a thing never. In fact, if true, his conduct is some- 
 thing which in its self-denial approaches absolute insanity. Is 
 it possible that, being so great a friend of your family, he has 
 not informed you of the circumstances?" 
 
 These circumstances, with some patience, we extracted 
 from the voluble Lady Oldtower. She had learned them I 
 forget how; but ill news never wants a tongue to carry it. 
 
 It seemed that on the earl's death it was discovered what 
 had already been long suspected that his liabilities, like his 
 extravagances, were enormous; that he was obliged to live
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 425 
 
 abroad to escape in some degree the clamorous haunting of 
 the hundreds he had ruined; poor tradespeople, who knew 
 that their only chance of payment was during the old man's 
 lifetime, for his whole property was entailed on the son. 
 
 Whether Lord Eavenel had ever been acquainted with this 
 state of things, or whether, being in ignorance of it, his own 
 style of living had in a degree imitated his father's, rumor did 
 not say, nor, indeed, was it of much consequence. The facts 
 subsequently becoming known immediately after Lord Lux- 
 more's death, made all former conjectures unnecessary. 
 
 Not a week before he died, the late earl and his son 
 chiefly, it was believed, on the tatter's instigation had cut off 
 the entail, thereby making the whole property salable, and 
 available for the payment of creditors. Thus, by his own act, 
 and, as some one had told somebody that somebody else had 
 heard Lord Eavenel say, "for the honor of the family," the 
 present earl had succeeded to an empty title, and beggary. 
 
 "Or," Lady Oldtower added, "what to a man of rank will 
 be the same as beggary a paltry two hundred a year or so 
 which he has reserved, they say, just to keep him from desti- 
 tution. Ah, here comes Mr. Jessop; I thought he would. He 
 can tell us all about it." 
 
 Old Mr. Jessop was as much excited as any one present. 
 
 "Ay it's all true only too true, Mr. Halifax. He was at 
 my house last night." 
 
 "Last night!" I do not think anybody caught the child's 
 exclamation but me; I could not help watching little Maud, 
 noticing what strong emotion, still perfectly childlike and un- 
 guarded in its demonstration, was shaking her innocent bo- 
 som and overflowing at her eyes, However, as she sat still in 
 the corner, nobody observed her. 
 
 "Yes, he slept at my house Lord Eavenel, the Earl of 
 Luxmore, I mean. Much good will his title do him! My 
 head clerk is better off than he. He has stripped himself of 
 every penny, except bless me, I forgot Mr. Halifax, he 
 gave me a letter for you." 
 
 John walked to the window to read it; but having read it, 
 passed it openly round the circle, as indeed was best. 
 
 "My Dear Friend; You will have heard that my father is no 
 wore."
 
 426 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ("He used always to say 'the Earl/ " whispered Maud, as 
 she looked over my shoulder.) 
 
 "I write this merely to say what I feel sure you will already 
 have believed that anything which you learn concerning his 
 affairs, I was myself unaware of, except in a very slight degree, 
 when I last visited Beechwood. 
 
 "Will you likewise believe that in all I have done or intend 
 doing, your interests as my tenant which I hope you will re- 
 main have been, and shall be, sedulously guarded. 
 
 "My grateful remembrance to all your household. 
 
 "Faithfully yours, and theirs, 
 
 "LUXMORE." 
 
 "Give me back the letter, Maud, my child." 
 
 She had been taking possession of it, as in right of being 
 his "pet/' she generally did of all Lord Eavenel's letters. 
 But now, without a word of objection, she surrendered it to 
 her father. 
 
 "What does he mean, Mr. Jessop, about my interests as his 
 tenant?" 
 
 "Bless me I am so grieved about the matter, that every- 
 thing goes astray in my head. He wished me to explain to 
 you that he has reserved one portion of the Luxmore property 
 intact Enderley mills. The rent you pay will, he says, be 
 a sufficient income for him, and then while your lease lasts no 
 other landlord can injure you. Very thoughtful of him 
 very thoughtful indeed, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 "I never saw a man so altered. He went over some mat- 
 ters with me private charities, in which I have been his 
 agent, you know grave, clear-headed, business-like; my clerk 
 himself could not have done better. Afterward we sat and 
 talked, and I tried foolishly enough, when the thing was 
 done to show him what a frantic act it was both toward him- 
 self and his heirs. But he could not see it. He said cutting 
 off the entail would harm nobody for that he did not intend 
 ever to marry. Poor fellow!" 
 
 "Is he with you still?" John asked, in a low tone. 
 
 "No; he left this morning for Paris; his father is to be 
 buried there. Afterward, he said, his movements were quite 
 uncertain. He bade me good-by. I I didn't like it, I can 
 assure you." 
 
 And the old man, blowing his nose with his yellow pocket-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 427 
 
 handkerchief, and twitching his features into all manner of 
 shapes, seemed determined to put side the melancholy subject, 
 and dilated on the earl and his affairs no more. 
 
 Nor did any one. Something in this young nobleman's 
 noble act it has since been not without a parallel among our 
 aristocracy silenced the tongue of gossip itself. The deed 
 was so new so unlike anything that had been conceived pos- 
 sible, especially in a man like Lord Ravenel, who had always 
 borne the character of a harmless, idle, misanthropic nonen- 
 tity that society was really nonplussed concerning it. Of 
 the many loquacious visitors who came that morning to pour 
 upon Lady Oldtower all the curiosity of Coltham fashion- 
 able Coltham, famous for all the scandal of haut ton there 
 was none who did not speak of Lord Luxmore and his affairs 
 with an uncomfortable, wondering awe. Some suggested he 
 was going mad others, raking up stories current of his early 
 youth, thought he had turned Catholic again and was about 
 to enter a monastery. One or two honest hearts protested 
 that he was a noble fellow, and it was a pity he had deter- 
 mined to be the last of the Luxmores. 
 
 For ourselves Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, Maud and I we 
 never spoke to one another on the subject all morning. Not 
 until after luncheon, when John and I had somehow stolen 
 out of the way of the visitors, and were walking to and fro 
 in the garden. The sunny fruit-garden ancient, Dutch 
 and square with its barricade of a high hedge, a stone wall, 
 and between it and the house a shining fence of great laurel- 
 trees. 
 
 Maud appeared suddenly before us from among these laur- 
 els, breathless. 
 
 "I got away after you, father. I I wanted to find some 
 strawberries and I wanted to speak to you." 
 
 "Speak on, little lady." 
 
 He linked her arm in his, and she paced between us up and 
 down the broad walk but without diverging to the straw- 
 berry beds. She was grave and paler than ordinary. Her 
 father asked if she were tired? 
 
 "No, but my head aches. Those Coltham people do talk 
 so! Father, I want you to explain to me, for I can't well 
 understand it, all this that they have been saying about Lord 
 Ravenel." 
 
 John explained as simply and briefly as he could.
 
 428 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "I understand. Then, though he is Earl of Luxmore, he 
 is quite poor poorer than any of us? And he has made him- 
 self poor in order to pay his own and his father's debts, and 
 keep other people from suffering from any fault of his? Is 
 it so?" 
 
 "Yes, my child." 
 
 "Is it not a very noble act, father?" 
 
 "Very noble." 
 
 "I think it is the noblest act I ever heard of. I should like 
 to tell him so. When is he coming to Beech wood?" 
 
 Maud spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, in the impetuous 
 mannner she inherited from her mother. Her question not 
 being immediately answered, she repeated it still more 
 eagerly. 
 
 Her father replied "I do not know." 
 
 "How very strange! I thought he would come at once 
 to-night probably." 
 
 I reminded her that Lord Ravenel had left for Paris, bid- 
 ding good-by to Mr. Jessop. 
 
 "He ought to have come to us instead of to Mr. Jessop. 
 Write and tell him so, father. Tell him how glad we shall be 
 to see him. And perhaps you can help him; you who help 
 everybody. He always said you were his best friend." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 "Ah, now, do write, father dear I am sure you will." 
 
 John looked down on the little maid who hung on his arm 
 so persuasively, then looked sorrowfully away. 
 
 "My child I cannot." 
 
 "What, not write to him? When he is poor and in 
 trouble? That is not like you, father," and Maud half loosed 
 her arm. 
 
 Her father quietly put the little rebellious hand back again 
 to its place. He was evidently debating within himself 
 whether he should tell her the whole truth, or how much of it. 
 Not that the debate was new, for he must already have fore- 
 seen this possible, nay, certain, conjuncture; especially as all 
 his dealings with his family had hitherto been open as day- 
 light. He held that to prevaricate, or willfully to give the 
 impression of a falsehood, is almost as mean as a direct lie. 
 When anything occurred that he could not tell his children, 
 he always said plainly, "I can not tell you," and they asked no 
 more.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 429 
 
 I wondered exceedingly how he would deal with Maud. 
 
 She walked with him, submissive yet not satisfied, glancing 
 at him from time to time, waiting for him to speak. At last 
 she could wait no longer. 
 
 "I am sure there is something wrong. You do not care for 
 Lord Ravenel as much as you used to do." 
 
 "More, if possible." 
 
 "Then write to him. Say we want to see him I want to 
 see him. Ask him to come and stay a long while at Beech- 
 wood." 
 
 "I cannot, Maud. It would be impossible for him to come. 
 I do not think he is likely to visit Beechwood for some time." 
 
 "How long? Six months? A year, perhaps?" 
 
 "It may be several years." 
 
 "Then I was right. Something has happened; you are 
 not friends with him any longer. And he is poor in trouble 
 oh, father!" 
 
 She snatched her hand away, and flashed upon him re- 
 proachful eyes. John took her gently by the arm, and made 
 her sit down upon the wall of a little stone bridge, under 
 which the moat slipped with a quiet murmur. Maud's tears 
 dropped into it fast and free. 
 
 That very outburst, brief and thundery as a child's pas- 
 sion, gave consolation both to her father and me. When it 
 lessened, John spoke. 
 
 "Now has my little Maud ceased to be angry with her fa- 
 ther?" 
 
 "I did not mean to be angry only I was so startled so 
 grieved. Tell me what has happened, please, father?" 
 
 "I will tell you so far as I can. Lord Ravenel and my- 
 self had some conversation, of a very painful kind, the last 
 night he was with us. After it, we both considered it ad- 
 visable he should not visit us again for the present." 
 
 "Why not? Had you quarreled? or if you had, I thought 
 my father was always the first to forgive everybody." 
 
 "No, Maud, we had not quarreled." 
 
 "Then, what was it?" 
 
 "My child, you must not ask, for indeed I cannot tell you." 
 
 Maud sprang up the rebellious spirit flashing out again. 
 
 "Not tell me me, his pet me, that cared for him more 
 than any of you did. I think you ought to tell me, father," 
 
 "You must allow me to decide that, if you please,"
 
 430 JOHN HALIFAX. GENTLEMAN. 
 
 After this answer Maud paused, and said, humbly, "Does 
 any one else know?" 
 
 "Your mother, and your Uncle Phineas, who happened to 
 be present at the time. No one else; and no one else shall 
 know." 
 
 John spoke with that slight quivering and blueness of the 
 lips which any mental excitement usually produced in him. 
 He sat down by his daughter's side and took her hand. 
 
 "I knew this would grieve you, and I kept it from you as 
 long as I could. Now you must only be patient, and like a 
 good child trust your father." 
 
 Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed, 
 and said, "She could not understand it." 
 
 "Neither can I, oftentimes, my poor little Maud. There 
 are so many sad things in life that we have to take upon trust, 
 and bear, and be patient with yet never understand. I sup- 
 pose we shall some day." 
 
 His eyes wandered upward to the wide-arched blue sky, 
 which in its calm beauty makes us fancy that Paradise is 
 there, even though we know that "the kingdom of Heaven 
 is within us," and that the kingdom of spirits may be around 
 us and about us, everywhere. 
 
 Maud looked at her father, and crept closer to him into 
 his arms. 
 
 "I did not mean to be naughty. I will try not to mind 
 losing him. But I liked Lord Eavenel so much and he was 
 so fond of me." 
 
 "Child" and her father himself could not help smiling 
 at the simplicity of her speech "it is often easiest to lose 
 those we are fond of and who are fond of us, because in one 
 sense we never can really lose them. Nothing in this world, 
 nor, I believe, in any other, can part those who truly and 
 faithfully love." 
 
 I think he was hardly aware how much he was implying, 
 at least not in its relation to her, or else he would not have 
 said it. And he would surely have noticed, as I did, that the 
 word "love" which had not been mentioned before it was 
 "liking," "fond of," "care for," or some such roundabout 
 childish phrase the word "love" made Maud start. She 
 darted from one to the other of us a keen glance of inquiry, 
 and then turned tfce color of a July rose. 
 
 Her attitude, her blushes, the shy trembling about her
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 431 
 
 mouth,- reminded me vividly, too vividly, of her mother 
 twenty-eight years ago. 
 
 Alarmed, I tried to hasten the end of our conversation, 
 lest, voluntarily or involuntarily, it might produce the very 
 results which, though they might not have altered John's 
 determination, would have almost broken his heart. 
 
 So, begging her to "kiss and make friends," which Maud 
 did, timidly, and without attempting further questions, I 
 hurried the father and daughter into the house; deferring for 
 mature consideration the question whether or not I should 
 trouble John with any too-anxious doubts of mine concerning 
 her. 
 
 As we drove back through Norton Bury, I saw that while 
 her mother and Lady Oldtower conversed, Maud sat opposite 
 rather more silent than her wont; but when the ladies dis- 
 mounted for shopping, she was again the lively, independ- 
 ent Miss Halifax, 
 
 "Standing with reluctant feet, 
 Where womanhood and childhood meet," 
 
 and assuming at once the prerogatives and immunities of 
 both. 
 
 Her girlish ladyship at last got tired of silks and ribbons, 
 and stood with me at the shop-door, amusing herself with 
 commenting on the passers-by. 
 
 These were not so plentiful as I once remembered, though 
 still the old town wore its old face appearing fairer than 
 ever as I myself grew older. The same Coltham coach stopped 
 at the Lamb Inn, and the same group of idle loungers took 
 an interest in its disemboguing of its contents. But railways 
 had done an ill turn to the coach and to poor Norton Bury; 
 where there used to be six inside passengers, to-day was 
 turned out only one. 
 
 "What a queer-looking little woman! Uncle Phineas, peo- 
 ple shouldn't dress so fine as that when they are old." 
 
 Maud's criticism was scarcely just. The light-colored, 
 flimsy-gown, shorter than even Coltham fashionables would 
 have esteemed decent, the fluttering bonnet, the abundance 
 of flaunting curls no wonder {hat the stranger attracted 
 considerable notice in quiet Norton Bury. As she tripped 
 mincingly along, in her silk stockings and light shoes, a 
 smothered jeer arose.
 
 432 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "People should not laugh at an old woman, however con- 
 ceited she may be," said Maud, indignantly. 
 
 "Is she old?" 
 
 "Just look." 
 
 And surely when, as she turned from side to side, I caught 
 her full face what a face it was! withered, thin, sallow 
 almost to deathliness, with a bright rouge-spot on each cheek, 
 a broad smile on the ghastly mouth. 
 
 "Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas?" 
 
 "Possibly. Do not look at her." For I was sure this must 
 be the wreck of such a life as womanhood does sometimes 
 sink to a life, the mere knowledge of which had never yet 
 entered Maud's pure world. 
 
 She seemed surprised, but obeyed me and went in. I 
 stood at the shop-door, watching the increasing crowd, 
 and pitying, with that pity mixed with shame that every hon- 
 est man must feel toward a degraded woman, the wretched 
 object of their jeers. Half-frightened, she still kept up that 
 set smile, skipping daintily from side to side of the pavement, 
 darting at and peering into every carriage that passed. Mis- 
 erable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and 
 ease in her movements, as if she had fallen from some far 
 higher estate. 
 
 At the moment the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood 
 in it, dozing his daily drive away, his gouty foot propped 
 up before him, slowly lumbered up the street. The woman 
 made a dart at it, but was held back. 
 
 "Canaille! I always hated your Norton Bury! Call my 
 carriage. I will go home." 
 
 Through its coarse discordance, its insane rage, I thought 
 I knew the voice. Especially when, assuming a voice of 
 command, she addressed the old coachman: 
 
 "Draw up, Peter; you are very late. People, give way! 
 Don't you see my carriage?" 
 
 There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. Brith- 
 wood opened his dull, drunken eyes and stared about him. 
 
 "Canaille!" and the scream was more of terror than anger 
 as she almost flung herself under the horses' heads in her 
 eagerness to escape from the mob. "Let me go! My carriage 
 is waiting. I am Lady Caroline Brithwood!" 
 
 The 'squire heard her. For a single instant they gazed 
 at one another besotted husband, dishonored, divorced wife
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 433 
 
 gazed with horror and fear, as two sinners who had been 
 each other's undoing might meet in the poetic torments of 
 Dante's "Inferno," or the tangible fire and brimstone of 
 many a blind but honest Christian's hell. One single instant, 
 and then Eichard Brithwood made up his mind. 
 
 "Coachman, drive on!" 
 
 But the man he was an old man seemed to hesitate at 
 urging his horses right over "my lady." He even looked 
 down on her with a sort of compassion. I remembered hav- 
 ing heard say that she was always kind and affable to her 
 servants. 
 
 "Drive on, you fool! Here," and Mr. Brithwood threw 
 some coin among the mob, "fetch the constable some of 
 you; take the woman to the watch-house!" 
 
 And the carriage rolled on, leaving her there, crouched 
 on the curbstone, gazing after it with something between a 
 laugh and a moan. 
 
 Nobody touched her. Perhaps some had heard of her; 
 a few might even have seen her driving through Norton 
 Bury in her pristine state, as the young 'squire's handsome 
 wife the charming Lady Caroline. 
 
 I was so absorbed in the sickening sight that I did not 
 perceive how John and Ursula, standing behind me, had 
 seen it likewise evidently seen and understood it all. 
 
 "What is to be done?" she whispered to him. 
 
 "What ought we to do?" 
 
 Here Maud came running out to see what was amiss in 
 the street. 
 
 "Go in, child," said Mrs. Halifax, sharply. "Stay till 
 I fetch you." 
 
 Lady Oldtower also advanced to the door; but catching 
 some notion of what the disturbance was, shocked and scan- 
 dalized, retired into the shop again. 
 
 John looked earnestly at his wife, but for once she did 
 not or would not understand his meaning; she drew back 
 uneasily. 
 
 "What must be done I mean, what do you want me to 
 do?" 
 
 "What only a woman -can do a woman like you in your 
 position." 
 
 "Yes, if it were only myself. But think of the house- 
 28
 
 434 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 hold think of Maud. People will talk so. It is hard to 
 know how to act." 
 
 "Nay; how did One act how would He act now if He 
 stood in the street this day? If we take care of aught of 
 His, will He not take care of us and of our children?" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax paused, thought a moment, hesitated 
 yielded. 
 
 "John, you are right; you are always right. I will do any- 
 thing you please." 
 
 And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, in face 
 of scores of window-gazers, all of whom knew them, and a 
 great number of whom they also knew, Mr. Halifax and his 
 wife walk up to where the miserable woman lay. 
 
 John touched her lightly on the shoulder she screamed 
 and cowered down. 
 
 "Are you the constable? He said he would send the con- 
 stable." 
 
 "Hush do not be afraid. Cousin Cousin Caroline." 
 
 God knows how long it was since any woman had spoken 
 to her in that tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered 
 wits. She rose to her feet, smiling airily. 
 
 "Madame, you are very kind. I believe I have had the 
 pleasure of seeing you somewhere. Your name is 
 
 "Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?" speaking gently, 
 as she would have done to a child. 
 
 Lady Caroline bowed a ghastly mockery of her former 
 sprightly grace. "Not exactly; but I dare say I shall presently 
 an revoir, madame!" 
 
 She was going away, kissing her hand that yellow, 
 wrinkled old woman's hand but John stopped her. 
 
 "My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes 
 you to come home with us." 
 
 "Plait-il? oh yes; I understand. I shall be happy- 
 most happy." 
 
 John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference; 
 Mrs. Halifax supported her on the other side. Without more 
 ado, they put her in the carriage and drove home, leaving 
 Maud in my charge, and leaving astonished Norton Bury to 
 think and say exactly what it pleased.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 435 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house 
 if that miserable existence of hers could be called living 
 bed-ridden, fallen into second childhood: 
 
 "Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;" 
 
 oblivious to both past and present, recognizing none of us, 
 and taking no notice of anybody, except now and then Ed- 
 win's little daughter, baby Louise. 
 
 We knew that all our neighbors talked us over, making far 
 more than a nine days' wonder of the "very extraordinary 
 conduct" of Mr. and Mrs. Halifax. That even good Lady 
 Oldtower hesitated a little before she suffered her tribe of 
 fair daughters to visit under the same roof where lay, quite 
 out of the way, that poor wreck of womanhood, which would 
 hardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time 
 the gossip ceased of itself; and when, one summer day, a 
 small decent funeral moved out of our garden gate to En- 
 derley church-yard, all the comment was: 
 
 "Oh! is she dead? What a relief it must be! How very 
 kind of Mr. and Mrs. Halifax!" 
 
 Yes, she was dead, and had "made no sign," either of re- 
 pentance, grief or gratitude. Unless one could consider as 
 such a moment's lightening before death, which Maud de- 
 clared she saw in her Maud, who had tended her with a 
 devotedness which neither father nor mother forbade; be- 
 lieving that a woman cannot too soon learn womanhood's 
 best "mission" usefulness, tenderness and charity. Miss 
 Halifax was certain that a few minutes before the last minute, 
 she saw a gleam of sense in the filmy eyes, and stooping down, 
 had caught some feeble murmur about "William poor Will- 
 iam!" 
 
 She did not tell me this; she spoke of it to no one but her 
 mother, and to her briefly. So the wretched life, once beauti- 
 ful and loveful, was now ended, or perhaps borne into some 
 new sphere to begin again its struggle after the highest 
 beauty, the only perfect love. What are we that we should
 
 436 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 place limits to the infinite mercy of the Lord and Giver of 
 Life, unto whom all life returns! 
 
 We buried her and left her; poor Lady Caroline! 
 
 No one interfered with us, and we appealed to no one. In 
 truth, there was no one unto whom we could appeal. Lord 
 Luxmore, immediately after his father's funeral, had disap- 
 peared, whither, no one knew except his solicitor; who treated 
 with and entirely satisfied the host of creditors, and into 
 whose hands the sole debtor, John Halifax, paid his yearly 
 rent. Therewith, he wrote several times to Lord Luxmore; 
 but the letters were simply acknowledged through the lawyer: 
 never answered. Whether in any of them John alluded to 
 Lady Caroline, I do not know; but I rather think not, as it 
 would have served no purpose and only inflicted pain. No 
 doubt, her brother had long since believed her dead, as we 
 and the world had done. 
 
 In that same world, one man, even a nobleman, is of little 
 account. Lord Ravenel sank in its wide waste of waters, and 
 they closed over him. Whether he were drowned or saved, 
 was of small moment to any one. He was soon forgotten, 
 everywhere except at Beechwood; arid sometimes it seemed as 
 if he were even forgotten there; save that in our family we 
 found it hard to learn this easy, convenient habit to forget. 
 
 Hard, though seven years had passed since we saw Guy's 
 merry face, to avoid missing it keenly still. The mother, 
 as her years crept on, oftentimes wearied for him with a 
 yearning that could not be told. The father, as Edwin be- 
 came engrossed in his own affairs, and Walter's undecided 
 temperament kept him a boy long after boyhood, often 
 seemed to look round vaguely for an eldest son's young 
 strength to lean upon: often said anxiously, "I wish Guy 
 were at home." 
 
 Yet still there was no hint of his coming; "better he never 
 came at all than come against his will, or come to meet the 
 least pain, the shadow of disgrace. And he was contented 
 and prosperous in the Western world, leading an active and 
 useful life, earning an honorable name. He had taken a 
 partner, he told us; there was real friendship between them, 
 and they were doing well; perhaps might make, in a few 
 years, one of those rapid fortunes which clever men of busi- 
 ness do make in America, and did especially at that time. 
 
 He was so eager and earnest upon other and higher cares
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 43t 
 
 than mere business; entered warmly into his father's sym- 
 pathy about many political measures now occupying men's 
 minds. A great number of comparative facts concerning the 
 factory children in England and America; a mass of evidence 
 used by Mr. Fowell Buxton in his arguments for the aboli- 
 tion of slavery, and many other things, originated in the im- 
 pulsive activity, now settled into mature manly energy, of 
 Mr. Guy Halifax, of Boston, U. S. "our Guy." ' 
 
 "The lad is making a stir in the world," said his father 
 one day, when we had read his last letter. "I shall not won- 
 der if, when he comes home, a deputation from his native 
 Norton Bury were to appear, requesting him to accept the 
 honor of representing them in Parliament. He would suit 
 them at least, as regards the canvassing and the ladies a 
 great deal better than his old father eh, love?" 
 
 Mrs. Halifax smiled, rather unwillingly, for her husband 
 referred to a subject which had cost her some pain at the 
 time. After the Keform Bill passed, many of our neigh- 
 bors, who had long desired that one of John's high char- 
 acter, practical knowledge, and influence in the town, should 
 be its M. P., and were aware that his sole objection to entering 
 the House was the said question of Reform, urged him very 
 earnestly to stand for Norton Bury. 
 
 To everybody's surprise, and none more than our own, he 
 refused. 
 
 Publicly he assigned no reason for this, except his con- 
 viction that he could not discharge as he ought, and as he 
 would once have done, duties which he held so sacred and 
 indispensable. His letter, brief and simple, thanking his 
 "good neighbors," and wishing them "a younger and worth- 
 ier" member, might be found in some old file of the Norton 
 Bury Herald still. Even the Norton Bury Mercury, in re- 
 printing it, commented on its touching honesty and brevity, 
 and concluding his political career was ended with it con- 
 descended to bestow on Mr. Halifax the usual obituary line: 
 
 "We could have better spared a better man." 
 
 When his family, and even his wife, reasoned with him, 
 knowing that to enter Parliament had long been his thought, 
 nay, his desire, and perhaps herself taking a natural pride 
 in the idea of seeing M. P. M. P. of a new and unbribed
 
 438 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 House of Commons after his well-beloved name to us and 
 to her he gave no clearer motive for his refusal than to the 
 electors of Norton Bury. 
 
 "But you are not old, John," I argued with him one day; 
 "you possess to the full the mens sana in corpcre sano. No 
 man can be more fitted than yourself to serve his country, as 
 you used to say it might be served, and you yourself might 
 serve it, after Reform was gained." 
 
 He smiled, and jocularly thanked me for my good opinion. 
 
 "Nay, such service is almost your duty; you yourself once 
 thought so too. Why have you changed your mind?" 
 
 "I have not changed my mind, but circumstances have 
 changed my actions. _As for duty duty begins at home. 
 Believe me, I have thought well over the subject. Brother, 
 we will not refer to it again." 
 
 I saw that something in the matter pained him, and 
 obeyed his wish. Even when, a few days after, perhaps as 
 some compensation for the mother's disappointment, he gave 
 this hint of Guy's taking his place and entering Parliament 
 in his room. 
 
 For any one nay, his own son to take John's place, to 
 stand in John's room, was not a pleasant thought, even in 
 jest; we let it pass by unanswered, and John himself did 
 not recur to it. 
 
 Thus time went on, placidly enough; the father and mother 
 changed into grandfather and grandmother, and little Maud 
 into Auntie Maud. She bore her new honors and fulfilled her 
 new duties with great delight and success. She had altered 
 much of late years: at twenty was as old as many a woman 
 of thirty in all the advantages of age. She was sensible, 
 active, resolute, and wise; sometimes thoughtful, or troubled 
 with fits of what in any less wholesome temperament would 
 have been melancholy; but as it was, her humors only be- 
 trayed themselves in some slight restlessness or irritability, 
 easily soothed by a few tender words, or a rush out to Ed- 
 win'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 quit- 
 ting it; for Miss Halifax possessed plenty of attractions, both 
 outwardly and inwardly, to say nothing of her not inconsid-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 439 
 
 erable fortune. But she refused all offers, and to the best 
 of our knowledge was a free-hearted damsel still. 
 
 Her father and mother seemed rather glad of this than 
 otherwise. They Avould not have denied her any happiness 
 she wished for; still, it was evidently a relief to them that 
 she was slow in choosing it; slow in quitting their arms of 
 love to risk a love untried. Sometimes, such is the weak- 
 ness of parental humanity, I verily believe they looked for- 
 ward with complacency to the possibility of her remaining 
 always Miss Halifax. I remember one day, when Lady Old- 
 tower was suggesting half jest, half earnest, "better any 
 marriage than no marriage at all;" Maud's father replied, very 
 seriously: 
 
 "Better no marriage than any marriage that is less than 
 the best." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I believe," he said, smiling, "that somewhere in the world 
 every man has his right wife, every woman her right hus- 
 band. If my Maud's comes, he shall have her. If not, I 
 shall be well content to see her a happy old maid." 
 
 Thus, after many storms, came this lull in our lives; a 
 season of busy yet monotonous calm. I have heard say that 
 peace itself, to be perfect, ought to be monotonous. We 
 had enough of it to satisfy our daily need; we looked forward 
 to more of it in time to come, when Guy should be at home, 
 when we should see safely secured the futures of all the chil- 
 dren, and for ourselves a green old age 
 
 "Journeying in long serenity away." 
 
 A time of heavenly calm which, as I look back upon it, 
 grows heavenlier still! Soft summer days and autumn after- 
 noons, spent under the beech-wood, or on the Flat. Quiet 
 winter evenings, all to ourselves; Maud and her mother work- 
 ing, Walter drawing. The father sitting with his back to 
 the lamp, its light making a radiance over his brow and 
 white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the curls behind 
 restoring somewhat of the youthful color to his fading hair. 
 Nay, the old youthful ring of his voice I caught at times, 
 when he found something funny in his book and read it 
 out aloud to us; or laying it down, sat talking, as he liked 
 to talk, about things speculative, philosophical, or poetical;
 
 440 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 things which he had necessarily let slip in the hurry and 
 press of his business life, in the burden and heat of the day; 
 but which now, as the cool shadows of evening were drawing 
 on, assumed a beauty and a nearness, and were again caught 
 up by him precious as the dreams of his youth. 
 
 Happy, happy time sunshiny summer, peaceful winter 
 we marked neither as they passed; but now we hold both 
 in a sacredness inexpressible a foretaste of that Land where 
 there is neither summer nor winter, neither days nor years. 
 
 The first break in our repose came early in the new year. 
 There had been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never 
 once in all his wanderings had missed writing home at Christ- 
 mas-time. When the usual monthly mail came in, and no 
 word from him a second month, and yet nothing, we began 
 to wonder about his omission less openly to cease scolding 
 him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we 
 still eagerly brought up instances of the latter "Guy is such 
 a thoughtless boy about his correspondence." 
 
 Gradually, as his mother's cheek grew paler, and his father 
 more anxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up 
 discussing publicly the many excellent reasons why no letters 
 should come from Guy. We had written as usual, by every 
 mail. By the last by the March mail I saw that in ad- 
 dition to the usual packet for Mr. Guy Halifax his father, 
 taking another precautionary measure, had written in busi- 
 ness form to "Messrs. Guy Halifax & Co." Guy had always, 
 "just like his carelessness/' omitted to give the name of his 
 partner; but addressed thus, in case of any sudden journey 
 or illness of Guy's, the partner, whoever he was, would be sure 
 to write. 
 
 In May nay, it was on May-day, I remember, for we were 
 down in the mill-meadows with Louise and her little ones, 
 going a-maying there came in the American mail. 
 
 It brought a large packet all our letters of this year sent 
 back again, directed, in a strange hand, to "John Halifax, 
 Esquire, Beech wood," with the annotation, "By Mr. Guy 
 Halifax's desire." 
 
 Among the rest though the sickening sight of them had 
 blinded even his mother at first, so that her eye did not catch 
 it, was one that explained most satisfactorily explained, we 
 said the reason they were thus returned. It was a few lines 
 from Guy himself., stating that unexpected good-fortune had
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 441 
 
 made him determine to come home at once. If circumstances 
 thwarted his intention, he would write without fail; otherwise 
 he should most likely sail by an American merchantman the 
 Stars and Stripes. 
 
 "Then he is coming home! On his way home!" 
 
 And the mother, as with one shaking hand she held fast the 
 letter, with the other steadied herself by the rail of John's 
 desk I guessed now why he had ordered all the letters to 
 be brought first to his counting-house. "When do you think 
 we shall see Guy?" 
 
 At thought of the happy sight, her bravery broke down. 
 She wept heartily and long. 
 
 John sat still, leaning over the front of his desk. By his 
 sigh, deep and glad, one could tell what a load was lifted off 
 the father's heart at prospect of his son's .return. 
 
 "The liners are only a month in sailing; but this is a bark, 
 most likely, which takes longer time. Love, show me the 
 date of the boy's letter." 
 
 She looked for it herself. It was in January! 
 
 The sudden fall from certainty to uncertainty the wild 
 clutch at that which hardly seemed a real joy until seen 
 fading down to a mere hope, a chance, a possibility who 
 has not known all this? 
 
 I remember how we all stood mute and panic-struck, in 
 the dark little counting-house. I remember seeing Louise, 
 with her children, in the door-way, trying to hush their laugh- 
 ing, and whispering to them something about "poor Uncle 
 Guy." 
 
 John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread, and show 
 that it was less than at first appeared. 
 
 "We ought to have had this letter two months ago; this 
 shows how often delays occur we ought not to be surprised 
 or uneasy at anything. Guy does not say when the ship was 
 to sail she may be on her voyage still. If he had but given 
 the name of her owners. But I can write to Lloyd's and find 
 out everything. Cheer up, mother. Please God, you shall 
 have that wandering, heedless boy of yours back before long." 
 
 He replaced the letters in their enclosure held a gen- 
 eral consultation, into which he threw a passing gleam of 
 faint gayety, as to whether, being ours, we had a right to 
 burn them, or whether, having passed through the post- 
 office, they were not the writer's but the owner's property,
 
 442 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and Guy could claim them, with all their useless news, on 
 his arrival in England. This was finally decided, and the 
 mother, with a faint smile, declared that nobody should 
 touch them; she would put them under lock and key "till 
 Guy came home/' 
 
 Then she took her husband's arm, and the rest of us fol- 
 lowed them as they walked slowly up the hill to Beechwood. 
 
 But after that day Mrs. Halifax's strength decayed. Not 
 suddenly, scarcely perceptibly; not with any outward com- 
 plaint, except what she jested over as "the natural weakness 
 of old age;" but there was an evident change. Week by 
 week her long walks shortened; she gave up her village school 
 to me; and though she went about the house still and insisted 
 on keeping the keys, gradually, "just for the sake of practice," 
 the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud. 
 
 An answer arrived from Lloyd's; the Stars and Stripes was 
 an American vessel, probably of small tonnage and import- 
 ance, for the underwriters knew nothing of it. 
 
 More delay, more suspense. The summer days came, but 
 not Guy. No news of him not a word not a, line. 
 
 His father wrote to America pursuing inquiries in all 
 directions. At last some tangible clew was caught. The 
 Stars and Stripes had sailed, had been spoken with about 
 the Windward Isles, and never heard of afterward. 
 
 Still, there was hope John told the hope first, before 
 he ventured to speak of the missing ship, and even then 
 had to break the news gently, for the mother had grown frail 
 and weak, and could not bear things as she used to do. She 
 clung, as if they had been words of life or death, to the ship- 
 owner's postscript "that they had no recollection of the 
 name of Halifax; there might have been such a gentleman 
 on board they could not say. But it was not probable, for 
 She Stars and Stripes was a trading vessel, and had not good 
 accommodations for passengers." 
 
 Then came week after week I knew not how they went 
 by one never does, afterward. At the time, they were fright- 
 fully vivid, hour by hour; we rose each morning, sure that 
 some hope would come in the course of the day; we went 
 to bed at night heavily, as if there were no such thing as hope 
 in the world. Gradually, and I think that was the worst con- 
 sciousness of all our life of suspense became perfectly natu- 
 ral; and everything in and about the house went on as usual,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 443 
 
 just as though we knew quite well what the Almighty 
 Father alone knew! where our poor lad was, and what had 
 become of him. Or rather, as if we had settled in the cer- 
 tainty which perhaps the end of our own lives alone would 
 bring us, that he had slipped out of life altogether, and there 
 was no such being as Guy Halifax under this pitiless sun. 
 
 The mother's heart was breaking. She made no moan, 
 but we saw it in her face. One morning it was the morn- 
 ing after John's birthday, which we had made a feint of 
 keeping, with Grace Oldtower, the two little grandchildren, 
 Edwin and Louise she was absent at breakfast and at din- 
 ner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many 
 days following it happened the same; with the same faint ex- 
 cuse, or with no excuse at all. How we missed her about the 
 house! ay, changed as she had been. How her husband 
 wandered about, ghost-like, from room to room! could not 
 rest anywhere, or do anything. Finally, he left our company 
 altogether, and during the hours that he was at home rarely 
 quitted for more than a few minutes the quiet bed-chamber, 
 where, every time his foot entered it, the poor pale face looked 
 up and smiled. 
 
 Ay, smiled; for I noticed, as many another may have 
 done in similar cases, that when her physical health definitely 
 gave way, her mental health returned. The heavy burden was 
 lighter; she grew more cheerful, more patient; seemed to 
 submit herself to the Almighty will, whatever it might be; 
 as she lay on her sofa in the study, where one or two evenings 
 John carried her down, almost as easily as he used to carry 
 little Muriel, his wife would rest content with her hand in 
 his, listening to his reading, or quietly looking at him, as 
 though her lost son's face, which a few week's since she said 
 haunted her continually, were now forgotten in his father's. 
 Perhaps she thought the one she should soon see while the 
 other 
 
 "Phineas," she whispered one day, when I was putting 
 a shawl over her feet, or doing some other trifle that she 
 thanked me for "Phineas, if anything happens to me, you 
 will comfort John?" 
 
 Then first I began seriously to contemplate a possibility, 
 hitherto as impossible and undreamed of as that the moon 
 should drop out of the height of heaven, what would the 
 house be without the mother?
 
 444 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Her children never suspected this, I saw; but they were 
 young for her husband 
 
 I could not understand John. He, so quick-sighted; he 
 who, meeting any sorrow, looked steadily up at the Hand 
 that smote him, knowing neither the coward's dread, nor the 
 unbeliever's disguise of pain surely he must see what was 
 impending. Yet he was as calm as if he saw it not. Calm, 
 as no man could be, contemplating the supreme parting be- 
 tween two who nearly all their lives had been not two, but 
 one flesh. 
 
 Yet I had once heard him say that a great love, and only 
 that, makes parting easy. Could it be that this love of his, 
 which had clasped his wife so firmly, faithfully and long, 
 fearlessly clasped her still, by its own perfectness assured of 
 its immortality? 
 
 But all the while his human love clung about her, show- 
 ing itself in a thousand forms of watchful tenderness. And 
 hers clung to him, closely, dependently; she let herself be 
 taken care of, ruled and guided, as if with him she found 
 helplessness restful and submission sweet. Many a little out- 
 ward fondness, that when people have been long married nat- 
 urally drops into disuse, was revived again; he would bring 
 her flowers out of the garden, or new books from the town; 
 and many a time, when no one noticed, I have seen him 
 stoop and press his lips upon the faded hand, where the wed- 
 ding-ring hung so loosely his own for so many years, his 
 own till the dust claimed it, that well-beloved hand! 
 
 Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself, are power- 
 less in the presence of such a love as theirs. 
 
 It was already the middle of July. From January to July 
 six months! Our neighbors without and there were many 
 who felt for us never asked now, "Is there any news of 
 Mr. Guy?" Even pretty Grace Oldtower pretty still, but 
 youthful no longer only lifted her eyes inquiringly as she 
 crossed our door-way, and dropped them again with a hope- 
 less sigh. She had loved us all, faithfully and well, for a 
 great many years. 
 
 One night, when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after 
 staying with us the whole day, Maud and I sat in the study 
 by ourselves, where we generally sat now. The father spent 
 all his evenings upstairs. We could hear his step overhead as 
 he crossed the room or opened the window, then drew his
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 445 
 
 chair back to its constant place by his wife's bedside. Some- 
 times there was a faint murmur of reading or talking; then 
 long silence. 
 
 Maud and I sat in silence too. She had her own thoughts 
 I mine. Perhaps they were often one and the same: per- 
 haps for youth is youth after all they may have diverged 
 widely. Hers were deep, absorbed thoughts, at any rate, trav- 
 eling fast fast as her needle traveled; for she had imper- 
 ceptibly fallen into her mother's ways and her mother's work. 
 
 We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open, 
 and through the sultry summer night we could hear the 
 trickle of the stream and the rustle of the leaves in the beech- 
 wood. We sat very still, waiting for nothing, expecting noth- 
 ing; in the dull patience which always fell upon us about 
 this hour the hour before bedtime, when nothing more was 
 to be looked for but how best to meet another dreary day. 
 
 "Maud, was that the click of the front gate swinging?" 
 
 "No; I told Walter to lock it before he went to bed. Last 
 night it disturbed my mother.*' 
 
 Again silence. So deep that the maid's opening the door 
 made us both start. 
 
 "Miss Halifax there's a gentleman wanting to see Miss 
 Halifax." 
 
 Maud sprang up in her chair, breathless. 
 
 "Any one you know, is it?" 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 "Show the gentleman in." 
 
 He stood already in the door-way tall, brown, bearded. 
 Maud just glanced at him, then rose, bending stiffly, after the 
 manner of Miss Halifax, of Beechwood. 
 
 "Will you be seated? My father 
 
 "Maud, don't you know me? Where's my mother? I 
 am Guy." 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXIX. 
 
 Guy and his mother were together. She lay on a sofa 
 in her dressing-room, he sat on a stool beside her, so that 
 her arm could rest_on his neck, and she could now and then 
 turn his face toward her and look at it oh, what a look! 
 
 She had had him with her for two whole days two days
 
 446 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to be set against eight years! Yet the eight years seemed 
 already to have collapsed into a span of time, and the two 
 days to have risen up a great mountain of happiness, mak- 
 ing a barrier complete against the wofnl past, as happiness 
 can do thanks to the All-merciful for His mercies. Most 
 especially for that mercy true as His truth to the experience 
 of all pure hearts that one bright, brief season of joy can 
 outweigh, in reality and even in remembrance, whole years 
 of apparently interminable pain. 
 
 Two days only since the night _Guy came home, and yet 
 it seemed months ago! Already we had grown familiar to 
 the tall bearded figure; the strange step and voice about the 
 house; all except Maud, who was rather shy and reserved 
 still. We had ceased the endeavor to reconcile this our Guy 
 this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, looking thirty-five and 
 more with Guy, the boy that left us, the boy that in all our 
 lives we never should find again. Nevertheless, we took him, 
 just as he was, to our hearts, rejoicing in him one and all with 
 inexpressible joy. 
 
 He was much altered, certainly. It was natural, nay, right, 
 that he should be. He had suffered much; a great deal more 
 than he ever told us at least, not till long after; had gone 
 through poverty, labor, sickness, shipwreck. He had written 
 home by the Stars and Stripes sailed a fortnight later by 
 another vessel been cast away picked up by an outward- 
 bound ship, and finally landed in England, he and his part- 
 ner, as penniless as they left it. 
 
 "Was your partner an Englishman, then?" said Maud, who 
 sat at the foot of the sofa, listening. "You have not told 
 us anything about him yet." 
 
 Guy half smiled. "I will, by-and-by. It's a long story. 
 Just now, I don't want to think of anybody or anything ex- 
 cept my mother." 
 
 He turned, as he did twenty times a day, to press his rough 
 cheek upon her hand and look up into her thin face, his eyes 
 overflowing with love. 
 
 "You must get well now, mother. Promise!" 
 
 Her smile promised and even began the fulfillment of the 
 same. 
 
 "I think she looks stronger already; does she, Maud? You 
 know her looks better than Ij I don't ever remember her be-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 447 
 
 ing ill in old times. Oh, mother, I will never leave you again 
 never!" 
 
 "No, my boy." 
 
 "No, Guy, no." John came in, and stood watching them 
 both contentedly. "No, my son, you must never leave your 
 mother." 
 
 "I will not leave either of you, father," said Guy, with 
 a reverent affection that must have gladdened the mother's 
 heart to the very core. Resigning his place by her, Guy took 
 Maud's, facing them; and father and son began to talk of 
 various matters concerning their home and business arrange- 
 ments; taking counsel together, as father and son ought to 
 do. These eight years of separation seemed to have brought 
 them nearer together; the difference between them in age, 
 far less than between most fathers and sons, had narrowed 
 into a meeting-point. Never in all his life had Guy been 
 so deferent, so loving to his father. And with a peculiar 
 trust, and tenderness, John's heart turned to his eldest son, 
 the heir of his name, his successor at Enderley Mills. For, 
 in order that Guy might at once take his natural place and 
 feel no longer a waif and stray upon the world, already a plan 
 had been started, that the firm of Halifax & Sons should be- 
 come Halifax Brothers. Perhaps, ere very long only the 
 mother said privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not 
 wish this part of the scheme to be mentioned to Guy just 
 now perhaps ere long it would be "Guy Halifax, Esquire, of 
 Beechwood;" and "the old people" at happy little Longfield. 
 
 As yet Guy had seen nobody but ourselves, and nobody 
 had seen Guy. Though his mother gave various good reasons 
 why he should not make his public appearance as a "ship- 
 wrecked mariner" costume and all, yet it was easy to per- 
 ceive that she looked forward, not without apprehension, to 
 some meetings which must necessarily soon occur, but to 
 which Guy made not the smallest allusion. He had asked, 
 cursorily and generally, after "all my brothers and sisters," 
 and been answered in the same tone; but neither he nor we 
 had as yet mentioned the names of Edwin or Louise. 
 
 They knew he was come home; but how and where the 
 first momentous meeting should take place, we left entirely 
 to chance, or, more rightly speaking, to Providence. 
 
 So it happened thus. Guy was sitting quietly on the sofa 
 at his mother's feet, and his father and he were planning to-
 
 448 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 gether in what way could best be celebrated, by our school- 
 children, tenants, and work-people, an event which we took 
 a great interest in, though not greater than in this year was 
 taken by all classes throughout the kingdom the day fixed 
 for the abolition of negro slavery in our colonies the first of 
 August, 1834. He sat in an attitude that reminded me of 
 his boyish lounging ways; the picture of content; though a 
 stream of sunshine pouring in upon his head through the 
 closed Venetian blind showed many a deep line of care on his 
 forehead, and more than one silver thread among his brown 
 hair. 
 
 In a pause during which no one exactly liked to ask what 
 we were all thinking about there came a little tap at the 
 door, and a little voice outside. 
 
 "Please, me want to come in." 
 
 Maud jumped up, to refuse admission, but Mr. Halifax for- 
 bade her, and himself went and opened the door. A little 
 child stood there a little girl of three years old. 
 
 Apparently guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily, and 
 sat down in his place again. 
 
 "Come in, little maid/' said the father; "come in and tell 
 us what you want." 
 
 "Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy." 
 
 Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took 
 her grandchild in her feeble arms, and kissed her, saying, 
 softly: 
 
 "There that is Uncle Guy. Go and speak to him." 
 
 And then, touching his knees, Guy felt the tiny, fearless 
 hand. He turned round, and looked at the little thing, re- 
 luctantly, 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 every- 
 body's pet; neither frightened nor shy; never dreaming of a 
 repulse. 
 
 Nor did she find it. Her little fingers were suffered to 
 cling round the tightly closed hand. 
 
 "What is .your name, my dear?" 
 
 "Louise mamma's little Louise." 
 
 Guy put back the curls, and gazed long and wistfully into 
 the childish face, where the inherited beauty was repeated
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 449 
 
 line for line. But softened, spiritualized, as, years after its 
 burial, some ghost of a man's old sorrows may rise up and 
 meet him, the very spirit of peace shining out of its celestial 
 eyes. 
 
 "Little Louise, you are very like " 
 
 He stopped, and, bending down, kissed her. In that kiss 
 vanished forever the last shadow of his boyhood's love. Not 
 that he forgot it. God forbid that any good man should 
 either ever forget or be ashamed of his first-love. But it and 
 all its pain fled far away, back into the sacred eternities of 
 dream-land. 
 
 When, looking up at last, he saw a large, fair matronly 
 lady sitting by his mother's sofa, Guy neither started nor 
 turned pale. It was another and not his lost Louise. He 
 rose and offered her his hand. 
 
 "You see, your little daughter has made friends with me 
 already. She is very like you; only she has Edwin's hair. 
 Where is my brother Edwin?" 
 
 "Here, old fellow. Welcome home." 
 
 The two brothers met warmly, nay, affectionately. Edwin 
 was not given to demonstration; but I saw how his features 
 twitched, and how he busied himself over the knots in his 
 little girl's pinafore for a minute or more. When he spoke 
 again it was as if nothing had happened and Guy had never 
 been away. 
 
 For the mother, she lay with her arms folded, looking from 
 one to the other mutely, or closing her eyes with a faint stir- 
 ring of the lips, like prayer. It seemed as if she dared only 
 thus to meet her exceeding joy. 
 
 Soon Edwin and Louise left us for an hour or two, and 
 Guy went on with the history of his life in America and his 
 partner, who had come home with him, and, like himself, 
 had lost his all. 
 
 "Harder for him than for me; he is older than I am. He 
 knew nothing whatever of business when he offered himself 
 as my clerk; since then he has worked like a slave. In a 
 fever I had he nursed me; he has been to me these three years 
 the best, truest friend. He is the noblest fellow. Father, if 
 you only knew " 
 
 "Well, my son, let me know him. Invite the gentleman 
 to Beech wood; or shall I write and ask him? Maud, fetch 
 me your mother's desk. Now then, Guy you are a very for- 
 
 ,
 
 450 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 getful fellow still; you have never yet told us your friend's 
 name." 
 
 Guy looked steadily at his father, in his own straightfor- 
 ward way; hesitated then apparently made up his mind. 
 
 "I did not tell you, because he wished me not; not till you 
 understood him as well as I do. You knew him yourself 
 once but he has wisely dropped his title. Since he came 
 over to me in America, he has been only Mr. William Rave- 
 nel." 
 
 This discovery natural enough when one began to think 
 over it, but incredible at first astounded us all. For Maud 
 well was it that the little Louise seated in her lap hid and 
 controlled in some measure the violent agitation of poor 
 Auntie Maud. 
 
 Ay Maud loved him. Perhaps she had guessed the secret 
 cause of his departure, and love creates love oftentimes. Then 
 his brave renunciation of rank, fortune, even of herself 
 women glory in a moral hero one who has strength to lose 
 even love, and bear its loss, for the sake of duty or of honor. 
 His absence, too, might have done much absence which 
 smothers into decay a rootless fancy, but often nourishes the 
 least seed of a true affection into full-flowering love. Ay 
 Maud loved him. How, or why, or when, at first no one could 
 tell perhaps not even herself; but so it was, and her parents 
 saw it. 
 
 Both were deeply moved her brother likewise. 
 
 "Father," he whispered, "have I done wrong? I did not 
 know how could I guess?" 
 
 "No, no my son. It is, very strange all things just now 
 seem so strange. Maud, my child" and John roused himself 
 out of a long silence into which he was falling "go, and take 
 Louise to her mother." 
 
 The girl rose, eager to get away. As she crossed the room 
 the little creature clinging round her neck, and she clasp- 
 ing it close, in the sweet motherliness of character which had 
 come to her so early I thought I hoped 
 
 "Maud!" said John, catching her hand as she passed by 
 him "Maud is not afraid of her father?" 
 
 "No" in troubled uncertainty then with a passionate 
 decision, as if ashamed of herself "No!" 
 
 She leaned over his chair-back and kissed him then went 
 out.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 451 
 
 "Now, Guy." 
 
 Guy told, in his own frank way, all the history of himself 
 and William Ravenel; how the latter had come to America, 
 determined to throw his lot for good or ill, to sink or swim, 
 with Maud's brother chiefly, as Guy had slowly discovered, 
 because he was Maud's brother. At last in the open boat 
 on the Atlantic with death the great Revealer of all things 
 staring them in the face the whole secret came out. It 
 made them better than friends brothers. 
 
 This was Guy's story, told with a certain spice of deter- 
 mination too, as if let his father's will be what it might, 
 his own, which had now also settled into the strong "family" 
 will, was resolute on his friend's behalf. Yet when he saw 
 how grave, nay, sad, the father sat, he became humble again, 
 and ended his tale even as he had begun, with the entreaty 
 "Father, if you only knew " 
 
 "My knowing and my judging seem to have been of little 
 value, my son. Be it so. There is One wiser than I One 
 in whose hands are the issues of all things." 
 
 The sort of contrition with which he spoke thus retract- 
 ing, as it costs most men so much to retract, a decision given, 
 however justly at the time, but which fate has afterward pro- 
 nounced unjust, affected his son deeply. 
 
 "Father, your decision was right; William says it was. He 
 says also, that it could not have been otherwise; that whatever 
 he has become since, he owes it all to you, and to what passed 
 that day. Though he loves her still, will never love any one 
 else, yet he declares his loss of her has proved his salvation." 
 
 "He is right," said Mrs. Halifax. "Love is worth nothing 
 that will not stand trial a fiery trial, if needs be. And as I 
 have heard John say many and many a time as he said that 
 very night in this world there is not, ought not to be, any 
 such words as 'too late/ ' : 
 
 John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped on his 
 right hand, the other pressed against his bosom his favorite 
 attitude. Once or twice, with a deep-drawn, painful breath, 
 he sighed. 
 
 Guy's eagerness could not rest. "Father, I told him I 
 would either write to or see him to-day." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "At Norton Bury. Nothing would induce him to come 
 here, unless certain that you desired it,"
 
 452 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "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 cus- 
 tomary free, bold writing, he left only blots upon the page. 
 He leaned back in his chair, and said, faintly: 
 
 "I am getting an old man, I see. Guy, it was high time 
 you came home." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax thought he was tired, and made a place for 
 his head on her pillow, where he rested some minutes, "just 
 to please her," he said. Then he rose, and declared he would 
 himself drive over to Norton Bury for our old friend. 
 
 "Nay, let me write, father. To-morrow will do just as 
 well." 
 
 The father shook his head. "No it must be to-day." 
 
 Bidding good-by to his wife he never by any chance quit- 
 ted her for an hour without a special tender leave-taking 
 John went away. * 
 
 Guy was, he avouched, "as happy as a king." His old live- 
 liness returned; he declared that in this matter, which had 
 long weighed heavily on his mind, he had acted like a great 
 diplomatist, or like the gods themselves, whom some unex- 
 acting, humble youth calls upon to 
 
 "Annihilate both time and space, 
 And make two lovers happy." 
 
 "And Fm sure I shall be happy, too, in seeing them. They 
 shall be married immediately. And we'll take William into 
 partnership that was a whim of his, mother we call one 
 another 'Guy' and ' William/ just like brothers. Heigh-ho! 
 I'm very glad. Are not you?" 
 
 The mother smiled. 
 
 "You will soon have nobody left but me. No matter. I shall 
 have you all to myself, and be at once a spoiled child and 
 an uncommonly merry old bachelor." 
 
 Again the mother smiled, without reply. She, too, doubt- 
 less thought herself a great diplomatist. 
 
 William Bavenel he was henceforward never anything to 
 us but William came home with Mr. Halifax. First the 
 mother saw him; then I heard the father go to the maiden 
 bower where Maud had shut herself up all day poor child! 
 and fetch his daughter down. Lastly, I watched the two 
 Mr. Ravenel and Miss Halifax walk together down the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 453 
 
 garden and into the beech-wood, where the leaves were whis- 
 pering, and the stock-doves cooing; and where, I suppose, 
 they told and listened to the old tale old as Adam ^yet- 
 forever beautiful and new. 
 
 That day was a wonderful day. That night we gathered, 
 as we never thought we should gather again in this world, 
 round the family table Guy, Edwin, Walter, Maud, Louise, 
 and William Ravenel all changed, yet not one lost. A true 
 love-feast it was; a renewed celebration of the family bond, 
 which had lasted through so much sorrow, now knitted up 
 once more, never to be broken. 
 
 When we came quietly to examine one another, and fall into 
 one another's old ways, there was less than one might have 
 expected even of outward change. The table appeared the 
 same; all took instinctively their old places, except that the 
 mother lay on her sofa, and Maud presided at the urn. 
 
 It did one's heart good to look at Maud, as she busied her- 
 self about, in the capacity of vice-reine of the household; 
 perhaps, with a natural feeling, liking to show some one 
 present how mature and sedate she was not so very young 
 after all. You could see she felt deeply how much he loved 
 her how her love was to him like the restoring of his 
 youth. The responsibility, sweet as it was, made her wo- 
 manly, made her grave. She would be to him at once wife 
 and child, plaything and comforter, sustainer and sustained. 
 Ay, love levels all things. They were not ill-matched, in 
 spite of those twenty years. 
 
 And so I left them, and went and sat with John and Ur- 
 sula we, the generation passing away, or ready to pass, in 
 Heaven's good time, to make room for these. We talked but 
 little; our hearts were too full. Early, before anybody 
 thought of moving, John carried his wife upstairs again, say- 
 ing that, well as she looked, she must be compelled to econ- 
 omize both her good looks and her happiness. 
 
 When he came down again, he stood talking for some time 
 with Mr. Eavenel. While he talked, I thought he looked 
 wearied pallid even to exhaustion; a minute or two after- 
 ward he silently left the room. 
 
 I followed him, and found him leaning against the chim- 
 ney-piece in his study. 
 
 "Who's that?" He spoke feebly; he looked ghastly! I 
 called him by his name.
 
 454 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Come in. Fetch no one. Shut the door." 
 
 The words were hoarse and abrupt, and I obeyed. 
 
 "Phineas," he said, again holding out a hand, as if he 
 thought he had grieved me; "don't mind. I shall be better 
 presently. I know quite well what it is oh, my God my 
 God!" 
 
 Sharp, horrible pain such as human nature shrinks from 
 such as makes poor mortal flesh cry out in its agony to its 
 Maker, as if, for the time being, life itself were worthless at 
 such a price. I know not what it must have been; I know not 
 what he must have endured. 
 
 He held me fast, half unconscious as he was, lest I should 
 summon help; and when a step was heard in the passage, as 
 once before the day Edwin was married how, on a sudden, 
 I remembered all! he tottered forward and locked, double- 
 locked the door. 
 
 After a few minutes the worst suffering apparently abated, 
 and he sat down again in his chair. I got some water; he 
 drank, and let me bathe his face with it his face, gray 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 mast try and 
 forget all you have seen. I wish you had not come to the 
 door." 
 
 He said this not in any tone that could wound me, but ten- 
 derly, as if he were very sorry for me. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "There is no need for alarm no more than that day, you 
 recollect? in this room. I had an attack once before then; 
 a few times since. It is horrible pain while it lasts, you see; 
 I can hardly bear it. But it goes away again, as you also see. 
 It would be a pity to tell my Avife, or anybody; in fact, I had 
 rather not. You understand?" 
 
 He spoke this in a matter-of-fact way, as if he thought the 
 explanation would satisfy me, and prevent my asking further. 
 He was mistaken. 
 
 "John, what is it?" 
 
 "What is it? Why, something like what I had then; but 
 it comes rarely, and I am well again directly. I had much 
 rather not talk about it. Pray, forget it."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 455 
 
 But I- could not; nor, I thought, could he. He took up a 
 book and sat still; though oftentimes I caught his eyes fixed 
 on my face with a peculiar earnestness, as if he would fast 
 test my strength fain find out how much I loved him, and 
 loving, how much I could hear. 
 
 "You are not reading, John; you are thinking what 
 about?" 
 
 He paused a little, as if undetermined whether or not to tell 
 me, then said: "About your father. Do you remember 
 him?" 
 
 I looked surprised at the question. 
 
 "I mean do you remember how he died?" 
 
 Somehow though, God knows, not at that dear and sacred 
 remembrance I shuddered. "Yes; but why should we talk 
 of it now?" 
 
 "Why not? I have often thought what a happy death it 
 was painless, instantaneous, without any wasting sickness 
 beforehand his sudden passing from life present to life 
 eternal. Phineas, your father's was the happiest death I ever 
 knew." 
 
 "It may be I am not sure John," for again something in 
 his look and manner struck me "why do you say this to me?" 
 
 "I scarcely know. Yes, I do know." 
 
 "Tell me then." 
 
 Pie looked at me across the table steadily, eye to eye, as 
 if he would fain impart to my spirit the calmness that was in 
 his own. "I believe, Phineas, that when I die my death will 
 be not unlike your father's." 
 
 Something came wildly to my lips about "impossibility," 
 the utter impossibility of any man's thus settling the manner 
 of his death, or the time. 
 
 "I know that. I know that I may live ten or twenty years, 
 and die of another disease after all." 
 
 "Disease!" 
 
 "Nay it is nothing to be afraid of. You see I am not 
 afraid. I have guessed it for many years. I have known it 
 for a certainty ever since I was in Paris." 
 
 "Were you ill in Paris? You never said so." 
 
 "No because Phineas, do you think you could bear the 
 truth? You know it makes no real difference. I shall not 
 die an hour sooner for being aware of it." 
 
 "Aware of what? Say quickly."
 
 456 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Dr. K told me I was determined to be told that 
 
 I had the disease I suspected; beyond medical power to cure. 
 It is not immediately fatal; he said I might live many years, 
 even to an old age; and I might die suddenly, at any moment, 
 just as your father died." 
 
 He said this gently and quietly more quietly than I am 
 writing the words down now; and I listened I listened. 
 
 "Phineas!" 
 
 I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder the 
 hand which had led me like a brother's all my life. 
 
 "Phineas, we have known one another these forty years. 
 Is our love, our faith so small that either of us, for himself or 
 his brother, need be afraid of death -" 
 
 "Phineas!" and_the second time he spoke there was some 
 faint reproach in the tone, "no one knows this but you. I see 
 I was right to hesitate; I almost wish I had not told you at 
 all." 
 
 Then I rose. 
 
 At my urgent request he explained to me, fully and clearly, 
 the whole truth. It was, as most truths are, less terrible 
 when wholly known. It had involved little suffering as yet, 
 the paroxysms being few and rare. They had always occurred 
 when he was alone, or when, feeling them coming on, he could 
 go away and bear them in solitude. 
 
 "I have always been able to do so until to-night. She has 
 not the least idea my wife, I mean." 
 
 His voice failed. 
 
 "It has been terrible to me at times, the thought of my wife. 
 Perhaps I ought to have told her. Often I resolved I would, 
 and then changed my mind. Latterly, since she has been ill, 
 I have believed, almost hoped, that she would not need to be 
 told at all." 
 
 "Would you rather, then, that she " 
 
 John calmly took up the word I shrank from uttering. 
 "Yes, I would rather of the two that she went away first. 
 She would suffer less, and it would be such a short parting." 
 
 He spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an impend- 
 ing journey. To him the great change, the last terror of 
 humanity, was a thought solemn indeed, but long familiar 
 and altogether without fear. And, as we sat there, something 
 of his spirit passed into mine; I felt how narrow is the span
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 457 
 
 between life mortal and the life immortal how, in truthj 
 both are one with God. 
 
 "Ay/' he said, "that is exactly what I mean. To me there 
 is always something impious in the 'preparing for death' that 
 people talk about; as if we were not continually, whether in 
 the flesh or out of it, living in the Father's presence; as if, 
 come when He will, the Master should not find all of us 
 watching. Do you remember saying so to me one day?" 
 
 Ah, that day! 
 
 "Does it pain you, my talking thus? Because if so, we will 
 cease." 
 
 "No go on." 
 
 "That is right. I thought, this attack having been some- 
 what worse than my last, some one ought to be told. It has 
 been a comfort to me to tell you a great comfort, Phineas. 
 Always remember that." 
 
 I have remembered it. 
 
 "Now, one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You see, 
 though I may have years of life I hope I shall many busy 
 years I am never sure of a day, and I have to take many pre- 
 cautions. At home I shall be quite safe now." He smiled 
 again with evident relief. "And I rarely go anywhere with- 
 out having one of my boys with me. Still, for fear look 
 here." 
 
 He showed me his pocket-book; on a card bearing his name 
 and address, was written in his own legible hand, "Home 
 and tell my wife carefully." 
 
 I returned the book. As I did so, there dropped out a little 
 note all yellow and faded his wife's only love-letter, signed, 
 "Yours sincerely, Ursula March." 
 
 John picked it up, looked at it, and put it back in its place. 
 
 "Poor darling! poor darling!" He sighed, and was silent 
 for a while. "I am very glad Guy has come home! very glad 
 that my little Maud is so happily settled Hark! how those 
 children are laughing!" 
 
 For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the fa- 
 ther's face, the father to whom all the delights of home had 
 been so dear. But it soon vanished. 
 
 "How merry they are! how strangely things have come 
 about for us and ours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at 
 this moment we have not a single care." 
 
 I grasped at that, for Dr. K had declared that if John
 
 458 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 had a quiet life a life without any anxieties he might, 
 humanly speaking, attain a good old age. 
 
 "Ay, your father did. Who knows? we may both be old 
 men yet, Phineas." 
 
 And as he rose he looked strong in body and mind, full of 
 health and cheer scarcely even on the verge of that old age 
 of which he spoke. And I was older than he. 
 
 "Now will you come with me to say good-night to the chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 At first I thought I could not then, I could. After the 
 rest had merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time 
 in the empty parlor, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to 
 stand when we were boys, talking. 
 
 What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every 
 word. And he I know he remembers it still. 
 
 Then we clasped hands. 
 
 "Good-night, Phineas." 
 
 "Good-night, John." 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Friday, the first of August, 1834. 
 
 Many may remember that day; what a soft, gray, summer 
 morning it was, and how it broke out into brightness; how 
 everywhere bells were ringing, club fraternities walking witli 
 bands and banners, school-children having feasts and work- 
 people holidays; how, in town and country, there was spread 
 abroad a general sense of benevolent rejoicing because hon- 
 est old England had lifted up her generous voice, nay, had 
 paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, and in all her col- 
 onies the negro was free. 
 
 Many may still find, in some forgotten drawer, the medal 
 bought by thousands and tens of thousands, of all classes, in 
 copper, silver, or gold distributed in charity-schools, and 
 given by old people to their grandchildren. I saw Mrs. 
 Halifax tying one with a piece of blue ribbon round little 
 Louise's neck, in remembrance of this day. The pretty 
 medal, with the slave standing upright, stretching out to 
 heaven free hands, from which the fetters are dropping as I 
 overheard John say to his wife, he could fancy the freeman 
 Paul would stand in the Roman prison, when he answered to
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 459 
 
 those that loved him, "I have fought the good fight. I have 
 finished my course. I have kept the faith." 
 
 Now, with my quickened ears, I often heard John talking 
 quietly to his wife on this wise. 
 
 He remained hy her side the whole forenoon, wheeling her 
 about in her garden-chair; taking her to see her school-chil- 
 dren in their glory on our lawn, to hear the shouts rising up 
 from the people at the mill-yard below. For all Enderley, 
 following the master's example, took an interest, hearty even 
 among hearty hard-working England, in the emancipation of 
 the slaves. 
 
 We had our own young people around us, and the day was 
 a glorious day, they declared one and all. 
 
 John was happy too infinitely happy. x\fter dinner, he 
 carried his wife to her chair beside the weeping-ash, where 
 she could smell the late hay in the meadow, and hear the 
 ripple of the stream in the beech-wood faint, for it was al- 
 most dried up now, but pleasant still. Her husband sat on 
 the grass, making her laugh with his quaint sayings admir- 
 ing her in her new bonnet, and in the lovely white shawl 
 Guy's shawl which Mr. Guy himself had really no time for 
 admiring. He had gone off to the school tea-drinking, escort- 
 ing his sister and sister-in-law, and another lady, whose eyes 
 brightened with most "sisterly" joy whenever she glanced at 
 her old playfellow. Guy's "sister" she nevertheless was not, 
 nor was ever likely to be and I questioned whether, in his 
 secret heart, he had not begun already to feel particularly 
 thankful for that circumstance. 
 
 "Ah, mother;" cried the father, smiling, "you'll see how it 
 will end; all of our young birds will soon be flown there will 
 be nobody but you and me." 
 
 "Never mind, John;" and stooping over him, she gave him 
 one of her quiet, soft kisses, precious now she was an old wo- 
 man as they had been in the days of her bloom. "Never 
 mind. Once there were only our two selves now there are 
 only our two selves again. We shall be very happy. We only 
 need one another." 
 
 "Only one another, my darling." 
 
 This last word, and the manner of his saying it, I can hear 
 if I listen in silence, clear as if yet I heard its sound. This 
 last sight of them sitting under the ash-tree, the sun mak- 
 ing still whiter Ursula's white shawl, brightening the mar-
 
 460 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 riage-ring on her bare hand, and throwing, instead of silver, 
 some of their boyish gold-color into the edges of John's curls 
 this picture I see with my shut eyes, vivid as yesterday. 
 
 I sat for some time in my room, then John came to fetch 
 me for our customary walk along his favorite "terrace" on 
 the Flat. He rarely liked to miss it; he said the day hardly 
 seemed complete or perfect unless one had seen the sun set. 
 Thus, almost every evening, we used to spend an hour or more 
 pacing up and down, or sitting in that little hollow under the 
 bow of the Flat, where, as from the topmost seat of a natural 
 amphitheater, one could see Rose Cottage and the old well- 
 head where the cattle drank; our own green garden gate, the 
 dark mass of the beech-wood, and far away beyond that, Nun- 
 nely Hill, where the sun went down. 
 
 There, having walked somewhat less time that usual, for 
 the evening was warm, and it had been a fatiguing day, John 
 and I sat down together. We talked a little, ramblingly; 
 chiefly of Longfield; how I was to have my old room again, 
 and how a new nursery was to be planned for the grandchil- 
 dren. 
 
 "We can't get out of the way of children, I see clearly," he 
 said, laughing. "We shall have Longfield just as full as ever 
 it was, all summer-time. But in winter we'll be quiet, and 
 sit by the chimney-corner, and plunge into my dusty desert 
 of books eh, Phineas? You shall help me to make notes 
 for those lectures I have intended giving at Norton Bury, 
 these ten years past. And we'll rub up our old Latin, and 
 dip into modern poetry great rubbish, I fear! Nobody like 
 our old friend Will of Avon, or even your namesake, worthy 
 Phineas Fletcher." 
 
 I reminded him of the "Shepherd's life and fate," which 
 he always liked so much, and used to say was his ideal of 
 peaceful happiness. 
 
 "Well, and I think so still. 'Keep true to the dreams of 
 thy youth/ saith the old German; I have not been false to 
 mine. I have had a happy life, thank God; ay, and what few 
 men can say, it has been the very sort of happiness I myself 
 would have chosen. I think most lives, if, while faithfully do- 
 ing our little best day by day, we were content to leave their 
 thread in wiser hands than ours, would thus weave themselves 
 out; until, looked back upon as a whole, they would seem as 
 bright a web as mine."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 461 
 
 He sat, talking thns, resting his chin on his hands his 
 eyes, calm and sweet, looking out westward, where the sun was 
 about an hour from the horizon. 
 
 "Do you remember how we used to lie on the grass in your 
 father's garden, and how we never could catch the sunset ex- 
 cept in fragments, between the Abbey trees? I wonder if 
 they keep the yew-hedge clipped as round as ever." 
 
 I told him Edwin had said to-day that some strange tenants 
 were going to make an inn of the old house, and turn the 
 lawn into a bowling-green. 
 
 "What a shame! I wish I could prevent it. And yet, per- 
 haps not," he added, after a silence. "Ought we not rather 
 to recognize and submit to the universal law of change? How 
 each in his place is fulfilling his day, and passing away, just 
 as that sun is passing. Only we know not whither he passes; 
 while whither we go we know, and the Way we know the 
 same yesterday, to-day, and forever." 
 
 Almost before he had done speaking (God grant that in 
 the Kingdom I may hear that voice, not a tone altered I 
 would not wish it altered even there) a whole troop of our 
 young people came out of Mrs. Tod's cottage, and nodded to 
 us from below. 
 
 There was Mrs. Edwin, standing talking to the good old 
 soul, who admired her baby-boy very much, but wouldn't al- 
 low that there could be any children like Mrs. Halifax's chil- 
 dren. 
 
 There was Edwin, deep in converse with his brother Guy, 
 while beside them prettier and younger-looking than ever 
 Grace Oldtower was making a posy for little Louise. 
 
 Further down the slope, walking slowly, side by side, evi- 
 dently seeing nobody but one another, were another couple. 
 
 "I think, sometimes, John, that those two, William and 
 Maud, will be the happiest of all the children." 
 
 He smiled, looked after them for a minute, and then laid 
 himself quietly down on his back along the slope, his eyes still 
 directed toward the sunset. When, brightening as it de- 
 scended, the sun shone level upon the place where we were 
 sitting, I saw John pull his broad straw hat over his face, and 
 compose himself, with both hands clasped upon his breast, 
 in the attitude of sleep. 
 
 I knew he was very tired, so I spoke no more, but threw 
 my cloak over him, He looked up, thanked me silently, with
 
 462 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 his old familiar smile. One day one day I shall know him 
 by that smile! I sat for half an hour or more watching the 
 sun, which sank steadily, slowly, round and red, without a 
 single cloud. Beautiful, as I had never before seen it; so 
 clear, that one could note the very instant its disk touched 
 the horizon's gray. 
 
 Maud and Mr. Eavenel were coming up the slope. I beck- 
 oned them to come softly, not to disturb the father. They 
 and I sat in silence, facing the west. The sun journeyed 
 down to his setting lower lower; there was a crescent, a line, 
 a dim sparkle of light; then he was gone. And still we sat 
 grave, but not sad looking into the brightness he had left 
 behind; believing, yea, knowing, we should see his glorious 
 face again to-morrow. 
 
 "How cold it has grown/' said Maud. "I think we ought 
 to wake my father." 
 
 She went up to him, laid her hand upon his that were 
 folded together over the cloak drew back startled alarmed. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 I put the child aside. It was I who moved the hat from 
 John's face the face, for John himself was far, far away. 
 Gone from us unto Him whose faithful servant he was. 
 While he was sleeping thus, the Master had called him. 
 
 His two sons carried him down the slope. They laid him 
 in the upper room in Mrs. Tod's cottage. Then I went home 
 to tell his wife. 
 
 She was at last composed, as we thought, lying on her bed, 
 death-like almost, but calm. It was ten o'clock at night. I 
 left her with all her children watching round her. 
 
 I went out, up to Eose Cottage, to sit an hour by myself 
 alone, looking at him whom I should not see again for, as he 
 had said, "a little while." 
 
 "A little while a little while." I comforted myself with 
 those words. I fancied I could almost hear John saying 
 them, standing near me, with his hand on my shoulder 
 John himself, quite distinct from that which lay so still be- 
 fore me; beautiful as nothing but death can be, younger 
 much than he had looked this very morning younger by 
 twenty years. 
 
 Farewell, John! Farewell, my more than brother! It ia 
 but for a little while,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 463 
 
 As I sat, thinking how peacefully the hands lay, clasped 
 together still, how sweet was the expression of the closed 
 mouth, and what a strange shadowy likeness the whole face 
 bore to Muriel's little face, which I had seen resting in the 
 same deep rest on the same pillow; some one touched me. It 
 was Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 How she came I do not know; nor how she had managed 
 to steal out from among her children; nor how she, who had 
 not walked for weeks, had found her way up hither, in the 
 dark, all alone; nor what strength, almost more than mortal, 
 helped her to stand there as she did stand, upright and calm 
 gazing gazing as I had done. 
 
 "It is very like him; don't you think so, Phineas?" The 
 voice low and soft, unbroken by any sob. "He once told me, 
 in case of this, he would rather I did not come and look at 
 him; but I can, you see." 
 
 I gave her my place, and she sat down by the bed. It 
 might have been ten minutes or more that she and I re- 
 mained thus, without exchanging a word. 
 
 "I think I hear some one at the door. Brother, will you 
 call in the children?" 
 
 Guy, altogether overcome, knelt down beside his mother, 
 and besought her to let him take her home. 
 
 "Presently presently, my son. You are very good to me; 
 but your father. Children, come in and look at your fa- 
 ther." 
 
 They all gathered round her weeping; but she spoke with- 
 out a single tear. 
 
 "I was a girl, younger than any of you, when first I met 
 your father. Next month we shall* have been married thirty- 
 three years. Thirty-three years." 
 
 Her eyes grew dreamy, as if fancy had led her back all that 
 space of time; her fingers moved to and fro, mechanically, 
 over her wedding-ring. 
 
 "Children, we were so happy, you cannot tell. He was 
 so good; he loved me so. Better than that, he made me 
 good; that was why I loved him. Oh, what his love was to 
 me from the first! strength, hope, peace; comfort and help in 
 trouble, sweetness in prosperity. How my life became happy 
 and complete how I grew worthier to myself because he had 
 taken me for his own! And what he was Children, no one 
 but me ever knew all his goodness, no one but himself ever
 
 464 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 knew how dearly I loved your father. We were more precious 
 each to each than anything on earth except His service, 
 who gave us to one another." 
 
 Her voice dropped all but inaudible; but she roused herself, 
 and made it once more clear and firm, the mother's natural 
 voice. 
 
 "Guy, Edwin, all of you, must never forget your father. 
 You must do as he wishes, and live as he lived in all ways. 
 You must love him, and love one another. Children, you 
 will never do anything that need make you ashamed to meet 
 your father." 
 
 As they hung round her, she kissed them all her three 
 sons and her daughter one by one; then, her mind being 
 perhaps led astray by the room we were in, looked feebly 
 round for one more child remembered smiled 
 
 "How glad her father will be to have her again his own 
 little Muriel." 
 
 "Mother! mother, darling! come home," whispered Guy, 
 almost in a sob. 
 
 His mother stooped over him, gave him one kiss more 
 him her favorite of all her children and repeated the old 
 phrase. 
 
 "Presently, presently! "Now go away all of you; I want to 
 be left for a little while alone with my husband." 
 
 As we went out I saw her turn toward the bed "John, 
 John!" the same tone; almost the same words with which 
 she had crept up to him years before, the day they were be- 
 trothed. Just a low, low murmur, like a tired child creep- 
 ing to fond protecting arms. "John, John!" 
 
 We closed the door. We all sat on the stairs outside; it 
 might have been for minutes, it might have been for hours. 
 Within or without no one spoke nothing stirred. 
 
 At last Guy softly went in. 
 
 She was still in the same place by the bedside, but half 
 lying on the bed, as I had seen her turn when I was shutting 
 the door. Her arm was round her husband's neck; her face, 
 pressed inward to the pillow, was nestled close to his hair. 
 They might have been asleep both of them. 
 
 One of her children called her, but she neither answered 
 nor stirred. 
 
 Guy lifted her up very tenderly; his mother, who had no 
 stay left but him his mother a widow 
 
 No, thank God! she was not a widow now. 
 THE END.
 
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