V
 
 " Jolm stood ou the top of the steps.'
 
 John Halifax 
 Gentleman 
 
 H M 
 CALDWELL 
 
 COMPANY 
 YORK
 
 JOHN HALIFAX GENTLEMAiN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " GET out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, ye idle, lounging 
 tittle " 
 
 " 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 around, surprised at her 
 unusual reticence of epithets ; but when the lad addressed 
 turned, fixed his eyes on each of us for a moment, and 
 made way for us, we ceased wonder. Ragged, muddy, and 
 miserable as he appeared, the poor boy looked anything but 
 a " vagabond." 
 
 " Thee need not go out into the wet, my lad. Keep close 
 to the wall, and there will be shelter enough both for us 
 and thee," said my father, as he pulled my little hand- 
 carriage into the alley, under cover from the pelting rain. 
 The lad with a grateful look put out a hand likewise, and 
 pushed me farther in. A strong hand it was roughened 
 and browned with 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, " Would n't Master 
 Phineas come in and sit by the fire a bit ? " But it was 
 always a trouble to me to move or walk, and I liked stay- 
 ing 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, 
 
 2054826
 
 4 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 remained with 
 his eyes fixed upon the pavement, for we actually boasted 
 pavement in the High Street of our town of Norton Bury, 
 watching the eddying rain-drops, which, each as it fell, 
 threw up a little mist of spray. It was a serious, haggard 
 face for a boy of only fourteen or so. Let me call it up 
 before me : I can easily, even after more than fifty years. 
 
 Brown eyes, deep-sunken, with strongly-marked brows, a 
 nose like most other Saxon noses, nothing particular ; lips 
 well-shaped, lying one upon the other firm and close ; a 
 square, sharply-outlined, resolute chin, of that type which 
 gives character and determination to the whole physiog- 
 nomy, and without which, in the fairest features, as in the 
 best dispositions, one is always conscious of a certain want. 
 
 As I have stated, in person the lad was tall and strongly 
 built ; and I, poor puny wretch ! so revered physical 
 strength. Everything in him seemed to indicate that which 
 I had not ; his muscular limbs, his square, broad shoulders, 
 his healthy cheek, though it was sharp and thin, even to 
 his crisp curls of bright thick hair. 
 
 Thus he stood, principal figure in a picture which is even 
 yet as clear to me as yesterday, the narrow, dirty alley 
 leading out of the High Street, yet showing a glimmer of 
 green field at the farther 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 gut- 
 ter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato-parings. In front, 
 the High Street with the mayor's house opposite, porticoed 
 and grand ; and beyond, just where the rain-clouds were 
 breaking, rose up out of a nest of trees the square tower of 
 our ancient abbey, Norton Bury's boast and pride. On 
 it there came a sudden stream of light : I saw the stranger 
 lad lift up his head and 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 gave a second glance or
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 5 
 
 thought to the boy, whom, from a common sense of justice, 
 he had made take shelter beside us. In truth, worthy 
 man, he had no lack of subjects to occupy his mind, being 
 sole architect of a long up-hill but now thriving trade. I 
 sa\v, by the hardening of his features, and the restless way 
 in which he poked his stick into the little water-pools, that 
 he was long-ing to be in his tan-yard close by. 
 
 He pulled out his great silver watch, the dread of our 
 house, for it was a watch which seemed to have imbibed 
 something of its master's character ; remorseless as justice 
 or fate, it never erred a moment. 
 
 " Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, 
 my son, how am I to get thee safe home ? Unless thee wilt 
 go with me to the tan-yard 
 
 I shook my head. It was very hard for Abel Fletcher to 
 have for his only child such a sickly creature as I, now at 
 sixteen as helpless and useless to him as a baby. 
 
 " Well, well, I must find some one to go home with 
 thee ; " for though, with some skill, my father had invented 
 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 earshot ; but I noticed that as the lad 
 near us heard my father's words, the color rushed over his 
 face, and he started forward involuntarily. I had not before 
 perceived how wasted and hungry-looking he was. 
 
 " Father ! " I whispered. But here the boy had mustered 
 up his courage and voice. 
 
 " Sir, I want work ; may I earn the penny ? " 
 
 He spoke in tolerably good English, different from our 
 
 coarse, broad, G shire drawl ; and taking off his tattered ' 
 
 old cap, looked in manly, fearless fashion 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."
 
 6 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Hast thee any parents living ? " 
 
 * No." 
 
 I wished my father would not question thus ; but possibly 
 he had his own motives, which were rarely harsh, though 
 his actions often appeared so. 
 , " How old might thee be, John Halifax ? " 
 
 " Fourteen, sir." 
 
 " Thee art used to work ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What sort of work ? " 
 
 " Anything I can do." 
 
 I listened nervously to this catechism, which went on 
 behind my back. 
 
 " Well," said my father, after a pause, " thee shall take 
 my son home, and 1 '11 give thee a groat. Let me see 
 art thee a lad to be trusted ? " And, holding him at arms- 
 length, regarding him meanwhile with eyes that were the 
 terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel Fletcher 
 jingled temptingly the silver money in the pockets of his 
 long-flapped brown waistcoat. " I say, art thee a lad to be 
 trusted ? " 
 
 John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. 
 He seemed to feel that this was a critical moment, and to 
 have gathered all his mental forces into a serried square to 
 meet the attack. He met it and conquered. 
 
 " Lad, shall I give thee thy groat now ? " 
 
 And the old man relaxed into a half smile. 
 
 " 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 plash inir 
 down the street ; his broad, comfortable back, which o\\ 
 a coat of true Quaker cut, but spotless, warm, and fine ; his 
 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 per- 
 haps even more than I loved him,. The Cornish lad 
 watched him likewise.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 7 
 
 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 're not very strong, I 'm afraid ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Then he stood, idly looking up at the opposite house 
 the mayor's house with its steps and portico, and its four- 
 teen windows, one of which was open, and a cluster of little 
 heads visible there. 
 
 The mayor's children I knew them all by sight, though 
 nothing more ; for their father was a lawyer and mine a 
 tanner ; they belonged to abbey folk and orthodoxy, I to 
 the Society of Friends the mayor's rosy children seemed 
 greatly amused in watching us shivering shelterers from 
 the rain. Doubtless our position made their own appear 
 all the pleasanter. For myself it mattered little ; but for 
 this poor, desolate, homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in 
 sight of their merry nursery window, and hear the clatter 
 of voices, and of not unwelcome dinner-sounds, I wondered 
 how he felt it. 
 
 Just at this 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 evi- 
 dent struggle 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 sharp cry. 
 
 It made John Halifax start, and look up at the nursery 
 window, which was likewise closed. We heard nothing 
 more. After a minute he crossed the street and picked up 
 the slice of bread. Now, in those days, bread was precious
 
 8 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 exceedingly. The poor folk rarely got it ; they lived on 
 rye or meal. John Halifax had probably not tasted wheaten 
 bread like this for months ; it appeared not, he eyed it so 
 ravenously ; then, glancing 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 
 carriage along in silence. I wished he would talk and let 
 me hear again his pleasant Cornish accent. 
 
 " How strong you are ! " said I, half sighing, when with 
 a sudden pull he had saved me from being overturned by 
 a horseman riding past, young Mr. Brithwood, of the 
 Mythe House, who never cared where he galloped or whom 
 he hurt. " So tall and so strong." 
 
 " Am I ? Well, I shall want my strength." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " To earn my living." 
 
 He drew up his broad shoulders, and planted on the 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 n't much surprise me. My 
 father, tanner as he was, and pertinaciously jealous of the 
 dignity of trade, yet held strongly the common-sense doc- 
 trine of the advantages of good descent, at least in degree ; 
 for since it is a law of nature, admitting only rare excep- 
 tions, that the qualities of the ancestors should be trans- 
 mitted to the race, the fact seems patent enough that, even 
 allowing equal advantages, a gentleman's son has more 
 chances of growing up a gentleman than the son of a 
 working-man ; and though he himself, and his father before 
 him, had both been working-men, still I think Abel Fletcher
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 9 
 
 never forgot that we came of a good old stock, and that it 
 pleased him to call me, his only son, after one of our fore- 
 fathers, not unknown, Phineas Fletcher, who wrote the 
 " Purple Island." 
 
 Thus it seemed to me, and I doubted not it would to my 
 ' ather, 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 trade ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should. What would it matter to me ? My father 
 was a gentleman." 
 
 " And your mother ? " 
 
 He turned 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 feeling into a man's tenacity of betraying 
 where he had loved and mourned. I only, a few minutes after, 
 said something about wishing we were not " strangers." 
 
 " Do you ? " The lad's bright, 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 I best could, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, har- 
 vesting ; only this summer I had typhus fever and could 
 not work." 
 
 " What did you do then ? " 
 
 " I lay in a barn till I got well. I 'm quite well now ; you 
 iced not be afraid." 
 
 " No, indeed ; 1 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, is n't it ? Only it shows that autumn is 
 come."
 
 10 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " And how shall you live in the winter, when there is no 
 out-of-door work to be had ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 The lad's countenance fell, and that hungry, weary look, 
 which had vanished while we talked, came back more pain- 
 fully than ever. I reproached myself for having, under the 
 influence of his merry talk, temporarily forgotten it 
 
 " Ah ! " 1 cried eagerly, when we left the shade of the 
 l)bey trees and crossed the street, " here we are at home." 
 
 " Are you ? " The homeless lad just glanced at it, the 
 /Bght 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 dis- 
 engage myself from my little carriage and mount the steps. 
 John Halifax canie to my aid. 
 
 " Suppose you let me carry you. I could and and 
 it would be great fun, you know." 
 
 He tried to turn it into a jest, so as not to hurt me ; but 
 the tremble in his voice was as tender as any woman's, 
 r.enderer than any woman's /ever was used to hear. I put 
 \l.iy arms 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 
 respectful deference as the old man passed. 
 
 " So here thee be ; hast thee taken care of my son ? 
 he give thee thy groat, my lad ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 11 
 
 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 pockets for 
 some larger coin. I ventured to draw his ear down and 
 whisper something, but I got no answer ; meanwhile, John 
 Halifax for the third time was going away. 
 
 " Stop, lad, I forget thy name, here is thy groat, and 
 a shilling added, for being kind to my son." 
 
 " Thank you ; but I only want payment for work." 
 
 He took the groat, and put back the shilling into my 
 father's hand. 
 
 " Eh ! " said the old man, much astonished, " thee 'rt an 
 odd lad ; but I can't stay talking with thee. Come in to 
 dinner, Phineas. I say," turning back to John Halifax with 
 a sudden thought, " art thee hungry ? " 
 
 " Very hungry." Nature gave away 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 shoul- 
 der " 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 the lad, with a furious look. " I don't 
 want your dinner, sir ; I would have stayed, because your 
 son asked me, and he was kind 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 
 father's house.
 
 12 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DINNER was over ; my father and I took ours in the large 
 parlor, where the stiff, high-backed chairs eyed one another 
 hi opposite rows across the wide oaken floor, shiny and 
 hard as marble, and slippery as glass. Except the table, 
 the sideboard, and the cuckoo clock, there was no other 
 furniture. 
 
 I dared not bring the poor wandering lad into this, my 
 father's especial domain ; but as soon as he was away to 
 the tan-yard, I sent for John. 
 
 Jael brought him in, Jael, the only woman-kind we ever 
 had about us, and who, save to me when I happened to be 
 quite ill, certainly gave no indication of her sex in its soft- 
 ness and tenderness. There had evidently been wrath in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 " Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you must n't 
 keep 'un long. I bean't going to let you knock yourself up 
 with looking after a beggar-boy." 
 
 A beggar-boy! The idea seemed so ludicrous that I 
 could not help smiling at it as I regarded him. He had 
 washed his face and combed out his fair curls; though 
 his clothes were threadbare, all but ragged, they were 
 not unclean ; and there was a rosy, healthy freshness in 
 his tanned skin, which showed he loved and delighted in 
 what poor 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 beggar-boy in- 
 deed ! I hoped he had not heard JaePs remark. But 
 he had. 
 
 " Madam," said he, with a bow of perfect good-humor, and 
 even some sly drollery, " you mistake ; I never begged in my 
 life : I 'm a person of independent property, which consists 
 of my head and my two hands, out of which I hope to 
 realize a large capital some day."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 13 
 
 I laughed to see him so merry. 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 '11 not go away not till my father conies home, 
 at least ? " For I had been revolving many plans, which had 
 one sole aim and object, to keep near me this lad, whose 
 companionship and help seemed to me, brotherless, sister- 
 less, and friendless as I was, the very thing that would give 
 me an interest in life or, at least, make it drag on less 
 wearily. To say that what I projected was done out of 
 charity or pity would not be true ; it was simple selfishness, 
 if that be selfishness which makes one leap 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 reason. I do not attempt to account for 
 mine ; I know not why " the soul of Jonathan clave to the 
 soul of David." I only knew that it was so, and that the 
 first day I beheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, 
 " loved him as my own soul." 
 
 Thus my entreaty, " You '11 not go away ? " was so 
 earnest that it apparently touched the friendless boy to 
 the core. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning 
 against the fireplace, he drew his hand backward and for- 
 ward across his face ; " you are very kind ; I '11 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 smil- 
 ing, being somewhat proud of my erudition. 
 
 " And write ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; certainly." 
 
 He thought a minute, and then said in a low tone, " 1 
 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."
 
 14 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 "That I will." 
 
 He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an 
 under one of black silk ; within this, again, was a book. He 
 would not let it go out of his hands, but held it so that I 
 could see the leaves. It was a Greek and English Testa- 
 ment. 
 
 " Look here." 
 
 He pointed to the fly-leaf and I read, 
 
 " Guy Halifax, his book. 
 
 " Gruy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spin- 
 ster, May 17, in the year of our Lord 1779. 
 
 " John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780." 
 
 There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female 
 hand: 
 
 " Guy Halifax, died January 4, 1791." 
 
 " What shall I write, John ? " said I, after a minute or so 
 of silence. 
 
 " I '11 tell you presently. Can I get you a pen ? " 
 
 He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his 
 right never once let go of the precious book. 
 
 " Write Muriel Halifax, died January 1, 1794.' " 
 
 " Nothing more ? " 
 
 " Nothing more." 
 
 He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it 
 carefully by the fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and 
 put it into his pocket. He said no other word but " Thank 
 you," and I asked him no questions. 
 
 This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage ; nor do 
 I believe he knew more himself. He was indebted to no 
 forefathers for a family history : the chronicle commenced 
 with himself and was altogether his own making. No ro- 
 mantic antecedents ever turned up ; his lineage remained 
 uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his 
 own honest name John Halifax. 
 
 Jael kept coming in and out of the parlor on divers ex- 
 cuses, eying very suspiciously John Halifax and me, especi- 
 ally when she heard me laughing, a rare and notable fact. 
 for mirth was not the fashion in our house, nor the tin- 
 dency of my nature. Now this young lad, hardly as the 
 world had knocked him about even already, had an over-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 15 
 
 flowing spirit of quiet drollery and healthy numor 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 quiet dimples of lurking 
 fun that played hide-and-seek under the gravity of the firm- 
 sot mouth, without feeling my heart cheered and delighted 
 like one brought out of a murky chamber into the open 
 day. 
 
 But all this was highly objectionable to Jael. 
 
 " Phineas ! " and she planted herself before me at the 
 end of the table " it 's a fine, sunshiny day ; thee ought 
 to get out." 
 
 " I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I 
 went on talking. 
 
 "Phineas!" a second and more determined attack 
 " too much laughing bean't good for thee ; and it 's time this 
 lad were going about his own business." 
 
 " Hush ! nonsense, Jael." 
 
 " No ; she 's right," said John Halifax, rising, while that 
 look of premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard 
 experience, chased all the boyish fun from his face. " I 've 
 had a merry day thank you kindly for it : and now I '11 
 oe gone." 
 
 lione ! It was not to be thought of at least not till my 
 lather came home ; for now, more determinedly than ever, 
 me 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 not any work ? " 
 
 Xo ; I wish I had. But I '11 get some." 
 
 -flow?" 
 
 Just by trying everything that comes to hand. That 's 
 the only way. I never wanted bread, nor begged it yet, 
 though I 've often been rather hungry. And as for clothes " 
 he looked down on his own, light and threadbare, here 
 and there almost burst into holes by the stout muscles of 
 the big, growing boy looked rather disconsolate " I 'm 
 afraid she would be sorry that *s all. She always kept 
 me so tidy." 
 
 By the way he spoke " 'u> " must have meant his mother.
 
 16 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 There the orphan lad had an advantage over me ; alas ! 1 
 did not remember mine. 
 
 " Come," 1 said, for now I had quite made up my mind 
 to take no denial and fear no rebuff from my father, " cheer 
 up. Who knows what may turn up ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, something always does ; I 'm not afraid." He 
 
 ' ossed back his curls, and looked smiling out through the 
 
 .v indow at the blue sky ; that steady, brave, honest smile, 
 
 which will meet Fate in every turn, and fairly coax the jade 
 
 into good-humor. 
 
 " John, do you know you 're uncommonly like a childish 
 hero of mine Dick Whittington ? Did you ever hear of 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Come into the garden, then ; " for I caught another 
 ominous vision of Jael in the doorway, and I did not want 
 to vex my good old nurse ; besides, unlike John, I was any- 
 thing but brave. " You '11 hear the abbey bells chime pres- 
 ently not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy sometimes ; 
 and we '11 lie on the grass, and I '11 tell you the whole true 
 and particular story of Sir Richard Whittington." 
 
 I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John 
 found and put them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful 
 look. 
 
 "You don't need these sort of things," I said, making 
 pretence to laugh, for I had not grown used to them, and 
 felt often ashamed. 
 
 " I hope you will not need them always." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; Dr. Jessop is n't sure. But it does n't 
 natter much ; most likely I sha'n't live long," for this 
 /as, 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 fol- 
 lowing 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,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 17 
 
 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 very merry both ; 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 gazed about him observantly, while a quiet, intense 
 satisfaction grew and diffused itself over his whole 
 countenance. 
 
 "It's a very nice place." 
 
 Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as 
 a bowling green, with borders round. Beyond, divided 
 by a low hedge, was the kitchen and fruit-garden, my 
 father's pride, as this old-fashioned pleasuance was mine. 
 When, years ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by 
 crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-pat- 
 terned carpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk ; and 
 above that, apparently shut in, as with an impassable bar- 
 rier from the outer world by a three-sided fence, the high 
 wall, the yew hedge, and the river. 
 
 John Halifax's comprehensive gaze seemed to take 
 in all. 
 
 " Have you lived here long ? " he asked me. 
 
 " Ever since I was born." 
 
 "Ah! well, it's a nice place," he repeated, somewhat 
 sadly. " This grass-plot is very even, thirty yards square, 
 I should guess. I 'd get up and pace it, only I 'm rather 
 tired." 
 
 " Are you ? Yet you would carry " 
 
 " Oh ! that 's nothing. I 've often walked farther than 
 to-day. But still it 's a good step across the country since 
 morning." 
 
 " How far have you come ? " 
 
 " From the foot of those hills I forget what they call 
 them over there. I have seen bigger ones ; but they 're 
 steep enough bleak and cold, too, especially when one is 
 
 a
 
 18 JO1TN HALIFAX. 
 
 lying out among the sheep. At a distance they look pleas- 
 ant. This is a very pretty view." 
 
 Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever 
 now, when I had some one to say to how " very pretty " it 
 was. Let me describe it, this first landscape, the sole 
 picture of my boyish days, and vivid as all such pict- 
 ures 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 the coun- 
 try. First, close below, flowed the Avon, Shakspeare's 
 Avon ; here a narrow, sluggish stream, but capable, as we 
 at Norton Bury sometimes knew to our cost, of being 
 roused to fierceness and foam. Now it slipped on quietly 
 enough, contenting itself with turning a flour-mill hard by, 
 the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone 
 which I was fond of hearing. 
 
 From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, 
 called the Ham, dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. 
 Beyond it was a second river,' forming an arc of a circle 
 round the verdant flat. But the stream itself lay so low as 
 to be invisible from where we sat; you could only trace 
 the line of its course by the small white sails that glided 
 in and out, oddly enough, from behind the clumps of trees 
 and across the 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 River, 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 steadily broader and broader, and 
 turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the King's 
 Roads and forms the Bristol Channel." 
 
 " I 've seen that ! " cried John, with a bright look. 
 "Ah, I like the Severn." 
 
 He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression 
 dawning in his eyes, eyes in which then, for the first
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 19 
 
 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. So I merely showed him where, beyond our garden- 
 wall and the invisible high road that interposed, rose up 
 the grim old abbey tower. 
 
 " Probably this garden belonged to the abbey hi an- 
 cient time our orchard is so fine. The monks may have 
 planted it ; they liked fruit, those old fellows ! " 
 
 " Oh ! did they ? " He evidently did not comprehend, 
 but was trying without asking to find out what I re- 
 ferred to. I was almost ashamed lest he might think I 
 wanted to show off my superior knowledge. 
 
 " The monks were parsons, John, you know. Very good 
 men, I dare say, but. rather idle." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Do you think they planted that yew 
 hedge ? " And he went to examine it. 
 
 Now far and near our yew hedge was noted. There was 
 not its like in the whole country. It was about fifteen feet 
 high, and as many thick. Century after century of growth, 
 with careful clipping and training, had compacted it into a 
 massive green barrier, as close and impervious as a wall. 
 
 John poked in and about it, peering through every inter- 
 stice, leaning his breast against the solid depth of branches, 
 Ltut 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 just to see if it were possible." 
 
 I shook my head. " What would you do, John, if you 
 were shut up here, and had to get over the yew hedge f 
 You could not climb it." 
 
 " I know that, and therefore I skould not waste time ix. 
 trying."
 
 2o JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Would you give up then ? " 
 
 He smiled : there was no " giving up " in that smile of 
 his. " I '11 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, unob- 
 served. We were both somewhat confounded, though a 
 certain grim kindliness of aspect showed that he was not 
 displeased ; nay, even a good deal 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 
 appeared, John seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go 
 back to that premature gravity and harshness of demeanor 
 which I suppose his harsh experience of the world of men 
 had necessarily taught him, but which was very sad to see 
 in a lad so young. 
 
 My father sat down beside me on the bench ; pushed aside 
 an intrusive branch of clematis ; finally, because it would 
 come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off and threw it 
 into the river ; then leaning on his stick with both hands, 
 eyed John Halifax sharply all over, from top to toe. 
 
 " Did n'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 that is, paid me ; I never take 
 what I don't earn," said the lad, sticking a hand in either 
 poor empty pocket. 
 
 " Don't be afraid : I was not going to give thee any- 
 thing except, maybe Would thee like some work ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " 
 
 Oh, Father!" 
 
 I hardly know which was the most grateful cry. 
 
 Abel Fletcher looked surprised, but on the whole, not ill-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 21 
 
 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 Nor- 
 ton Bury without a shilling in his pocket. 
 
 " Well, what work canst thou do, lad ? " 
 
 " Anything," was the eager answer. 
 
 "Anything generally means nothing," sharply said my 
 father ; " what hast thee been at all this year ? The truth, 
 mind!" 
 
 John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set 
 him right again. He said quietly and respectfully, " Let 
 me think a minute, and I '11 tell you. All spring I was at 
 a farmer's, riding the plough-horses, hoeing turnips ; then I 
 went up the hills with some sheep ; in June I tried hay- 
 making, and caught a fever you need n't start, sir ; I 've 
 been well these six weeks, or I would n't have come near 
 your son ; then ' 
 
 " That will do, lad ; I 'm satisfied." 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 " Thee need not say ' sir : ' it is folly. I am Abel 
 Fletcher." For my father retained scrupulously the 
 Friends' mode of speech, though he was practically but 
 a lax member of the Society, and had married out of its 
 pale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, 
 I fancy, more pride than humility. 
 
 " Very well ; I will remember," answered the boy fear- 
 lessly, though with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily 
 restrained. "And now, Abel Fletcher, I shall be willing 
 and thankful for any work you can give me." 
 
 " We '11 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 
 cutthroat. 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 that this lad is fit 
 to take the place ? "
 
 22 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Whose place, father ? " 
 
 " Bill Watkiiis'." 
 
 1 was dtimi'oundcrcd. I had occasionally seen the said 
 Bill Wat kins, whose business it was to collect the skins 
 which mv 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 ani- 
 mals, 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, is n't there anything else ? " 
 
 " I have nothing else, or if I had I would n't give it. 
 * He that will not work neither shall he eat.' ' 
 
 " 1 will work," said John, sturdily. He had listened, 
 scarcely comprehending, to my father and me. " I don't 
 care what it is, if only it 's honest work." 
 
 Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me 
 but that I little minded and addressed himself solely 
 to John Halifax. 
 
 " Canst thee drive ? " 
 
 " That I can ! " and his eyes brightened with boyish 
 delight. 
 
 " Tut ! it 's only a cart the cart with the skins. Dosi 
 thee know anything of tanning ? " 
 
 " No ; but I can learn." 
 
 " Hey, not so fast ; still better be fast than slow. In the 
 mean time, thee can drive the cart." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, Abel Fletcher, I mean, I '11 do it 
 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 pester- 
 ing. Thee has n'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 ;
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 23 
 
 his voice choked ; it was with difficulty he smothered down 
 a burst of tears. Perhaps this self-control was more mov- 
 ing than if he had wept ; at least, it answered better with 
 my father. 
 
 After a few minutes more, during which his stick had 
 made a little grave in the middle of the walk, and buried 
 something there, I think something besides the pebble, 
 Abel Fletcher said, not unkindly, 
 
 " Well, I take thee, though it is n'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 contra- 
 dicted the statement. His own honest face was the lad's 
 best witness ; at all events, I thought so. 
 
 " 'T is done, then," said my father, concluding the busi- 
 ness more quickly than I had ever before known his cau- 
 tious temper settle even such a seemingly trifling matter. 
 I say seemingly : how blindly 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. 
 fi Oh, yes, I understand : well, I '11 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 
 labor as a lad ever so much the junior of Bill Watkins 
 could supply. After some cogitation, he hit upon the right 
 sum. 1 forgot 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 ad-
 
 24 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 vance, my son being witness I pay it thee ; and I can pay 
 thee a shilling less every Saturday till we get straight." 
 
 " Very well, sir ; good afternoon, and thank you." 
 
 John* took off his cap as he spoke ; Abel Fletcher, invol- 
 untarily almost, touched his hat in return of the salutation. 
 Then he walked away, and we had the garden all to our 
 selves, 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 resem- 
 bled in nothing save my loving. But I grasped his hand 
 for the first time, and, looking up at him as he stood 
 thoughtfully by me, whispered that I was very glad. 
 
 " Thank you so am I," said he, in a low tone. Then 
 all his old manner returned. He threw his battered cap 
 high up in the air, and shouted out, " Hurra ! " - a 
 thorough boy. 
 
 And I, in my poor quavering voice, shouted too. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHEN I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I 
 had the very useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably 
 foolish habit of keeping a diary. To me, at least, it has 
 been less foolish and harmful than to most ; and out of it, 
 together with much drawn out of the stores of a memory 
 made preternaturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, 
 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 compiled the present history. 
 
 Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur. These I 
 shall not try to fill up, but merely resume the thread of 
 narration as recollection serves. 
 
 Thus, after this first day, many days came and went 
 before I again saw John Halifax almost before I again 
 thought of him; for it was one of my seasons of ex- 
 cessive pain, when I found it difficult to think of any- 
 thing beyond those gray-painted walls, where morning, 
 noon, and night slipped wearilv away, marked by no
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 25 
 
 changes save from daylight to candle-light, from candle- 
 light to dawn. 
 
 Afterward, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by 
 occasional memories of something pleasant that had crossed 
 my dreary life ; I got fading visions of a brave, bright young 
 face ready alike to battle with and enjoy the world. J 
 could hear the voice, that speaking to me was always ten j 
 der with pity, yet not pity enough to wound ; I could see 
 the peculiar smile just creeping round his grave mouth, 
 that irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thor- 
 ough 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 was n't sure did n'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 ask- 
 ing 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 downstairs, 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 thinned trees of the 
 abbey yard. I opened the window to hear him, though all 
 the while in mortal fear of Jael. I listened, but caught no 
 tone of her sharp voice, which usually came painfully from 
 the back regions of the house : it would ill have harmonized 
 with the sweet autumn day and the robin's song. I sat 
 idly thinking so, and wondering whether it were a neces- 
 sary and universal fact that human beings, unlike the year, 
 should become harsh and unlovely as they grow old. 
 
 My robin had done singing., and I amused myself with
 
 26 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 watching a spot of scarlet winding down the rural road, 
 our house being on the 'verge where Norton Bury melted 
 into " the country." It turned out to be the cloak of a 
 well-to-do young farmer's wife, riding to market in her cart 
 beside her jolly-looking spouse. Very spruce and self- 
 satisfied she appeared, and the market-people turned tc 
 stare after her, for her costume was a novelty then. Doubt- - 
 less 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 ! " 
 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 annoy- 
 ance, 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 of skins, and 
 John Halifax was driving it. 
 
 " John ! John ! " I called out, but he did not hear, for 
 his. horse had taken fright at the red cloak, and required 
 a steady hand. Very steady the boy's hand was, so that 
 the farmer clapped his two great fists, and shouted 
 " Bray-vo ! " 
 
 But John, my John Halifax ! he sat in his cart and 
 . drove. His appearance was much as when I first saw him, 
 shabbier, perhaps, as if through repeated drenchings : 
 this had been a wet autumn, Jael had told me. Poor John! 
 well might he look gratefully up at the clear blue sky to- 
 day ! ay, and the sky never looked down on a brighter, 
 cheerier face, the same face, which, whatever rags it sur- 
 mounted, would I believe have ennobled them all. 
 
 I leaned out, watching him approach our house, watch- 
 ing him with so great pleasure that I forgot to wonder 
 whether or no he would notice me. He did not at first, 
 being busy over his horse, until just as the notion flashed 
 across my mind that he was passing by our house
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 27 
 
 and 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 o;i' his cap, 
 ind bowed ceremoniously to his master's son. 
 
 For the moment I was hurt ; then I could not but respect 
 the honest pride which thus intimated that he knew his own 
 position, and wished neither to ignore nor to alter it. All 
 advances between us must evidently come from my side ; 
 so, having made his salutation, he was driving on, when I 
 called after him, 
 
 "John! John!" 
 
 " Yes, sir. I 'm 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 would she say ? even though she held nomi- 
 nally 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 our 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 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 
 >i'd yesterday." (Then he had been inquiring for me!) 
 " Ought you to be standing at the door this cold day ? " 
 
 " It 's quite warm," 1 said, looking up at the sunshine, 
 and shivering. 
 
 " Please go in." 
 
 " If you '11 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
 
 28 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 child Well nursed and carefully guarded as I had always 
 been, it fins the first time in my life I ever knew the mean- 
 ing of that rare thing tenderness : a quality different 
 from kindliness, affectiunateness, or benevolence ; a quality 
 which can exist only in strong, deep, and undemonstrative 
 natures, and therefore, in its perfection, is seldomer found 
 in women than 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. Could n't you 
 come in now ? " 
 
 He shook his head, and pointed to the cart. That minute, 
 through the open hall door, I perceived Jael sauntering 
 leisurely home from market. 
 
 Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. 
 The avalanche of ill words I knew must fall, but it should 
 not fall on him, if I could help it. 
 
 " Jump up on your cart, John. Let me see how well you 
 can drive. There ! good-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 '11 come and see you there this afternoon." 
 
 " No ? " with a look of delighted surprise. " But you 
 must not, you ought not." 
 
 "But I will!" And I laughed to hear myself actually 
 using that phrase. What would Jael have said ?
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 29 
 
 What as she arrived just in time to receive a half mali- 
 cious, half-ceremonious bow from John as he drove off 
 what that excellent woman did say I have not the slightest 
 recollection, I only remember that it did not frighten and 
 grieve me as such attacks used to do ; that, in her own 
 vrnacular, it all " went in at one ear and out at the other ; " 
 that 1 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 
 considering my " infant " mind. It had reference to an 
 anecdote Dr. Jessop had just been telling him about a little 
 girl, one of our doctor's patients, who in some passionate 
 struggle had hurt herself very much with a knife. 
 
 " Let this be a warning to thee, my son, not to give way to 
 violent passions." (" My good father," thought I, " there is 
 little fear.") " For this child I remember her father well, 
 >r he lived at Kings well here ; he was violent too, and much 
 .ivcn 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 1, 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 giv<\ome bread to the hungry John
 
 30 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Halifax, and whose cry of pain we had heard as the door 
 shut upon her. Poor little lady !' how sorry I was ; and 1 
 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 
 1 forget where ; and then the whole affair slipped from my 
 
 memory. 
 
 " Father ! " said I, when he ceased talking, and Jael, who 
 always ate her dinner at the same time and table as our- 
 selves 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 
 centre Sahara of the room to its dreary, pristine aridness, 
 stopped, fairly aghast with amazement. 
 
 " Abel Abel Fletcher ! the lad 's just out of his bed ; he 
 is no more fit to " 
 
 " Pshaw, woman ! " was the sharp answer. 
 
 " So, Phineas, thee art really strong enough to go out ? " 
 
 " If thou wilt take me, Father." 
 
 He looked pleased, as he always did when I used the 
 Friends' mode of phraseology, for I had not been brought 
 up in the Society, this having been the last request of 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 prognosti- 
 cations by a resolute " Get the lad ready to go," " Phineas, 
 my son, 1 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 phy-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 3J 
 
 sically, 1 alike revolted from my father's trade. I held the 
 tan-yard iii abhorrence ; to enter it made me ill for days ; 
 sometimes for months and months I never went near it. 
 That I should ever be what was my poor father's one de- 
 sire his assistant and successor in his business, was, I 
 knew, a thing totally impossible. 
 
 It hurt me a little that my project of going with him to- 
 day should in any way have deceived him, and rather j 
 silently and drearily we set out together, progressing' 
 through Norton Bury streets in our old way, my father 
 inarching along in his grave fashion, I steering my little 
 carriage, and keeping tis 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 "inter- 
 esting and remarkable " place ; and I myself have some- 
 times admired its quaint, overhanging, ornamented house- 
 fronts, blackened, and wonderfully old. But one rarely 
 notices what has been familiar all one's 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 chil- 
 dren, that came up from the alleys which lay between High 
 Street and the Avon. In those alleys hundreds of our poor 
 folk lived, huddled together 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 
 unpleasant barky smell, at other times borne in horrible 
 wafts, as if from a lately-forsaken battle-field. I wondered 
 how anybody could endure it, yet some did ; and among the 
 workmen, as we entered, I looked round for the lad I knew. 
 
 He was sitting in a corner of one of the sheds, helping 
 two or three women to split bark, very busy at work ; yet 
 h,e found time to stop now and then and administer a wisp
 
 32 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 of sweet hay to the old blind mare, as she went slowly round 
 and round turning the bark-niill. Nobody seemed to notice 
 him, and he did not speak to anybody. 
 
 As we passed John did not even look. 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 1 know of. Dost thee want him to wheel 
 thee about the yard ? Here, 1 say, lad bless me ! I 'VL 
 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 had told me he was*trying an important 
 experiment, how a hide might be tanned completely in five 
 months instead of eight. I stayed behind. 
 
 " John, I want you." 
 
 John shook himself free of the bark-heap, and came, rather 
 hesitatingly at first. 
 
 " Anything I can do for you, sir ?" 
 
 " Don't call me ' sir ; ' if I say ' John,' why don't you say 
 Phincas ' ? " 
 
 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 of refuse bark. 
 
 " This is not a bad place to rest in ; if you would like 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 ho
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 33 
 
 helped me thither and covered me with a cloak. Lying 
 thus, with my hat over my eyes, just distinguishing the 
 glimmer of the Avon running below, and beyond that the 
 green, level Ham dotted with cows, my position was any- 
 thing but unpleasant, in fact, positively agreeable, ay, 
 even though the tan-yard was close behind ; but here it 
 would offend none of my senses. 
 
 " Are you comfortable, Phineas ? " 
 
 " Very, if you would come and sit down too." 
 
 " That I will." 
 
 And then we began to talk. I asked him if he often 
 patronized the bark -heap, he seemed so very much at home 
 there. 
 
 " So I am," he answered smiling ; " it is my castle, my 
 house." 
 
 " And not unpleasant to live at either." 
 
 " Except when it rains. Does it always rain at Norton 
 Bury ? " 
 
 " For shame, John ! " and I pointed to the bluest of au- 
 tumn 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. 1 shall not get 
 my nice little bit of October evening." 
 
 " You must spend it within doors, then." John shook 
 his head. " You ought ; it must be dreadfully cold on this 
 bark-heap after sunset." 
 
 " Rather, sometimes. Are you cold now ? Shalt I fetch 
 but I have n't anything fit to wrap you in, only this rug." 
 
 He muffled it closer round me ; infinitely light and tender 
 was his rough-looking boy's hand. 
 
 " I never saw anybody so thin as you, thinner much 
 since I saw you. Have you been very, very ill, Phineas ? 
 What ailed you ? " 
 
 His anxiety was so earnest that I explained to him what 
 I may as well explain here, and dismiss, once for all, the 
 useless topic, that from my birth I had been puny and 
 diseased, that my life had been a succession of sicknesses, 
 and that I could hope for little else until the end. 
 
 " But don't think I mind it, John," for I was grieved to 
 
 3
 
 34 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 see his shocked and troubled look. "I am rery content; 
 1 have a quiet home, a good father, and now I think and 
 believe I have found the one thing I wanted, a 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 impres- 
 sions, which, however, being once received, are indelible, 
 Though I, being in so many things his opposite, had none 
 of this peculiarity, but felt at once quickly and keenly, yet 
 1 rather liked the contrary in him, as, I think, we almost 
 always do like in another those peculiarities which are 
 nost 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 . 
 become to me. I knew from every tone of his voice, every 
 chance expression of his honest eyes, that he was one of 
 those characters in which we may be sure that for each 
 feeling they express lies a countless wealth of the same, 
 unexpressed, below; a character the keystone of which 
 was that whereon is built all liking and all love, depend- 
 ableness. He was one whom you may be long in knowing, 
 but whom the more you know the more you trust, and 
 once trusting, you trust 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 un- 
 wittingly be drawing a little from after-experience ; how- 
 ever, being the truth, let it stand. 
 
 " Come," said I, changing the conversation, " we have had 
 enough of me ; how goes the world with you ? Have you 
 taken kindly to the tan-yard ? Answer frankly." 
 
 He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets 
 and began to whistle a tune. 
 
 " Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know 
 the real truth." 
 
 " Well, then, I hate the tan-yard." 
 
 Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kick- 
 ing a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became 
 composed. 
 
 " But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always ;
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 35 
 
 I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I hai 
 g-ut used to many a worse thing. It 's wicked to hate what 
 wins one's bread and is the only thing one is likely to get 
 on in the world with, merely because it 's disagreeable." 
 
 " You 're a wise lad of your age, John." 
 
 k - 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 1 am ; and especially that I 'm not thankful to your 
 good father for giving me a lift in the world, the first 1 
 ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps 1 
 may climb." 
 
 " I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. 
 " ^ut you seem to have thought a good deal about these 
 burts of things ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I 've plenty of time for thinking, and one's 
 thoughts go 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 sue 
 eeeded to your master's business, should you like to be a 
 tanner !' '' 
 
 He paused, his truthful face betraying him. Then he 
 rfaid resolutely, " I would like to be anything that was 
 honest and honorable. It 's a notion of mine, that what- 
 ever a man may be his trade does not make him ; he 
 makes his trade. That is, but I know 1 can't put thC| 
 subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head 
 yet ; I 'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this, that 
 whether I like it or not, I '11 stick to the tanning as long 
 as I can." 
 
 " That 's right ; I 'm so glad ! Nevertheless," and I 
 watched him as he stood, his foot planted firmly (no easy 
 feat on the shifting bark -heap), his head erect, and his 
 mouth close, but smiling, " nevertheless, John, it 's my 
 opinion that you might be anything you liked." 
 
 He laughed. " Questionable that, at least at present. 
 Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives 
 your father's cart, and works in your father's tan -yard,
 
 36 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 John Halifax, and very much at your service, MR 
 Phineas Fletcher." 
 
 Half in fun, half earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, 
 with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance 
 that I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and " Guy 
 Halifax, Gentleman." However, that could be no matter 
 to me, o'r to him either, now. The lad, like many another, 
 owed nothing to his father but his mere existence. Heaven 
 knows whether that gift is oftencst 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 
 roads, where there's lots of blackberries by the way of 
 pudding, which is grand ! Supper, when i do get it, 1 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 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 '11 tell you," said he, sitting down beside me in a 
 dogged way, as if he had read my thoughts, guessed at my 
 suspicions, and was determined to show that he feared 
 neither ; that he would use his own judgment, and follow 
 his own will, in spite of anybody. " Look here. I '_ivt 
 three shillings a week, which is about fivepence a day ; out 
 of that I eat threepence, I 'm a big, growing lad, and it 's 
 hard to be hungry. ThQre 's twopence left to pay for lodg-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 37 
 
 ing. I tried it once twice at the decentest places I 
 could find, but " here an expression of intolerable dis- 
 gust came over the boy's face "I don't intend to try that 
 again. I was never used to it. Better keep my own com- 
 pany and the open air. Now you see." 
 
 " Oh, John ! " I clasped his hand. If I had been a girl I 
 should certainly have cried. 
 
 " Nay, there 's no need to be sorry. - You don't know 
 how comfortable it is to sleep out of doors ; and so nice to 
 wake in the middle of the night, and see the stars shining 
 over your head." 
 
 " But is n'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 morn- 
 ing 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 ! 1 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 apposite his illustration was ; for truly he 
 seemed as destitute as the birds of the air, whom ONE feed- 
 etli when they cry to him. 
 
 My question had evidently made him thoughtful ; he 
 remained silent a good while. 
 
 At last I said, " John, do you remember the woman who 
 spoke so sharply to you in the alley that day ?" 
 
 " Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened 
 that day," lie answered softly. 
 
 " She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, ' 
 though trouble has sharpened her temper. Her biggest 
 boy, Bill, who is gone off for a soldier, used to drive your 
 cart, you know." 
 
 " Yes ? " said John, interrogatively ; for I was slow in 
 putting forth my plans, thpt is, as much of them as it was 
 needful he should know.
 
 38 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Sally is poor not so very poor, though. Your two 
 pence 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 your- 
 self. She has but one other lad at home ; it 's worth try- 
 ing for." 
 
 " It is, indeed. You are very kind, Phineas." He said 
 no more words than these, but their tone spoke volumes. 
 
 I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxiou; 
 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 aston- 
 ishing 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 remember 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 " Bony- 
 party." 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 consented at once to his lodging 
 with her, though she looked up with an odd stare when I 
 said he was " a friend " of mine. 
 
 So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally 
 and 1 alone, while John went up to look at his room. I 
 knew I could trust Sally, whom I was glad enough to 
 help, poor woman ! She promised to make him extra- 
 comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came 
 down, she was quite civil to him even friendly. She 
 said it would really be a comfort to her that another fine, 
 strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in 
 and out of the house, just like her poor dear boy. 
 
 1 felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and, indeed, 
 half angry, but John only smiled.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 39 
 
 " And if, maybe, he 'd do a hand's turn now and then 
 about the kitchen I s'pose he bean't above it ? " 
 
 " Not a bit ! " said John Halifax, pleasantly. 
 
 Before we left I wanted to see his room. He carried me 
 up, and we both sat down on the bed that had been poor 
 Bill's. It was nothing to boast of, being a mere sacking 
 stuffed with hay a blanket below, and another at top ; 1 
 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 
 ? ar 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 
 'ts incessant variety, 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 T, 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, 
 heating down upon the roof, made it like a furnace, or the 
 snow on the leads drifted so high as to obscure the win- 
 dow ; yet how merry, how happy we have been there ! 
 How often have we both looked back upon it in after days !
 
 40 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WINTER came early and sudden that year. 
 
 It was to me a long, dreary season, worse even than my 
 winters inevitably were. 1 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 of the tan-yard is not fit company for 
 thee. Let him alone; he'll do well enough, if thee doesn't 
 try to lift him out of his place." 
 
 Lift John Halifax out of his " place " ! I agreed with 
 my father that that was impossible, but then we evidently 
 differed widely in our definition of what the "place" might 
 be ; so, afraid of doing him harm, and feeling how much his 
 future depended on his favor with his master, I did not dis- 
 cuss 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 but very little ; also a book or two, out of which he 
 might teach himself a little more. 
 
 Then I waited eagerly but patiently, until spring came, 
 when, without making any more fruitless efforts, I should 
 be sure to see him. I knew enough of himself, and was too 
 jealous over his dignity, to wish either to force him by 
 entreaties, or bring him by stratagem, into a house where 
 he was not welcome, even though it were the house of my 
 own father. 
 
 One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, 
 and soft, plentiful rain had half melted the great snow- 
 drifts, which, Jael told me, lay about the country every- 
 where, I thought I would just put my head out of doors, to 
 see how long the blessed spring would be in coming. So I 
 crawled down into the parlor, and out of the parlor into the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 41 
 
 garden, Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. 
 My poor father ! he always had the belief that people need 
 not be ill unless they chose, and that I could do a great 
 deal if I would. 
 
 I felt very strong to-day. It was delicious to see again 
 the green grass, which had been hidden for weeks ; deli- 
 cious to walk up and down in the sunshine, under the shel- 
 ter of the yew hedge. I amused myself by watching a pale 
 line of snowdrops which had come up one by one, like 
 prisoners of war to their execution. 
 
 But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless 
 similes, 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 ingioriously 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." 
 
 I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father 
 had lately raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. 
 This, together with a few other facts which lay between 
 Sally and me, made me quite easy in my 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 snowdrops are. Stop, Jael, you 
 are setting your foot on them." 
 
 But I was too late ; she had crushed them under the 
 high-heeled shoe. She even was near pulling me down as 
 she stepped back in great hurry and consternation. 
 
 " Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden ; 
 and here I be in my dirty gown, and my apron full o' 
 cabbages." 
 
 And she dropped the said 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.
 
 42 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 lie 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 " mistaken" him, as she cuttingly said, for a 
 ~xoung gentleman. 
 
 She looked very indignant, though, when she found out 
 flie 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 glad 1 was to see him ; but, for the minute, I doubt if 
 he heard me. 
 
 " Abel Fletcher sent me here," he repeated, in a steady 
 and well-controlled voice, " that I might go out with 
 Phineas : if he objects to my company, it 's easy to say 
 
 80." 
 
 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 
 ^fnem, 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 
 disappeared, for I was afraid some ill chance had happened. 
 
 " Only that this winter I Ve managed to teach myself to 
 read and add up, out of your books, you know, and your 
 father found it out, and he says I shall go round collecting 
 money instead of skins, and it 's much better wages, and 
 1 like it better, that's all."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 43 
 
 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 peculiar my father was in his 
 collectors. 
 
 " That 's it that 's what pleases me so. He is very 
 good to me, Phineas, and he gave a special holiday, that I 
 might go out with you. Is n't that grand ? " 
 
 " Grand, indeed. What fun we '11 have ! I almost think 
 I could take a walk myself ; " for the lad's company in- 
 variably gave me new life, and strength, and hope. The 
 very sight of him was as good as the coming of spring. 
 
 " Where shall we go ? " said he, when we were fairly off, 
 and he was guiding my carriage down Norton Bury streets. 
 
 " I think to the Mythe." The Mythe was a little hill on 
 the outskirts of the town, breezy and fresh, where Squire 
 Brithwood had built himself a fine house ten years ago. 
 
 " Ay, that will do ; and as we go, you will see the floods 
 out, a wonderful sight, is n't it ? The river is rising still, 
 1 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-gater 
 hard by. 
 
 " Your lazy, muddy Avon looks quite 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; 1 
 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!"
 
 44 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Oh. we at Norton Bury are used to floods." 
 
 "Are they ever very serious ?" 
 
 " Have been, hut not in my time. Now, John, tell me 
 what you have been doing all winter." 
 
 It was a brief and simple chronicle of hard work, all 
 day over, and from the Monday to the Saturday, - too hard 
 work to do anything of nights save to drop into the sound, 
 dreamless sleep of youth and labor. 
 
 " But how did you teach yourself to read and add up, 
 then?" 
 
 " Generally at odd minutes going along the road. It 's 
 astonishing what a lot of odd minutes one can catch during 
 the day if one really sets about it. And then I had Sunday 
 afternoons besides. 1 did not think it wrong " 
 
 " No," said I, decisively. " What books have you got 
 through?" 
 
 " All you sent : Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and 
 the Arabian Nights. That 's fine, is n't it ? " and his eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 " Any more ? " 
 
 " Also the one you gave me at Christmas. I have read 
 it a great deal." 
 
 I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. 
 I liked to hear him own, nor be ashamed to own, that he 
 read a " great deal " in that rare book for a boy to read, 
 the Bible. 
 
 But on that subject I did not ask him any more ques- 
 tions ; 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 fathei 
 say that you were very clever. How much do you know?" 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " But he pressed me, and 1 told him. 
 The list was short enough ; I almost wished it were shorter 
 when I saw John's face. 
 
 " For me, 1 can only just read, and I shall be fifteen 
 directly." 
 
 The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to 
 my very heart.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 45 
 
 " Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand 
 upon that which guided me on, so steady and so strong ; 
 u 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 '11 
 ;each you all I know." 
 
 " Oh, 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, the 
 gtraightest 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, 
 working at it with his knife in silence. 
 
 I was silent too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as 
 seen in profile. I could almost guess at his thoughts by 
 that mouth, so flexible, sensitive, and at times so infinitely, 
 infinitely sweet. It wore that expression now. I was 
 satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy. 
 
 We reached the Mythe. " David," I said (I had got into 
 a habit of calling him " David ; " and now he had read a 
 certain history in that Book, I suppose he guessed why, for 
 he liked the name), " I don't think I can go any farther up 
 the hill." 
 
 " Oh, but you shall. I '11 push behind ; and when we 
 come to the stile, I '11 carry you. It 's lovely on the top of 
 the Mythe. Look at the sunset. You cannot have seen a 
 sunset for ever so long." 
 
 No, that was true. I let John do as he would with 
 me, he who brought into my pale life the only brightness it 
 had ever known. 
 
 Ere long we stood on the top of the steep mound. I 
 know not if it be a natural hill, or one of those old Roman 
 or British remains, plentiful enough hereabouts, but it was 
 always called the Mythe. Close below it, at the foot of a 
 precipitous slope, ran the Severn, there broad and deep 
 enough, and gradually growing broader and deeper as it 
 flowed on through a wide plain of level country, toward 
 the line of hills that bordered the horizon. Severn looks 
 beautiful here ; neither grand nor striking, but certainly
 
 46 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 beautiful, a calm, gracious, generous river, bearing 
 strength in its tide and plenty on its bosom, rolling on 
 through the land slowly and surely, like a good man's life, 
 and fertilizing wherever it flows. 
 
 " Do you like the Severn still, John ?" 
 
 " I love it." 
 
 I wondered if his thoughts had been anything like minr 
 
 " What is that ? " he cried suddenly, pointing to a IH \. 
 sight, which even I had not often seen on our river. It was 
 a mass of water, three or four feet high, which came surg- 
 ing along the mid-stream, upright as a wall. 
 
 " It is the ' eger ; ' I 've often seen it on the Severn, 
 where the swift seaward current meets the spring-tide. 
 Look what a crest of foam it has, like a wild boar's mane. 
 We often call it the river-boar." 
 
 " But it is only a big wave." 
 
 " Big enough to swamp a boat, though." 
 
 And while I spoke, I saw to my horror that there 
 actually was a boat, with two men in it, trying to get out 
 of the way of the eger. 
 
 " They never can ; they '11 assuredly be drowned. Oh, 
 John!"' 
 
 But he had already slipped from my side, and swung 
 himself by furze-bushes and gras down the steep slope 
 to the water's edge. 
 
 It was a breathless moment. The eger travelled slowly 
 in its passage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a 
 whirl of conflicting currents, in which no boat could live, 
 least of all that clumsy pleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. 
 In it was one I knew by sight, young 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 swim- 
 ming would not have saved them. 
 
 "Hold there!" shouted John, at the top of his voice,' 
 " throw that rope out, and I '11 pull you in ! " 
 
 It was a hard tug : I shuddered to see him wade, knee- 
 deep, in the stream ; but he succeeded. Both gentlemen
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 47 
 
 leaped safe on shore. The t ; ounger tried desperately tc 
 save his boat, but it was too late. Already the " water- 
 boar " had clutched it; the lope broke like a gossamer- 
 thread ; the trim, white sail was dragged down, rose up 
 once, broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mil) 
 stream, then disappeared. 
 
 " So it 's all over with her, poor thing ! " 
 
 " Who cares ? We might have lost our lives," sharply 
 ;uid the other, an older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed 
 in mourning, to whom life did not seem a particular!/ 
 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 
 
 .T 1 O 91 * J J 
 
 iriend ? " 
 
 John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, " I 
 suppose so." 
 
 " Indeed, we owe you much." 
 
 "Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brith- 
 wood, 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. " Impossi- 
 ble ! Young man, will you tell me to whom I am so much 
 obliged?" 
 
 " My name is John Halifax." 
 
 " Yes ; but what are you ? " 
 
 " What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough ; 
 I work in the tan-yard." 
 
 " Oh ! " Mr. March turned away with a resumption of 
 
 2'nity, though evidently both surprised and disappointed. 
 i oung Brithwood laughed. 
 
 " I told you so, Cousin. Hey, lad ! " eyeing John over, 
 " you 've been out at grass, and changed your coat for the 
 better ; but you 're certainly the same lad that my curricle 
 nearly ran over one day ; you were driving a cart of skins 
 pah ! I remember." 
 
 " So do I," said John, fiercely ; but when the youth's 
 insolent laughter broke out again, he controlled himself 
 The laughter ceased.
 
 48 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Well, you 've done me a good turn for an ill one, young 
 what 's-your-namc, 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 
 struggling with conflicting intentions, and not very easy 
 in his mind. " My good fellow," he said at last, in a con 
 ; , trained 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 resist- 
 ance on the other ; and then Mr. March put the guineas 
 irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the while linger- 
 ingly at the boy, at his brave, tall figure and flushed, 
 proud face. 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 " Fifteen, nearly." 
 
 " Ah ! " it was almost a sigh. He turned away and turned 
 back again. "My name is March Henry March; if 
 you should ever " 
 
 " Thank you, sir. Good-day." 
 
 " Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake 
 hands ; but John did not, or would not see it, so the thing 
 was not done. Mr. March walked on, following young 
 Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more 
 and glanced at John. Then they disappeared. 
 
 " I am glad they 're gone ; now we can be comfortable." 
 He flung himself down, wrung out his wet stockings, 
 laughed at me for being so afraid he would take cold, a'nd 
 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 
 
 II 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 very quickly,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 49 
 
 -so quickly that in a little while the simple copy-book 
 chat Mother Earth obliged us with was covered in all direc- 
 tions with " J, 0, H, N, John." 
 
 " Bravo ! " he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourish 
 ing his gigantic pen, which had done such good service ; 
 " bravo ! L have gained something to-day ! " 
 
 Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more 
 to look at the waters that were " out." They had risen 
 considerably, even in that short time, and were now pouring 
 in several new channels, one of which was alongside of the 
 high road ; we stopped a good while, watching it. The 
 current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part of the 
 Ham ; but it awed us to see the fierce power of waters let 
 loose. An old willow-tree, about whose roots I had often 
 watched the king-cups growing, was now in the centre of a 
 stream as broad as the Avon by our tan-yard, and thrice as 
 rapid. The torrent rushed round it, impatient of the 
 divisions its great roots caused, eager to undermine and 
 tear it up. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate, within a 
 few hours more there would be nothing left of the fine old 
 tree. 
 
 " I don't quite like this," said John, meditatively, as his 
 quick eye swept down the course of the river, with the 
 houses and wharves that abutted on it all along one bank. 
 " Did you ever see the water 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 tG 
 know, for he has had plenty of experience, the tan-yard 
 being so close to the river." 
 
 " I was thinking of that ; but come, it 's getting cold." 
 
 rfe took me safe home, and we parted cordially nay, 
 affectionately at my own door. 
 
 " When will you come again, David ? " 
 
 " When your father sends me." 
 
 And I felt that he felt that our intercourse was always to 
 be limited to this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, 
 was possible, even for friendship's sake, to John Halifax. 
 
 My father came in late that evening; he looked tired 
 and uneasy, and instead of going to bed, though it was after 
 nine o'clock, sat down to his pipe in the chimney-corner. 
 
 "~" * A.
 
 50 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 
 ;ood-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 
 happened there. He listened without reply. 
 
 Was n'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 does n't make too much of him. Re- 
 member, he is but my servant ; thee 'rt my son my only 
 son." 
 
 Alas ! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to 
 have such an " only son " as I. 
 
 In the middle of the night or else to me, lying awake, 
 it seemed so there was a knocking at our hall door. I 
 slept on the groundflat, 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 he was, I was very sure I saw in the other what 
 always lay near his strong box, at his bed's-head at night ; be- 
 cause, ten years ago, a large sum had been stolen from him, 
 iind the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law re- 
 used Abel Fletcher's testimony ; he was " only a Quaker." 
 
 The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time 
 to be cautious of 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 ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 51 
 
 " Yes, the waters are rising ; and I have come to fetch 
 your father ; he may save a good deal yet. I 'in ready, 
 sir" in answer to a loud call. "Now, Phineas, lie you 
 down again : the night 's bitter cold. Don't stir you '11 
 promise ? I '11 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 door- 
 step. A blessed sight ! 
 
 " Oh, Father, my dear father ! " and I drew him in, hold- 
 ing 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 Jias befallen thee." 
 
 "Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly 
 goods has seen fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like 
 many another in this town, am poorer by some thousands 
 than I was last night." 
 
 He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had 
 been hardly earned. 1 had not thought he would have 
 oorne its loss so quietly. 
 
 " Father, never mind, it might have been worse." 
 
 " Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in 
 the world save for Where is the lad ? What art thee 
 standing outside for ? Come in, John, and shut the door." 
 
 John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold 
 and wet. I wanted him to sit down by the fireside. 
 
 " Ay ! do, lad," said my father, kindly. 
 
 John came. 
 
 I atood between the two, afraid to ask what they had un
 
 52 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 dcrgone, but sure, from the old man's grave face, and tht 
 lad'1, bright one flushed all over with that excitement oi 
 dang'T so delicious to the young that the peril had not 
 been small. 
 
 " Jael," cried niy father, rousing himself, "give us some 
 breakfast, the lad and me. We have had a hard night's 
 work together." 
 
 Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese, 
 but either did not or could not notice that the meal had 
 been ordered for more than one. 
 
 " Another plate," said my father, sharply. 
 
 "The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher; his 
 breakfast is waiting there." 
 
 My father winced : even her master was sometimes rather 
 afraid of Jael. But conscience or his will conquered. 
 
 " Woman, do as I desired. Bring another plate, and an- 
 other mug of ale." 
 
 And so, to JaePs 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 oi 
 that February morning, my father, contrary to his won^ 
 explained to me all his losses, and how but for the timely 
 warning he had received the flood might have nearlj 
 ruined him. 
 
 " So it was well John came," I said, half afraid to say 
 more. 
 
 " Ay, and the lad has been useful, too ; it is an old head 
 on young shoulders." 
 
 John looked very proud of this praise, though it was 
 grimly given. But directly after it, some ill or suspicious 
 thought seemed to come into Abel Fletcher's mind. 
 
 " Lad," suddenly turning round on John Halifax, " thee 
 told me thee saw the river rising by the light of the moon. 
 What wast thee doing, then, out o' thy honest bed and thy 
 quiet sleep, at eleven o'clock at night ? " 
 
 John colored violently ; the quick young blood was al- 
 ways ready enough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for 
 him with my father.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 5S 
 
 " 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 '11 tell you ; it 's no dis- 
 grace. Though I 'm such a big fellow, I can't write, and 
 your son was good enough to try and teach me. I was 
 afraid of forgetting the letters, so I tried to make them all 
 over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It 
 did nobody any harm that I know of." 
 
 The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and 
 angry, won no reproof. At last my father said, gently 
 enough, "Is that all, lad?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two 
 lads talked softly to each other, afraid to interrupt. He 
 smoked through a whole pipe his great and almost his 
 only luxury and then again called out, " John Halifax." 
 
 " I 'm here." 
 
 " It 's time thee went away to thy work." 
 
 " I 'm going this minute. Good-by, Phineas. Good-day, 
 sir. Is there anything you want done ? " 
 
 He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest 
 mnliness pleasant to see. Any master might have been 
 proud of such a servant, any father of such a son. My 
 poor father no, he did not once look from John Halifax 
 to me. He would not have owned for the world that half- 
 smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept 
 back trom him as, Heaven knows why, it often does from 
 us all the one desire of bis heart. 
 
 " John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this
 
 54 JChN HALIFAX, 
 
 ni<rht. What reward shall I give thee ? " and instinctively 
 !iis hand dived down into his pocket. John turned away. 
 
 k Thank you ; I 'd rathe:- not. It is quite enough re 
 ward that 1 have heen useful to my master, and that he 
 acknowledges it." 
 
 My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand 
 ' Thee 'rt in the right, lad. I am very much obliged tc 
 lice, and 1 will not forget it." 
 
 And John, blushing brightly once more, went away look- 
 ing as proud as an emperor, and as happy as a poor man 
 with a bag of gold. 
 
 " Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that 
 would pleasure the lad ? " said my father, after we had been 
 talking some time, though not about John. 
 
 I had thought of something something I had long 
 desired, but whicn seemed then all but an impossibility. 
 Even now it was with some doubt and hesitation that 1 
 made the suggestion that he should spend every Sunday at 
 our house. 
 
 " Nonsense ! thee know'st naught of Norton Bury lads 
 He would not care. He had rather lounge about all First 
 day at street-corners with his acquaintance." 
 
 " John has none, Father. He knows nobody, cares foi 
 nobody but me. Do let him come." 
 
 " We '11 see about it." 
 
 My father never broke or retracted his word. So after 
 that, John Halifax came to us every Sunday, and for one 
 day of the week, at least, was received in his master's 
 household as our equal and my friend. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SUMMERS and winters slipped by lazily enough, as the 
 years seemed always to crawl round at Norton Bury. How 
 things went in the outside world I little knew or cared. 
 My father lived his life, mechanical and steady as clock 
 work, and we two, John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, 
 lived our lives, the one EO active and busy, the ot^r so
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 55 
 
 useless and dull. Neither of us counted the days, nor 
 looked backward or forward. 
 
 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 
 3xpressed it. 
 
 Our birthdays fell within a week of each other, and it 
 vas in remembering his the one which advanced him to 
 the dignity of eighteen that I called to mind my own. I 
 say " advanced him to the dignity," but in truth that is an 
 idle speech, for any dignity which the maturity of eighteen 
 may be supposed to confer he had already in possession, 
 ^lanhood had come to him, both in character and demeanor, 
 not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly desired and 
 presumptuously asserted claim, but as a rightful inheri- 
 tance, gradually descending, to be received humbly, and 
 worn simply and naturally ; so naturally, that 1 never 
 seemed to think of him as anything but a boy until this 
 DIIC June Sunday, when, as before stated, I myself became 
 twenty years old. 
 
 I was talking over that last fact in a rather dreamy 
 mood as he and I sat in our long-familiar summer seat, the 
 slematis arbor by the garden wall. 
 
 " It seems very strange, John, but so it is I am actually 
 twenty years old." 
 
 " 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 genu* 
 \orno I am at twenty years old." 
 
 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."
 
 56 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 John, don't be foolish." 
 
 " I will if 1 like, though perhaps not quite so foolish aa 
 some other people ; so listen : 'Imprimis] as saith Shaks- 
 peare, Imprimis, height full five feet four, a stature his- 
 torically appertaining to great men, including Alexander 
 of Macedon and the First Consul." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " said I, reproachfully, for this was our chiei 
 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 
 1 '11 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 ac- 
 quaintance exceedingly 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 Shakspeare, I had had a boy's lovely dreams of 
 the divinity of womanhood. They began and ended mere 
 dreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth that my char- 
 acter was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any 
 woman's reverence or love ; or, even had this been possible, 
 one sickly as I was, stricken with hereditary disease, ought 
 never to seek to perpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put 
 from me, at once and forever, every feeling of that kind, 
 and during my whole life I thank God ! have never 
 faltered in my resolution. Friendship was given me for 
 love, duty for happiness. So best, and I was satisfied. 
 
 This conviction, and the struggle succeeding it for.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 57 
 
 though brief, it was but natural that it should have been a 
 hard struggle was the only secret I had kept from John. 
 It had happened some months now, and was quite over and 
 gone, so that I eould 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 , 
 ilaylight 'that he was not a " boy " any longer. 
 
 " Now let me turn the tables. How old are you, John ?'* 
 
 " You know. Eighteen next week." 
 
 " And how tall ? " 
 
 " Five feet eleven inches and a half." And rising, he 
 exhibited to its full advantage that very creditable altitude, 
 more tall, perhaps, than graceful at present, since like 
 most youths he did not as yet quite know what to do with 
 his legs and arms. But he was 
 
 I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I 
 only remember that when I looked at him, and began 
 jocularly " Imprimis" my heart came up into my throat 
 and choked me. 
 
 It was almost with sadness that I said, " Ah ! David, 
 you are quite a young man now." 
 
 He smiled, of course only with pleasure, looking forward 
 to the new world into which he was going forth, the world 
 into which, as I knew well, I could never follow him. 
 
 " I am glad I look rather old for my years," said he, 
 when after a pause, he had again flung himself down on 
 the grass. " It tells well in the tan-yard. People would 
 be slow to trust a clerk who looked a mere boy. Still, your 
 father trusts me." 
 
 " He does, indeed. You need never have any doubt of 
 that. It was only yesterday he said to me that now he 
 was no longer dissatisfied with your working at all sorts of 
 studies in leisure hours, since it made you none the worse 
 man of business." 
 
 " No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would 
 not be doing my duty to myself any more than to my master, 
 if I shirked his work for my own. I am glad he does not 
 complain now, Phineas." 
 
 " On the contrary, I think he intends to give you 9
 
 5& JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 rise this mid-summer. But ho ! " I cried, recurring to a 
 thought which would often coine 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 hetter than a clerk in a tan-yard. I have a plan, 
 John." 
 
 But what that plan was was fated to remain unrevealed 
 Jael came to us in the garden, looking very serious. She 
 had been summoned, I knew, to a long conference with her 
 master the day before, the subject of which she would not 
 tell me, though she acknowledged it concerned myself. 
 Ever since she had followed me about, very softly for her, 
 and called me more than once, as when I was a child, " poor 
 Phineas." She now came with half dolorous, half angry 
 looks, to summon 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 T guessed 
 what was looming in the distance, a future which my 
 father constantly held in urrorem over me, though succes 
 sive 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 finally succeed him in his business,, 
 and that I set aside every dream of growing up to be a help 
 and comfort to my father. It cost something on both our 
 parts, but after that day's discussion we tacitly covered over 
 the pain, and counted it openly no more. 
 
 I came back into the garden, and told John Halifax all. 
 He listened, with his hand on my shoulder, and his grave, 
 sweet look, dearer sympathy than any words ! though he 
 added thereto a few in his own wise way ; then he and I 
 also drew the curtain over an inevitable grief, and laid it in 
 the peaceful chamber of silence. 
 
 When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax, and I met at
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 59 
 
 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 pip^, and we 
 two at the window maintained that respectful and decorous 
 
 '.eiice which in my young days was rigidly exacted by 
 jlders and superiors, I noticed my father's eyes frequently 
 resting with keen observance upon John Halifax. Could it 
 be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine, given 
 faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just 
 entered my mind, instead of having for months continually 
 dwelt there until a fitting moment should arrive ? Could it 
 be that this hint, which he had indignantly scouted at the 
 time, was germinating in his acute brain, and might bear 
 fruit in future days ? I hoped so, I earnestly prayed so ; 
 and to that end I took no notice, but let it silently grow. 
 
 The June evening came and went. The service-bell rang 
 out and ceased. First deep shadows and then a bright star 
 appeared over the abbey tower. We watched it from the 
 garden, where Sunday after Sunday in fine weather we 
 used to lounge and talk over all manner of things in heaven 
 and in earth, chiefly endinp with the former, as on Sunday 
 nights with stars over our head was natural and fit we 
 should do 
 
 " Phineas, n said John, sitting on the grass with his hands 
 upon his knees, and the one star 1 think it was Jupiter 
 shining down into his eyes, deepening them into a peculiar 
 look worth any so called " handsome eyes," " Phineas, I 
 wonder how soon we shall have to rise up from this quiet, 
 easy life and fight our battles in the world. Also, I wonder 
 : f we are ready for it." 
 
 " I think you are." 
 
 " I don't know. 1 'm not clear how far I could resist 
 1 jing anything wrong, if it were pleasant, so many wrong 
 things are pleasant. Just now, instead of rising to-morrow 
 and going into the little dark counting-house and scratch- 
 ing paper from eight till six, should n't 1 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 i'H>re ! "
 
 60 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 1 
 have to fight with. Everybody keeps a private Apollyon. 
 I fancy. Now, Phineas, be content ; Apollyon is beaten 
 down." 
 
 He rose up, but I thought that in the red glow of the 
 twilight he looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to 
 help me up from the grass. We went into the house 
 together silently. 
 
 After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, 
 John prepared to leave as usual. He went to bid good- 
 night to my father, who was sitting meditatively over the 
 fireless hearthplace, sometimes poking the great bow-pot 
 of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did the coals, 
 an instance of obliviousness which in my sensible and acute 
 father argued very deep cogitation on some subject or other. 
 
 " Good-night," said John, twice over, before his master 
 heard him. 
 
 " Eh ? Oh, good-night, lad. Stay ! Halifax, what hast 
 thee got to do to-morrov ? " 
 
 " Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in ; 
 cleared off the week's accounts last night, as usual." 
 
 " Ay, to-morrow I shall look over all thy books, and see 
 how thee stand'st, and what further work thou art fit for. 
 Therefore take a day's holiday, if thee likes." 
 
 We thanked him warmly. " There, John," whispered I, 
 " you may have your wish and run wild to-morrow." 
 
 He said the wish had gone out of him. So we planned 
 a sweet lazy day under the midsummer sky, in some fields 
 about a mile off, called the Vineyards. 
 
 The morning came, and we took our way thither under 
 tha 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 after- 
 ward watered by a darker stream than the blood of grapes. 
 The Vineyards had been a battle-field, and under the long 
 wavy grass and the roots of the wild apple-trees slept many
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 61 
 
 a Yorkist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep 
 fin-row turned out a white bone; but more often the relics 
 were undisturbed, and the meadows used as pastures or 
 pay-fields. 
 
 John and I lay down on some windrows and sunned our* 
 selves in the warm and delicious air. How beautiful every- 
 thing was ! so very still ! with the abbey tower always tht 
 most picturesque point in our Norton Bury views showing 
 so near that it almost seemed to rise up out of the fields and 
 hedgerows. 
 
 " Well, David," and I turned to the long, lazy figure be- 
 side me, which had considerably flattened the hay," are you 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 Thus we lounged 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. 
 
 In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and 
 cheese, eaten slowly and with graceful dignity, in order 
 to make dinner a more important and lengthy affair, he 
 said abruptly, 
 
 " Phineas, don't you think this field is rather dull ? Shall 
 we go somewhere else ? Not if it tires you, though." 
 
 I protested the contrary, my health being much above 
 the average this summer. But just as we were quitting the 
 field we met two rather odd-looking persons entering it, 
 young-old persons they seemed, who might own to any age 
 or any occupation. Their dress, especially that of the 
 younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionable- 
 ness and homeliness, such as gray ribbed stockings and 
 shining paste shoe-buckles, rusty velvet small-clothes and 
 a coatee of blue cloth. But the wearer carried off these 
 anomalies with an easy, condescending air, full of pleasant- 
 ness, humor, and grace.
 
 62 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 sur- 
 passed, " 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.' r 
 
 " Thank you ; at present IJpn^littlc to do with the at 
 least with that stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our con- 
 tinuing our dessert. in fact, I may say our dinner. Are 
 you connoisseurs in turnips ? 
 
 He offered us, with a polite gesture, one of the " Swedes " 
 he was munching. I declined ; but John, out of a deeper 
 delicacy than I could boast, accepted it. 
 
 " One might dine worse," he said ; " I have done some- 
 times." 
 
 " It was a whim of mine, sir. But I am not the first 
 remarkable person who has eaten turnips in your Norton 
 Bury fields, ay, and turned field preacher afterward. 
 The' celebrated John Philip " 
 
 Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers 
 interposed with a nudge, indicating silence. 
 
 " My companion is right, sir," he continued. " I will not 
 betray oiir illustrious friend by mentioning his surname ; he 
 is a great man now, and might not wish it generally known 
 that he had ever dined off turnips. May I give you instead 
 my own humble name ? " 
 
 He gave it ; but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his reti- 
 cence, 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 people of the world. 1 
 believe, too, its owner has carried up to the topmost height 
 of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanly spirit and kindly 
 heart which he showed when sitting with us and eating 
 Swedes. Still, I will not mention his name ; I shall only 
 call him Mr. Charles. 
 
 "Now, having satisfactorily * munched, and munched, 
 and munched,' like the sailor's wife who had chestnuts in 
 her lap are you acquainted with my friend, Mr. William 
 Shakspeare, young gentlemen ? I must try to fulfil the 
 other duties of existence. Yoii said the Coltham mail passed
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 63 
 
 here in three hours? Very well. I have the honor o! 
 wishing you a good-day, Mr. " 
 
 " Halifax." ^ 
 
 " And yours ? 
 
 '" Fletcher." 
 
 " Any connection of him who went partnership with the 
 worthy Beaumont ? " 
 
 " My father has no partner, sir," said I. But John, whose I 
 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 
 M r. Charles, who till now had somewhat overlooked me, 
 took off his hat, and congratulated me on my illustrious 
 descent. 
 
 " That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world," 
 said John, smiling ; " I wonder what the world is like ! " 
 
 " Did you not see something of it as a child ? " 
 
 " Only the worst and lowest side not the one I want to 
 see now. What business do you think that Mr. Charles is 
 in ? A clever man, anyhow ; I should like to see him 
 again." 
 
 " So should I." 
 
 Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new 
 acquaintance, we strolled along till we came to a spot called 
 by the country people " the Bloody Meadow," from being, 
 like several other places in the neighborhood, the scene ot 
 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 do\vn to the meadow's end, where, 
 fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. 
 Here, too, in all directions the hay-fields lay, either in 
 green swathes or tedded or in the luxuriously scented 
 quiles. The lane was quite populous with wagons and hay- 
 makers, the men in their corduroys and blue hose, the 
 women in their trim jackets and bright calamanco petticoats. 
 There were more women than men by far, for the flower of 
 the peasant youth of England had been drafted off to fight 
 against " Bonyparty." Still hay-time was a glorious season, 
 when half our little town turned out and made holiday in 
 the sunshine.
 
 64 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seemg 
 a crowd down in the meadow ; and who is that man standing 
 on the hay-cart, on the other side of the $tream ? " 
 
 "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 
 iown the slope of the Bloody Meadow. I followed less 
 quickly. 
 
 There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the 
 simple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, 
 a low frame-work on wheels, with a pole stuck at either of 
 the four corners. He was bareheaded, and his hair hung 
 in graceful curls, well powdered. I only hope he had hon- 
 estly 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 the 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 now sat on the ground, 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 or decorum. 
 His harangue, though given as a sermon, Avas strictly and 
 simply a moral essay, such as might have emanated from 
 any professor's chair. In fact, as I afterward learned, he 
 had given for his text one which the simple rustics received 
 in all respect, as coming from a higher and holier volume 
 than Shakspeare 
 
 " Mercy is twice blessed : 
 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 
 'T is mightiest in the mightiest."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 65 
 
 And on that text did he dilate, gradually warming with 
 his subject, till his gestures, which at first had seemed bur- 
 dened with a queer constraint, that now and then resulted in 
 an irrepressible twitch of the corners of his flexible mouth, 
 became those of a man beguiled into real earnestness. We 
 of Norton Bury had never heard such eloquence. 
 
 " Who can he be, John ? Is n't it wonderful ? " 
 ^ But John never heard me. His whole attention was 
 riveted on the speaker. Such oratory a compound of 
 graceful action, polished language, and brilliant imagination 
 came to him as a positive revelation, a revelation from 
 the world of intellect, the world which he longed after with 
 all the ardor of youth. 
 
 What that harangue would have seemed like, could we 
 have heard it with maturer ears, I know not ; but us, at 
 eighteen and twenty, it literally dazzled. No wonder it 
 affected the rest of the audience. Feeble men, leaning on 
 forks and rakes, shook their old heads sagely, as if they 
 understood it all. And when the speaker alluded to the 
 horrors of war a subject which then came so bitterly 
 home to every heart in Britain many women melted 
 into sobs and tears. At last, when the orator himself, 
 moved by the pictures he had conjured up, paused sud- 
 denly, 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, recover 
 ing 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 m a dignified and graceful manner, 
 still standing on the hay-cart. The honest folk trooped off, 
 having no more time to waste, and left the field in posses- 
 sion of Mr. Charles, his co-mate, and ourselves, whom I do 
 not think he had as yet noticed. 
 
 A
 
 6(? JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 He descended from the cart. His companion burst into 
 roars of laughter, but Mr. Charles looked grave. 
 
 " Poor honest soul ! " said he, wiping his brows I am 
 not sure that it was only his brows " Hang me if I '11 be 
 at this trick again, Yates." 
 
 " Jt was a trick, then, sir," said John, advancing. " I 
 Am sorry for it." 
 
 " So am I, young man," returned the other, no way dis 
 concerted ; indeed, he seemed a person whose frank tempei 
 nothing could disconcert. " But starvation is excuse me 
 - unpleasant : and necessity has no law. It is of vital con- 
 sequence 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 Shakspeare, who, for 
 the first time of reading, generally sends all young people 
 tragedy mad. 
 
 " You acted well to-day," said John ; " all the folk here 
 took you for a Methodist preacher." 
 
 " Yet I never meddled with theology only common 
 morality. You cannot say I did." 
 
 John thought a moment and then answered, " No. But 
 what put the scheme into your head ? " 
 
 "The fact that under a like necessity the same amiisimr 
 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 67 
 
 1 saw the fascination of Mr. Charles's 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 alike the 
 gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world : and 
 neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, 
 all so irresistibly alluring at our age. 
 
 I say our, because though 1 followed where he led, I 
 always did it of my own will likewise. 
 
 The afternoon began to wane, while we with our two 
 companions yet sat talking by the brook side. Mr. Charles 
 had washed his face and his travel-sore, blistered feet, and 
 we had induced him and the man he called Yates to share 
 our remnants of bread and cheese. 
 
 " Now," he said, starting up, " I am ready to do battle 
 again, even with the Thane of Fife, who to-night is one 
 Johnson, a fellow of six feet and twelve stone. What is 
 the hour, Mr. Halifax ? " 
 
 " Mr. Halifax " I felt pleased to hear him, for the first 
 time, so entitled had, unfortunately, no watch among his 
 worldly possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he 
 made a near guess by calculating the position of his unfailing 
 time-piece, the sun. It was four o'clock. 
 
 " Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentle- 
 men ? Surely you would not lose such a rare treat as 
 Macbeth with I will not say my humble self but 
 with that divine Siddons. Such a woman ! Shakspeare 
 himself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You 
 will join us ? " 
 
 John made a silent, dolorous negative, as he had done 
 once or twice before, when the actor urged us to accom- 
 pany him to Coltham for a few hours only ; we might be 
 back by midnight, easily. 
 
 "What do you think, Phineas?" said John, when we 
 stood in the high road waiting for the coach ; " I have 
 money, and we have so little pleasure we could 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 moral sense, I cannot say either whether 
 or not it was an absolute crime ; therefore, being so accus-
 
 68 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 tomcd to read my wrong or right in " David's " eyes, 1 
 remained perfectly passive. 
 
 We waited by the hedge side for several minutes. Mr. 
 Charles ceased his urging, half in dudgeon, save that he 
 was too pleasant a man really to take offence at anything. 
 His conversation was chiefly directed to me. John took 
 no part therein, but strolled about, plucking at the hedge. 
 
 When the stage\ppeared down the winding of the road, 
 I was utterly ignorant of what he meant us to do, if he had 
 any definite purpose at all. 
 
 It came ; 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 in my face ; his 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 69 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 NEAR as we lived to Coltham, I had only been there once 
 in my life, but John Halifax knew me town pretty well, 
 having latterly, in addition to his clerkship, been employed 
 by my father in going about the neighborhood buying bark. 
 I was amused when the coach stopped at an inn whioh bore 
 the ominous sign of the " Fleece " to see how well accus- 
 tomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. He de- 
 ported himself with perfect self-possession ; the waiter 
 served him respectfully. He had evidently taken his posi- 
 tion 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 rest- 
 less and unquiet, but his manner was as composed as 
 usual. 
 
 Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee- 
 house Yard, where the theatre then was. 
 
 " A poor barn-like place, I believe," said John, stopping 
 in his walk up and down the room to place my cushions 
 more easy ; " they should build a new one, now Coltham 's 
 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 sc 
 often talked about ? She is not young now, Mr. Charlet 
 says, but magnificent still. She first came out in this ' 
 same theatre more than twenty years ago. Yates saw her. 
 I wonder, Phineas, if your father ever did ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! my father would not enter a play-house for the 
 world." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know
 
 70 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 in 
 cheerfulness. " If it were myself alone now, of cours*. 
 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 '11 take you." 
 
 1 protested earnestly against any such thing ; told him 1 
 was sure we were doing nothing wrong, which was, indeed, 
 my belief ; entreated him to be merry and enjoy himself, 
 and succeeded so well, that in a few minutes we had 
 started in a flutter of 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 princi 
 pal street. This lane was almost blocked up with play 
 goers of all ranks and in all sorts of equipages, from the 
 coach and six to the sedan-chair, mingled with a inotle) 
 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, that, 
 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 with no scorn, only with 
 compassion. 
 
 The crowd grew denser and more formidable. I looked 
 beyond it up toward the low hills that rose in various direc- 
 tions round the town, how green and quiet they looked 
 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 71 
 
 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 looked around her. 
 
 It was a remarkable countenance ; once seen, you could 
 never forget it, pale, rather large and hard in outline ; an 
 Hjuiline nose ; full, passionate, yet sensitive lips, and very 
 dark eyes. She spoke, and the voice belonged naturally to 
 such a face. " Good people, let me pass : I am Sarah 
 Siddons." 
 
 The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving, set 
 up a cheer that must have rung through all the town. 
 There was a minute's pause while she bowed and smiled 
 such a smile ! and then the sedan curtain closed. 
 
 " Nosv '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 1 well knew what we were about, we 
 both stood safe inside the entrance of the theatre. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers ,, 
 a most simple duty, but so elevated in the doing that 
 even it, I thought, could not bring her to the level of com- 
 mon humanity. The tall, cloaked, and hooded figure, and 
 the tones that issued thence, made her even in that narrow 
 passage, under the one flaring tallow-candle, a veritable 
 Queen of Tragedy, at least so she seemed to us two, who 
 stood by, eagerly gazing. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 1 will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento 
 that 1 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 theatre found 
 us out, and brought us, " by Mrs. Siddons' desire," to the 
 best places the house could afford.
 
 72 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when 
 1 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 
 heatre. Shabby and small as the place was, it was filled 
 vith all the beau monde of Coltham, which, then patronized 
 by royalty, rivalled even Bath in its fashion and folly. 
 Such a dazzle of diamonds, and spangled turbans, and 
 Prince of Wales' Plumes ! Such an odd mingling of cos- 
 tume, which was then in a transition state, the old ladies 
 clinging tenaciously to the stately silken petticoats and 
 long bodices, surmounted by the prim and decent bouffantes, 
 while the younger belles had begun to flaunt in the French 
 fashions of flimsy muslins, 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 
 u the flesh," and betrayed a suppressed but profound in- 
 terest in the same. 
 
 John and I quite agreed with her that it was very horri- 
 ble to see gentle English girls clad, or rather unclad, after 
 the fashion of our enemies across the Channel, now, un- 
 happy nation ! held to be at zero in politics, religion, and 
 morals, where high-bred ladies went about dressed as 
 heathen goddesses, with bare arms and bare sandaled feet, 
 gaining none of the pure simplicity of the ancient world, 
 and losing all the decorous dignity of our modern times. 
 
 We two, who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for 
 womanhood in its most ideal, most beautiful form, and 
 who I believe were, in our ignorance, expecting to behold 
 in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or a Desdemona, felt 
 ao particular 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 1 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 73 
 
 wondrous woman who, in spite of her modern black velvet 
 and point lace, did not act, but was Lady Macbeth , still I 
 hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sent 
 an involuntary shudder through the house, as if supernatu- 
 ral things were abroad : " they made themselves air ! " 
 And still there quivers through the silence that piteous cry 
 of a strong heart broken, " All the perfumes of Arabia will 
 never sweeten this little hand ! " 
 
 Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we 
 hung on her every breath as if it could stay even the 
 wheels of time. But they have whirled on, whirled her 
 away with them into the infinite and into earthly oblivion ! 
 People tell me that a new generation only smiles at the 
 traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw her. 
 For me, I shall go down to the grave worshipping her 
 still. 
 
 Of whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. Johi 
 and 1 both smiled when we saw his fine, frank face ano 
 manly bearing subdued into that poor, whining, sentimenta 
 craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet I believe "he acted it welL 
 But we irresistibly associated his idea with that of turnip 
 munching and hay -cart oratory ; and when, during the 
 first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took 
 the opportunity of winking privately at us over the foot- 
 lights, all the paraphernalia of the stage failed to make the 
 murderous Thane of Cawdor aught else than our humorous 
 and good-natured Mr. Charles. I never saw him after that 
 night. He is still living : may his old age have been as 
 peaceful as his youth was kind and gay ! 
 
 The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to 
 come, but we would not stay for that. We staggered, half 
 blind and dazzled, both in eyes and brain, out into the dark 
 streets, John almost carrying me. Then he paused, and 
 leaning against a post which was surmounted by one of 
 the half-dozen oil lamps which illuminated the town, we 
 tried to regain our mental equilibrium. 
 
 John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his 
 brow he bared it to the fresh night air, and drew a deep, 
 hard breath. He was very pale, I saw. 
 
 "John?"
 
 74 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 He turned, and laid a hand on ray 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 plea- 
 sure, 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 ! 't is quite easy. You cannot walk, you 
 shall not walk ; we must hire a gig, and drive home. I 
 have money enough 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 irretrieva- 
 bly 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 car- 
 ried any. 
 
 " Would not somebody trust us ? " suggested I. 
 
 " I never asked anybody for credit in my life ; and for a 
 horse and gig, they 'd laugh at me. Still yes stay 
 here a minute, and I'll try." 
 
 He came back, though not immediately, and took my 
 arm with a sort of reckless fun. 
 
 " It 's of no use, Phineas : I 'm not so respectable as I 
 thought. What's to be done?" 
 
 Ay ! what, indeed ! Here we were, two friendless youths, 
 with not a penny in our pockets, and ten miles away from 
 home. How to get there, and at midnight, too, was a very 
 serious question. We consulted a minute, and then John 
 said firmly, 
 
 " We must make the best of it, and start. Every instant
 
 JOHN HALIFAA. 75 
 
 is precious. Your father will think we have fallen into 
 some harm. Come, Phineas, I '11 help you on." 
 
 His strong, cheery voice, added to the necessity of the 
 circumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his 
 arm, and we marched on bravely through the shut-up town, 
 and for a mile or two along the high road leading to Nor- 
 ton Bury. There was a cool, fresh breeze ; and I often 
 think one can walk so much farther by night than by day. 
 For some time, listening to John's talk about the stars 
 he had lately added astronomy to the many things he tried 
 to learn and recalling with him all that we had heard 
 and seen this day, I hardly felt my weariness. 
 
 But gradually it grew upon me ; my pace lagged slower 
 and slower ; even the scented air of the midsummer night 
 imparted no freshness. John wound his young arm, strong 
 and firm as iron, round my waist, and we got on a while in 
 that way. 
 
 " Keep up, Phineas ; there 's a hay-rick near. I '11 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 
 time 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 
 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 ! "
 
 76 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Nonsense ; I have done it for a half a mile already. 
 Come, mount ! I am not going to have Jonathan's death 
 laid at David's door." 
 
 And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. 
 What strength supported liim 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 hi the pale 
 sunshine of a summer morning. 
 
 " Thank God ! " murmured John, as he set me down at 
 the foot of the steps, " you are safe at home." 
 
 " And you you will come in ? You would not leave 
 me now ? " 
 
 He thought a moment, then said " No." 
 
 We looked up doubtfully at the house ; there were no 
 watchers there. All the windows were closed as if the 
 whole peaceful establishment were taking its sleep prior to 
 the early stirring of Norton Bury households. Even John's 
 loud knocking was some time before it was answered. 
 
 I was too exhausted to feel much, but I know those five 
 awful minutes seemed interminable. I could not have 
 borne them save for John's voice in my ear. 
 
 " Courage ! I '11 bear all the blame. We have done 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 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 reaching the parlor door, and 
 opening the shutters, that the hard daylight should shame 
 us more and more asked the stern question,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 77 
 
 ** Phineas, where has thee been ? " 
 
 John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. 
 It was my fault. He went because I wished to go." 
 
 " And wherefore didst thee wish to go ? " 
 
 " Wherefore ? " the answer seemed hard to find. " Oh ! 
 Mr. Fletcher, were you never young, like me ? " 
 
 My father made no reply ; John gathered courage. 
 
 " It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been 
 wrong I think now that it was but the temptation 
 was hard. My life here is dull ; I long sometimes for a 
 little amusement, a little change." 
 
 " Thee shall have it." 
 
 That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both 
 dumb. 
 
 " And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax ? " 
 
 " Not a day, not an hour. It was a sudden freak of 
 mine." (My father shook his head with contemptuous 
 incredulity.) " Sir Abel Fletcher did I ever tell you 
 a lie ? If you will not believe me, believe your own son. 
 Ask Phineas no, no, ask him nothing ! " and he came 
 in great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. " Oh, 
 Phineas, how cruel I have been to you ! " 
 
 I tried to smile at him, being past speaking ; but my 
 father put John aside. 
 
 " Young man, I can take care of my son. Thee shalt 
 uot lead him into harm's way any more. Go ! I have been 
 mistaken in thee." 
 
 If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, 
 reproached us, 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 " it 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 a 
 good time to have taken thee into the business. Now " 
 
 There was silence. At last John muttered, in a low, 
 broken-hearted voice, " I deserve it all. I can go away. I 
 might, perhaps, earn my living elsewhere ; shall I ?"
 
 78 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 A.bel 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 myself with your father. 1. 
 content, Phineas ; 1 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 temptations of the world ; there- 
 fore as my clerk 1 retain him, as my son's companion 
 never ! " 
 
 We felt that " never " was irrevocable. 
 
 Yet 1 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 1 may come back to you some time. If 
 not " 
 
 I moaned out bitter words I hardly knew what I was 
 saying. My father took no notice of them, only went to 
 the door and called Jael. 
 
 Then, before the woman came, I had strength enough to 
 bid John go. 
 
 " Good-by. Don't forget me don't ! " 
 
 " 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 J 
 never once saw the face of John Halifax.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IT was the year 1800, long known in English households 
 aa " the dear year." The present generation can have no 
 conception of what a terrible time that was, War, 
 Famine, and Tumult stalking hand in hand, and no one to 
 stay them ; for between the upper and lower classes there 
 tvas a great gulf fixed ; the rich ground the faces of the 
 poor, the poor hated yet meanly succumbed to the rich; 
 neither had Christianity enough boldly to cross the line of 
 demarcation, and prove, the humbler, that they were men, 
 the higher and wiser, that they were gentlemen. 
 
 These troubles which were everywhere abroad reached 
 us even in the quiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, 
 personally, they touched me not, or, at least, only kept 
 fluttering like evil birds outside the dear home-tabernacle 
 where I and Patience sat, keeping our solemn counsel 
 together, for these two years had with me been very 
 hard. 
 
 Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I 
 
 was seldom told of any worldly cares, still I often fancied 
 
 things were going ill both within and without our doors. Jael 
 
 complained in an under-key of stinted housekeeping, or 
 
 boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in making ends meet ; 
 
 and my father's brow grew continually heavier, graver, 
 
 * Werner, sometimes so stern that I dared not wage what 
 
 .vas openly or secretly the quiet but incessant crusade of 
 
 . my existence, the bringing back of John Halifax. 
 
 He still remained my father's clerk ; nay, I sometimes 
 thought he was even advancing in duties and trusts, for I 
 heard of his being sent long journeys up and down England 
 to buy grain, Abel Fletcher having added to his tanning 
 business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazy whirr was so 
 familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these 
 journeys my father never spoke ; indeed, he rarely men- 
 tioned John at all. However he might employ and even
 
 80 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 trust him in business relations, I knew that in every 
 other way he was inexorable. 
 
 And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No under- 
 hand or clandestine friendship would he admit no, not 
 even for my sake. 1 knew quite well that until he could 
 walk in openly, honorably, proudly, he never would re-enter 
 my father's doors. Twice only he had written to me, on 
 my two birthdays, my father himself giving me in silence 
 the unsealed letters. They told me what I already was 
 sure of, that I held, and always should hold, my steadfast 
 place in his friendship. Nothing more. 
 
 One other fact I noticed, that a little lad, afterwards 
 discovered to be Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard- 
 working lot of the lost Bill, had somehow crept into the 
 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 anx- 
 ious 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 at nearly three shillings, and meal four 
 shillings a peck." 
 
 And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for 
 several days a week the water-wheel was as quiet as on 
 Sundays ; for my father kept his grain locked up, waiting 
 for what, he wisely judged, might be a worse harvest than 
 the last. But Jael, though she said nothing, often looked 
 at the flour-mill and shook her head. And after market- 
 day when she came in rather "flustrated," 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 tree in 
 the abbey yard, nor, if she could help it, would she even 
 let me sit watching the lazy Avon from the garden wall.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. &\ 
 
 One bunday it was the 1st of August, for my father 
 had just come back from meeting, very much later than 
 usual, and Jael said he had gone, as was his annual custom 
 on that his wedding-day, to see the Friends' burial-ground 
 in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from her kindred and 
 , people, my poor young mother had been laid on this Sun- 
 day I began to see that things were going wrong. Abel 
 Fletcher sat at dinner wearing the heavy, hard-lined look 
 which had grown upon his face, not unmingled with the 
 wrinkles planted by physical pain; for, with all his tem- 
 perance, 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 watch- 
 ing the stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land; notic- 
 ing too, more as a pretty bit in the landscape than as a 
 fact of vital importance, in how many places the half-ripe 
 corn was already cut, and piled in thinly-scattered sheaves 
 over tne fields. 
 
 After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his 
 household, in 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 
 absolute 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 pity the poor ? On First-day a woman cried after 
 me about wasting good flour in starch to-day, behold ! ' 
 and with a spasmodic bridling-up, she pointed to the 
 bouffante which used to stand up stiffly round her withered
 
 82 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 old throat, and stick out in front like a pouter pigeon 
 Alas! its glory and starch were alike departed; it now 
 appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowish 
 muslin. Poor Jael ! I knew this was the most heroic 
 personal sacrifice she could have made, yet I could not help 
 smiling ; even my father did the same. 
 
 " Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher ? " cried she, angrily. 
 ' Preach not to others while the sin lies on thy own 
 head." 
 
 And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular 
 intention, as, advancing sternly, she pointed to her master's 
 pate, where his long-worn powder was scarcely distinguish- 
 able from the snows of age. He bore the assault gravely 
 and unshrinkingly, merely saying, " Woman, peace ! " 
 
 " Nor while," pursued Jael, driven apparently to the 
 last and most poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath, 
 " while the poor folk be starving in scores about Norton 
 Bury, and the rich folk there will not sell their wheat 
 under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher." 
 
 My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or con- 
 science, and then Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the 
 other servant out of the room, and tended her master as 
 carefully as if she had not insulted him. In his fits of 
 gout, my father, unlike most men, became the quieter and 
 easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long fit 
 of pain, which left him considerably exhausted. When, 
 being at last relieved, he and I were sitting in the room 
 alone, he said to me : 
 
 " Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I 
 thought the mill would make up for it. But if it will not, 
 it will not. Wouldst thee mind, my son, being left a little 
 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 83 
 
 thread of hope which could draw me nearer to my heart s 
 desire. 
 
 On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard 
 as usual. I spent the day in my bed-room, which looked 
 over the garden, where I saw nothing but the waving of the 
 trees and the birds hopping over the smooth grass ; heard 
 nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, of the abbey 
 bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or 
 even in the next street, was to me faint as dreams. 
 
 At dinner-time I rose, went downstairs, and waited for 
 my father waited one, two, three hours. It was very 
 strange. He never, by any chance, overstayed bis tirr.e with- 
 out sending a message home. So, after some consideration 
 as to whether I dared encroach upon his formal habits so 
 much, and after much advice from Jael, who betrayed more 
 anxiety than was at all warranted by the cause she assigned, 
 namely, the spoiled dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to 
 the tan-yard to see after his master. 
 
 He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the 
 tan-yard was blocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid 
 starved patience of our Norton Bury poor had come to an 
 end at last they had followed the example of many 
 others. There was a bread riot in the town. 
 
 God only knows how terrible those " riots " were, when 
 the people rose in desperation, not from some delusion of 
 crazy, blood-thirsty " patriotism," but to get food for them- 
 selves, 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 alterna- 
 tives, starving or hanging. 
 
 The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was 
 not a large place, and had always abundance of small-pox 
 and fevers to keep the poor down numerically. Jem said 
 it was chiefly about our mill and our tan-yard that the 
 disturbance lay. 
 
 " And where is my father ? " 
 
 Jem " did n't know," and looked very much a* if he 
 didn't care. 
 
 " Jael, somebody must go at once and find my father."
 
 84 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I am going," said Jael, who had already put on hei 
 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. 1 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 
 harm came to thee ? " 
 
 This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it 
 was not my father's it was firmer, quicker, younger. I 
 sprang from the bark-heap. 
 
 " Phineas ! " 
 
 "John!" 
 
 What a .grasp that was both hands ! and how fondly 
 and proudly I looked up in his face, the still boyish face ; 
 but the figure was quite that of a man now. 
 
 For a moment 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."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 85 
 
 " Nay, dear John ! " 
 
 " Can 't can 't," said he, firmly, " not while your 
 father forbids. I must go." And he was gone. 
 
 Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him, 
 marv.elling how it was that he who had never known his 
 father should uphold so sternly the duty of filial obedience. 
 I think it ought to act as a solemn warning to those who 
 exact so much from the mere fact and name of parenthood, 
 without having in any way fulfilled its duties, that orphans 
 from birth often revere the ideal of that bond far more than 
 those who have known it in reality, always excepting 
 those children to whose blessed lot it has fallen to have the 
 ideal realized. 
 
 In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tan- 
 yard together. He was listening ay, listening and to 
 John Halifax ! But whatever the argument was, it failed 
 to move him. Greatly troubled 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 question now. Phineas, 
 help me to persuade your father to save his property. He 
 will not call for the aid of the law, seeing he is a Friend. 
 Besides, for the same reason, it might be useless asking." 
 
 " Verily ! " said my father, with a bitter and meaning 
 smile. 
 
 " But he might get his own men to defend his property, 
 and need not do what he is bent on doing, go to the mill 
 himself." 
 
 " Surely," was all Abe,l 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, do not 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
 
 86 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 one line, " my son, no opposition. Any who try that with 
 me, i'ail. 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 '11 take care no harm touches him ; but go you 
 home." 
 
 That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time 
 was too brief for argument, so the discussion was ended. He 
 followed my father and I followed him. For Jael, she dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 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 farther down the 
 river we heard a scuffling, and saw a number of men break- 
 ing down our garden wall. 
 
 " They think he is gone home," whispered John ; " we '11 
 get in here the safer. Quick, Phineas." 
 
 We crossed the little bridge. John took a key out of his 
 pocket, and let us into the mill by a small door, the only 
 entrance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It 
 had good need to be in such times. 
 
 The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the 
 machinery-room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, 
 dangerous stream. We stood there a good while it was 
 the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed 
 my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. 
 There were very many ; enough, in these times, to make a 
 large fortune by, a cursed fortune wrung out of human 
 lives. 
 
 " Oh ! how could my father " 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered John, u he has a son, 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 87 
 
 Miserable rioters ! A handful of weak, starved men, pelt- 
 ing us with stones and words ! One pistol-shot might have 
 routed them all, but my father was a man of peace. Small as 
 their force seemed, there was something at once formidable 
 and pitiful in the low howl that reached us at times. 
 
 " Bring out the bags ! Us mun have bread ! Throw 
 down thy corn, Abel Fletcher ! " 
 
 " Abel Fletcher will throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said 
 my father, leaning out of the upper window ; while a sound, 
 half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from 
 below. 
 
 " That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. " Thank you 
 thank you, Mr. Fletcher ; I knew you would yield at last." 
 
 " Did'st 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 youn 
 arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up. 
 
 " Now open the window dash the panes through i( 
 matters not. On to the window, I tell thee." 
 
 " But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot 
 oh, no ! you cannot mean that." 
 
 " Haul it up to the window, John Halifax." 
 
 But John remained immovable. 
 
 " I must do it myself, then ; " and in the desperate effort 
 he made, somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame 
 foot. Tortured into frenzy with the pain, or else, I will 
 still believe, my old father would not have done such a deed, 
 his failing strength seemed doubled and trebled. In an 
 instant more he had got the bag half through the window, 
 and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the 
 river below. 
 
 Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very 
 sight of the famished rioters ! A howl of fury and despair 
 arose. Some plunged into the water ere the eddies left by 
 the falling mass had ceased ; but it was too late. A sharp 
 substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw 
 thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon, thou- 
 sands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam or waded
 
 88 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 after them, clutching a handful here or there ; but by the 
 mill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon 
 disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was 
 drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like demons. 
 
 We could not look at them John and I. He put hig 
 hand over his eyes, muttering the name that, young man 
 as he was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thought 
 lessly on his lips. It was a sight that would move any one 
 to cry 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 centre 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 
 collected. In a minute we had crept forth and dashed out 
 of sight in the narrow path which had been made from the 
 mill to the tan-yard. 
 
 " Will you take my arm ? we must get on fast." 
 
 " Home ?" said my father, in a strangely quiet tone, 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 made a decisive negative gesture. The 
 stern old Quaker held to his principles still.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 89 
 
 " Then you must hide for a time, both of you. Come to 
 my room. You will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas, 
 for your sake and his own." 
 
 But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. 
 Grasping more tightly both John's arm and mine, which 
 for the first time in his life he leaned upon, he submitted to . 
 be led whither we chose. So, after this long interval oil 
 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 
 as 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 V " 
 
 " 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 were ? " 
 
 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 
 1 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 dosed. 1 sat watching the 
 sky over the house tops, which met in the old angles with 
 the same blue peeps between. 1 half forgot all the day's
 
 90 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 events ; it seemed but two weeks instead of two years ago 
 that John and I had sat in this attic window, conning out 
 Shakspeare for the first time. 
 
 Ere twilight I examined John's room. It was a good 
 deal changed ; the furniture was improved ; a score of in- 
 genious little contrivances made the tiny attic into a cozy 
 bed-chamber. One corner was full of shelves laden with 
 books, chiefly of a scientific and practical nature. John's 
 taste did not lead him into the current literature of the day ; 
 Cowper, Akenside, and Peter Pindar were alike indifferent 
 to him. I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare. 
 
 He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts. 
 There was lying in the window a telescope, the cylinder 
 made of pasteboard into which the lenses were ingen- 
 iously fitted. A rough telescope-stand of common deal 
 stood on the ledge of the roof, from which the field of view 
 must have been satisfactory enough to the young astrono- 
 mer. Other fragments of skilful handiwork, chiefly meant 
 for machinery on the Liliputian scale, were strewn about 
 the floor ; and on a chair, just as he had left it that morn- 
 ing, 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 veritureji to open the 
 window, we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in 
 the town. I trembled inwardly. But John was prudent 
 as well as brave ; besides, " everybody knew him." Surely 
 he was safe. 
 
 Faithfully, at supper-time, Jem entered. But he could 
 tell us no news; he had kept watch all the time on the 
 staircase, by desire of " Mr. Halifax," so he informed me. 
 My father asked no questions, not even about his mill. 
 From his look sometimes IJkncied he yet beheld in fancy
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. . 91 
 
 those starving men fighting over the precious food, de- 
 stroyed so wilfully, nay, wickedly. He'aven forgive me, his 
 son, if I too harshly use the word ; for I think till the day 
 of his death that cruel sight never wholly vanished from 
 the eyes of my poor father. 
 
 Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that 
 '' Master was looking sprack agin ; and warn't this a tidy 
 room, like ? " 
 
 I praised it, and supposed his mother was better off now. 
 
 " Ay, she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent ; and she 
 4ee 'un made comfortable. Not that he wants much, being 
 lut pretty much all day." 
 
 " What is he busy about of nights ? " 
 
 " Laming," said Jem, with an awed look. " He 's terri- 
 ble wise. But for all that, sometimes he '11 teach Charley 
 and me a bit out o' the Readamadeasy." (Keading-made- 
 easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupil meant.) " He 's very 
 kind to we, and to Mother too. Her says, that her do, Mr. 
 Halifax " 
 
 " Send the fellow away, Phineas," muttered my father, 
 turning his face to the wall. 
 
 I obeyed. But first I asked, in a whisper, if Jem had any 
 r dea when " Mr. Halifax " would be back ? 
 
 " He said, maybe not till morning. Them 's bad folks 
 about. He were 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 folks 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 John- 
 son, 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 get- 
 ting as helpless as thee." 
 
 So we kept watch together, all the night through ; some- 
 times dozing, sometimes waking up at some slight noise
 
 92 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 below or at the flicker of the long-wicked candle, which fear 
 converted into the glare of some incendiary fire, doubt- 
 less our own home. Now and then I heard my father 
 mutter something about " the lad being safe." I said 
 nothing ; I only prayed. 
 Thus the night wore away. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 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 soul 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 did n'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 ! would n't be long a-find- 
 ing out, though, on'y he says : * Jem, you stop 'ere wi' 
 they " (pointing his thumb up the staircase). " So, Master 
 Phineas, I stop." 
 
 And Jem settled himself, with a doggedly obedient but 
 most dissatisfied air, down by the fire-place. It was evi- 
 dent nothing would move him thence ; so he was as safe a 
 guard over my poor old fiber's slumber as the mastiff in
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 93 
 
 the tail-yard, who was as brave as a lion and as docile as a 
 child. My lasi 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, 
 vhile I took the said garments from him and unbolted the 
 door. At last it seemed to occur to him that he ought to 
 intercept me. 
 
 " But, sir, Mr. Halifax said " 
 
 " I am going to look for Mr. Halifax." 
 
 And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal 
 duty did not strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the 
 door-sill and gazed after me with a hopeless expression. 
 
 " I s'pose you mun have your way, sir ; but Mr. Halifax 
 said, ' Jem, you stop y'ere ' and y'ere I stop." 
 
 He went in, and I heard him bolting the door with a 
 sullen determination, as if he would have kept guard behind 
 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 
 smouldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, then, 
 had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction, fire. 
 Had my terrors been true ? Our house, and perhaps John 
 within it ! 
 
 On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur which I fancied I 
 heard ; but still there was no one in the street, no 
 one except the abbey watchman lounging in his box. I 
 roused him, and asked if all was safe? where were the 
 rioters ? 
 
 " What rioters ? " 
 
 ' At Abel Fletcher's mill ; they may be at his house 
 now " 
 
 " Ay, I think they be." 
 
 " And will not one man in the town help him ; no 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
 
 94 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 days. Liberty, justice, were idle names to Non-conformista 
 of every kind ; and all they knew of the glorious constitu- 
 tion 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 churchyard until 
 I saw, shining against the boles of the chestnut-trees, a red 
 light. It was one of the hempen torches. Now, at last, I 
 had got in the midst of that small body of men, " the 
 rioters." 
 
 A mere handful they were, not above two score, appar- 
 ently the relics of the band which had attacked the mill, 
 ioined with a few plough-lads from the country round ; but 
 they were desperate. They had come up the Colthain 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 " " No- 
 body knows where he be." No, thank God ! 
 
 " Be us all y'ere ? " said the man with the torch, hold- 
 ing it up so as to see round him. It was well then that 
 I appeared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me, except 
 one man, who skulked behind a tree, and of whom I was 
 rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching. 
 
 " Ready, lads ? Now for the rosin ! Blaze 'un out." 
 
 But in the eager scuffle, the torch, the only one alight, 
 was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths 
 arose ; though whose fault it was no one seemed to know ; 
 but I missed my man from behind the tree, nor found him 
 till after the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest 
 lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our 
 own railings. He looked around 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 ; n
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 95 
 
 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 most 
 silently ; and silent hearts are strong. 
 
 " Now, Phineas, we have not a minute's time. I must 
 have you safe ; we must get into the house." 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 " Jael ; she is as good as a staff of constables ; she has 
 braved them once to-night, but they 're back again, or will 
 be directly." 
 
 " And the mill ? " 
 
 " Safe, as yet ; I have had three of the tan-yard men there 
 since yesterday morning, though your father did not know. 
 I have been going to and fro all night between there and 
 here, waiting till the rioters should come back from the 
 Severn mills. Hist ! there 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, 
 mounting guard behind it with something that looked very 
 like my father's pistols, though I would not discredit her 
 among our peaceful Society by positively stating the fact. 
 
 " Bravo ! " said John, when we stood all together in the 
 barricaded house and heard the threatening murmur of 
 voices and feet outside. " Bravo, Jael ! The wife of Heber 
 the Kenite was no braver woman than you." 
 
 She looked gratified, and followed John obediently from 
 room to room. 
 
 " I have done all as thee bade me ; thee art a sensible 
 lad, John Halifax. We are secure, I think." 
 
 Secure ? bolts and bars secure against fire ? for that was 
 threatening us now. 
 
 " They can't mean it, surely they can't mean it," re- 
 peated 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
 
 96 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 '11 speak to them," he said. " Unbar the window, 
 Jael ; " and before I could hinder, he was leaning right out. 
 " Holloa, there ! " 
 
 At his loud and commanding voice a wave of 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 '11 get hanged for burning out 
 a Quaker ! " 
 
 "That be true enough," muttered Jael, between her 
 teeth. " We must e'en fight, as Mordecai's people fought, 
 hand to hand, until they slew their enemies." 
 
 " Fight ! " repeated John, half to himself, as he stood at 
 the now closed window, against which more than one blazing 
 torch began to rattle. " Fight with these ? What are you 
 doing, Jael ? " For she had taken down a large book, 
 the last book in the house she would have taken under less 
 critical circumstances, and with it was trying to stop up a 
 broken pane. 
 
 " No, my good Jael, not this ; " and he carefully put back 
 the volume in its place, that volume in which he might 
 have read, as day after day, and year after year, we Chris- 
 tians 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 by the book-shelves, 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 '11 
 bear me witness to your father that I did 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, 1 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 97 
 
 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. Terri- 
 ried, I implored him not to risk his life. 
 
 " Life is not always the first thing to be thought of," said 
 he, gently. "Don't be afraid, I shall come to no harm. 
 But I must do what I think right, if it is to be done." 
 
 While he spoke, I could hardly hear him for the bellowings 
 outside. More savage still grew the cry. 
 
 " Burn 'em out ! burn 'em out ! they be only Quakers ! " 
 
 " There 's not a minute to lose, stop, let me think, 
 Jael, is that a pistol ?" 
 
 " Loaded," she said, handing it over to him with a kind 
 of stern delight. Certainly Jael was not born to be a 
 Friend. 
 
 John ran downstairs, and before I guessed his purpose 
 had unbolted the hall door, and stood on the top of the 
 flight of steps, in full view of the mob. 
 
 There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. 
 A pillar sheltered me ; I do not think he saw me, though I 
 stood close behind him. 
 
 So sudden had been his act that even the rioters did not 
 seem to have noticed or clearly understood it, till the next 
 lighted torch showed them the young man standing there, 
 with his back to the door outside the door. 
 
 The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for 
 the moment he was safe. They were awed, nay, para- 
 lyzed, 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 rising. 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
 
 98 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 hurl it back again, but he did not ; he only threw it down, 
 and stamped it out safely with his foot. This simple action 
 had a wonderful effect on the crowd. 
 
 The big fellow advanced to the gate, and called John by 
 his name. 
 
 " Is that you, Jacob Baines ? I am sorry to see you here." 
 
 "Be ye, sir?" 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 "Nought wi' thee. We wants Abel Fletcher. Where 
 is '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." " He be a real gentleman." " No, he coined 
 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." 
 
 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 'ec ! You be one o' we ! " 
 
 " No, I am not one of you. I 'd be ashamed to come in the 
 night to 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 be- 
 cause 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 ? " 
 
 That argument seemed to strike home. There is always 
 a lurking sense of rude justice hi 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."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 99 
 
 This seemed to be taken rather angrily ; but John went 
 ;n speaking, as if he did not observe the fact. 
 
 " Nor am I one to be threatened either. Look here the 
 iirst 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 t 
 bo hungry. I 'in sorry for you, sorry from the bottom ol 
 my heart." 
 
 There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor 
 the murmur which followed it. 
 
 " But what must us do, Mr. Halifax ? " cried Jacob 
 Baines : " us be starved a'most. What 's the good o' talking 
 to we?" 
 
 John's countenance relaxed. I saw him lift his head and 
 shake his hair back with that pleased gesture I remember 
 so well of old. He went down to the locked gate. 
 
 " Suppose I give 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 
 of you hanged, even though Abel Fletcher is a Quaker. 
 Mind, you '11 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 I marvel 
 now to think of it but she implicitly obeyed. Only I 
 heard her fix the bar to the closed front door, and go 
 back, with a strong, 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 !
 
 100 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 come alike, and were clutched, 
 gnawed, and scrambled for, in the fierce selfishness of hunger. 
 Afterward there was a call for drink. 
 
 " Water, Jael ; bring them water." 
 
 " Beer ! " shouted some. 
 
 " Water," repeated John. " Nothing but water. I '11 have 
 no drunkards rioting at my master's door." 
 
 And either by chance or design, he let them hear the 
 click of his pistol. But it was hardly needed. They were 
 all cowed by a mightier weapon still, the best weapon a 
 man can use, his own firm, indomitable will. 
 
 At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. 
 John told them so, and they believed him. Little enough, 
 indeed, was sufficient for some of them ; wasted with long 
 famine, they turned sick and faint, and dropped down even 
 with bread in their mouths, unable to swallow it. Others 
 gorged themselves to the full, and then lay along the steps, 
 supine as satisfied brutes. Only a few sat and ate like 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 
 dangei now." 
 
 No, there was none, not even for Abel Fletcher's son. 
 I stood safe by John's side, very happy, very proud. 
 
 " Well, my men," he said, looking round with a smile, 
 'have you had enough to eat?" 
 
 " Oh, ay ! " they all cried. 
 
 And one man added, " Thank the Lord ! " 
 
 " That 's right, Jacob Baines. And another time, trust 
 the Lord. You would n't then have been abroad this sum 
 mer 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 '11 become
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 101 
 
 o* the little 'uns at home ? I say, Mr. Halifax," and he 
 seemed waxing desperate again, " we must get food some- 
 how." 
 
 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 halfpenny ? If you had come 
 to him and said, ' Master, times are hard, we can't live upon 
 our wages, ' he might I don't say that he would but he 
 might even have given you the food you tried to steal." 
 
 " D' ye think he 'd give it us now ? " and Jacob Baines, 
 the big, gaunt, savage fellow, who had been the ringleader, 
 the same, too, who had spoken of his " little 'uns," 
 came and looked steadily in John's face. 
 
 " I knew thee as a lad ; thee 'rt a young man now, as will 
 be a father some o' these days. Oh ! Mr. Halifax, may 'ee 
 ne'er want a meal o' good meat for the missus and the bab- 
 bies at home, if ee'll get a bit o' bread for our'n this day." 
 
 " My man, I '11 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 
 he would not do it for fear of that. No, he is a just man 
 I am not afraid. Give me some paper, Jael." 
 
 He sat down as composedly as if he had been alone in - 
 the counting-house, and wrote. I looked over his shoulder, 
 admiring his clear, firm handwriting, the precision, con- 
 centrativeness, 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
 
 102 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 man ; and without which the cleverest man alive can never 
 he 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. 
 
 " Is n't that 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 is n'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. WJty, 
 think you ? " 
 
 " I doan't know," said Jacob Baines, humbly. 
 
 " 1 '11 tell you. Because Abel Fletcher is a Quaker and a 
 Christian." 
 
 " Hurra for Abel Fletcher ! hurra for the Quakers ! " 
 shouted they, waking up the echoes down Norton Bury 
 streets ; which, of a surety, had never echoed that shout 
 before. And so the riot was over. 
 
 John Halifax closed the hall door and came in, un- 
 steadily, all but staggering. Jael placed a chair for him, 
 worthy soul ! she was wiping her old eyes. He sat down, 
 shivering, speechless. I put my hand on his shoulder ; he 
 took it, and pressed it hard. 
 
 " Oh ! Phineas, lad, I 'm glad ; glad it 's safe over." 
 
 " Yes, thank God ! " 
 
 "Ay, indeed; thank God!" 
 
 He covered his eyes for a minute or two, and 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 103 
 
 ten years older since yesterday. He stared, bewildered and 
 angry, at John Halifax. 
 
 " Eh, young man oh ! I remember. Where is my son 
 where 's my Phineas ? " 
 
 I fell on his neck as if I had been a child. And almost 
 as if it had been a child's feeble head, mechanically he 
 smoothed and patted mine. 
 
 " Thee art not hurt ? Nor any one ? " 
 
 " No," John answered ; " nor is either the house or the 
 tan-yard injured." 
 
 He looked amazed. " How has that been ? " 
 
 " Phineas will tell you. Or, stay, better wait till you 
 are at home." 
 
 But my father insisted on hearing. I told the whole, 
 without any comments on John's 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 pro- 
 ceeded, 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 considera- 
 ble loss, did he utter a word or move a muscle. 
 
 John at length asked him if he were satisfied. 
 
 " Quite satisfied." 
 
 But having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked 
 together on his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all 
 the face except the rigid mouth and chin sat so long, so 
 motionless, that we became uneasy. 
 
 John spoke to him gently, almost as a son would have 
 spoken. 
 
 " Are you very lame still ? Could I help you to walk 
 home?" 
 
 My father looked up, and slowly held out his hand. 
 
 " Thee hast been a good lad, and a kind lad to us. I 
 thank thee." 
 
 There was no answer none. But all the words in the 
 world could not match that happy silence. 
 
 By degrees we got my father home. It was just such an- 
 other summer morning as the one, two years back, when
 
 304 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 we two had stood, exhausted and trembling, before that 
 sternly-bolted door. We both thought of that day : I knew 
 not if my father did also. 
 
 He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in 
 the very seat, in the very room, where he had so harshly 
 judged us judged him. 
 
 Something, perhaps, of that bitterness rankled in the 
 young man's spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold. 
 
 " Come in," said my father, looking up. 
 
 " If I am welcome ; not otherwise." 
 
 " Thee art welcome." 
 
 He came in I drew him in and sat down with us. 
 But his manner was irresolute, his fingers closed and un- 
 closed 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 wilt be able 
 to set up for thyself, or I may take thee into partnership 
 we '11 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. 105 
 
 ( CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " WELL done, Phineas, to walk round the garden with- 
 out once resting ! now I call that grand, after an indi- 
 vidual has been ill a month. However, you must calm 
 your superabundant energies, and be quiet." 
 
 I was not unwilling, for I still felt very weak. But 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 and physi 
 cally. He was life and health to me, with his brave cheer 
 fulness, his way of turning all minor troubles into pleasant- 
 ries, till they seemed to break and vanish away, sparkling, 
 like the foam on the top of the wave. Yet all the while 
 one knew well that he could meet any great evil as gal- 
 lantly 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 some- 
 thing, with the new century it began this year. Did it not 
 seem very odd at first to have to write ' 1800 ? ' ' 
 
 " John, what a capital hand you write now ! " 
 
 " Do I ? That 's somebody's credit. Do you remember 
 my first lesson on the top of the Mythe ? " 
 
 " I wonder what has become of those two gentlemen ? " 
 
 " Oh ! did you never hear ? Young Mr. Brithwood is the 
 Squire now. He married, last month, Lady Somebody 
 Something, a fine lady from abroad." 
 
 " And Mr. March what of him ? "
 
 106 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I have n't the least idea. Come now, shall 1 read flic 
 paper ? " 
 
 He read well, and I liked to listen to him. It was, I re- 
 member, something about " the spacious new quadrangles, 
 to be called Russell and Tavistock Squares, with elegantly 
 laid out nursery-grounds adjoining." 
 
 " It must be a fine place, London." 
 
 " Ay ; I should like to see it. Your father says perhaps 
 he shall have to send me this whiter 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 Residence,' and do you know, I think I 've found 
 one at last. Should n'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 clus- 
 ter-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. 
 
 " Should n't you like to live on a hillside, to be at the 
 top of everything, overlooking everything ? Well, that 's 
 Enderley ; the village lies just under the brow of the 
 Mat." 
 
 " 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 1 
 mean," he added, correcting himself, " that it 's a thor-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 107 
 
 ough country spot ; and I like the country better than tho 
 town." 
 
 " Do you still ? Would you really like to take to the 
 ' shepherd's life and state,' upon which my namesake here 
 is so eloquent ? Let us see what he says." 
 
 And from the handful of books that usually lay strewn 
 about wherever we two sat, I took up one he had lately got, 
 with no small pains I was sure, and had had bound in its 
 own proper color, and presented it to me, "The Purple 
 Island " and " Sicelides " of Phineas Fletcher. People sel- 
 dom 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 'steal- 
 ing night,' the sun is already down below the yew hedge. 
 Are you cold ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it." 
 
 " Then we '11 begin : 
 
 i 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 to understand poetry. A poet ought to 
 see things more widely, and express them more vividly, 
 than ordinary folk." 
 
 " Don't you perceive ? he means the pawns on the chess- 
 board, the common people." 
 
 " Phineas, don't say the common people I 'm a com- 
 mon 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 '
 
 108 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Which 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 telf you this o**e fact, very interesting, 
 you '11 allow, that 1 saw a silken gown hanging up in the 
 kitchen at Rose Cottage. Now, though Mrs. Tod is a 
 decent, comely woman, I don't think it belonged to her." 
 
 " She may have lodgers." 
 
 " I think she said she had, an old gentleman ; but he 
 would n't wear a silk gown." 
 
 " His wife might. Now, do go on reading." 
 
 " Certainly ; 1 only wished 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 
 declaration of his intentions concerning him had, so to 
 speak, settled John's future career. He seemed aware of 
 some crisis in his life, arrived or impending, which disturbed 
 the generally even balance of his temperament. 
 
 " Nay, I '11 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 tossed on boisterous seas 
 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease, 
 Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. 
 
 " His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; 
 
 His little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively image of his father's face : 
 
 Never his humble house or state torment him, 
 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him ; 
 And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tombs content him."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 10d 
 
 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. 
 
 " David," I said, after a pause, " what are you thinking 
 about ? " 
 
 He started, with his old, quick, vivid blush ; " Oh, 
 nothing. No, that's not quite true. I was thinking 
 that, so far as happiness goes, this * shepherd's ' is my 
 ideal of a happy life, ay, down to the ' grassy tomb.' " 
 
 " Your fancy leaps at once to the grassy tomb ; but the 
 shepherd enjoyed a few intermediate stages of felicity 
 before that." 
 
 " I was thinking of those likewise." 
 
 " Then you intend some day to have a * faithful spouse ' 
 and a ' little son ' ? " 
 
 " I hope so, God willing." 
 
 It may seem strange, but this was the first time our 
 conversation had ever wandered in a similar direction. 
 Though he was twenty, and I twenty-two, to us both and 
 I thank Heaven that we both could look up in the face of 
 Heaven and say so ! to us both, the follies and wicked- 
 ness of youth were, if not equally unknown, equally and 
 alike hateful. Many may doubt or smile at the fact ; but I 
 state it now, in my old age, with 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 purpose 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 con-
 
 110 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 versation 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 began again talk- 
 ing about Enderley. 
 
 I soon found that, in this plan, my part was simply ac 
 quiescence ; my father and John had already arranged it 
 all. I was to be in charge of the latter ; nothing could in- 
 duce Abel Fletcher to leave, even for a day, his house, his 
 garden, and his tan-yard. We two young men were to set 
 up for a month or two our bachelor establishment at Mrs. 
 Tod's, John riding thrice a week over to Norton Bury to 
 bring news of me, and to fulfil his duties at the tan-yard. 
 One could see plain enough and very grateful to me was 
 the sight that whether or no Abel Fletcher acknowledged 
 it, his right hand in all his business affairs was the lad 
 John Halifax. 
 
 On a lovely August day we started for Enderley. It was 
 about eight miles off, on a hilly, cross-country road. We 
 lumbered slowly along in our post-chaise; I leaned back, 
 enjoying the fresh air, the changing views, and chiefly to 
 see how intensely John enjoyed them too. 
 
 He looked extremely well to-day, handsome, I was 
 about to write ; but John was never, even in his youth, 
 " handsome." Nay, I have heard people call him " plain ; " 
 but that was not true. His face had that charm per- 
 haps the greatest, certainly the most lasting, either in 
 women or men of infinite variety. You were always 
 finding out something, an expression strange as ten- 
 der, or the track of a swift, brilliant thought, or an 
 indication of feeling different from, perhaps deeper than, 
 anything which had 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. Foi 
 it was not one of your impassive faces, whose owners 
 count it pride to harden into a mass of stone those linea- 
 ments which Nature made as the flesh and blood repre 
 sentation of the man's soul. True, it had its reticences, 
 its sacred disguises, its noble powers of silence and self- 
 control. It was a fair-written, open book ; only, to read it
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. Ill 
 
 clearly, you must come from its own country, and under- 
 stand the same language. 
 
 For the rest, John was decidedly, like the " David " whose 
 name 1 still gave him now and then, " a goodly person, " 
 tall, well-built, and strong. " The glory of a young man ig 
 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 some< 
 thing of our Quaker fashion. On this day, I remember, I 
 noticed an especial carefulness of attire, at his age neither 
 unnatural nor unbecoming. His well-fitting coat and long- 
 flapped vest, garnished with the snowiest of lawn frills 
 and ruffles ; his knee-breeches, black silk hose, and shoes 
 adorned with the largest and brightest of steel buckles, 
 made up a costume, which, strange 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 he 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 could n't do that, John. You could n't put on 
 .hat you were born with." 
 
 He laughed ; but I think he was pleased. 
 
 We had now come into a hilly region. John leaped out 
 and gained the top of the steep road long before the post- 
 chaise did. 1 watched him standing, balancing in his hands 
 the riding-whip which had replaced in his favor the ever- 
 lasting rose-switch or willow-wind of his boyhood. His 
 figure was outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown 
 backward a little, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest 
 zest, on the breezy Flat before him. His hair -a little
 
 112 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 farther, and came to the chief land- 
 mark of the high moorland, a quaint hostlery, called the 
 " Bear." Bruin swung aloft, pole in hand, brown and fierce, 
 on an old-fashioned sign, as he and his progenitors had 
 probably swung for two centuries or more. 
 
 " Is this Enderley ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not quite, but near it. You never saw the sea ? Well, 
 from this point I can show you something very like it. Do 
 you see that gleaming bit in the landscape far away ? 
 That 's water that 's our very own Severn, swelled to an 
 estuary. But you must imagine the estuary ; you can only 
 get that tiny peep of water, glittering like a great diamond 
 that some young Titaness has flung out of her necklace 
 down among the hills." 
 
 " David, you are actually growing poetical." 
 
 " Am 1 ? Well, I do feel rather strange to-day, crazy 
 like ; a high wind always sends me half crazy with delight. 
 Did you ever feel such a breeze ? And there 's something 
 so gloriously free in this high level common, as flat as if 
 my Titaness had found a little Mont Blanc, and amused 
 herself with patting it down like a dough-cake." 
 
 " A very culinary goddess." 
 
 " Yes ! but a goddess after all. And her dough-cake, her 
 mushroom, her flattened Mont Blanc, is very fine. What 
 a broad green sweep nothing but sky and common, com- 
 mon and sky. This is Enderley Flat. We shall come to 
 its edge soon, where it drops abruptly into such a pretty 
 valley. There, look down that 's the church. We 're on 
 a level with the top of its tower. Take care, my lad," 
 to the post-boy, who was crossing with difficulty the literally
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 113 
 
 " pathless waste," - - " don't lurch us into the quarry-pits, 
 or topple us at once down the slope, where we shall roll over 
 i 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." 
 
 As he spoke, his unwonted buoyancy softened into a 
 quietness of manner more befitting that word " happiness." 
 
 Strange word ! hardly in my vocabulary. Yet, when he 
 uttered it, I seemed to understand it and to be content. 
 
 We wound a little way down the slope, and came in front 
 of Rose Cottage. It was well named. I never in my life 
 had seen such a bush of bloom. They hung in clusters, 
 those roses, a dozen in a group ; pressing their pinky 
 cheeks together in a mass of family fragrance, pushing in 
 at the window, climbing up even to the very attic. There 
 was a yellow jasmine over the porch at one front door, 
 and a woodbine at the other. The cottage had two en- 
 trances, each distinct. But the general impression it 
 gave, both as to sight and scent, was of roses, nothing 
 but roses. 
 
 " How are you, Mrs. Tod ? " as a comely, middle-aged body 
 appeared at the right-hand doorway, dressed sprucely in one 
 of those things Jael called a " coat and jacket," likewise a 
 red calamanco petticoat tucked up at the pocket-holes. 
 
 " 1 be pretty fair, sir ; be you the same ? The children 
 ha' not forgotten you, you see, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 " So much the better ! " and he patted two or three little 
 white heads, and tossed the youngest high up in the air. It 
 looked very strange to see John with a child in his arms. 
 
 " Don't 'ee make more noise than 'ee can help, my lad," 
 the good woman said to our post-boy ; " because, sir, the sick 
 gentleman bean't so well again to-day." 
 
 " I am sorry for it. We would not have driven up to the 
 door, had we known. Which is his room ? " 
 
 Mrs. Tod pointed to the window not on our side of the
 
 114 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 
 L :> be shut up in doors on such a summer evening as this ! " 
 
 It did seem a sad sight, that closed window, outside 
 which was the fresh, balmy air, the sunset, and the roses. 
 
 " And how do you like Enderley ? " asked John, when, tea 
 being over, I lay and rested, while he sat leaning his elbow 
 on the window-sill, and his cheek against a bunch of those 
 ever-intruding, ever-inquisitive roses. 
 
 " It is very, very pretty, and so comfortable, almost like 
 home." 
 
 " I feel as if it were home," John said, half to himself. 
 " Do you know, I can hardly believe that I have only seen 
 this place once before ; it is so familiar. I seem to know 
 quite well that slope of common before the door, with its 
 black dots of furze-bushes. And that wood below ; what a 
 clear line its top makes against the yellow sky ! There, that 
 high ground to the right ; it 's all dusky now, but it makes 
 such a nice view by daylight. And between it and Enderley 
 is the prettiest valley, where the road slopes down just under 
 those chestnut trees." 
 
 " How well you seem to know the place already." 
 
 "As I tell you, I like it. I hardly ever felt so content 
 before. We will have a happy time, Phineas." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" How even if I had felt differently 
 could I say anything but " yes " to him then ? 
 
 I lay until it grew quite dark, and I could only see a dim 
 shape sitting at the window, instead of John's known face ; 
 then I bade him a good-night, and retired. Directly after- 
 ward I heard him, as I knew he would, dash out of the 
 house and away toward the Flat. In the deep quiet of this 
 lonely spot I could distinguish, for several minutes, the di- 
 minishing 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. 

 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 116 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " THAT Mrs. Tod is an extraordinary woman. I repeat 
 it, a most extraordinary woman." 
 
 And leaning his elbows on the table, from which the said 
 extraordinary woman had just removed breakfast, John 
 looked over to me with his own merry, brown eyes. 
 
 " Wherefore, David ? " 
 
 " She has a house full of children, yet manages to keep it 
 quiet and her own temper likewise. Astonishing patience ! 
 However people attain it who have to do with brats, / 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 win- 
 dows. And that reminds me of another remarkable virtue 
 in Mrs. Tod, she can hold her tongue." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " In two whole days she has not communicated to us a 
 single fact concerning our neighbors in the other half of 
 Rose Cottage." 
 
 " Did you want to know ?" 
 
 John laughingly denied ; then allowed that he always 
 had a certain pleasure in eliciting information on men and 
 things. 
 
 " The wife being indicated, I suppose, by that very 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 in- 
 terest in your neighbors. So I 've a great mind to indulge 
 you with an important idea, suggestion, discovery. Harkee, 
 friend ! " and he put on a comical face of sentimental
 
 116 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 mystery, not a bad copy of our old acquaintance, Mr. Charles 
 " what, if the the individual should not be an old lady 
 at all?" 
 
 " What ! The old gentleman's wife ? " 
 
 " Wife ? ahem ! more jumping at conclusions. No ; 
 let us keep on the safe side and call her the individual. 
 In short, the owner of that 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 was ill." 
 
 I could not help laughing at John's original notions of 
 conjugal duty. 
 
 " Besides, Mrs. Tod always calls her invalid ' the old 
 gentleman,' and I don't believe this was an elderly 
 lady." 
 
 " Nay, old men do sometimes marry young women." 
 
 " Yes, but it is always a pity ; and sometimes not quite 
 right. No," and I was amused to see how gravely and 
 doggedly John kept to his point, " though this lady did 
 not look like a sylph or a wood-nymph, being neither very 
 small nor very slight, and having a comfortable woollen 
 cloak and hood over the 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 schoolboy 
 does a butterfly, for that mere gratification of staring at 
 her. I stayed on the top of the Flat till she had gone in 
 doors." 
 
 * Into Rose Cottage ? " 
 
 "Why yes." 
 
 "She had, doubtless, gone to fetch new-laid eggs for
 
 JOtiN HALIFAX. 117 
 
 her I mean for the sick gentleman's breakfast. Kind 
 soul ! " 
 
 " You may laugh, 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 word in his quiet, 
 iirm way ; " I object strongly to divinities. How very un- 
 pleasant to woo an angel of perfection, and find her out at 
 ;ast to be only Mrs- " 
 
 "Halifax," suggested I; at which he laughed, slightly 
 coloring. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " JKequiescat 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 merrily. It was like morning sunshine only 
 to see his face. No morbid follies had ever tainted his 
 healthy nature, whatsoever romance was there and never 
 was there a thoroughly noble nature without some romance 
 in it. But it lay deep down, calm and unawakened. His 
 heart was as light and as 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 '11 
 take a walk before dinner ? You '11 not be moping ?" 
 
 No ; why should I, who knew I had always, whether
 
 118 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 absent or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing, of be- 
 ing first in his thoughts and cares ? who, whether he ex- 
 pressed 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 to me ? As yet, I had it all. And God, who 
 knows how little else I had, will pardon, if in my unspeak- 
 able 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 merri- 
 ment, too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors 
 when, as John said, " the duties of our responsible position" 
 would allow. 
 
 " Responsible position ! It 's our good landlady who 
 ought to talk about that, with two sets of lodgers, a 
 husband, and an indefinite number of children. There's 
 one of them got into mischief at last. Hark ! " 
 
 " It 's Jack, my namesake. Bless my life ! I knew he 
 would come to some harm 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 un- 
 lucky 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 sc 
 much trouble to the gentleman. 
 
 " But he be always getting into mischief, sir, that boy. 
 Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got 
 playing with the carriage-horse, and it kicked him and 
 broke his arm. A deal he cares ; he be just as sprack and 
 mad as ever. As I say to Tod, it bean't no use fretting 
 over that boy." 
 
 " Have patience," answered John, who had again carried
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 119 
 
 the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlor into 
 Mrs, Tod's kitchen the centre room of the cottage and 
 was trying to divert the torrent of maternal indignation, 
 while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly-looking 
 wound. " Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry 
 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 
 forgiven when one has been naughty. Is n't it so, Jack, 
 my namesake ? " 
 
 " Jack ought to be proud o' that, sir," said the mother, 
 respectfully ; " and there 's some 1 at in what you say, too. 
 You talk like my master does o' Sundays. Tod be a 
 Scotchman, Mr. Halifax ; and they 're good folk, the Scotch, 
 and read their Bibles hard. There 's a deal about forgiving 
 in the Bible, is n't there, sir ? " 
 
 " Exactly," John answered smiling. " And so, Jack, 
 you 're safe this time ; only you must not disobey your 
 mother again, for the sake of donkeys or anything else." 
 
 " No, sir ; thank 'ee, sir," sobbed Jack, humbly. " You 
 be a gentleman, Mr. March bean't : he said it served me 
 right for getting under his horses." 
 
 " Hold thy tongue ! " said Jack's mother, sharply ; for 
 the latch of the opposite door was just then lifted, and a 
 lady stood there. 
 
 " Mrs. Tod, my father says " 
 
 Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her 
 voice a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and de- 
 cided in tone John and I had both involuntarily turned. 
 We felt awkward, doubtful whether to stay or retire 
 abruptly. She saved us the choice. 
 
 " Mrs. Tod, my father will take his soup at eleven. You 
 will remember ? " 
 
 " Yes, Miss March." 
 
 Upon which Miss March shut the door at once, and 
 vanished. 
 
 She wore a gray silken gown. I glanced at John, but h 
 did not see me ; his eyes were fixed on the door, which
 
 120 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 had disclosed and concealed the momentary picture. Its 
 momentariness impressed it the more vividly on my 
 memory I have it there still. 
 
 A girl, in early but not precocious maturity, rather tall, 
 of a figure built more for activity and energy than the mere 
 fragility of sylph-like grace : dark-complexioned, dark-eyed, 
 dark-haired, the whole coloring being of that soft dark- 
 ness of tone which gives a sense of something at once warm 
 and tender, strong and womanly. Thorough woman she 
 seemed, not a bit of the angel about her. Scarcely beau- 
 tiful, and " pretty " would have been the very last word 
 to have applied to her ; but there was around her an atmos- 
 phere 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 is Miss March," said our landlady, when she had 
 disappeared. 
 
 "Is it?" said John, removing his eyes from the shut 
 door. 
 
 " She be very sensible like for a young body of only 
 seventeen : more sensible and pleasanter than her father, 
 who is always ailing and always grumbling. Poor gentle- 
 man ! maybe he can't help it. But it be terrible hard for 
 the daughter ; bean't it, sir ? " 
 
 " Very," said John. His laconism was extraordinary. 
 
 Still he kept standing by the kitchen table, waiting till 
 the last bandage had been sewn on Jack's cut forehead, 
 and even some minutes after his protege had begun playing 
 about as usual. It was I who had to suggest that we 
 should not intrude in Mrs. Tod's kitchen any longer. 
 
 " No, certainly not. Come, Phineas. Mrs. Tod I hope 
 our presence did not inconvenience the young lady ? " 
 
 " Bless your heart, sir ! nothing ever inconveniences she. 
 There bean't a pleasanter young body alive. She '11 often 
 come into this kitchen, just as you did, gentlemen, and 
 very happy to see you always," added Mrs. Tod, courtesy-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 121 
 
 ing. " When Mr. March is asleep, she '11 come and sit for 
 half an hour talking to Tod and me, and playing with the 
 baby " 
 
 Here, probably at sound of its name, the individual al- 
 luded to set up, from its cradle in the corner, such a terrific 
 squall, that we two 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 Severn five years ago. What a romantic con- 
 juncture of circumstances i " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said John, quickly, more quickly than 
 he usually spoke to me, then came back to wish me a 
 kind, specially 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 
 sloping common, turning once to look back at Rose Cottage 
 ere he finally disappeared between the chestnut-trees : a 
 goodly sight, for he was an admirable horseman. 
 
 When he was gone, I, glancing lazily up at Mr. March's 
 window, saw a hand, and, I fancied, a white-furred wrist, 
 pulling down the blind. It amused me to think Miss March 
 might possibly have been watching him likewise. 
 
 I spent the whole long day alone in the cottage parlor, 
 chiefly meditating ; though more than once friendly Mrs. 
 Tod broke in upon my solitude. She treated me in a moth- 
 erly, free-and-easy way, not half so deferentially as she 
 treated John Halifax. 
 
 The sun had gone down over Nunnely Hill, behind the
 
 122 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 four tall Italian poplars which stood on the border of our 
 bit of wilderness, three together, and one apart. They 
 were our landmarks, and skymarks too ; for the first 
 sunbeam coming across the common struck their tops of a 
 morning, and the broad western glimmer showed their forms 
 distinctly until far in the night. They were just near 
 enough for me to hear their faint rustling in windy weather ', 
 on calm days they stood up straight against the sky, like 
 memorial columns. They were friends of mine, those four 
 poplars ; sometimes they almost seemed alive. We made 
 acquaintance on this first night when I sat watching for 
 John, and we kept up the friendship ever afterward. 
 
 It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs 
 clattering up the road : joyfully I ran out. 
 
 David was not quite his youthful, gay self that night, 
 not quite, as he expressed it, " the David of the sheep-folds." 
 He was very tired, and had what he called " the tan-yard 
 feeling," the oppression of business cares. 
 
 " Times are hard," said he, when we had finally shut out 
 the star-light, and Mrs. Tod had lit candles, bidden ua 
 good-night in her free, independent way, and " hoped Mr. 
 Halifax had everything he wanted." She always seemed to 
 consider him the head of our little manage. 
 
 " The times are very hard," repeated John, thoughtfully. 
 " I don't see how your father can rightly be left with so 
 many anxieties on his shoulders. I must manage to get to 
 Norton Bury at least five days a week. You will have 
 enough of solitude, I fear." 
 
 " And you will have little enough of the pleasant country 
 life you planned, and which you seem so to delight in." 
 
 " Never mind ; perhaps it 's good for me. I have a life 
 of hard work before me, and can't afford to get used to too 
 much pleasure. But we '11 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-morrow ? " 
 
 " 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. J
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 123 
 
 could see it did not affect him in the least. " Nay, I know 
 what you mean ; but I had forgotten her, or, if not abso- 
 lutely 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 perfectly grave and easy manner of treating and dis- 
 missing the subject was a tacit -reproach to me. I let the 
 matter drop ; we had much more serious topics afloat than 
 gossip about our neighbors. 
 
 At seven next morning we were out on the Flat. 
 
 " I 'm not going to let you stand here in the dews, Phm- 
 eas. Come a little farther on, to my terrace, as I call it. 
 There 's a panorama ! " 
 
 It was, indeed. All round the high flat a valley lay, like 
 a moat, or as if some broad river had been dried up in its 
 course, and, century after century, gradually converted into 
 meadow, woodland, and town. For a little white town sat 
 demurely at the bottom of the hollow, and a score or two 
 of white cottages scattered themselves from this small nu- 
 cleus of civilization over the opposite bank of this imaginary 
 river, which was now a lovely hillside. Gorges, purple with 
 shadow, yellow cornfields, and dark clumps of woodland, 
 dressed this broad hillside in many colors, its highest 
 point, Nunnely Hill, forming the horizon where last night 
 I had seen the sun go down, and which now was tinted 
 with the tenderest western morning gray. 
 
 " Do you like this, Phineas ? I do, very much. A dear, 
 smiling, English valley, holding many a little nest of an 
 English home. Fancy being patriarch over such a region, 
 having the whole valley in one's hand, to do good to or ill. 
 You can't think what primitive people they are hereabouts ; 
 descendants from an old colony of Flemish cloth-weavers, 
 they keep to the trade. Down in the valley if one could 
 see through the beech wood is the grand support of the 
 neighborhood, a large cloth-mill ! " 
 
 " That 's quite in your line, John ; " and I smiled to see 
 his face brighten up as it had done when, as a boy, he had 
 talked to me about his machinery. " What has become of 
 that wonderful little loom you made ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth-milJ !
 
 124 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 I have been all over it. If the owner would but 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 it clearly, and I '11 try my 
 best." 
 
 He did so, and so did I. I think he even managed to 
 knock something of the matter into my stupid head, where 
 it remained for ten minutes ! Much longer remained the 
 impression of his energetic talk, his clear-headed way of 
 putting before another what he understood so well himself. 
 '. 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 i. weakness for machinery ; I could stand for an hour 
 watching a mill at work, especially if it worked by a great 
 water-wheel." 
 
 " Would you like to be a mill-owner ? " 
 
 " Should n't I ! " with a sunshiny flash in his eyes, which 
 soon clouded over. " However, it 's idle talking ; one cannot 
 choose one's calling, at least, very few can. After all, it 
 is n't the trade that signifies ; it 's the man. I 'm a tanner, 
 and a very good tanner 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, Arcadian life. The very 
 thought of it was insupportable, not only for myself, but 
 for John. 
 
 He gently blamed me, yet I think he involuntarily felt 
 much as I did, if he would have allowed himself so to 
 feel. 
 
 " Who would guess now that I who stand here, delighting 
 myself in this fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy com- 
 mon, 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 125 
 
 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." 
 
 " It is she," said John, so indifferently, that I suspect that 
 fact had presented itself to him for at least two minutes 
 before I found it out. 
 
 " There 's certainly a fatality about your meeting her." 
 
 " Not the least. She has this morning taken her walk in 
 a different direction, as I did ; and we both chanced again 
 to hit upon the same," answered John, gravely and explana- 
 torily. " 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 companion, the said face indicated an independent dig- 
 nity which would doubtless make its owner perfectly in- 
 different whether her solitary walk were crossed by two 
 gentlemen or two hundred. 
 
 John agreed to this ; but 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 occa- 
 sionally 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
 
 126 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 small- 
 est importance to Miss March. Her fresh morning roses 
 did not deepen, nor her eyes droop, as she looked for a 
 moment at us both, a quiet, maidenly look of mere 
 observation. Of course no recognition passed ; but there 
 was a merry dimple beside her mouth, as if she quite well 
 knew who we were, and owned to a little harmless feminine 
 curiosity in observing us. 
 
 She had to pass our door, where stood Mrs. Tod and the 
 baby. It stretched out its little arms to come to her, with 
 that pretty, babyish gesture which I suppose no woman can 
 resist. Miss March could not. She stopped, and began 
 tossing up the child. 
 
 Truly, they made a pleasant picture, the two, she with 
 her hooded cloak dropping off, showing her graceful shape, 
 and her dark-brown hair, which was all gathered up in a 
 mass of curls at the top of her head, as the fashion then 
 was. As she stood, with her eyes sparkling, and the young 
 blood flushing through her clear, brunette cheeks, I was not 
 sure whether I had not judged too hastily in calling her 
 "no beauty." 
 
 Probably, by his look, John thought the same. 
 
 She stood right before our wicket gate ; but she had evi- 
 dently quite forgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. 
 Tod's bonny boy, until the landlady made some remark 
 about "letting the gentlemen by." Then, with a slight 
 start, drawing her hood back over her head, the young lady 
 stepped aside. 
 
 In passing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural 
 enough. For me, I could hardly take mine from her, such 
 a pleasant creature was she to behold. She half smiled ; 
 he bowed, which she returned, courteously, and we both 
 went in doors. I told him this was a good beginning of 
 acquaintance with our neighbor. 
 
 " Not at all ; a mere civility between two people living 
 under the same roof. It will never be more." 
 
 " Probably not."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 127 
 
 I am afraid John was disappointed at my " probably." 1 
 am afraid that when he stood at our window contemplating 
 the little group which filled up our wicket gate, lie 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 curious fact, which I never no 
 ticed till afterward, that though there had been some lapse j 
 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 have seen a lady" 
 
 " Most certainly a lady." 
 
 " Nay, I only meant that, girl as she is, she is evidently 
 accustomed to what is called ' society,' which makes it 
 the more likely that her father is the Mr. March who was 
 cousin to the Brithwoods. An odd coincidence." 
 
 " A very odd coincidence." 
 
 After which brief reply, John relapsed into taciturnity. 
 
 More than once that morning we recurred to the subject 
 of our neighbors, that is, I did ; but John was rather 
 saturnine and uncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Tod 
 was removing the breakfast, I ventured to ask her a harm- 
 less question or two, who Mr. March was, and where he 
 came from, I was abruptly reproved, the very minute 
 our good landlady had shut the door, for my tendency to 
 " gossip." 
 
 At which I only laughed, and reminded him that he had 
 cleverly scolded me after, not before, I had gained the de- 
 sired information ; namely, that Mr. March was a gentle- 
 man of independent property, that he had no friends 
 hereabout, 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
 
 128 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 evincing such great sympathy over our neighbors, and 
 especially which was plain enough to see, though he 
 doubtless believed he entirely disguised it for that in- 
 terest which a young man of twenty would naturally 
 take in a very charming and personable young woman. 
 Ay, naturally, as I said to myself, for I admired her too 
 extremely. 
 
 It seems strange now to call to mind that morning, and 
 our light-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that 
 Destiny should often come thus, creeping like a child to our 
 very doors. We hardly notice it, or send it away with a 
 laugh ; it comes so naturally, so simply, so accidentally, as it 
 were, that we 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 z, it 
 must be right. 
 
 We finished the morning by reading Shakspeare, 
 " Romeo and Juliet," at which the old folio seemed natu- 
 rally 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 buzz- 
 ing among the roses, in and away again, like a happy 
 thought. Nothing else was stirring ; not a single bird was 
 to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a coo 
 of the wood-pigeons among the beech-trees, a low, tender 
 voice, reminding one of a mother's crooning over a cradled 
 child, or of two true lovers standing clasped heart to heart 
 in the first embrace, which has not, and never needs, 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 129 
 
 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 Ender- 
 ] jy Hill, at least I had. As for John, he had little enough 
 enjoyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, 
 being absent five days out of seven ; riding away when the 
 morning sun had slid down to the boles of my four poplars, 
 and never coming home till Venus peeped out over their 
 heads at night. It was hard for him; but he bore the 
 disappointment well. 
 
 With me one day went by just like another. In the 
 mornings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage 
 garden, and there lay a little under the verge of the Flat, 
 in a sunny shelter, watching the ants running in and out 
 of the numerous ant-hills there ; or else I turned my obser- 
 vation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywhere 
 hereabout ; for the common, so far from being barren, was 
 a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute 
 and rare flowers. Often a square foot of ground presented 
 me with enough of beauty and variety in color and form to 
 criticise and contemplate for a full hour. 
 
 My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes tho 
 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, the laughter 
 rising up to where I lay ; or some old woman would come 
 with her pails to the spring below, a curious and very old 
 stone well, to which the cattle from the common often 
 rushed down past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their 
 mouths making glancing circles in the v/ater 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 
 
 a
 
 130 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 features. She walked on the farther 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 sociable 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 did n't disturb me, but Mr. 
 March was such a very fidgety gentleman, so particular in 
 his dress, too ; why, Miss March had to iron his cravats with 
 her own hands. Besides, if there was a phi awry in her 
 dress, he did make such a fuss ; and really, such an active, 
 busy young lady could n't look always 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 decidedly against seeking out 
 people's private affairs in such an illicit manner, that I felt 
 quite guilty, and began to doubt whether my sickly, useless 
 dreaming life was not inclining me to curiosity, gossip, and 
 other small vices which we are accustomed I know not why 
 
 to insult the other sex by describing as " womanish." 
 
 As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so 
 that we could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbors, 
 save upon the neutral ground of Mrs. Tod's kitchen, where, 
 however I might have inclined to venture, John's prohibition 
 stopped me entirely.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 131 
 
 Thus, saving 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 
 t \vilight, 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 at six A. M. John took me a new walk across 
 the common, where, he said, in answer to my question, we 
 *vere quite certain not to meet Miss March. 
 
 " Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calcu- 
 late her paths with such nicety ? Pray, have you ever met 
 her again, for 1 know you have been out most mornings ? " 
 
 " Morning is the only time 1 have for walking, you know, 
 Phineas." 
 
 " Ah, true ! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I 
 almost wish we could go home." 
 
 " Don't think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of 
 good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home." 
 
 I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest ; 
 that whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the 
 sincere thought of me was the one uppermost in his 
 mind. 
 
 " Well, we '11 stay ; that is, if you are happy, John." 
 
 " Thoroughly happy ; I like the dashing rides to Norton 
 Bury. Above all, I like coming back. The minute I begin 
 to climb Enderley Hill, the tan-yard and all belonging to it 
 drops off like an incubus, and I wake into free, beautiful 
 life. Now, Phineas, confess ; is not this common a lovely 
 place, especially of a morning ? " 
 
 " Ay," said I, smiling at his energy. " But you did not 
 tell me whether you had met Miss March again." 
 
 " She has never once seen me." 
 
 " But you have seen her ? Answer honestly." 
 
 " Why should I not ? Yes, I have seen her, once or 
 twice or so, but never in any way that could annoy her." 
 
 " That explains why you have become so well acquainted 
 vrith 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 & 
 lady?"
 
 132 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Nay, don't take it so seriously ; indeed, I meant noth 
 ing of the kind. It would be quite natural if a young man 
 like you did use some pains to look at such a 4 cunning 
 piece of Nature's handiwork ' as that apple-cheeked girl of 
 seventeen." 
 
 " Russet apple. She is brown, you know, a real * nut- 
 brown mayde,' " said John, recovering his gay humor. 
 " Certainly*, I like to look at her. I have seen many a face 
 that was more good-looking, never one that looked half so 
 good." 
 
 " Sententious that ; " yet I could not smile, he spoke with 
 such earnestness. Besides, her sweet looks were true. I 
 myself would have walked half way across the common any 
 day for a glance at Miss March. Why not he ? 
 
 " But, John, you never told me that you had seen her 
 again." 
 
 " Because you never asked me." 
 
 We were silent, silent until we had walked along the 
 whole length of a Roman encampment, the most perfect of 
 the various fosses that seamed the Flat, tokens of many a 
 battle fought on such capital 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 un- 
 likely either, if she " 
 
 " Pshaw ! " interrupted he. " What nonsense you are 
 talking ! Impossible ! " and setting his foot sharply upon 
 a loose stone, he kicked it down into the ditch, where prob- 
 ably 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,"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 133 
 
 " Don't let it, then. Why, I have only seen her five 
 times : I never spoke to her in my life, and most prob- 
 ably ne^er shall. Could any one be in a safer position? 
 Besides," and his tone changed to extreme gravity, " I 
 have too many worldly cares to think of ; I can't afford 
 the harmless little amusement of falling in love ; so be 
 easy, Phineas." 
 
 I smiled ; and we began a discussion on camps and 
 fosses, vallum and praetorium, the Danes, Saxons, and 
 Normans, which doubtless we carried on to a most learned 
 length ; but at this distance of time, and indeed the very 
 day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all about it. 
 
 That long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never 
 came out all day, but the whole earth and sky melted 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 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 alto- 
 gether to my comfort and amusement, to perfect which re- 
 quired of him no harder duty than to be near me always, 
 that Sunday was the last I ever had David altogether for 
 my own, my very own. 
 
 It was natural, it was just, it was right. God forbid that 
 in any way I should have murmured. 
 
 About ten o'clock just as he was luring me out to see 
 how grand the common looked under the black night, and 
 we were wondering whether or no the household were in 
 lied Mrs. Tod came mysteriously into the parlor, and 
 shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face looked some 
 what 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 'ce. You are very kind, sir. No, it be 
 about that poor Miss March." ' 
 
 I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was 
 leaning on. " I hope " he began, and stopped.
 
 134 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " flci' father 's dreadful bad to-night, and it 's a good seven 
 
 mile walk to tho 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 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 could n't help doing any- 
 thing for Miss March. You would think so yourself if you 
 only knew her." 
 
 " No doubt," returned John, more politely than warmly, 
 1 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 '11 go myself." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " To fetch Dr. Brown. If Tod is not come hi, 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 I shall call Mrs, Tod and inquire ? Oh, perhaps
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 136 
 
 it might make less fuss just to go and speak to her in the 
 kitchen. Will you, Phineas, or shall I ?" 
 
 Scarcely waiting my answer, 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, 't is best. Tell Mr. the young gentleman, I 
 forget his name, that I am very much obliged to him." 
 
 " I will, Miss March ; stay, he is just here. Bless us ! 
 she has shut the door already. Won't you take a seat, Mr. 
 Halifax ? I '11 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 cozy and 
 cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings. 
 
 But when John explained the reason of our intrusion, 
 there was no end to her pleasure and gratitude. He was 
 the kindest young gentleman that ever lived. She would 
 tell Miss March so, as indeed she had done many a time. 
 
 " ' Miss,' said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, 
 when 1 had told her how you came hunting for lodgings 
 (she often has a chat with me quite freely, being so lone- 
 some like, and knowing I 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.
 
 136 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 
 :>nly 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 ? 1 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." 
 
 " Ah, that 's it," said he, quickly. " It 's the solitude, and 
 their being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while 
 I was away ? " 
 
 " Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody 
 had gone to bed except his daughter and Mrs. Tod." 
 
 " Hark ! I think that 's the doctor going away. I 
 wonder if one might ask no ! they would think it in- 
 trusive. He must be better. But Dr. Brown told me that 
 in one of these paroxysms he might oh, that poor young 
 thing!" 
 
 " Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters ? Dr. Brown 
 surely knows." 
 
 " I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that 's 
 not my business ; my business is to get you off to bed, 
 Phineas Fletcher, as quickly as possible." 
 
 " Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can 
 do anything more." 
 
 " Ay, if we can do anything more," repeated he, as we 
 igain 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 overhead were stilled, but we heard low talking, and 
 presently stealthy footsteps crept downstairs. It was Mrs. 
 Tod and Miss March. 
 
 We ought to have left the kitchen. I think John mufc
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 137 
 
 tered something to that effect, and even made a slight 
 movement toward 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 sub- 
 limation of all manly courtesy. 
 
 " 1 hope, madam" young men used the deferential 
 word in those days always " 1 do hope, madam, 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 the warm-hearted Mrs. 
 
 Tod. " He rode all the way to S his own self to fetch 
 
 the doctor." 
 
 " Did you, sir ? I thought you only lent your horse." 
 
 " Oh ! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, 
 that your father is better ? Is there nothing else I can do 
 for you ? " 
 
 His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than 
 his years, softened too with that quiet deference which 
 marked at once the man who reverenced all women simply 
 for their womanhood, seemed entirely to reassure the young 
 lady. This, and her own frankness of character, made her 
 forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a young 
 lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowl- 
 edged neutral ground, perfect strangers, or knowing no 
 more of one another than the mere surname
 
 188 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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, 1 would." 
 
 " Thank you. Good-night." 
 
 He pressed the hand with reverence, and was gone. 1 
 saw Miss March looked earnestly after him ; then she 
 turned to speak and smile with me, a light word, an easy 
 smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often pitied out 
 Vf the fulness 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 a rather peculiar hand in the " feel " 
 of it, as the children say, with a very soft palm, and fingers 
 that had a habit of perpetually fluttering like a little bird's 
 wing the touch of that hand was to the young man like 
 the revelation of a new world. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE next day John rode away, earlier even than was his 
 wont, I thought. He stayed but a little while talking with 
 me. While Mrs. Tod was bustling over our breakfast, he 
 asked her, in a grave and unconcerned manner, " how Mr. 
 March was this morning ? " which was the only allusion 
 he made to the previous night's occurrences. 
 
 I had a long, quiet day alone in the beech wood, close 
 below our cottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to 
 a thread with the summer weather, but singing still. It 
 talked to me like a living thing. 
 
 When I came home in the evening, Miss March stood in 
 front of the cottage, with strange to say her father. 
 But I had heard that his paroxysms were often of brief 
 continuance, and that, like most confirmed valetudinarians, 
 when real danger stared him in the face he put it from him 
 and was glad to be well.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 139 
 
 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 to ride to S last night for me ? 
 
 Allow me to thank him myself." 
 
 I began to disclaim, and Miss March to explain ; but we 
 must both have been slightly incoherent, for I think the 
 poor gentleman was never quite clear as to who it was 
 that went for Dr. Brown. However, that mattered little, 
 as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more by 
 a natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of 
 service rendered. 
 
 " I am a 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, I was Governor 
 of " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! The climate is very trying there, Mr. 
 Fletcher. But since he has been in England, five years 
 only, he has been very much better. I am in 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 lazilv 
 down into a mere nebula of which the forlorn nucleus wi..-: 
 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 
 hoard called the " melancholy nose," which usually indi- 
 cates a feeble, pensive, and hypochondriac temperament; 
 while his daughter but I have described her already.
 
 140 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, Father," she said, so 
 gently, that I could feel no pain in her noticing my infirm 
 ity, and took gratefully a seat she gave me beside that of 
 Mr. March. She seemed inclined to talk to me ; and her 
 manner was perfectly easy, friendly, and kind. 
 
 We spoke of commonplace subjects near at hand, and of 
 the West Indian island, which its late " governor " was 
 apparently by no means inclined to forget. I asked Miss 
 March whether she had liked it. 
 
 " I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me 
 behind in Wales. poor Mamma's country. Were you 
 ever in Wales ? I like it so ; indeed, I feel as if I belonged 
 altogether to the mountains." 
 
 And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the 
 free mountain spirit, a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply 
 outlined ; but that would soften with time, and was better 
 and wholesomer than any tame green level of soft perfection. 
 At least, one inclined to think so, looking at her. 
 
 I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it. 
 
 In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which 
 he hung trustingly and feebly as a child, she turned ab- 
 ruptly, 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 be dubbed " a blue " in those matter- 
 of-fact days. 
 
 " I have no time to study much myself," said she, in 
 answer to my questions ; " but I like those who do. Now, 
 good evening, for I must run. You and your friend can 
 have any books of ours. You must not think " and she 
 turned back to tell me this " that because my father said 
 little, he and I are not deeply grateful for the kindness Mr. 
 Halifax showed us last night." 
 
 " It was a pleasure to John ; it always is, to do a kind 
 office for any one." 
 
 " I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher," and she left me. 
 
 When John came home, I informed him of what had 
 passed. He listened, though he made no comment what- 
 ever. But all the evening he sat turning over Miss March's
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 141 
 
 books, and reading either aloud or to himself fragments out 
 of one which I expected he would have scouted, inasmuch 
 as it was modern not classical poetry, in fact, a collection 
 of "Lyrical Ballads," brought out that year by a young 
 man named Mr. William Wordsworth and some anonymous 
 friend conjointly. I had opened it, and found therein great 
 nonsense ; but John had better luck : he hit upon a short 
 poem called " Love," by the Anonymous Friend, which he 
 read, and I listened to, almost as if it had been Shaks- 
 peare. It was about a girl named Genevieve, a little 
 simple story, everybody knows it now ; but it was like a 
 strange, low, mystic music, luring the very heart out of 
 one's bosom, to us young visionaries then. 
 
 I wonder if Miss March knew the harm she did, and the 
 mischief that has been done among young people in all 
 ages (since Caxton's days), by the lending of books, 
 especially books of poetry. 
 
 The next day John was in a curious mood. Dreamy, 
 lazy, mild, he sat poring in doors, instead of roaming abroad, 
 in truth, was a changed lad. I told him so, and laid it 
 all to the blame of the Anonymous Friend, who held him 
 in such fascinated thrall that he only looked up once all 
 the morning, which was when Mr. and Miss March went 
 by. In the afternoon he submitted, lamb-like, to be led 
 down to the beech wood, that the wonderful talking stream 
 might hold forth to him as it did to me. But it could not, 
 ah, no ! it could not. Our lives, though so close, were 
 yet 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. 
 
 Coining back out of the little wood, I took John a new 
 way I had discovered, through the prettiest undulating 
 meadow, half field, half orchard, where trees loaded with 
 ripening cider-apples and green crabs made a variety among 
 the natural foresters. Under one of these, as we climbed 
 the slope, for field, beech wood, and common formed ?, 
 gradual ascent, we saw a vacant table laid. 
 
 "A pretty piece of rusticity, domestic Arcadia on a
 
 142 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 one of Mr. March's vagaries." 
 
 " Not 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 arc. 
 coming hither from the house." 
 
 Sure enough they were, Miss March helping her father 
 across the uneven bit of common to the gate which led to 
 the field. Precisely at that gate we all four met. 
 
 " ' T is useless to escape them," whispered I, to John. 
 
 " I do not wish ; why should I ? " he answered, and held 
 the gate open for the father and daughter to go through. 
 She looked up and acknowledged him, smiling. I thought 
 that smile and his courteous but far less frank response 
 to it would have been all the greeting; but no! Mr. 
 March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened 
 up. He stopped. 
 
 " Mr. Halifax, I believe ? " 
 
 John bowed. 
 
 They stood a moment looking at one another, the tall, 
 stalwart young man, so graceful and free in bearing, and 
 the old man, languid, sickly, prematurely broken down. 
 
 " Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I 
 detected something more than curiosity, something of the 
 lingering pensiveness with which, years ago, he had turned 
 back to look at John, as if the lad reminded him of some 
 one he knew ; " sir, I have to thank you." 
 
 " Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are 
 better to-day." 
 
 Mr. March assented ; but John 's countenance apparently 
 interested him so much that he forgot his usual complain 
 ings. " 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 143 
 
 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 " your friend." 
 
 Of course we assented : I considerably amused, and not 
 ill pleased, to see how naturally it fell 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 our- 
 selves established under the apple-tree, between whose 
 branches the low sun stole in, kissing into 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 not the gray gown but a 
 white one, worked in delicate muslin. A bunch 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, not mine, about 
 being " quite welcome." 
 
 John sat opposite to 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 conversationalists ; language was with him 
 neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a 
 mere vehicle for thought, the garb, always chosen as 
 simplest and fittest, in which his ideas were clothed. His 
 conversation was never wearisome, since he only spoke 
 when he had something to say ; and having said it in the 
 most concise and appropriate manner that suggested itself
 
 144 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 at the time, he was silent ; and silence is a great and rare 
 virtue at twenty years of age. 
 
 We talked a good deal about Wales. John had been 
 there more than once in his journeyings, and this fact 
 seemed to warm Miss March's tongue, 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 
 jf her dear old governess, whose name, I remember, was 
 Cardigan. She seemed to have grown up solely under that 
 lady's charge. It was not difficult to guess, though I forget 
 whether she distinctly told us so, that " poor Mamma " had 
 died so early as to become a mere name to her orphan 
 daughter. She evidently owed everything she was to this 
 good governess. 
 
 "My dear," at last said Mr. March, rather testily, "you 
 make rather too much of our excellent Jane Cardigan. She 
 is going to be married, and she will not care for you now." 
 
 " Hush, Papa, that is a secret at present. Pray, Mr. 
 Halifax, do you know Norton Bury ? " 
 
 The abruptness of the question startled John, so that he 
 only answered in a hurried affirmative. Indeed, Mr. March 
 left him no time for further explanation. 
 
 " I hate the place. My late wife's cousins, the Brith- 
 woods of the Mythe, with whom I have had ahem! 
 strong political differences, live there ; and I was once 
 nearly drowned in the Severn, close by." 
 
 " Papa, don't speak of that, please," said Miss March, 
 hurriedly, so hurriedly that I am sure she did not notice 
 what would otherwise have been plain enough, John's 
 sudden and violent 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 
 dislike to Norton Bury. Indeed, I rather admired the place, 
 if I remember right." 
 
 " You have been there ? " Though it was the simplest 
 question, John's sudden .ook 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 146 
 
 enjoys this lovely evening. Hark! how the doves are 
 cooing in the beech wood ! " 
 
 I asked her if she had ever been in the beech wood. 
 
 No ; she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries, the 
 fern-glades, the woodbine tangles, and the stream, that, if 
 you listened attentively, you could hear faintly gurgling 
 even where we sat. 
 
 " I did not know there was a stream so near. I have 
 generally taken my walks across the Flat," said Miss 
 March, slightly smiling, and then blushing at having done 
 so, though it was the faintest blush imaginable. 
 
 Neither of us made any reply. 
 
 Mr. March settled himself to laziness and his arm- 
 chair ; the conversation fell to the three younger persons, 
 I may say the two, for I also seceded, and left John 
 master of the field. It was enough for me to sit listening 
 to him and Miss March, as they gradually became more 
 friendly, a circumstance natural enough, under the in- 
 fluence of that simple, solitary place, where all the pre- 
 tences of etiquette seemed naturally to drop away, leaving 
 nothing but the forms dictated and preserved by true 
 manliness and true womanliness. 
 
 How young both looked, how happy in their frank, 
 free youth, with the sun-rays slanting down upon them, 
 making a glory round either head, and, as glory often does, 
 dazzling painfully ! 
 
 " Will you change seats with me, Miss March ? The sun 
 will not reach your eyes 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. 
 
 10
 
 146 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Miss March rose. " I should greatly like to hear your 
 stream and its wonderful singing." (John Halifax had 
 been telling her 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 doing the contrary ; she agreed to my plan with 
 childish eagerness. " Papa, you won't miss me ; I shall 
 not be away five minutes. Then, Mr. Fletcher, will you go 
 with me ? " 
 
 " And I will stay beside Mr. March, so that he will not 
 be left alone," said John, reseating himself. 
 
 What did the lad do that for? Why did he sit 
 watching us so intently, as I led Miss March down the 
 meadow and into the wood. It passed my comprehension. 
 
 The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, 
 in perfect simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest 
 hesitation. Even as the women I have known have treated 
 me all my life, showing me that sisterly kindness which 
 has compensated in a measure for the solitary fate which 
 it pleased Heaven to lay upon me, which in my case con- 
 science would have forced me to lay upon myself, that no 
 woman should ever be more to me than a sister. 
 
 Yet I watched her with pleasure, this young girl, as 
 she tripped on before me, noticing everything, enjoying 
 everything. She talked to me a good deal about my- 
 self 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 half-compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a 
 woodbine spray and began twisting it with those never
 
 " She sat . . . pouring into small white china cups that 
 dainty luxury, tea."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 147 
 
 quiet fingers of hers. " You and he seem to be great 
 friends ? " 
 
 "John is brother, friend, everything in the world 
 to me." 
 
 " Is he ? He must be very good. Indeed, he looks so," 
 observed Miss March, thoughtfully; "and I believe at 
 least I have often heard that good men are rare." 
 
 I had not time to enter into a discussion on that mo- 
 mentous question, when the origin of it himself appeared, 
 breaking through the bushes to join us. 
 
 He half apologized for so doing, saying Mr. March had 
 sent him. 
 
 " But pray do not come upon compulsion. It would be 
 an injustice to this lovely wood." 
 
 And the eyes of the " Nut-browne Mayde " were a little 
 mischievous, brimming with the fun of girlhood. John 
 looked preternaturally grave as he said, " I trust you do 
 not object to my coming?" 
 
 She smiled, so merrily, that his slight haughtiness 
 evaporated like mist before the sunbeams. 
 
 " I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the 
 bushes," John said, all his pleasant self again ; " for I 
 heard my own name. What terrible histories has this 
 friend of mine been unfolding to you, Miss March ? " 
 
 He spoke gayly ; but I fancied he looked uneasy. The 
 young lady only laughed. 
 
 " I have a great mind not to tell you, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 " Not when I ask you ? " 
 
 He spoke so seriously that she could not but choose to 
 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. 
 
 " The third I had likewise not doubted." 
 
 John made some hurried acknowledgment. He looked
 
 148 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 greatly pleased, nay, more than pleased, happy. Ho 
 walked forward by Miss March's side, taking his natural 
 place in the conversation, while I as naturally and willingly 
 fell behind. But 1 heard all they said, and joined in it now 
 and then. 
 
 Thus, sometimes spoken to, and sometimes left silent, 
 watching their two figures and idly noting their compar- 
 ative heights, her head came just above John's shoulder, 
 
 I followed these young people through the quiet wood. 
 Let me say a word about that wood, dear and familiar 
 
 as it was. Its like I have never seen since. It was small, 
 
 so small that in its darkest depths you might catch the 
 sunshine lighting up the branches of its outside trees. A 
 young wood, too : composed wholly of smooth-barked 
 beeches and sturdy Scotch firs, growing up side by side, 
 the Adam and Eve in this forest Eden. No old folk were 
 there, no gnarled and withered foresters ; every tree rose 
 up, upright in its youth, and perfect after its kind. There 
 was as yet no choking undergrowth 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 no- 
 ticing the peculiar character of the two species of trees, 
 the masculine and feminine, fir and beech. She smiled 
 at the fancy, and much graceful badinage went on between 
 them. I had never before seen John in the company of 
 women, and I marvelled to perceive the refinement of his 
 language, and the poetic ideas it clothed. I forgot the 
 truth of whose saying was it ? " that once in his life 
 every man becomes a poet." 
 
 They stood by the little rivulet, and he showed her how 
 the water came from the spring above ; the old well-head 
 where the cattle drank ; how it took its course merrily 
 through the woods, till at the bottom of the valley below 
 it grew into a wide stream. 
 
 "Small beginnings make great endings," said Miss 
 March. 
 
 John answered her with the happiest smile. He dipped 
 his hollowed palm into the water and drank ; she did the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 149 
 
 same. Then in her free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a 
 cup out of a broad leaf, which, by the greatest ingenuity, 
 she managed to make contain about two teaspoonsful of 
 water for the space of half a minute, and held it to my 
 .mouth. 
 
 " I am like Rebecca at the well. Drink, Eleazer," she 
 cried, gayly. 
 
 John looked on, with not quite so bright a face as hereto- 
 fore ; " I am very thirsty, too," said he, in a low voice. 
 
 The young girl hesitated a moment, then filled and of- 
 fered 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 new acquaintances, Mr. March 
 was extremely courteous, and declared our society would 
 always be a pleasure to himself and to his daughter. 
 
 " He always says so formally ' my daughter,' " I observed, 
 breaking the silence in which they had left us. " I wonder 
 what her Christian name is." 
 
 " I believe it is Ursula." 
 
 " How did you find that out ? " 
 
 " It is written in one of her books." 
 
 " Ursula ! " I repeated, wondering where I had heard it 
 before. " A pretty name." 
 
 " A very pretty name." 
 
 When John fell into this echo mood, I always found it 
 best to fall into taciturnity. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 NEXT day the rain poured down incessantly, sweeping 
 blindingly across the hills as I have rarely seen it sweep ex- 
 cept at Enderley. The weather had apparently broken up, 
 even thus early in the autumn; and for that day, and sev-
 
 150 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 eral days following, 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 lis what Septem^ 
 ber sunsets might have been. 
 
 John went every day to Norton Bury that week. His 
 mind seemed restless ; he was doubly kind and attentive 
 to me, but every night I heard him go out in all the storm 
 to walk upon the common. I longed to follow him, but it 
 was best not. 
 
 On the Saturday morning, coming up to breakfast, 1 
 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 will sit up wi' him 
 best part of every night." 
 
 " I imagined so. I have seen her light burning." 
 
 " Law, Mr. Halifax ! you don't be walking abroad of 
 nights on the Flat? It's terrible bad for your health," 
 cried the honest soul, who never disguised the fact that 
 Mr. Halifax was her favorite of all her lodgers, save and 
 except Miss March. 
 
 " Thank you for considering my health," he replied smil- 
 ing. " 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 be any worse, let me go for Dr. Brown, 
 I shall be at home all day." 
 
 " I '11 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 havi 
 changed my mind. You have been left so much alone lately 
 Nay, I '11 not disguise the truth ; I had another reason." 
 
 "May I know it?" 
 
 " Of course you may. It is about our fellow-lodgers. D- 
 Brown I met him on the road this morning told n * 
 that her father cannot live more than a few days, perhaps f 
 few hours ; and she does not know it."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 15i 
 
 He leaned on the mantelpiece. I could see he was very 
 much affected. 
 So was I. 
 
 " Her relatives, surely they ought to be sent for ? " 
 " She has none. Dr. Brown said she once told him so : 
 none nearer than the Brith woods 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 any common 
 things. Every minute he fell into abstractions. At length 
 he said, suddenly, 
 
 " Phineas, I do think it is wicked, downright wicked, for 
 a doctor to be afraid of telling a patient he is going to 
 die ; more wicked, perhaps, to keep the friends in igno- 
 rance until the last stunning blow falls. She ought to 
 be told : she must be told : she may have many things to 
 say to her poor father. And, God help her ! for such 
 a stroke she ought to be a little prepared. It might kill 
 her else ! " 
 
 He rose up and walked about the room. The seal once 
 taken from his reserve, he expressed himself to me freely, as 
 he had used to do, perhaps because at this time his feelings 
 required no disguise. The dreams which might have peo- 
 pled 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 farther 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
 
 152 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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, %nd 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. Marcb ! 
 I did n't like him very much alive, but I do feel so sorry, 
 now he 's a-dying." 
 
 Then he was dying. 
 
 " Does his daughter know ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, no ; I dare not tell her. Nobody dare." 
 
 "Does she not guess it?" 
 
 " Not a bit. Poor young body ! she 's never seen any- 
 body so. She fancies him no worse than he has been and 
 has got over it. She would n't think else. She is 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 learned 
 in the Kirk " 
 
 " I think," said John hastily interrupting, " that a 
 woman's soothing 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 perform such a trying duty, it seems 
 that is, I believe" here his rather formal speech
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 153 
 
 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 '11 manage it somehow. The house is very quiet : I 've 
 sent all the children away, except the baby. The baby '11 j 
 comfort her, poor dear ! afterward." And again drying her 
 honest eyes, Mrs. Tod ran out of the room. 
 
 We could do nothing at all that morning. The impend- 
 ing sorrow might have been our own instead of that of peo- 
 ple 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 habi- 
 tation, 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 pour- 
 ing pouring shutting us up, as it were, from the world 
 without, and obliterating every thought save of what was 
 happening under our one roof, that awful change that 
 was taking place in the upper room in the other half of the 
 house, whence the moans descended, and whence Mrs. Tod 
 came out from time to time, hurrying mournfully to tell 
 " 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 
 downstairs, and was standing drinking " a cup o' tea " by 
 the kitchen fire. 
 
 " You must go now, sir ; she '11 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 ; 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
 
 154 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 girl vdio had stood by the stream-side less than a week aga 
 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 1 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 afterward 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 in God." 
 
 Something more than the mere words struck her. She 
 examined him closely for a minute. 
 
 " You mean yes I understand what you mean. But 
 you are mistaken. The doctor would have told me if if 
 " she shivered, and left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 " Dr. Brown was afraid we were all afraid," broke in 
 Mrs. Tod, sobbing. " Only Mr. Halifax, he said " 
 
 Miss March turned abruptly to John. That woful gaze 
 of hers could be answered by no words. I believe he took 
 her hand, but I cannot tell. One thing I can tell, for she 
 said it to me herself 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 aga i i 
 to me and sat down. He did not speak for many minutes. 
 
 After an interval, I know not how long, we heard 
 Mrs. Tod calling loudly for " Mr. Halifax." We both ran 
 through the empty kitchen to the foot of the stairs that led 
 to Mr. March's room. 
 
 Mr. March's room ! Alas, he owned nothing now on this 
 fleeting, perishable earth of ours. He had gone from it,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 155 
 
 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 young creature was in- 
 sensible, 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, and 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 nothing 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 to 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 face, on every line of 
 which was written stunned, motionless, impassive grief. 
 For John two minutes of such a gaze as his might in a 
 man's deep 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 did what he desired, what almost her life de- 
 manded. She clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of 
 weeping. 
 
 " Now, Phineas, let us go away." 
 
 And he went, walking almost like one blindfold, straight 
 out of the house, I following him.
 
 156 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " I AM quite certain, Mrs. Tod, that it would be much 
 better for her ; and if she consents, it shall be so," said 
 John, decisively. 
 
 We three were consulting, the morning after the death, 
 on a plan which he and I had already settled between our- 
 selves, namely, that we should leave our portion of the 
 cottage entirely at Miss March's disposal, while we in- 
 habited hers, save that locked and silent chamber wherein 
 there was no complaining, no suffering now. 
 
 Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was 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 blowing autumn gales, and shaking all the 
 windows, even that of the room overhead. It sounded 
 awful there. We were very glad the poor young orphan 
 was away. 
 
 On the Monday morning we heard going upstairs the 
 heavy footsteps that every one at some time or other has 
 shuddered at, -then the hammering. Mrs. Tod came in 
 and told us that no one, not even his daughter, could be 
 allowed to look at what had been " poor Mr. March " any 
 more. All with him was ended. 
 
 " The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do 
 then, poor thing ! " 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 " Is she left well provided for, do you think ? " 
 
 " It is impossible to say." 
 
 His answers were tense 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."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 157 
 
 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 at 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 would n't 
 trouble him to come ' 
 
 " Tell her I am coming." 
 
 When after some time he returned, he was very serious. 
 
 " Wait a minute, Phineas, and you shall hear ; I feel con- 
 fused, rather. It is so strange, her trusting me thus. I 
 wish I could help her more." 
 
 Then he told me all that had passed ; how he and Mrs. 
 Tod had conjointly arranged the hasty funeral ; how brave 
 and composed she had been, that poor child, all alone ! 
 
 " Had she indeed no one ? " 
 
 " 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 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 
 involuntary admission of that sole feeling, which makes 
 one, erewhile a stranger, say or think of another "All 
 
 I
 
 158 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 thine are mine, and mine are thine, henceforward ai.d 
 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 learned much in them. 
 He was at heart a man, ready and able to well design and 
 carry out a man's work in the world. And in his whole 
 aspect was such grave purity, such honest truth, that no 
 wonder, young as they both were, and little as she knew of 
 him, this poor orphan should not have feared to trust him 
 entirely. And there is nothing that binds heart to heart 
 of lovers or friends so quickly and so safely as to trust and 
 be trusted in time of trouble. 
 
 " Did she tell you any more, John ; anything of her 
 circumstances ? " 
 
 " No. But from something Mrs. Tod let fall, I fear " 
 and he vainly tried to disguise his extreme satisfaction 
 " that she will be left with little or nothing." 
 
 " Poor Miss March ! " 
 
 " Why call her poor ? She is not a woman to be pitied, 
 but to be 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 
 Ursula March will be a ' crown to her husband.' " 
 
 My words, or the half sigh that accompanied them, I 
 could not help it, seemed to startle John, but he made no 
 remark. Nor did we recur to the subject again that day. 
 
 Two days after, our little company followed the coffin 
 out of the woodbine porch, where we had last said good-by 
 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 household procession, the daughter first, sup 
 ported 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 159 
 
 and stood by the grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over 
 her face. But when we came back to Rose Cottage door, 
 and she gave a quick, startled glance up at the familiar win- 
 dow, we saw Mrs. Tod take her, unresisting, into her motherly 
 arms ; then we knew how it would be. 
 
 " Come away," said John, in a smothered voice ; and we 
 came away. 
 
 All that day we sat in our parlor Mr. March's pailorj 
 that had been where, through the no longer darkened' 
 casement, the unwonted sun poured in ; we tried to settle 
 to our ordinary ways, and feel as if this were like all other 
 days, our old sunshiny days at Enderley. But it would 
 not do. Some imperceptible but great change had taken 
 place. It seemed a year since that Saturday afternoon when 
 we were drinking tea so merrily under the apple-tree in the 
 field. 
 
 We heard no more from Miss March that day. The next, 
 we received a message of thanks for our " kindness." She 
 had given way at last, Mrs. Tod said, and kept her cham- 
 ber, not seriously ill, but in spirit thoroughly broken down. 
 For three days more, when I went to meet John returning 
 from Norton Bury, I could see that his first glance as he 
 rode up between the chestnut-trees was to the window of 
 the room that had been mine. I always told him, without 
 his asking, whatever Mrs. Tod had told me about her state ; 
 he used to listen, generally in silence, and then speak of 
 something else. He hardly ever mentioned Miss March's 
 name. 
 
 On the fourth morning, I happened to ask him if he had 
 told my father what had occurred here. 
 
 " No." 
 
 I looked surprised. 
 
 "Did you wish me to tell him? I will, if you like, 
 Phineas." 
 
 " Oh, no. He takes little interest in strangers." 
 
 Soon after as he lingered about the 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 :rr8solutely by the fire. I knew by his counte- 
 nance that there was something on his mind.
 
 160 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " David." 
 
 Ay, lad." 
 
 " Will you not tell me first what you want to say to my 
 father?" 
 
 " I can't stay now. To-night, perhaps. But, pshaw ! 
 what is there to be told ? Nothing." 
 
 " Anything that concerns you can never be to me quite 
 ' nothing.' ' 
 
 " I know that," he said affectionately, and went out of 
 the room. 
 
 When he came in, he looked much more cheerful, stood 
 switching his riding-whip after the old habit, and called 
 upon me to admire his 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, 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, every day I had noticed, thai 
 wistful, wandering glance up at the darkened window of the 
 room, where, sad and alone, save for kindly Mrs. Tod, the 
 young orphan lay. 
 
 In the evening, just before bedtime, 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,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 161 
 
 no, Phineas ; you '11 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 which I can coin into money, however. And your 
 father has expressly told me that without money a tanner 
 can do nothing." 
 
 " Unless, as was his own case, he was taken into some 
 partnership where his services were so valuable as to be 
 received instead of capital. True, my father earned little 
 at first, scarcely more than you earn now ; but he managed 
 to live respectably, and, in course of time, to marry." 
 
 I avoided looking at John as I said the last word. He 
 made no answer, but in a little time he came and leaned 
 over my chair. 
 
 " Phineas, you are a wise counsellor, a ' brother born for 
 adversity.' I have been vexing myself a good deal about 
 my future, but now I will take heart. Perhaps, some day, 
 neither you nor any one else will be ashamed of me." 
 
 " No one could, even now, seeing you as you really are." 
 
 " As John Halifax, not as the tanner's 'prentice boy ? 
 Oh, lad, there the goad sticks ! Here I forget everything 
 unpleasant ; I am my own free, natural self ; but the min- 
 ute 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 of 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 bedtime. 
 
 Next morning was Sunday. After the bells had done 
 ringing we saw a black-veiled figure pass our window. Poor 
 girl ! going to church alone- We did not see anything more 
 of her that day. 
 
 On Monday a message came saying that Miss March 
 would be glad to see 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,
 
 162 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 perhaps, in the dignity of her great grief, which, girl as she 
 was, and young men as we were, seemed to be to her a shield 
 transcending all worldly " proprieties." 
 
 As she rose and we shook hands, in a silence only Iroken 
 by the rustle of her black dress, not one of us thought 
 surely the most evil-minded gossip could not have dared to 
 think that there was anything " strange " in her receiving 
 us here. 
 
 We began to talk of common things, not the thing. She 
 seemed to have fought through the worst of her trouble, 
 and to have put it back into those deep, quiet chambers 
 where all griefs go ; never forgotten, never removed, but 
 sealed up in silence, as it should be. Perhaps, too, for 
 let us not exact more from Nature than Nature grants, 
 the wide, wide difference in character, temperament, and 
 sympathies between Miss March and her father uncon- 
 sciously made his loss less a heart-loss, total and irremedi- 
 able, than one of mere habit and instinctive feeling, which, 
 the first shock over, would insensibly heal. Besides, she 
 was young, young in life, in hope, in body and soul ; and 
 youth, though it grieves passionately, cannot forever grieve. 
 
 I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some 
 degree herself again ; at least, so much of her old self as 
 was right and natural and good. 
 
 She and John spoke together a good deal. Her manner 
 to him was easy and natural, as to a friend who deserved 
 and possessed her warm gratitude : his was more con- 
 strained. Gradually, however, this wore away -, there was 
 something in her which, piercing all disguises, went at once 
 to the heart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the 
 touchstone of truth. 
 
 He asked no, I believe I asked her how long she 
 intended staying at Enderley. 
 
 " I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin 
 Richard Brithwood was left my guardian. This my 
 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 probablj 
 acquainted with my cousin and his wife ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 165 
 
 " No ; but 1 have seen them." 
 
 Julm gave these answers without lifting his eyes. 
 
 " Will you tell me candidly, for I know nothing of hei 
 and it is rather important that I should, what sort of a 
 person is Lady Caroline ? " 
 
 This frank question, put directly, and guarded by the 
 battery of those innocent, girlish eyes, was a very hard 
 question to answer ; for Norton Bury had said many ill 
 natured things of our young squire's wife, whom he mar- 
 ried at Naples, from the house of the well-known Lady 
 Hamilton. 
 
 " She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Ravenel, the 
 Earl of Luxmore's daughter." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but that does not signify. I know nothing 
 of Lord Luxrnore ; I want to know what she is herself." 
 
 John hesitated, then answered, as he could with truth : 
 " She is said to be very charitable to the poor ; pleasant, and 
 kind-hearted ; but, if I may venture to hint as much, not 
 exactly the friend whom I think Miss March would choose, 
 or to whom she would like to be indebted for anything but 
 courtesy." 
 
 " That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to 
 any one. Only if she were a good woman, Lady Caroline 
 would have been a great comfort and a useful adviser to 
 one who is scarcely eighteen, and I believe an heiress." 
 
 " An heiress ! " The 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 
 what I was told. However, be my fortune much or little, I 
 will try to use it well."
 
 164 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I am sure you will." 
 
 John said nothing ; but his eyes, sad indeed, yet lit with 
 a proud tenderness, rested upon her as she spoke. Soon 
 after, he rose up to take leave. 
 
 " Do not go yet ; I want to ask about Norton Bury. I 
 had no idea you lived there. And Mr. Fletcher too ? " 
 
 I replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " In what part of the town ? " 
 
 " On the Coltham Road, near the abbey." 
 
 " Ah, those abbey chimes ! how I used to listen to them, 
 night after night, when the pain kept me awake ! " 
 
 " What pain ? " asked John, suddenly, alive to any suf- 
 fering 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 cried John. 
 
 For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas ! 
 the tide of fate was running strong against my poor David ! 
 What could I do but stand aside and watch ? 
 
 *' When was it ? Let me see ; five, six years ago. But 
 indeed 't is nothing." 
 
 " Not exactly nothing.' Do tell me ! " 
 
 And John stood, listening for her words, counting them 
 even, as one would count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which 
 is nearly empty, yet Time's remorseless hand still keeps on 
 pouring, pouring. 
 
 " Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughti- 
 nesses ; 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, hi the ram ? 
 was it not so ? " 
 
 " How could you know ? But he looked so hungry ; 1 
 was so sorry for him." 
 
 " Were you ? " in a tone almost inaudible. 
 
 " I have often thought of him since, when, I chanced tq 
 iook at this mark." 
 
 * Let we look at it, may 1 1 "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 165 
 
 Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discover- 
 ing 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I WAS left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at 
 the door whence John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, 
 not unmingled with a certain embarrassment. 
 
 "What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have 
 offended him in any way ? " 
 
 " Indeed, no." 
 
 " Why did he go away ? " 
 
 But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most 
 simply put, involved so much, that I felt I had no right to 
 answer it ; while, at the same time, I had no possible right 
 to use any of those disguises or prevarications which are 
 ahvays foolish and perilous, and very frequently wrong. 
 Xor even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to 
 whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her 
 plainly, 
 
 " I know the reason. I could tell you, but I think John 
 would prefer telling you himself." 
 
 " As he pleases," returned Miss March, a slight reserve 
 tempering her frank manner ; but it soon vanished, and 
 she began talking to me in her usual friendly way, asking 
 me many questions about the Brithwoods and about Norton 
 Bury. I answered them freely, my only reservation being 
 that I took care not to give any information concerning 
 ourselves. 
 
 Soon afterward, as John did not return, I took leave of 
 her, and went to our own parlor. 
 
 He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, 
 who met him on the common, that he was gone a long 
 walk, and should not return till Jinner-time. Dinner-time 
 came 3 but I had to dine alone. It was the first time I ever
 
 1G6 JOI1N HALIFAX. 
 
 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 sceptre out of 
 my hands. I was utterly powerless ; I could neither give 
 him comfort, nor save him pain, any more. 
 
 What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one 
 has felt likewise, many a parent over a child, many a sis- 
 ter over a brother, many a friend over a friend, a feeling 
 natural and universal. Let those who suffer take it pa- 
 tiently, as the common lot; let those who win hold the 
 former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt the 
 new bond cruelly in the face of the old. 
 
 Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as 
 right to say, I will no more allude to the subject. 
 
 In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach- 
 and-four, resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door : I 
 knew it well, and so did all Norton Bury. It was empty ; 
 but Lady Caroline's own maid so I heard afterward 
 sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline's own black-eyed 
 Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which 
 I concluded was for Miss March. 
 
 I was glad that John was not at home ; glad that the 
 coach, with all its fine paraphernalia, was sent away, empty 
 as it had arrived, before John came in. 
 
 He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the 
 window, looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed 
 skyward like long fingers stretching up out of the gloom, 
 when I saw him crossing the common. At first I was going 
 to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained 
 within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen 
 shining ever so far. 
 
 " What a bright blaze ! Nay, you have not waited din- 
 ner, I hope ? Tea ? yes, that 's far better ; I have had sucb 
 a long walk, and am so tired." 
 
 The words were cheerful, so was the tone. Too cheerful,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 167 
 
 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 new-filled grave. 
 
 " Where have you been, John ?" 
 
 " All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there, such 
 expansive views. As Mrs. Tod informed me, quoting some 
 local ballad, which she said was written by an uncle 
 of hers, 
 
 " ' There you may spy 
 Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.' 
 
 Remarkable fact, isn't it ? " 
 
 Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly 
 talking. It was enough to make one weep. 
 
 After tea, I insisted on his taking my arm-chair, saying 
 that after such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold. 
 
 " Not the least quite the contrary feel my hand." It 
 was burning. " But I am tired, thoroughly tired." 
 
 He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weari- 
 ness of body and soul that was written on his face ! 
 
 " Why did you go out alone ? John, you know that you 
 have always me." 
 
 He looked up smiling. But the momentary brightness 
 passed. Alas, I was not enough to make him happy now. 
 
 We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time ; 
 but the gates of his heart were close locked. It seemed as 
 if he dared not open them, lest the flood should burst forth 
 and overwhelm us. 
 
 At nine o'clock Mrs. Tod came in with supper. She had 
 always something or other to say, especially since the late 
 events had drawn the whole household of Rose Cottage so 
 closely together ; now she was 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 did n't know. Who would have thought Mr. March had 
 such grand relations ? Had we seen Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood's coach that came to-day ? Such a beautiful coach it 
 was, sent on purpose for Miss March, only she wouldn't 
 go. " But now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She 
 is leaving to-morrow."
 
 168 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, 
 to fasten the heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on 
 the bolt, motionless, till the good woman was gone ; then 
 he staggered to the mantelpiece, and leaned on it with both 
 his elbows, his hands covering his face. 
 
 But there was no disguise now, no attempt at 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, 1 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 footing, for it was a pitch-dar.k night, and 
 the common looked as wide, and black, and still as a mid- 
 night sea. 
 
 John was not there ; indeed, if he had been, I could 
 scarcely have seen him. I could see nothing but the void 
 expanse of the Flat, or, looking down, the broad river of 
 mist that rolled through the valley, on the other side 
 of which twinkled a few cottage lights, like unearthly bea- 
 cons from the farthest shore of an impassable flood. 
 
 Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Tod say that on 
 account of its pits and quarries the common was ex-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 169 
 
 tremely dangerous after dark, except to those who knew 
 it well. In a horrible dread I called out John's name, 
 but nothing answered. I went on blindly, desperately, 
 shouting as I went. At length, in one of the Roman 
 fosses, I stumbled and fell. Some one came, darting with 
 great leaps through the mist, and lifted me up. 
 
 " Oh, David, David !" 
 
 " Phineas, is that you ? You have come out this bitter 
 night ; why did you ? " 
 
 His tenderness over me, even then, made me break 
 down. I forgot my manhood, or else it slipped from me 
 unawares. In the old Bible language, " I fell on his neck 
 and wept." 
 
 Afterward, I was not sorry for this, because I think my 
 weakness gave him strength. I think, amidst the whirl of 
 passion that racked him, it was good for him to feel that 
 the one crowning cup of life is not inevitably life's sole 
 sustenance ; that it was something to have a friend and 
 brother, who loved him with a love like Jonathan's 
 "passing the love of woman." 
 
 " 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 around me to keep me warm, and 
 brought me safely into the house. He even sat down by 
 the fire to talk with me. Whatever struggle there had 
 been, I saw it was over, he looked his own self, only 
 so very, very pale, and spoke in his natural voice ; 
 ay, even when mentioning her, which he was the first to 
 do. 
 
 " She goes to-morrow, you are sure, Phineas ? " 
 
 " I believe so. Shall you see her again ? " 
 
 " If she desires it." 
 
 " Shall you say anything to her." 
 
 "Nothing. If for a little while not knowing or not 
 thinking of all the truth I felt I had strength to remove 
 mountains, 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
 
 170 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like 
 a piece of his heart. 
 
 " Did she say anything to you ? Did she ask why I left 
 her so abruptly this morning?" 
 
 " She did ; I said you would probably tell her the reason 
 yourself." 
 
 " I will. She must be no longer kept in ignorance about 
 me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth, save 
 one thing. She need never know that." 
 
 I guessed by bis broken voice what the " one thing" was 
 which he counted as nothing ; but which, I think, any true 
 woman would have counted worth everything, 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 ! 1 felt sorry, ay, even sorry, for Ursula 
 March. 
 
 " Do you not tLInk I am rignt, Phineas ? " 
 
 " Perhaps. I cannot 88- You are the best judge." 
 
 " It is right," said he, firmly. "There can be no possible 
 nope 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 younr ~3an 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 inter- 
 fere either way would be at once idle and perilous ; nay, in 
 some sense, exceedingly wrong. 
 
 So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total 
 silence. 
 
 John broke it, talking to himself aa 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 1 
 would have given all the world to 
 
 He broke off instinctively, as it were with a sort 
 of feeling every good man has, that the sacred passion, the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 171 
 
 inmost tenderness of his love, should be kept wholly be- 
 tween himself and the woman he has chosen. 
 
 I knew that, too ; knew that in his heart had grown up a 
 secret, a necessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship, 
 closer than the closest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps - - 
 i hardly know why I sighed. 
 
 John turned round : " Phineas, you must not think, be- 
 cause because of this, which you will understand for 
 yourself, I hope, one day, you must not think I could ever 
 think less, feel less, about my brother." 
 
 He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands 
 warmly and silently. Thus was healed my last lingering 
 pain, I was thenceforward entirely satisfied. 
 
 I think we parted that night as we had never parted 
 before ; feeling tnat the trial of our friendship the great 
 trial, perhaps, of any friendship had come and passed, 
 safely : that whatever new ties might gather round each, 
 our two hearts would cleave together until death. 
 
 The next morning rose, as I have seen many a morning 
 rise at Enderley, misty and gray ; but oh, so heavenly fair ! 
 with a pearly net-work of dewy gossamer under foot, and 
 overhead countless thistle-downs flying about, like fairy 
 chariots hurrying out of sight of the sun, which had only 
 mounted high enough above the Flat to touch the horizon 
 of hills opposite and the tops of my four poplars, leav- 
 ing Rose Cottage and the valley below it all in morning 
 shadow. John called me to go with him on the common ; 
 his voice sounded so cheerful outside my door that it was 
 with a glad heart I rose and went. 
 
 He chose his old walk, his " terrace." No chance now 
 of meeting the light figure coming tripping along the level 
 hill ! All that dream was over now. 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 down into the harder gravity of manhood. 
 The great crisis and climax of youth had been gone 
 through ; he never could be a boy again. 
 
 We came to f hat 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.
 
 172 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Some one stood beside it, the only one who was likely to 
 be there. 
 
 Even had I not recognized her, John's manner would 
 have told me who it was. A deadly paleness overspread 
 his face, its quietness was gone, every feature trembled. 
 It almost broke my heart to see how deeply this love had 
 struck its roots down to the very core of his, twisting 
 them with every fibre of his being, a love which, though 
 it had sprung up so early and come to maturity so fast, 
 might yet be the curse of his whole existence : save that 
 no love conceived virtuously, for a good woman, be it ever 
 so hopeless, can ever be rightly considered as a curse. 
 
 " Shall we go away ? " 1 whispered ; " a long walk to 
 the other side of the Flat ? She will have left Rose Cot- 
 tage soon." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Before noon, I heard. Come, David." 
 
 He suffered me to put my arm in his, and draw him 
 away for a step or two, then turned. 
 
 " I can't, Phineas, I can't ! I must look at her again, 
 only for one .minute one little minute." 
 
 But he stayed we were standing where she could not 
 see us till she had slowly left the grave. We heard the 
 click of the 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 
 ,orner of the cottage. Miss March stood there, trying 
 .;o 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 sign 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 heft
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 173 
 
 " Thank you ; that will do. I wanted to take some away 
 
 ith me. I am leaving Rose Cottage to-day, Mr. Halifax " 
 
 " So I have heard." 
 
 He did not say " sorry to hear." I wondered did the 
 omission strike her ? But no ; she evidently looked upon us 
 both as mere pleasant companions, inevitably, perhaps even 
 tenderly, bound up with this time ; and as such, claiming a 
 more than ordinary place in her regard and remembrance. 
 No man with common sense or common feeling could for 
 a moment dare to misinterpret the emotion she showed. 
 
 Re-entering the house, she asked us if we would come in 
 with her ; she had a few tilings 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," she said 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 invari- 
 ably assumed. We might have been three old people, who 
 had long fought with and endured the crosses of the world, 
 instead of two young men and a young woman, in the very 
 dawn of life. 
 
 " Circumstances have fixed my plans since I saw you 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 complaint, but as if accepting the 
 fact and making up her mind to endure it. A little more 
 fragmentary conversation passed, chiefly between herself 
 and me ; John uttered scarcely a word. He sat by the 
 window, half shading his face with his hand. Under that 
 covert, the gaze which incessantly followed and dwelt on 
 her face oh, had she seen it ! 
 
 The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had 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.
 
 174 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " This is not a very long good-by, I trust ?" said she to 
 me, with something more than courtesy. " I shall remain 
 at the Mythe House some weeks, I believe. How long do 
 you propose staying at Enderley." 
 
 I was uncertain. 
 
 " But your home is in Norton Bury ? I hope I trust 
 you will allow my cousin to express in his own house his 
 thanks and mine for your great kindness during my 
 trouble ? " 
 
 Neither of us answered. Miss March looked surprised, 
 hurt, nay, displeased ; then her eye, resting on John, lost 
 its haughtiness, and became humble and sweet. 
 
 " Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do 
 know you. Will you tell me candidly, as I know you will 
 
 whether there is anything in Mr. Brithwood which you 
 think unworthy of your acquaintance ? " 
 
 " He would think me unworthy of his," was the low, firm 
 answer. 
 
 Miss March smiled incredulously. " Because you are not 
 very rich ? What can that signify ? It is enough for me 
 that my friends are gentlemen." 
 
 " Mr. Brithwood and many others would not allow my 
 claim to that title." 
 
 Astonished, nay, somewhat more than astonished, the 
 young gentlewoman drew back a little. " I do not quite 
 understand you." 
 
 "Let me explain then;" and her involuntary gesture 
 seeming to have brought back all honest dignity and manly 
 pride, he faced her, once more himself. " It is right, Miss 
 March, that you should know who and what I am, to whom 
 you are giving the 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?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 175 
 
 " Because you are a gentlewoman, and I am a trades 
 man." 
 
 The news was evidently a shock to her ; it could not but 
 be, reared as she had been. She sat, the eyelashes dropping 
 ever 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, 
 inat of a tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher, 
 Phineas's father." 
 
 " Mr. Fletcher ? " She looked 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 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 soft- 
 ness, as he resumed. " I never forgot that little girl. 
 Many a time when I was inclined to do wrong, she kept 
 me right, the remembrance of her sweet face and her 
 kindness." 
 
 That face was pressed down against the sofa where she 
 sat. I think Miss March was all but weeping. 
 
 John continued : 
 
 "I am glad to have met her again, glad to have been 
 able to do he/ some small good in return for the infinite 
 good she once did me. I shall bid her farewell now at 
 once and altogether." 
 
 A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face asked him 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because," John answered, " the world says we are not 
 equals, and it would neither be for Miss March's honor nor
 
 176 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 joy or pride, or simple astonishment ; 
 perhaps a mingling of all. Then her eyelids fell. She 
 silently offered her hand, first to me, then to John. Whether 
 she meant it as friendliness, or as a mere ceremony of adieu, 
 1 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. Will you show me again 
 the hurt you had for me ? " 
 
 Her left arm was hanging over the sofa, the scar being 
 visible enough. John took the hand and held it firmly. 
 
 " Poor little hand, blessed little hand ! May God bless 
 it evermore ! " 
 
 Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound 
 had been, a kiss such as only a lover's kiss could be< 
 Surely she must have felt it, known it. 
 
 A moment afterward he was gone. 
 
 That day Miss March departed, and we remained at 
 Enderley alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was winter-time. All the summer days at Enderley 
 were gone, " like a dream when one awaketh." Of her who 
 had been the beautiful centre of the dream we had never 
 heard nor spoken since. 
 
 John and I were walking together rlong the road toward 
 the Mythe. We could just see the frosty .-unset reflected on 
 the windows of the Mythe House, now closed for months, 
 the family being away. The meadows alongside, where the 
 Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a popular skating- 
 ground, and the road was alive with lookers-on of every 
 class. All Norton Bury seemed abroad ; and half Norton 
 Bury exchanged salutations with my companion, till 1 was 
 amused to notice how John's acquaintance had grown.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 177 
 
 Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, 
 as prim and neat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a 
 happy matron. I saw at once who it was, Mrs. Jessop, 
 our good doctor's new wife and old love whom he had lately 
 brought home, to the great amazement and curiosity of 
 Norton Bury. 
 
 " She seems to like you very much," I whispered ; 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 the 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 made 
 to smart once more. And our love to one another was too 
 faithful for a little reserve to have power to influence it in 
 any way. 
 
 We came once more upon the old lady, watching the 
 skaters. She again spoke to John, and looked at me with 
 her keen, kind, blue eyes. 
 
 " I think I know who your friend is, though you do not 
 introduce him." (John hastily performed that ceremony.) 
 " Tom and I " (how funny to hear her call our old bachelor 
 doctor " Tom ! ") " were wondering what had become of you, 
 Mr. Halifax. Are you stronger than you were in London ? " 
 
 " Was he ill in London, madam ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, Phineas ! Or only enough to win for me 
 Dr. and Mrs. Jessop's great kindness." 
 
 " Which you have never come to thank us for. Never 
 crossed our door-sill since we returned home ! Does not 
 your conscience sting you for your ingratitude ? " 
 
 He colored deeply. 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Jessop, it was not ingratitude." 
 
 " I know it ; I believe," she answered, with much kind- 
 ness. " 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 great kindiess to me in London 
 
 12
 
 178 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 was no reason for my intruding on you at Norton Bury. It 
 might not be agreeable for you and Dr. Jessop to have my 
 acquaintance here. I am a tradesman." 
 
 The little old lady's eyes brightened into something 
 beyond mere kindness as she looked at him. 
 
 " Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that ' plain truth.' Truth 
 is always best. Now for mine. I had heard you were a 
 tradesman ; I found out for myself that you were a gentle- 
 man. I do not think the two incompatible, nor does my 
 husband. We shall be happy to see you at our house at all 
 times, under all circumstances." 
 
 She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in 
 silence ; but it was long since I had seen him look more 
 pleased. 
 
 " Well then, you will come to-morrow evening, both of 
 you?" 
 
 And her pleasant, friendly glance included me likewise, 
 forcing assent. 
 
 " Are you walking farther ? So am I." And we all 
 three went 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 
 cheerful sunset of her existence now. It was a frank, 
 bright, happy face, in spite of its wrinkles and its some- 
 what hard Welsh features. And it was pleasant to hear 
 her talk, even though she talked a good deal, and hi a 
 decidedly Welsh accent. Sometimes a tone or two re- 
 minded me slightly of ay, it was easy to guess why John 
 evidently liked the old lady. 
 
 " I know this road well, Mr. Halifax. Once 1 spent a 
 summer here with an old pupil, now grown up. I am go- 
 ing to-day to inquire about her at the Mythe House. The 
 Brith woods came home yesterday.*' 
 
 I was afraid to look at John. Even to me the news 
 was startling. How I blessed Mrs. Jessop's unnoticing 
 garrulousness. 
 
 "I hope they will remain here some time. I have a 
 great interest in their stay. Not on Lady Caroline's ac- 
 count, though. She patronizes me very kindly ; but 1
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 179 
 
 doubt if she ever forgets, what Tom says I am rather too 
 proud of remembering, that I was the poor governess, 
 Jane Cardigan." 
 
 " Jane Cardigan ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " What, Mr. Fletcher, you know my name ? And really, 
 now, 1 think of it, I believe I have heard yours. Not from 
 Tom, either. It couldn't possibly be yes? it certainly 
 was. Does either of you know my old pupil, Ursula 
 March?" 
 
 The live crimson rushed madly over John's face. Mrs. 
 Jessop saw it ; she could not but see. At first she looked 
 astounded, then exceedingly grave. 
 
 I replied that we had had the honor of meeting Miss 
 March last summer, at Enderley. 
 
 " Yes," the old lady continued somewhat formally. 
 " Now I recollect, Miss March told of the circumstances 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 , /or John was speechless. Alas ! 
 I saw at once that all my hopes for him, all the design of 
 my long silence on this subject, had been in vain. No, he 
 had not forgotten her. It was not in his nature to forget. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop went on, still addressing herself to me. 
 
 " I am sure I ought, on behalf of my dear pupil, to offer 
 you both my warmest thanks. Hers was a most trying 
 position. She never told me of it till afterward, poor 
 child ! " and tears stood in the kindly blue eyes. " 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 't 
 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 prosper- 
 ous ; I trust it may be very happy. Now I must bid you 
 both good-by."
 
 J.80 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 She stopped at the gates of the Mythe House, great 
 iron gates, a barrier as proud and impassable as that which 
 in these times the rich shut against the poor, the aristocrat 
 against the plebeian. John, glancing once up at them, 
 hurriedly moved on. 
 
 " Stay ; you will come and see us, Mr. Halifax ? 
 Promise." 
 
 " If you wish it." 
 
 " And promise, too, that under all circumstances you 
 will tell me, as you did this morning, the * plain truth ' ? 
 Yes, I see you will. Good-by." 
 
 The iron gates closed upon her, and against us. We 
 took our silent way up 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. 
 
 " It is so long since you have told me anything. It 
 might do you good." 
 
 " Nothing can do me good, nothing but bearing it. 
 My God ! what have I not borne ! Five whole months to 
 be dying of thirst, and not a drop of water to cool my 
 tongue ! " 
 
 He bared his head and throat to the cutting wind ; his 
 chest heaved, his eyes seemed in a flame. 
 
 " God forgive me ! but I sometimes think I would give 
 myself body and soul to the Devil for one glimpse of her 
 face, one touch of her little hand." 
 
 I made no answer. What answer could be made to such 
 words as these ? I waited all I could do till the 
 paroxysm had gone by. Then I hinted, as indeed seemed 
 not unlikely, that he might see her soon. 
 
 " Yes, a great way off, like that cloud up there. But I 
 want her near close in my home at my heart ! 
 Phineas ! " he gasped, " talk to me about something else 
 anything. Don't let me think, or I shall go clean 
 mad." 
 
 And indeed he looked so. I was terrified. So quiet as 
 I had always seen him when we met, so steadily as he had 
 pursued his daily duties ; and with all this underneath,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 181 
 
 this torment, conflict, despair, of a young man's love ! It 
 must come out better it should. 
 
 " And you have gone on working all this while ? " 
 
 " I was obliged. Nothing but work kept me in my 
 senses. Besides " and he laughed hoarsely "I was 
 safest in the tan-yard. The thought of her could not come 
 there. I was glad of it. I tried to be solely and altogether 
 what I am, a 'prentice lad, a mere clown." 
 
 " Nay, that was wrong." 
 
 " Was it ? Well, at last it struck me so. I thought I 
 would be a gentleman again, just for a pretence, you 
 know, a dream, a bit of the old dream back again. So 
 I went to London." 
 
 " And met the Jessops there ? " 
 
 " Yes ; though I did not know she was Jane Cardigan. 
 But I liked her ; I liked my life with them. It was like 
 breathing a higher air, the same air that oh, Phineas, it 
 was horrible to come back to my life here to that accursed 
 tan-yard ! " 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 " You see now " and that hard laugh smote me to the 
 heart again " you see, Phineas, how wicked 1 am grow- 
 ing. You '11 have to cut my acquaintance presently." 
 
 " Tell me the rest, I mean, the rest of your life in Lon- 
 don," 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 in the ' Court Circu- 
 lar ' being inquired after by a tanner's lad. But I wanted 
 to look at her, any beggar might do that, you know, so 
 I watched in streets and parks, by theatre doors at 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 
 because ah, don't look so wretched ! Why did you let 
 me say all this ? You are too good for such as I." 
 
 Of course I took no heed of idle words like these. I let 
 him stand there, half leaning, half crouching against the 
 stile, now and then grasping it with his nervous, muscular 
 hands, as if he would tear it down ; then I said, quietly,
 
 182 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 u What do you intend to do ? " 
 
 " Do ? Nothing ! What can I do ? Though sometimes 
 a score of wild plans rush into my mind, such as to run 
 away to the Indies, like that young Warren Hastings, come 
 back twenty years hence a nabob, and marry her." 
 
 " Marry her," I repeated mournfully. 
 
 " Ay, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she 
 and I were to meet and stand together, equal man and 
 woman, I could make her love me ; I feel I could. Instead 
 of crawling after her thus, I would go boldly in at those 
 very gates do you think she is there ? " 
 
 He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of 
 her being so near. 
 
 " Oh, it 's hard, hard ! I could despise myself. Why 
 cannot I trust my manhood, my honest manhood that I was 
 born with, go straight to her and tell her that I love her ; 
 that God meant her for me and me for her, true husband 
 and true wife ? Phineas, mark my words," and wild as 
 his manner was, it had a certain force which sounded al- 
 most like prophecy, " if 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 
 as ; we shall go on apart and alone, till the next world. 
 Perhaps she will come to me then : I may have her in my 
 heart there." 
 
 John looked upward. There was in the west a broad, 
 red, frosty cloud, and just beyond it, nay, all but resting on 
 it, the new moon, a little, wintry, soft new moon. A 
 sight that might well have hushed the maddest storm of 
 passion ! it hushed his. He stood, still looking up, for 
 many minutes, then closed his eyes, the lashes all wet. 
 
 " We '11 come home now, Phineas ; I '11 not grieve thee 
 any more ; I '11 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 183 
 
 respect, his 'master. Though still ostensibly a 'prentice, he 
 had now the business almost entirely in his hands. It was 
 pleasant to see how my father brightened up at his coming, 
 how readily, when he turned homeward, he leaned upon 
 John's strong young arm, now the support of both him ami 
 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 
 as ; but my father walked along soberly and sternly, frown- 
 ing at almost every salutation John Halifax received. 
 
 " Thee art making far too many friends, John. I warn 
 thee ! " 
 
 "Not friends, only friendly acquaintance," was the 
 gentle answer, well used to turn away, daily and hourly, 
 A.bel Fletcher's wrath. But it was roused beyond control 
 when Dr. Jessop's nea.t little carriage, and neatest of little 
 wives, stopped by the curb-stone and summoned John. 
 
 " I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us to-morrow 
 evening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to see you." 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 " Yes, you," smiled the old lady ; " you, John Halifax, 
 the hero of the people, who quelled the bread riots, and 
 gave evidence thereupon to Mr. Pitt in London. Nay ! why 
 did n't you tell me the wonderful story ? Her ladyship is 
 full of it. She will torment me till she sees you, I know 
 her ways. For my sake, you must come." 
 
 Waiting no refusal, Mrs. Jessop drove on. 
 
 " What 's that ? " said my father, sharply. " John, 
 where art thee going ? " 
 
 I knew this was the first warning-gun of a battle which 
 broke out afresh every time John appeared in any livelier 
 garb than his 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 answer, but passed his hand once or twice over his 
 brow, as if he could not see clearly. 
 
 Abel Fletcher repeated the question. 
 
 " Yes ; that was Mrs. Jessop, sir ! " 
 
 " I know," grumbled my father. " The doctor is a fool 
 in his old age. Who did she want thee to meet ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " She ? Oh, Lady Caroline, you mean ! " 
 
 " Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John, Father.** 
 
 Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, 
 released his arm from John's, and eyed him from top to 
 toe. 
 
 " Thee ? A woman of quality wanting to see thee f 
 Young man, thee art a hypocrite ! " 
 
 " Sir ! " 
 
 " I knew it ! I foresaw how thy fine ways would end ! 
 Going to London, crawling at the heels of grand folk, 
 despising thy honest trade, trying to make thyself appear 
 a gentleman ! " 
 
 " I hope I am a gentleman." 
 
 Words could not describe my father's horrified astonish- 
 ment. " Oh, lad ! " he cried, " a 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 * gentle- 
 men,' such as Richard Brithwood forsooth ! a fox-hunting, 
 drinking, dicing fool I " 
 
 1 was shocked ; I had not believed him so bad as that, 
 the young Squire, Miss March's cousin. 
 
 " Or," pursued my father, waxing hotter and hotter, " or 
 a 'lady' such as his wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an 
 Ahab father ! brought up in the impious atrocities of France 
 and the debaucheries of Naples, where, though she keeps it 
 close here, she abode with that vile woman whom they call 
 Lady Hamilton." 
 
 John started. Well he might, for even to our quiet 
 town had come, all this winter, foul newspaper tales about 
 Nelson and Lady Hamilton. 
 
 " Take care," he said, in much agitation. " One taint 
 upon a woman's fame harms not her alone, but all con- 
 nected with her. For God's sake, sir, whether it be true 
 or not, do not whisper in Norton Bury that Lady Caroline 
 Brithwood is a friend of Lady Hamilton ! " 
 
 " Pshaw ! What is either woman to us ? " 
 
 And my father climbed the steps to his own door, John 
 following.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 185 
 
 "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 gover- 
 ness, would never lure a young man with such phantoms as 
 these. I felt sure, certain, that we should meet the 
 Brithwoods, and no one else. Certain, even when, as we 
 s 1 it at our dish of tea, there came in two dainty little notes, 
 --the first invitations to worldly festivity that had ever 
 t impted our Quaker household, and which Jael flung out 
 her fingers as if they had been coals from Gehenna, 
 'uotes, bidding us to a " little supper " at Dr. Jessop's, with 
 Mr. and Lady Caroline Brithwood of the Mythe House. 
 
 " Give them to your father, Phineas ; " and John vainly 
 tried to hide the flash of his eye, the smiles that came 
 and went like summer lightning. " To-morrow ; you see it 
 is to-morrow." 
 
 Poor lad ! he had forgotten every worldly thing in the 
 hope of that to-morrow. 
 
 My father's sharp voice roused him. " Phineas, thee 'It 
 itay at home. Tell the woman I say so." 
 
 "And John, Father?" 
 
 " John may go to ruin if he chooses. He is his own 
 master." 
 
 " I have been always ; " and the answer came less in 
 prif* j than sadness. " I might have gone to ruin years ago, 
 bn> for the mercy of Heaven and your kindness. Do not 
 1<* is be at warfare now." 
 
 All thine own fault, lad. Why cannot thee keep in thy
 
 186 
 
 own rank ? Respect thyself. Be an honest tradesman, aa 
 I have been." 
 
 " And as I trust always to be. But that is only my call- 
 ing, not I. I, John Halifax, am just the same, whether in 
 the tan-yard or Dr. Jessop's drawing-room. One position 
 cannot degrade, nor the other elevate me. I should not 
 ' respect myself ' if I believed otherwise." 
 
 " Eh ? " my father absolutely dropped his pipe in amaze- 
 ment. " Then thee thinkest thyself already quite a 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 " As I told you before, sir, I hope I am." 
 
 " Fit to associate with the finest folk in the land ? " 
 
 " If they desire it, certainly." 
 
 Now Abel Fletcher, like all honest men, liked honesty, 
 and something in John's bold spirit and free bright eye 
 seemed to-day to strike him more than ordinarily. 
 
 " Lad, lad, thee art young. But it won't last ; no, it 
 won't last." 
 
 He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe it had 
 been curling in brave wreaths to the very ceiling, two 
 minutes before and sat musing. 
 
 " But about to-morrow ? " persisted John, after watching 
 him some little time. " I could go, I could have gone 
 without either your knowledge or permission ; but I had 
 rather deal openly with you. You know I always do. 
 You have been the kindest master and the truest friend to 
 me ; I hope, as long as I live, rarely to oppose, and never 
 to deceive you." 
 
 His manner, earnest, yet most respectful, his candid 
 looks, under which lurked an evident anxiety and pain, 
 might have mollified a harder man than Abel Fletcher. 
 
 " John, whv dost thee want to go among those grand 
 folk?" 
 
 " Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons, 
 strong reasons." 
 
 " Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons." 
 
 Here was a strait. 
 
 "Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee 
 art ashamed of ? " 
 
 "Ashamed? No!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 187 
 
 " Is it a secret then the telling of which would be to 
 thee, or any one else, a dishonor?" 
 
 " 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 a 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 hi it a strange compassion, 
 
 " Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's 
 life, woman." 
 
 To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He 
 seemed even as if he had forgotten himself and his own 
 secret, thus, for what end I knew not, voluntarily be- 
 trayed, so absorbed was he in contemplating the old man. 
 And truly, in all my life, I have never seen such a convul- 
 sion pass over my father's face. It was like as if some one 
 had touched and revived the torment of some long-hidden 
 but never-to-be-healed wound. Not till years after did I 
 understand the full meaning of John's gaze, nor why he 
 was so patient with my father. 
 
 The torment passed, ended in violent anger. 
 
 " Out with it. Who is deluding thee ? Is it a matter 
 of wedlock, or only " 
 
 " Stop ! " John cried, his face all on fire. " The lady " 
 
 " It is a ' lady.' Now I see why thee would fain be a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Oh, Father, how can you " 
 
 " So thee knowest it too ; I see it in thy face. Wouldst 
 thee be led away by him a second time ? But thee shall 
 not. I '11 put thee under lock and key before thee shalt 
 ruin thyself and disgrace thy father." 
 
 This was hard to bear ; but I believe it was John's 
 teaching that one ought to bear anything, however hard, 
 from a just and a worthy parent. And it was John himself
 
 188 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 who now grasped my hand, and whispered patience, John, 
 who knew, what I myself, as I have said, did not learn for 
 years, concerning my father. 
 
 " 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" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 And as he said this, slowly, gravely, quietly, John moved 
 a step back and sat down. His face was in shadow, but the 
 fire shone on his hands, tightly locked together, motionless 
 as stone. 
 
 My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts 
 of former days came and knocked at the old man's heart. We 
 all three sat silent for a long time. Then my father said, 
 
 " Who is she ? " 
 
 " I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly 
 station." 
 
 " Ah ! " a sharp, 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 
 honorable means I can rise to her level, so as to win her 
 love, marry her I will." 
 
 That brave " I will," it seemed to carry its own fulfil- 
 ment. Its indomitable resolution struck my father with 
 wonder ; nay, with a sort of awe. 
 
 " Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee," he said 
 kindly. " Mayst thee never find thy desire a curse. 
 Fear not, lad ; I will keep thy counsel." 
 
 " I knew you would." 
 
 The subject ceased : my father's manner indicated that 
 he wished it to cease. He re-lit his pipe and puffed away 
 silently and sadly. 
 
 Years 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, 1 learned 
 what all Norton Bury, exceot myself, had long known
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 189 
 
 that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, 
 whose married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was 
 by birth a " gentlewoman." 
 
 CHAPTER XVH 
 
 MRS. JESSOP'S drawing-room, ruddy with firelight, glitter- 
 ing with delicate wax-candle light, a few women in pale- 
 colored gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, 
 gold buttons, yellow waistcoats, and smiles, this was all I 
 noticed of the scene, which was quite a novel scene to me. 
 
 The doctor's wife had introduced us formally to all her 
 guests, as the custom then was, especially in these small, 
 cozy supper-parties. How they greeted us I do not now 
 remember ; no doubt, with a kind of well-bred formal sur- 
 prise ; 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 to make your acquaintance." 
 
 After that everybody began to talk with extraordinary 
 civility to Mr. Halifax. 
 
 For John, he soon took his place among them, with that 
 modest self-possession which best becomes youth. Society's 
 dangerous waters accordingly become 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 
 speak to him. In truth I was scarcely calmer than he. 
 For though it must be clearly understood I never was in 
 "love" with any woman, still the reflected glamour of
 
 190 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 those Enderley days had fallen on me. It often seems 
 now as if I too had passed the golden gate, and looked far 
 enough into youth's Eden to be able ever after to weep with 
 those that wept without the doors. 
 
 No, she was not there. 
 
 We both sat down. I know not if I was thankful or 
 sorry. 
 
 I had seldom seen the Squire or Lady Caroline. He was 
 a portly young man, pinched in by tight light-colored gar- 
 ments. She was a lady rather past her first youth, but 
 very handsome still, who floated about, leaving a general 
 impression of pseudo-Greek draperies, gleaming arms and 
 shoulders, sparkling jewelry, and equally sparkling smiles. 
 These smiles seemed to fall just as redundantly upon the 
 family physician, whom, by a rare favor for so 1 sup- 
 posed it must have been she was honoring with a visit, 
 as if worthy Dr. Jessop were the noblest in the land. He, 
 poor man, was all bows and scrapes and pretty speeches, 
 in 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 an earl's 
 daughter very calmly indeed. She merely did the ordinary 
 courtesies, and then went over to talk with Mr. Brithwood. 
 In their conversation, I sought sometimes even fancied I 
 could catch the name of Ursula. 
 
 So it ended, the sickening expectation which I had read 
 in the lad's face all day. He would not see her. Perhaps 
 it was best ; yet my heart bled when I looked at him. 
 But such thoughts could not be indulged in now, especially 
 as Mrs. Jessop's quick eyes seemed often upon him or 
 me, with an expression that I could not make out at 
 all, save that in such a good face, owned by one whom 
 Miss March so well loved, could lurk nothing evil or 
 unkindly. 
 
 So I tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One 
 could not choose but look at her, this handsome Lady Caro- 
 line, whom half Norton Bury adored, the other half pursed 
 np their lips at the mention of; but these were of the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 191 
 
 number she declined to " know." All that she did know, 
 all that came within her influence, were irresistibly at- 
 tracted, for to please seemed a part of her nature. To-night 
 nearly every one present stole gradually into the circle 
 round her, men and women alike charmed by the fascina- 
 tion of her ripe beauty, her lively manner, her exquisite 
 smile and laugh. 
 
 1 wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brith- 1 
 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 con- 
 versing with him, crept shyly out of his way ; as if, now 
 the visible reality appeared, they were aghast at the great 
 gulf that lay between John Halifax the tanner and the 
 Brithwoods of the My the. A few even looked askance at 
 our hostess, as though some terrible judgment must fall 
 upon poor ignorant Mrs. Jessop, who had dared to amalga- 
 mate such opposite ranks. 
 
 So it came to pass that while everybody gathered round 
 the Brithwoods, John and I tood alone, and half concealed 
 by the window. 
 
 Very soon I heard Lady Caroline's loud whisper. 
 
 " Mrs. Jessop, my good friend, one moment. Where is 
 your jeune hros, Vhomme 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 ? " 
 
 " Judge for yourself, my lady ; he stands at your elbow. 
 Mr. Halifax, let me present you to Lady Caroline Brith- 
 wood." 
 
 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 amaze- 
 ment 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
 
 192 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 gentilities of Norton Bury to amuse themselves as they 
 best might. 
 
 " I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Halifax ; I adore le 
 peuple? Especially " with a sly glance at her husband, 
 who, with Tory Dr. Jessop, was vehemently exalting Mr. 
 Pitt and abusing the First Consul Bonaparte " especially 
 le peuple Francais. Comprenez vous f " 
 
 " Madame, je comprends" 
 
 Her ladyship looked surprised. French was then not 
 very common amongst 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, fa ira, $a ira " she laughed, humming beneath her 
 breath a few notes out of that terrible song. " But you 
 know French ; let us talk in that language ; we shall horrify 
 no one then." 
 
 " I cannot speak it readily ; I am chiefly self-taught." 
 
 " The best teaching. Mon Dieu ! Truly you are made 
 to be un heros ; just the last touch of grace that a woman's 
 hand gives had you ever a woman for your friend ? and 
 you would be complete. But I cannot flatter ; plain, blunt 
 honesty for me. You must, you shall be Vhomme du 
 peuple. Were you born such ? Who were your parents ? " 
 
 I saw John hesitate ; I knew how rarely he ever uttered 
 those names written in the old Bible, how infinitely sacred 
 they were to him. Could he blazon them out now, to gratify 
 this woman's idle curiosity ? 
 
 " Madam," he said gravely, " I was introduced to you 
 simply as John Halifax. It seems to me that so long as I 
 do no discredit to it, that name suffices to the world." 
 
 " Ah, I see, I see." But he, with his downcast eyes, did 
 not detect the meaning smile that just flashed in hers, then 
 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. 
 LibertG, fratemitS, &galite. I would rather be a gamin ID 
 Paris streets than my brother William at Luxmore Hall."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 193 
 
 Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in 
 English, the young man answering little. She only threw 
 her shining arts abroad the more ; she seemed determined 
 to please, and Nature fitted her for it. Even though she 
 had not been an earl's daughter, Lady Caroline would have 
 been everywhere the magic centre of any society wherein 
 she chose to move. Not that her conversation was brilliant 
 or deep, but she said the most frivolous things in a way 
 that made them appear witty ; and the grand art, to charm 
 by appearing charmed, was hers in perfection. She seemed 
 to float altogether upon and among the pleasantnesses of 
 life ; pain, either endured or inflicted, was to her an 
 impossibility. 
 
 Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and 
 thus, after many years, it strikes me still. 1 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 forgot- 
 ten, no ; the restless wandering of his eyes at the 
 lightest sound in the room, told how impossible it was 
 he should forget. Yet he comported himself bravely, and 
 I was proud that Ursula's kindred should see him as he 
 was. 
 
 "Lady Caroline," her ladyship turned with a slightly 
 bored expression to her intrusive hostess, " I fear we must 
 give up all expectation of our young friend to-night.". 
 
 " I told you so. Post-travelling is very uncertain, and 
 the Bath roads are not good. Have you ever visited Bath, 
 Mr. Halifax ? " 
 
 " But she is surely long on the road," pursued Mrs* 
 Jessop, rather anxiously. " What attendants had she ? " 
 
 " Her own maid, and our man Laplace. Nay, don't bo 
 
 13
 
 194 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 dis- 
 covered the melancholy fact that Miss March " 
 
 " Pardon me," interrupted the other ; " we are among 
 strangers. I assure vou, I am quite satisfied about my dear 
 child." 
 
 " What a charming thing is affectionate fidelity," ob- 
 served her ladyship, turning once more to John, with a 
 sweet, lazy dropping of the eyelids. 
 
 The young man only bowed. They resumed their con- 
 versation, at least, she did, talking volubly, satisfied with 
 monosyllabic answers. 
 
 It was now almost supper-time, held a glorious meal 
 at Norton Bury parties. People began to look anxiously to 
 the door. 
 
 " Before we adjourn," said Lady Caroline, " I must do 
 what it will be difficult to accomplish after supper ; " and 
 for the first time a sharp, sarcastic tone jarred in her 
 smooth voice. " I must introduce you especially to my 
 husband. Mr. Brithwood ! " 
 
 " Madame." He lounged up to her. They were a diverse 
 pair, she, in her well-preserved beauty, and Gallic artifi- 
 cial 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 Brith- 
 wood was more at home with grooms than gentlemen. 
 
 " He belongs to this your town ; you must have heard of 
 him, perhaps met him." 
 
 " I have more than once had the pleasure of meeting 
 Mr. Brithwood, but he has doubtless forgotten it." 
 
 " By Jove ! I have. What might your name be, sir ? " 
 
 " John Halifax." 
 
 " What, Halifax the tanner ?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " Phew ! " He began a low whistle and turned on his 
 heel.
 
 "For at the doorway . . was a tall girl in deep mourning."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 195 
 
 John turned color a little. Lady Caroline laughed a 
 thoughtless, amused laugh, with a pleasant murmur of 
 "Bete!" " Anylais .' "' Nevertheless, she whispered her 
 husband, 
 
 " Mon ami, you forget ; I have introduced you to this 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Gentlemali, indeed ! Pooh, rubbish ! Lady Caroline, 
 I 'in busy talking." 
 
 " And so are we, most pleasantly. I could only call you 
 as a matter of form, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax 
 will, I hope, dine with us next Sunday ? " 
 
 " The Devil he will ! " 
 
 " Richard, you hurt me ! " with a little scream, as she 
 pushed his rough fingers from her arm, so soft and round 
 and fair. 
 
 " Madame, you must be crazy. The young man is a 
 tradesman a tanner. Not fit for my society." 
 
 u Precisely ; I invite him for my own." 
 
 But the whispers and responses were alike unheeded by 
 their object. For, at the doorway, entering with Mrs. 
 Jessop, was a tall girl in deep mourning. We knew her, 
 we both knew her ; our dream at Enderley, our Nut- 
 browne Mayde. 
 
 John was near to the door ; their eyes met ; she bowed ; 
 he returned it. He was very pale. For Miss March, her 
 face and neck were all in a glow. Neither spoke, nor offered 
 more than this passing acknowledgment, and she moved on. 
 
 She came and sat down beside me, accidentally, I believe ; 
 but when she saw me, she held out her hand. We ex- 
 changed a word or two. Her manner was unaltered ; but 
 she spoke hurriedly, and her fingers had their old nervous 
 twitch. She said this meeting was to her " unexpected," 
 but she was very glad to see me. 
 
 So she sat, and I looked sideways at her dropped eyes, 
 her forehead with its coronet of chestnut curls. How would 
 he bear the sight, he of whose heart mine was the mere 
 faint echo ? Yet truly an echo, repeating with cruel 
 faithfulness every throb ! 
 
 He kept his position, a little aloof from the Brith woods, 
 who were holding a slight altercation, though more of lobks
 
 196 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 than words. John heeded them not. I was sure, though 
 he 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 ? " 
 
 " I was. I want a quiet word or two, between ourselves." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 They stood face to face. The one seemed uncomfortable, 
 the other was his natural self, a little graver, perhaps, as if 
 he felt what was coming, and gathered up his strength to 
 meet it, knowing in whose presence he had to prove himself 
 what he was, and what Richard Brithwood with all his 
 broad acres could never be a gentleman. 
 
 Few could doubt the fact who looked at the two young 
 men, as all were looking now. 
 
 " On my soul, it 's awkward ; I '11 call at the tan-yard and 
 explain." 
 
 " I had rather you would explain here." 
 
 " Well then, though it 's a confounded unpleasant thing 
 to say, and I really wish I had not been brought into such a 
 position, you '11 not heed my wife's nonsense ? " 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Come, it 's no use running to cover in that way. Let 's 
 be open and plain. I mean no offence. You may be a very 
 respectable young man for aught I know ; still, rank is rank. 
 Of course, 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 
 invitation." 
 
 He said the words distinctly, so that the whole circle 
 might have heard, and was turning away, when Mr. Brith 
 veood fired up, as ai\ angry man does in a losing game. 
 
 " Humiliate yourself J What do you mean, sir ? Would n't 
 
 you be only too thankful to crawl into the houses of your 
 
 ^ttera, anyhow, by hook or oro&k ? Ha, ha ! I know you 
 
 "Would. It '5 always th^e way with, you common folk, you
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 197 
 
 rioters, you revolutionists. By the Lord ! I wish you were 
 all hanged.'' 
 
 The young blood rose fiercely into John's cheek, but 
 he restrained himself. " Sir, I am neither a rioter nor a 
 revolutionist." 
 
 " But you are a tradesman ? You used to drive Fletcher's 
 cart of skins." 
 
 " I did." 
 
 "And are you not I remember you now the very 
 lad, the tanner's lad, that once pulled us ashore from the 
 eger, cousin March and me ? " 
 
 I heard a quick exclamation beside me, and saw Ursula 
 listening intently ; I had not noticed how intently till now. 
 Her eyes were fixed on John, waiting for his answer. It 
 came. 
 
 " Your memory is correct ; I was that lad." 
 
 " Thank 'ee for it, too. Lord ! what a jolly life I should 
 have missed ! You got no reward, though. You threw 
 away the guinea I offered you ; come, 1 '11 make it twenty 
 guineas to-morrow." 
 
 The insult was too much. " Sir, you forget that whatever 
 you 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 the drawing-rooms and in 
 women's presence, especially with men of Mr. Brithwood's 
 stamp. His wife seemed quite used to it. She merely 
 shrugged her shoulders, and hummed a note or two of " Ca 
 iTa,r It irritated the husband beyond all bounds. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, my lady. What ! because a 'prentice 
 lad once saved my life, and you choose to patronize him, as 
 you do many another vagabond, with your cursed liberty 
 and equality, am I to have him at my table, and treat him 
 as a gentleman ? By , madam, never ! " 
 
 He spoke savagely and loud. John was silent; he had 
 locked his hands together convulsively, but it was easy to 
 see that his young blood was at boiling heat, and that, did
 
 198 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 he once slip the leash of his passions, it would go hard with 
 Richard Brithwood. 
 
 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, 
 the last fatal insult, which, offered from man to man, in 
 those days could only be wiped out with blood. 
 
 John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he 
 would have sprung on his adversary and felled him to the 
 ground, but he did it not. He returned not blow for 
 blow. 
 
 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, " 1 am a 
 Christian." 
 
 It was a new doctrine ; foreign to the practice, if familiar 
 to the ear, of Christian Norton Bury. No one answered 
 him ; all stared at him ; one or two sheered off from him 
 with contemptuous smiles. Then Ursula March stretched 
 out her friendly hand. John took it, and grew calm in a 
 moment. 
 
 There arose a murmur of " Mr. Brithwood is gone." 
 
 " Let him go ! " Miss March cried, anger still glowing in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Not so ; it is not right. I will speak to him. May 1 ? " 
 John softly unloosed her detaining hand, and went up to 
 Mr. Brithwood. " Sir, do not leave this house, I beg ; 1 
 am leaving it. You and I shall not meet again if I can 
 help it." 
 
 His proudly courteous voice, his absolute dignity and 
 calmness, completely overwhelmed his blustering adversary, 
 who gazed open-mouthed, while John made quiet adieux to
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 199 
 
 his host and those he knew. The women gathered round 
 him ; woman's instinct is usually true. Even Lady Car- 
 oline, amidst a flutter of regrets, declared she did not be- 
 lieve there was a man in the universe who would have borne 
 so charmingly such a " degradation." 
 
 At the word Miss March fired up. " Madam," she said, 
 in her impetuous young voice, "no insult offered to a man 
 can ever degrade him ; the only real degradation is when 
 he degrades himself." 
 
 John, passing out at the doorway, caught her words. As 
 he quitted the room, no crowned victor ever wore a look 
 more joyful, more proud. 
 
 After a minute we followed him, the doctor's wife and I. 
 But now the joy and pride both had faded. 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Jessop, you see I was right," he murmured. 
 " I ought not to have come here. It is a hard world for 
 such as I. 1 shall never conquer it, never ! " 
 
 " Yes, you will ; " and Ursula stood by him, with crim- 
 soned cheeks, and eyes no longer flashing, but fearless still. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop put her arm round the young girl. " I also 
 think you need not dread the world, Mr. Halifax, if you 
 always act as you did to-night : though I grieve that things 
 should have happened thus, if only for the sake of this 
 my child." 
 
 " Have I done her any harm ? oh, tell me, have I done 
 her any harm ? " 
 
 " No ! " cried Ursula, with the old impetuosity kindling 
 anew in every feature of her noble face. " You have but 
 showed me what I shall remember all my life, that a 
 Christian only can be a true gentleman." 
 
 She understood him, he felt she did, understood him 
 ns, if a man be understood by one woman in the world, 
 he and she, too is strong, safe, and happy. They 
 grasped hands once more, and gazed unhesitatingly into 
 each other's eyes. All human passion for the time being 
 set aside, these two recognized each in the other one aim, 
 one purpose, one faith, something higher than love, some- 
 thing better than happiness. It must have been a blessed 
 moment for both. 
 
 Mrs. Jessop did not interfere. She must herself have
 
 200 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 known what true (ove 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 <iow," 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 cheeV; down on Mrs. Jcssop's shoulder. 
 
 We had never seen Miss March show fondness that is, 
 caressing fondness to any one before. It revealed her in 
 a new light, betraying the depths there were in her nature, 
 infinite depths of softness and of love. 
 
 John watched her for a minute, a long, wild, greedy 
 minute, thei> 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 ^eeks after then we went on in our usual way, 
 Urania. March living within a stone's throw of us. She 
 had left her cousins, and come to reside with Dr. Jessop 
 and his wife. 
 
 It was a very hard trial for John. 
 
 Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessop. We 
 could not blame her ; she held a precious charge, and Nor- 
 ton Bury was a horrible place for gossip. Already tale 
 after tale had gone abroad about Miss March's " ingrati- 
 tude " to her relations. Already tongue after tongue had 
 repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of 
 "young Halifax and the Squire." Had it been "young 
 Halifax and Miss March," I truly believe John could not 
 have borne it. 
 
 As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always 
 by chance, a momentary glimpse at the window, or a 
 passing acknowledgment in the street. I knew quite well 
 when he had thus met her, whether he mentioned it or
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 201 
 
 not, - new by the wild, troubled look, which did not wear 
 off for hours. 
 
 I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt 
 and pain. 
 
 ; For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping 
 over " the lad," as I still fondly called him. His strength, 
 the glory of a young man, was going from him ; he was 
 becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed. That healthy energy 
 and gentle composure which had been so beautiful in him 
 all his life through were utterly lost. 
 
 " What am I to do with thee, David ?" said I to him one 
 evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual. 
 I knew why ; for Ursula March 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 tone of great anguish. What could I 
 answer ? Nothing. 
 
 We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut- 
 trees in the abbey yard were budding green ; there came 
 that faint, sweet sound of children at play, which one hears 
 as the days begin to lengthen. 
 
 " It is a lovely evening," he said. 
 
 " John ! " I looked him in the face. He could not palm 
 off that kind deceit upon me. " You have heard something 
 about her?" 
 
 " I have," he groaned. " She is leaving Norton Bury." 
 
 " Thank God ! " I muttered. 
 
 John turned fiercely upon me, but only for a moment. 
 "Perhaps I, too, ought to say, 'Thank God.' This could 
 not have lasted long, or it would have made me what I 
 pray His mercy to save me from, or to let me die. Oh, lad; 
 if I could only die."
 
 202 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 He bent down over the window-sill, crushing his forehead 
 on his hands. 
 
 " John," I said, in this depth of despair snatching at an 
 equally desperate hope, " what if, instead of keeping this 
 silence, you were to go to her and tell her all ? " 
 
 " I have thought of that ; a noble thought, worthy of a 
 poor 'prentice lad ! Why, two several evenings I have been 
 insane enough to walk to Dr. Jessop's door, which I have 
 never entered, and mark you well they have never asked 
 i me to enter, since that night. But each time 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 knavery. There was no help, 
 none! 
 
 " David," I groaned, " I would you had never seen her." 
 
 " Hush ! not a word like that. If you heard all I hear 
 of her, daily, hourly ; her unselfishness, her energy, her 
 generous, warm heart! It is blessedness even to have 
 known her. She is an angel, no, better than that, a 
 woman ! I did not want her for a saint in a shrine ; I 
 " wanted her as a help-meet, to walk with me in my daily 
 life, to comfort me, strengthen me, make me pure and 
 good. I could be a good man if I had her for my wife. 
 Now " 
 
 He rose and walked rapidly up and down. His looks 
 were becoming altogether wild. 
 
 " Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road, 
 as I meet her almost every day. Sometimes she merely 
 bends and smiles : sometimes she holds out her little hand, 
 and ' hopes I am quite well ! ' And then they pass on, and 
 1 stand gaping and staring after them like an idiot. There, 
 look ! there they are now."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 203 
 
 Ay ; walking leisurely along the other side of the road, 
 talking and smiling to one another, in their own merry, 
 familiar way, were Mrs. Jessop and Miss March. 
 
 They were not thinking of us, not the least. Only, just 
 ere they passed our house, Ursula turned slightly around, 
 and looked behind, a quiet, maidenly look, with the smile 
 still lingering on her mouth. She saw nothing, and no 
 one ; for John had pulled me from the window, and placed 
 himself out of sight. So turning back again, she went on 
 her way. They both disappeared. 
 
 " Now, Phineas, it is all ended." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I have looked on her for the last time." 
 
 " Nay ; she is not going yet." 
 
 " But I am, fleeing from the Devil and his angels, 
 ffurra, Phineas, lad ! We '11 have a merry night. To-morrow 
 1 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 appar- 
 ently a low aguish fever, which had been much about Nor- 
 ton 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 mention of Dr. Jessop. I opposed him not at 
 first, for well I knew, whatever the proximate cause of his 
 sickness might be, its root was in that mental pang which 
 no doctors could cure. So I trusted to the blessed quiet of a 
 sick-room, often so healing to misery, to Jael's nursing, 
 and his brother's love. 
 
 After a few days we called in a physician, a stranger 
 from Coltham, who pronounced it to be this Norton Bury 
 fever, caught through living, as he still persisted in doing, 
 in his old attic, in that unhealthy alley where was Sally 
 Watkins' house. It must have been coming on, the doctor 
 said, for a long time ; but it had no doubt now reached its 
 crisis. He would be better soon. 
 
 But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and 
 still he lay there, never complaining, scarcely appearing to
 
 204 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 suffer, except from the wasting of the fever ; yet when \ 
 spoke of recovery, he " turned his face unto the wall,*' 
 weary of living. 
 
 Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly 
 speaking a word, I began to feel growing palpable the truth, 
 which day by day I had thrust behind me as some intangi- 
 ble, impossible dread, that ere now people had died of mere 
 soul-sickness, without any bodily disease. I took up his 
 poor hand that lay on the counterpane : once, at Enderley, 
 he had regretted its somewhat coarse strength ; now Ursula's 
 own was not thinner or whiter. He drew it back. 
 
 " Oh, Phineas, lad, don't touch me ; only let me rest." 
 
 The weak, querulous voice ! that awful longing for rest ! 
 What if, despite all the physician's assurances, he might be 
 sinking, sinking, my friend, my hope, my pride, all my 
 comfort in this life, passing from it and from me into 
 another, where, let me call never so wildly, he could not 
 answer me any more, nor come back to me any more. 
 
 Oh, God of mercy, if I were to be left in this world with- 
 out my brother ! 
 
 1 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 in- 
 clude 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 me from him I slid down to the 
 ground, to my knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went 
 up to God. 
 
 How could I save him ? 
 
 There was 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. 
 Besides, had I not cried unto God for help ? 
 
 I put aside the blind, and looked out of doors. For weeks 
 I had not crossed the threshold ; I almost started to find 
 that it was spring. Everything looked lovely in the colored 
 twilight ; a blackbird was singing loudly in the abbey trees 
 the way ; all things were fresh and glowing, laden
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 205 
 
 with the hope of the advancing year. And there he lay, on 
 his sick-bed dying ! 
 
 All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan : 
 " No light ! I can't bear the light ! Do let me rest ! " 
 
 In half an hour, without saying a word to human being, 
 I was on my way to Ursula March. 
 
 She sat knitting in the summer 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 
 dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, 
 *nd driven some sweet, shy thought away. 
 
 But she met me cordially ; said she was glad to see me, 
 tnat she had not seen either of us lately ; and the knitting- 
 pirjs began to move quickly again. 
 
 Those dainty fingers, that soft, tremulous smile : I could 
 have hated her ! 
 
 " No wonder you did not see us, Miss March ; John has 
 been very ill, is ill now, almost dying." 
 
 I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched 
 to see them strike. 
 
 They struck, they wounded ; I could see her shiver. 
 
 " 111 ! and no one ever told me ? " 
 
 " You ? How could it affect you ? To me, now," - and 
 iiy 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 
 al! 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 ruel to thee, Ursula ; and thou wert 
 so good, so kind ! 
 
 She rose, came to me, atid took my hand. Hers was very 
 cold, and her voice trembled much. 
 
 " Be comforted. He is young, and God is merciful." 
 
 She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting 
 and untwisting her fingers. There was in her looks a wild
 
 206 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 sorrow, a longing to escape from notice ; but mine held 
 her fast, mercilessly, as a snake holds a little bird. She sat 
 cowering, almost like a bird, a poor, broken-winged, help- 
 less 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 ! " 
 
 " Farther 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, he to me is more than any one else in the world. 
 Yet even I have given up hope, unless But I have no 
 right to say more." 
 
 There was no need. She began to understand. A deep, 
 soft red, 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 207 
 
 " 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." 
 
 1 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. 1 could not decide 1 can scarcely 
 decide now whether what I had done ought to have been 
 done ; I only know that 1 did it, did it, under an impulse 
 so sudden and impetuous that it seemed to me like the 
 guidance of Providence. All I could do afterward was 
 to trust the result where we say we trust all things, and 
 yet are forever disquieting ourselves in vain, we of little 
 faith ! 
 
 I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true 
 marriage of which there is probably one in every five 
 thousand of conjugal unions is the work of Heaven, and 
 Heaven only ; and that all human influence is powerless 
 either to make or to mar that happy end. Therefore to 
 Heaven I left this marriage, if a marriage it was destined 
 to be. And so, after a season, I calmed myself enough to 
 dare entering that quiet sick-chamber, where no one ever 
 entered but Jael and me. 
 
 The old woman met me at the door. 
 
 " Come in gently, Phineas ; I do think there is a 
 change." 
 
 A change! that awful word! I staggered rather than 
 walked to John's 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. New life shone in his eyes, 
 in his whole aspect. Life and no, not hope, but some- 
 thing 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;
 
 208 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 perhaps I wept outright ; God knows ! It is thought a 
 shame for a man to weep ; yet One Man wept, and that too 
 was over his friend, his brother. 
 
 " You must not grieve over me any more, dear lad ; to- 
 morrow, please God ! I mean to be quite well again." 
 
 Amidst all my joy, I marvelled over what could be the 
 ;ause 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, I have scarcely lost the impression 
 of it yet. Do you know, Phineas, she has been sitting by 
 me, just where you sit now." 
 
 "She?" 
 
 " Ursula." 
 
 If I could express the tone in which he uttered the 
 word, which had never fallen from his lips before, it was 
 always either " Miss March," or the impersonal form used 
 by all lovers to disguise the beloved name, " Ursula" 
 spoken as no man speaks any woman's name save the one 
 which is the music of his heart, which he foresees shall 
 be the one fireside tune of his life, ever familiar, yet ever 
 sweet. 
 
 " Yes, she sat there, talking. She told me she knew I 
 loved her, loved her so much that I was dying for her ; 
 that it was very wrong; that I must rise up and do my 
 work in the world, do it for Heaven's sake, not for hers ; 
 that a true man should live, and live nobly, for the woman 
 he loves : it is only a coward that 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 End- 
 erley, and I was following her ; whether I reached her or 
 not, I cannot tell ; and whether I ever shall reach her 1 
 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 209 
 
 night. Next morning I found him up and dressed. Look 
 ing like a spectre, indeed ; but with health, courage, and 
 hope in his eyes. Even my father noticed it, when at din- 
 ner-time, with Jael's help poor old Jael ! how proud she 
 was John crawled downstairs. 
 
 "Why, thee art picking up again, lad! Thee 'It 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. Any- 
 how, 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 great thing 
 for him to do ; nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful 
 pipe in the garden. John lay on the parlor sofa, or, rather, 
 an extempore sofa, made of three high-backed chairs and 
 the window-sill. I read to him, trying to keep his atten- 
 tion, and mine too, solely to the Great Plague of London 
 arid Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing 
 at his face, fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that 
 his smile was fading and his thoughts wandering, Jael 
 burst in. 
 
 " John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee." 
 
 No, John, no need for that start, that rush of impetu- 
 ous 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 the confirmativa 
 
 ^~
 
 210 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should 
 know it, glad she should sec that the priceless jewel of 
 his heart would not lie tossing in the mire, because a 
 haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that she might one 
 day find out there lived not the woman of whom John 
 Halifax was not worthy. 
 
 " But you must be very careful, very careful of your- 
 self, indeed." 
 
 " He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to care 
 for him ; many, to whom his life is most precious and 
 most dear." 
 
 I spoke, perhaps, more abruptly than I ought to have 
 spoken to that good old lady ; but her gentle answer seemed 
 at once to understand and to 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 hus- 
 band will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula, " 
 here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket, 
 " my dear child sends you this." 
 
 " It was a little note, unsealed. The superscription 
 was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair handwriting, 
 John Halifax" 
 
 His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I she is 
 very kind." The words died away ; the hands which 
 grasped, ay, for more than a minute, the unopened letter, 
 trembled like an aspen leaf. 
 
 " Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, 
 sedulously looking at and speaking to me. " I would not 
 wish it otherwise ; I would not wish her to forget those 
 whose worth she proved in her season of trouble." 
 
 I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. 
 She took off her glove, wiped a finger across each eyelash, 
 and sat still. 
 
 " Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax ?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " I will take your message back. She told me what she 
 had said to you." 
 
 Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 211 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND, I did not know till yesterday that you had 
 beeii ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor lather. 
 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 pocket- 
 book. 
 
 " Well, what shall I say to my child ? " 
 
 " Say " he half rose, struggling to speak " ask her 
 to come." 
 
 He turned his head 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 
 afternoon doze ; but I think John hardly noticed him 
 nor I. My poor old father ! Yet we were all young once 
 let youth enjoy its day ! 
 
 At length long before I heard a sound John whis- 
 pered to himself, " She is coming." 
 
 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 true. 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 aa 
 our'n."
 
 212 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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. 
 
 u Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who. 
 hearing I \vas ill, out of her great kindness " 
 
 His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, 
 with downcast eyelids, 
 
 " I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father." 
 
 Abel Fletcher nodded, adjusted his spectacles, eyed her 
 all over, and nodded again ; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied 
 inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it 
 lingered, on that young face, whereon was written sim- 
 plicity, dignity, truth. 
 
 " If thee be a friend of John, welcome to my house. 
 Wilt thee sit down?" 
 
 Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and cere- 
 monious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker 
 father, he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I 
 remember her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, 
 trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing, 
 and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on 
 her shoulder, trembling as she trembled, for she did 
 tremble very much. 
 
 Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts 
 before him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny and half 
 smiled. 
 
 " Wilt thee stay and have a dish of tea with us ? " 
 
 So it came to pass, I hardly remember how, that in an 
 hour's space our parlor beheld the strangest sight it had 
 beheld since Ah, no wonder that when she took her 
 place at the table's foot, and gave him his dish of tea with 
 her own hand, her pretty ringed lady's hand, my old father 
 started, as if it had been another than Miss March who was 
 sitting there. No wonder that, more than once, catching 
 the sound of her low, quiet, gentlewoman-like speech, dif- 
 ferent from any female voices here, he turned round sud- 
 denly with a glance, half scared, half eager, as if she had 
 been a ghost from the grave. 
 
 But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and woman-hater 
 as he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 213 
 
 doctor's little wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea and 
 the old folk all settled themselves for a cozy chat, taking 
 very little notice of us three. 
 
 Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admir- 
 ing some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A 
 wise present ! she knew, 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 absorbed into that one exquisite 
 hour. 
 
 For me, where I sat I do not clearly know, nor proba- 
 bly 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 an- 
 swer, with a strange tremble in it. " It is growing too 
 dark to judge of 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 kissing them both, and then as 
 softly melting away in twilight. 
 
 " There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, 
 appositely and gravely. 
 
 " Is there ? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I 
 remember noticing it through the trees the night when ' 
 
 He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To 
 such a very unimportant conversation as they were appar- 
 ently holding, my involuntary listening could do no harm. 
 
 " You will be' able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss 
 March again. " Norton Bury is a pretty town." 
 
 John asked suddenly, " Are you going to leave it ? " 
 
 " Not yet I do not know for certain perhaps not at 
 all. I mean," she added, hurriedly, " that being indepen- 
 dent, and having entirely separated from and been given
 
 214 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 up by my cousin, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessop 
 altogether." 
 
 " Of course ; most natural." The words were formally 
 spoken, and John did not speak again for some time. 
 
 " I hope " said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then 
 stopping, as if her own voice frightened her. 
 
 " What do you hope ? " 
 
 " That long before this moon has grown old you will be 
 quite strong again." 
 
 " Thank you. I hope so too. I have need for strength, 
 God knows ! " He sighed heavily. 
 
 " And you will have what you need, so as to do your 
 work in the world. You must not be afraid." 
 
 " I am not afraid. I shall bear my 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 Enderley. 
 
 " I intend," John said, " as soon as I am able, to leave 
 Norton Bury and go abroad for some time." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " To America. It is the best country for a young man 
 who has neither money, nor kindred, nor position ; nothing, 
 in fact, but his own right hand with which to carve out his 
 own fortunes, as I will, if I can." 
 
 She murmured something about this being " quite 
 right." 
 
 " I am glad you think so ; " but his voice had resumed 
 that formal tone which ever and anon mingled strangely 
 with its low, deep tenderness. " In any case I must quit 
 England. I have reasons for so doing." 
 
 " What reasons ? " 
 
 The question seemed to startle John ; he did not reply 
 at once. 
 
 " If you wish, I will tell you ; in order that, should I 
 ever come back, or if I should not come back at all, you, 
 who were kind enough to be my friend, will know I did
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 215 
 
 not go away from mere youthful recklessness or love of 
 change." 
 
 He waited, apparently for some answer, but it came not, 
 and he continued : 
 
 " I am going, because there has befallen me a great 
 trouble, which while I stay here, I cannot get free from or 
 overcome. I do not wish to sink under it ; I had rather, 
 as you said, ' do my work in the world,' as a man ought. 
 No man has a right to say unto his Maker, ' My burden is 
 heavier than I can bear.' Do you not think so." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Do you not think I am right in thus meeting and try- 
 ing 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 my- 
 self, unworthy of Forgive me, 1 have no right to talk 
 thus ; but you called me ' friend,' and I would like you to 
 think kindly of me always. Because because " and 
 his voice shook, broke down utterly. " God love thee and 
 take care of thee, wherever I may go ! " 
 
 " John, stay ! " 
 
 It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. 
 But he heard it, felt it. In the silence of the dark she 
 crept up to him, like a young bird to his mate, and he took 
 her into the shelter of his love for evermore. At once all 
 was made clear between them ; for, whatever the world 
 might say, they were in the sight of Heaven equal, and she 
 received as much as she gave. 
 
 When Jael brought in lights, the room seemed to me at 
 first all in a wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss 
 March with him. Holding her hand, he led her across the 
 room. His head was erect, his eyes shining, his whole 
 aspect that of a man who declares before all the world, 
 " This is my own" 
 
 " Eh ? " said my father, gazing at them from over his 
 spectacles. 
 
 John spoke brokenly, "We have no parents, neither
 
 216 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 she nor I. Bless her, for she has promised to be mj 
 wife." 
 
 And the old man blessed her with tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " I HARDLY like taking thee out this wet day, Phineas, 
 but it is a comfort to have thee." 
 
 Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. 
 He was going to communicate to Mr. Brithwood of the 
 Mythe, Ursula's legal guardian and trustee, the fact that 
 she had promised him her hand, him, John Halifax the 
 tanner. He did it nay, insisted upon doing it the day 
 after he came of age, and just one week after they had 
 been betrothed, this nineteenth of June, one thousand 
 eight hundred and one. 
 
 We reached the iron gates of the Mythe House ; John 
 hesitated a minute, and then pulled the bell with a resolute 
 hand. 
 
 " Do you remember the last time we stood here, John ? " 
 
 1 do, well ! " 
 
 But soon the happy smile faded from his lips, and left 
 them pressed together in a firm, almost painful gravity. 
 He was not only a lover, but a man ; and no man could 
 go to meet what he knew he must meet in this house, and 
 on this errand, altogether unmoved. One might foresee a 
 good deal, even in the knowing side-glance of the servant, 
 whom he startled with his name, " Mr. Halifax." 
 
 " Mr. Brithwood 's busy, sir ; better come to-morrow," 
 suggested the man, evidently knowing enough upon his 
 master's affairs. 
 
 " I am sorry to trouble him, but I must see Mr. Brithwood 
 to-day." 
 
 And John determinedly followed the man into the grand 
 empty dining-room, where, on crimson velvet chairs, we sat 
 and contemplated the great stag's head with its branching 
 horns, the silver flagons and tankards, and the throstleg
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 217 
 
 hopping outside across the rainy lawn, at our full leisure, 
 too, for the space of fifteen minutes. 
 
 " This will not do," said John, quietly enough, though 
 this time it was with a less steady hand that he pulled the 
 bell. 
 
 " Did you tell your master I was here ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," and the half 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, 
 something unworthy of Ursula's lover, of Ursula's husband 
 that was to be. 
 
 " Tell your master my business is solely with himself, and 
 I must request to see him. It is important, say, or I would 
 not thus intrude upon his time." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 Ere long the man brought word that Mr. Brithwood 
 would be at liberty for five minutes only in the justice-room. 
 We were led out, crossing the court-yard once more, where, 
 just riding out, I saw two ladies, one of whom kissed her 
 hand gayly to John Halifax, to the magistrate's office. 
 There, safely separated from his own noble mansion, Mr. 
 Brithwood administered justice. In the outer room a stout 
 young fellow, a poacher probably, sat heavily ironed, sullen 
 and fierce ; and by the door a girl with a child in her arms 
 and God pity her ! no ring on her finger stood cry- 
 ing ; another ill-looking fellow, maudlin drunk, with a con- 
 stable by him, called out to us as we passed for " a drop of 
 beer." 
 
 These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, 
 
 magistrate for the county of , had to judge and punish, 
 
 according to his own sense of equity and his 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 us. 
 
 " Mr. Brithwood." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Halifax ! Good-morning." 
 
 John returned the salutation, which was evidently meant
 
 218 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 to show that the giver bore no grudge ; that, indeed, it was 
 impossible so dignified a personage as Richard Brithwood, 
 Esquire, in his public capacity, too, could bear a grudge 
 against so inferior an individual as John Halifax. 
 
 " I should be glad, sir, of a few minutes speech with you." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, speak on ; " and he lent a 
 .magisterial ear. 
 
 " Excuse me, my business is private," said John, looking 
 at the clerk. 
 
 " No business . is private here," returned the Squire, 
 haughtily. 
 
 " Then shall I speak with you elsewhere ? But I must 
 have the 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 al- 
 ways 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, 
 those low fellows." 
 
 I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside ; at all 
 events, we chose to take it so. 
 
 " Now, you, sir, perhaps you '11 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 for 
 my old mare ? 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 HALIFAX. 219 
 
 John bit in his lip. The Squire's manner was extremely 
 galling ; more so, perhaps, in its outside civility than any 
 gross rudeness. 
 
 " Mr. Brithwood, I was not speaking of myself, but of the 
 lady whose message I have the 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 
 acquainted with Miss March's private concerns ? " 
 
 " The right, which indeed was the purport of her message 
 to you, that in a few months I shall become her husband." 
 
 John said this very quietly, so quietly, that at first the 
 Squire seemed hardly to credit his senses. At last he burst 
 into a long 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 '11 not get me to believe it. Ha, ha ! She would n't 
 be so mad. To be sure, women have their fancies, as we 
 know, and you 're a likely young fellow enough ; but to 
 marry you " 
 
 John sprang up, his whole frame quivering with fury. 
 " Take care, sir ; take care ! How dare you insult my 
 wife ? " 
 
 He stood over the wretch, the cowardly, shrinking 
 wretch. He did not touch him, but he stood over him till, 
 terrified out of his life, Richard Brithwood gasped out some 
 apology. 
 
 " Sit down ; pray sit down again. Let us proceed in our 
 business." 
 
 John Halifax sat down. 
 
 " So my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying ? " 
 
 " She will be, some months hence. We were engaged a 
 week ago, with the full knowledge and -consent of Dr. and 
 Mrs. Jessop, her nearest friends." 
 
 " And of yours ? " asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much 
 sarcasm as his blunt wits could furnish him.
 
 220 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I have no relatives." 
 
 " So I always understood. And that being the case, maj 
 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 Miss March's trustee ? " 
 
 " Nothing whatever. Miss March is perfectly free to 
 choose, and she has chosen me. But as under certain cir- 
 cumstances I wish to act with perfect openness, I came to 
 tell you, as her cousin and the executor of her father's will, 
 that she is about to become my wife." 
 
 And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance 
 strengthened and calmed him. 
 
 " May I inquire into those ' certain circumstances ' ? " 
 asked the other, still derisively. 
 
 " You know them already. Miss March has a fortune, 
 and I have none ; and though I wish that difference were 
 on the other side, though it might and did hinder me from 
 seeking her, yet now she is sought and won, it shall not 
 hinder my marrying her." 
 
 " Likely not," sneered Mr. Brithwood. 
 
 John's passion was rising again. 
 
 " I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say 
 *vhat it chooses ; we follow a higher law than the world, 
 she and I. She knows me ; she is not afraid to trust her 
 whole life with me. Am I to be afraid to trust her ; am I 
 to be such a coward as not to dare marry the woman I love, 
 because the world might say I married her for her money ? " 
 
 He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking 
 full into Richard Brithwood's face. The Squire sat 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 wish to have everything clear between 
 myself and you, her nearest relative. You now know ex- 
 actly 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 HALIFAX. 221 
 
 John paused at the door. 
 
 " Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or aiiy other 
 vagabond she pleases, it 's no business of mine. But her 
 fortune is my business, and it 's in my hands, too. Might 's 
 right, and possession's nine-tenths of the law. Not one 
 penny shall she get out of my fingers as long as I can keep 
 hold of it." 
 
 John bowed, his hand still on the door. " As you please, 
 Mr. Brithwood. That was not the subject of our interview. 
 Good-inorning." 
 
 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 
 doit?" 
 
 " 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, as if 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 she 
 will enjoy it ! " 
 
 And coming home through Norton Bury we met her, 
 walking with Mrs. Jessop. No need to dread that meeting 
 now ! 
 
 Yet she looked up, questioning, through her blushes. Of 
 course he had told her where we were going to-day, who 
 had a right to know every one of his concerns now. 
 
 " Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid." 
 
 Afraid, indeed ! Not the least fear was in those clear 
 eyes, nothing but perfect content, perfect trust. 
 
 John drew her arm through his. " Come, we need not 
 mind Norton Bury now," he said smiling. 
 
 So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, 
 earnestly and rather seriously to one another, while Mrs. 
 Jessop and I followed behind. 
 
 " Bless their dear hearts ! " said the old lady, as she sat 
 resting on the stile of a bean-field. "Well, we have all 
 been young once." 
 
 Not all, good Mrs. Jessop, thought I ; not all. 
 
 V " I
 
 222 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Yet it was 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 strongest bond to that in which it will end, and is 
 meant to end, God's holy ordinance of marriage. 
 
 We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. 
 It was John's custom to go there almost every evening, 
 though certainly he could not be said to " go a-courting." 
 Nothing could be more unlike it than his demeanor, or 
 indeed the demeanor of both. They were very quiet lovers, 
 never making much of one another " before folk." No 
 whispering in corners, or stealing away down garden walks. 
 No public show of caresses, caresses whose very sweet- 
 ness must consist in their entire sacredness ; at least I 
 should think so. No coquettish exactions, no testing of 
 cither's power over the other, in those perilous small 
 quarrels which may be the renewal of passions, 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 with the Jessops' household ways. But 
 whatever he was about, at Ursula's lightest movement, at 
 the least sound of her voice, I could see him lift a quiet 
 glance, as if always conscious of her presence, her who 
 was the delight of his eyes. 
 
 To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link 
 seemed to be drawn closer between them, though they 
 spoke little together, and even sat at opposite sides of the 
 table ; but whenever their looks met one could trace a soft, 
 smiling interchange, full of trust, and peace, and joy. He 
 had evidently told her all that had happened to-day, and 
 she was satisfied. 
 
 More, perhaps, than I was, for I knew how little John 
 would have to live upon besides what his wife brought him ; 
 but that was their own affair, and I had no business to 
 make public either my doubts or fears. 
 
 We all sat round the tea-table, talking gayly together,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 223 
 
 and then John left us, lingeringly enough ; but he always 
 made a point of going to the tan-yard for an hour or two, 
 in my father's stead, every evening. Ursula let him out the 
 front door ; this was her right, silently claimed, which 
 nobody either smiled at or interfered with. 
 
 When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a 
 minute or two longer than was absolutely necessary, there 
 was a wonderful brightness on her young face, thougbj 
 she listened with a degree of attention most creditable in' 
 its gravity to a long dissertation of Mrs. Jessop 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 any- 
 thing 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 occa- 
 sioned. I was planning how to divert Mrs. Jessop from 
 the subject, when it was broken at once by a sudden 
 entrance, which startled us all like a flash of lightning. 
 
 " Stole away ! stole away ! as my husband would say. 
 Here have I come in the dusk, all through the streets to Dr. 
 Jessop's very door. How is she ? Where is she, ma petite?" 
 
 " Caroline ! " 
 
 " Ah ! come forward. I have n '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 glad to see 
 me, Ursula ? " 
 
 " Yes, very," in that sincere voice which never either 
 falsified or exaggerated a syllable.
 
 224 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Did you ever expect to see me again ? " 
 
 " No, certainly I did not. And I would almost rather 
 not see you now, if " 
 
 " If Richard Brithwood did not approve of it ? Bah i 
 what notions you always had of marital supremacy. So, 
 ma chere, you are going to be married yourself, I hear ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Why, how quietly you seem to take it ! The news per- 
 fectly electrified me this morning. I always said that the 
 young man was ' un heros de romans! ' Mafoi! this is the 
 prettiest little episode I ever heard of, just King Cophetua 
 and the beggar-maid, only reversed. How do you feel, my 
 Queen Cophetua?" 
 
 " I do not quite understand you, Caroline." 
 
 "Neither should I you, for the tale seems incredible. 
 Only you gave me such an honest ' yes,' and I know you 
 never tell even white lies. But it can't be true ; at least, 
 not certain. A little affaire de cceur, maybe, ah ! I had 
 several before I was twenty, very pleasant, chivalrous, 
 romantic, and all that ; and such a brave young fellow too. 
 Helan ! love is sweet at your age ! " with a little sigh 
 " but marriage ! My dear child, you are not surely 
 promised, fiancee, to this youth ? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " How sharply you say it ! Nay, don't be angry, I liked 
 him greatly. A very pretty fellow. But then he belongs 
 to the people." 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 " Naughty child, you will not comprehend me. I mean 
 the lower orders, the bourgeoisie. My husband says he is 
 a tanner's 'prentice -boy." 
 
 " He was apprentice ; he is now partner in Mr. Fletcher's 
 tan-yard." 
 
 "That is nearly as bad. And so you are actually going 
 to marry a tanner ? " 
 
 " I am going to marry Mr. Halifax. We will, if you 
 please, cease to discuss him, Lady Caroline." 
 
 " La belle sauvage!" laughed the lady ; and in the dusk I 
 fancied I saw her reach over to pat Ursula's hand in her 
 careless, pretty way. " Nay, I meaotf; uo harm." 1
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 225 
 
 " I am sure you did not ; but we will change the subject." 
 
 " Not at all. I came to talk about it. I could n't sleep 
 till I had. Je t'aime bien, tu le sais, ma petite Ursule" 
 
 " Thank you," said Ursula, gently. 
 
 " And I would like well to see you married. Truly, we 
 women must marry, or be nothing at all. But as to 
 marrying for love, as we used to think of, and as prettv 
 poets make believe, my dear, nowadays, nous avons change 
 tout cela." 
 
 Ursula replied nothing. 
 
 " 1 suppose my friend the young bourgeois is very much 
 in love with you ? with ' les beaux yeux de votre cassette,' 
 Richard swears ; but I know better. What of that ? All 
 men say they love one, but it will not last. It burns itself 
 out. It will be dead in a year, as we wives all know. Do 
 we not, Mrs. Jcssop ? Ah ! she is gone away. " 
 
 Probably they thought 1 was away too, or else they took 
 no notice of me, and went talking on. 
 
 " Jane would not have agreed with you, cousin Caroline ; 
 she loved her husband very dearly when she was a girl. 
 They were poor, and he was afraid to marry ; so he let her 
 go. That was wrong, I think." 
 
 " How wise are we growing in these things now ! " 
 laughed Lady Caroline. " But come, I am not interested in 
 old turtle-doves. Say about yourself." 
 
 " I have nothing more to say." 
 
 " Nothing more ? Mon Dieu ! are you aware that 
 Richard is furious, that he vows he will keep every sou he 
 has of yours, law or no law, for as long as ever he can ? He 
 declared so this morning. Did young Halifax tell you ?" 
 
 " Mr. Halifax has told me." 
 
 " ' Mr. Halifax ! ' how proudly she says it ! And are 
 you still going to be married to him ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What ! a bourgeois, a tradesman ? with no more 
 money than those sort of people usually have, I believe. 
 You, who have had all sorts of comforts, have always 
 lived as a gentlewoman. Truly, though I adore a love- 
 marriage in theory, practically 1 think you are mad, 
 mad, my dear<"
 
 226 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 " And he, too ! Verily, what men are ! Especially men 
 in love. All selfish together." 
 
 " Caroline ! " 
 
 " Is n't it selfish now to drag a pretty creature down 
 and make her a drudge, a slave, a mere poor man'* 1 
 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 of Mr. Halifax. You do not know 
 him how could you ? " 
 
 " And you do ? Ah, ma petite, we all think that till we 
 find out to the contrary. And so he urges you to be 
 married at once, rich or poor, at all risks, at all costs ? 
 How like, how like a man ! I guess it all. Half beseeches, 
 half persuades 
 
 " He does not ! " and the girl's voice, was sharp with 
 pain. " I would not have told you, but I must, for his sake. 
 He asked me this afternoon if I was afraid of being poor ; 
 if I would like to wait and let him work hard alone till he 
 could give me a home like that I was born to. Ho did, 
 Caroline." 
 
 " And you answered " 
 
 " No, a thousand times, no ! He will have a hard 
 battle to fight. Would I let him fight it alone when I can 
 help him, when he says I can ? " 
 
 " Ah, child ! you that know nothing of poverty, how can 
 you bear it ? " 
 
 " I will try." 
 
 " You that never ruled a house in your life " 
 
 " I can learn." 
 
 " Ciel ! 't is wonderful ! And this young man has nu 
 friends, no connections, no fortune ! only himself ! " 
 
 " Only himself," said Ursula, with a proud content. 
 
 " 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 227 
 
 is in it one man whom I can trust, can honor, entirely. 
 Also though I am often ashamed lest this be selfish 
 because when 1 was in trouble he helped me; when I was 
 misjudged he believed in me ; when 1 was sad and desolate 
 lie loved me. And 1 am proud of his love ; 1 glory in it. 
 Xo 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. 
 
 " Vraiment, cTiacun d son gout ! But you have never 
 stated one trifle, not unnecessary, perhaps, though most 
 married folks get on quite well without it. ' Honor,' ' trust,' 
 pshaw ! My child, do you love Mr. Halifax ?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Xay, why be shy ? In England, they say, and among 
 the people no offence, ma petite one does sometimes 
 happen to care for the man one marries. Tell me, for 
 I must be gone, do you love him ? One word, whether 
 or no ? " 
 
 Just then the light coming in showed Ursula's face, 
 beautiful with more than happiness, uplifted even with 
 religious thankfulness, as she said simply, 
 
 "John knows." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IN the late autumn John married Ursula March. He 
 was twenty-one and she eighteen. It was very young, 
 too young, perhaps, prudent folks might say : and yet some- 
 times, I think, a double blessing falls on unions like this. A 
 right and holy marriage, a true love marriage, be it early or 
 late, is, must be, sanctified and happy ; yet those have the 
 best chance of happiness who meeting on the very threshold 
 of Hfe, enter upon its duties together, with free, fresh hearts, 
 easily moulded the one to the other, rich in all the riches of 
 youth, acute to enjoy, brave and hopeful to endure.
 
 228 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Such were these two, God bless them ! 
 
 They were married quite privately, neither having any 
 near kindred. Besides, John held strongly to 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 pomp or tears, entirely happy, husband and 
 wife together. 
 
 When I came home and revealed the fact my good 
 father seemed little surprised. He had expressly desired 
 not to be told anything of the wedding till it was over, 
 he hated marriages. 
 
 " But since it is done, maybe 't is as well," said he, grimly 
 " She seems a kindly young thing, wise, even, for woman.' 
 
 " And pleasant, too, Father." 
 
 "Ay, but favor is deceitful and beauty vain. So th* 
 lad 's gone ; " and he looked round, as if missing John, 
 who had lived in our house ever since his illness. " I 
 thought as much when he bade me 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." 
 
 So we settled ourselves, my father and I ; and while the 
 old man smoked his meditative pipe, I sat thinking of the 
 winter evenings when we two lads had read by the fire- 
 side ; the summer days when we had lounged on the gar- 
 den-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 1 had fully overcome or at least suppressed 
 this feeling, when, John having brought his wife home, 1 
 \vent to see them in their own house.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 229 
 
 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, keep- 
 ing a comical secrecy over the matter, as if he were 
 jealous that any one but himself should lend an eye or put 
 a finger to the dear task of making ready for his young 
 wife. 
 
 .They could not be great preparations, I knew, for the 
 third of my father's business promised but a small income. 
 Yet the gloomy outside being once passed, the house looked 
 wonderfully bright and neat ; the walls and doors newly 
 painted and delicately stencilled. (" Master did all that 
 himsel'," observed the proud little handmaid Jenny, 
 Jem Watkins' 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 well mingled, 
 the woodwork 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, the very laugh of old, David ! Neither heard 
 me come till I stood close by. 
 
 " Phineas, welcome^ welcome ! " He wrung my hand 
 fervently many times ; so did Ursula, blushing rosy red. 
 They both called me " brother," and both were as fond and 
 warm as any brother and sister could be. 
 
 A few minutes after, Ursula " Mrs. Halifax," as I said 
 I ought to call her now, slipped away into the house, and 
 John and 1 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. His was trembling with deep emotion. 
 
 " Art thou happy, David ? "
 
 230 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 
 content of a life now rounded and completed by that other 
 dear life which it had received into and united with its own, 
 making a full and perfect whole, which, however kindly 
 and fondly it may look on friends and kindred outside, has 
 no absolute need of any, but is complete in and sufficient to 
 itself, as true marriage should be ; a look unconsciously 
 fulfilling the law God's own law that a man shall 
 leave father and mother, brethren and companions, and 
 shall cleave unto his wife, and " they two shall become one 
 flesh." 
 
 And though 1 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 the unmarried, which only the 
 latter 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 around John's garden ; there was nothing 
 Eden-like about it, being somewhat of a waste still, divided 
 between ancient cabbage-beds, empty flower-beds, and great 
 old orchard-trees, very thinly laden with fruit. 
 
 " We '11 make them bear better next year," said John, 
 hopefully. " We may have a very decent garden 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 I think only for an excuse, because in 
 those sweet early days they naturally liked to be in each 
 other's sight continually. It was beautiful to see what a 
 demure, soft, meek matronliness had come over the high 
 spirit of the " Nut-browne Mayde." 
 
 " May I ?" she said, peeping over him as he read. 
 
 " Of course you may, little one." A comical pet name 
 for him to give her, who was anything but small. I could
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 23 
 
 have smiled, remembering the time when John Halifax 
 Ijowed to the stately and dignified young gentlewoman who 
 stood at Mrs. Tod's door. To think he should ever have 
 come to call Miss Ursula March " little one ! " 
 
 But this was not exactly a time for jesting, since on 
 reading the letter, I saw the young wife flush an angry red, 
 and then look grave, until John, crumpling up the paper 
 and dropping it almost with a boyish frolic into the middle 
 of a large rosemary-bush, took his wife by both her hands, 
 and gazed down into her troubled face, smiling. 
 
 " You surely don't mind this, love ? We knew it all 
 before. It can make no possible difference." 
 
 " No ! But it is so wrong, so unjust. I never believed 
 he dared do it to you." 
 
 " Hear her, Phineas ! She thinks nobody dare to do any- 
 thing ill to her husband, not even Richard Brithwood." 
 
 "He is a " 
 
 " Hush, dear ! we will not talk about him ; since, for all 
 his threats, he can do us no harm, and, poor man ! he 
 never was, never will be, half as happy as we." 
 
 That was true. So Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was 
 left to moulder harmlessly away in the rosemary-bush, and 
 we all walked up and down the garden, talking over a thou- 
 sand 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," said John, 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 consider that our respectability lies solely in our 
 two selves." 
 
 " But your 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
 
 232 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 head in merry defiance. " Besides, we are young, we hav 
 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 would not be so rude as to say I shall not look 
 equally well in a cotton one ? And as for being as happy 
 in it, - - why, I know best." 
 
 He smiled at her once more, that tender, manly smile, 
 which made all soft and lustrous the inmost depths of his 
 brown eyes ; truly no woman need be afraid, with a smile 
 like that to be the strength, the guidance, the sunshine of 
 her home. 
 
 We went in, and the young mistress showed us her new 
 house. We investigated and admired all, down to the very 
 scullery ; then we adjourned to the sitting-room, the only 
 one, and after tea Ursula arranged her books, some on 
 stained shelves, which she proudly informed me were John's 
 own making, and some on an old spinet, which he had 
 picked up, and which, she said, was of no other use than to 
 hold books, since she was not an accomplished young lady, 
 and could neither sing nor play. 
 
 " But you don't dislike the spinet, Ursula ? It caught 
 my fancy. Do you know I have a faint remembrance 
 that once, on such a thing as this, my mother used to 
 play?" 
 
 He spoke in a low voice. Ursula stole up to him, with a 
 fond, awed look. 
 
 " You never told me anything about your mother." 
 " Dear, I had little to tell. Long ago you knew whom 
 you were going to marry, John Halifax, who had no 
 friends, no kindred, whose parents left him nothing but his 
 name." 
 
 " And you cannot remember them ? " 
 " My father not at all ; my mother very little." 
 " And have you nothing belonging to them ? " 
 " Only one thing. Should you like to see it ? " 
 " Very much." She still spoke slowly and with slight 
 hesitation. " It was hard for him not to have known his 
 parents," she added, when John had left the room. "I
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 233 
 
 should like to have known them too. But still, when I 
 know him 
 
 She smiled, tossing back the coronet of curls from her 
 forehead, her proud, pure forehead , that would have worn 
 a coronet of jewels more meekly than it now wore the un- 
 adorned honor of being John Halifax's wife. I wished he 
 could have seen her. 
 
 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 Bible which he had 
 shown me years before. Carefully, and with the same fond, 
 reverent look as when a boy, he undid the case, made of 
 old faded 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 1 thought " 
 
 She looked up with 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 hus- 
 band, my John Halifax." 
 
 " God bless thee, my own wife that He has given me ! " 
 John murmured, through his close embrace. 
 
 They had altogether forgotten any one's presence, dear 
 souls ! so I kept them in that happy oblivion by slipping 
 out to Jenny in the kitchen, and planning with her how 
 we could at least spare Jem Watkins two days a week to 
 help in the garden, under Mr. Halifax's orders. 
 
 " Only, Jenny," smiled I, with a warning finger, " no 
 idling and chattering. Young folk must work hard if they 
 want to come to the happy ending of your master and 
 mistress."
 
 234 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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. And I verily believe the young married couple 
 were served all the better for their kindness and sympathy 
 to the humble pair of sweethearts in the rank below them. 
 
 John walked home with me, a pleasure I had hardly 
 expected, but which was insisted upon both by him and 
 Ursula ; for from the very first of her betrothal there had 
 been a thorough brotherly and sisterly bond established be- 
 tween her and me. Her womanly, generous nature would 
 have scorned to do what, as I have heard, many young 
 wives do, seek to make coldness between her husband 
 and his old friends. No; secure in her riches, in her 
 rightful possession of his whole heart, she took into hers 
 everything that belonged to John, every one he cared for, 
 to be forever held sacred and beloved, being his and her 
 own. Thus we were the very best of friends, my sister 
 Ursula and me. 
 
 John and I talked a little about her, of her rosy looks, 
 which he hoped would not fade in their town dwelling ; and 
 of good Mrs. Tod's wonderful delight at seeing her, when, 
 last week, they had stayed two days in the dear old cottage 
 at Enderley. But he seemed slow to speak about his wife, 
 or to dilate on a joy so new that it was hardly to be breathed 
 on, lest it might melt in air. 
 
 Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage 
 passed it, 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 ? 
 Well, Phineas, perhaps some day ; who knows ? " 
 
 He turned the conversation, and began telling me about 
 the cloth-mill, his old place of resort, which he had been 
 over once again when they were at Rose Cottage. 
 
 " And do you know, while I was looking at the machinery 
 a notion came into my head, that instead of that great 
 water-wheel, you remember it ? it might be worked by 
 steam."
 
 They were out gardening."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 236 
 
 "What sort of steam?" 
 
 " Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you 
 forgotten my telling you how, last year, some Scotch engi- 
 neer tried to move boats by steam on the Forth and Clyde 
 canal? Why should not the same power be turned to 
 account in a cloth-mill ? I know it could ; I have got the 
 plan of the machinery in my head already. I made a 
 drawing of it last night and showed it to Ursula; she 
 understood it directly." 
 
 1 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 it half in jest, and was sur- 
 prised to see how seriously John took it. 
 
 " I wish I could try ; if it were only practicable. Once 
 or twice I have thought it might be. The mill belongs to 
 Lord Lux more. 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 '11 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 '11 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
 
 236 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 had not time to say more, when, with its pretty gray 
 ponies, 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 would come and speak with Lady 
 Caroline Brithwood. 
 
 "Shall you go, John?" 
 
 " Certainly ; why not ? " and he stepped forward to the 
 carriage-side. 
 
 "Ah! delighted to see mon beau cousin. This is he, 
 Emma," turning to the lady who sat by her Oh, what 
 a lovely face that lady had ! no wonder it drove men mad ; 
 ay, even that brave man, in whose honest life can be chron- 
 icled only this one sin, of being bewitched by her. 
 
 John caught the name ; perhaps, too, he recognized the 
 face ; it was only too public, Heaven knows ! His own 
 took a sternness such as I had never before seen, and yet 
 there was a trace of pity in it, too. 
 
 " You are quite well ? Indeed, he looks so ; n'est-ce pas, 
 ma chere ? " 
 
 John bore gravely the eyes of the two ladies, fixed on 
 him in rather too plain admiration ; very gravely, too, he 
 bowed, 
 
 "And what of our young bride, our treasure that we 
 stole ? Nay, it was quite fair, quite fair. How is Ursula ? " 
 
 " 1 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 that I have met you. Indeed, we must 
 be friends. One's friends need not always be the same as 
 one's husband's, eh, Emma ? You will be enchanted with 
 our fair bride. We must both seize the first opportunity 
 and come as disguised princesses, to visit Mrs. Halifax." 
 
 " Again let me thank you, Lady Caroline, but " 
 
 " No ' buts.' I am resolved. Mr. Brithwood will never 
 find it out. And if he does, why, he may. I like you 
 both ; I intend us to be excellent friends, whenever I
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 237 
 
 chance to be at Norton Bury. Don't be proud and reject 
 me , there 's good people, the only good people I ever knew 
 who were not disagreeable." And leaning on her large 
 ermine muff, she looked right into John's face, with the 
 winning sweetness which Nature, not courts, lent to those 
 pretty features, already trying to hide by art their painful, 
 premature decay. 
 
 John returned the look, half sorrowfully ; it was so hard 
 to give back hardness to kindness. But a light laugh from 
 the other lady caught his ear, and his hesitation, if hesita- 
 tion he had felt, was over. 
 
 " No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see 
 yourself that it cannot. Living as we do in the same 
 neighborhood, 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. Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle" 
 
 " Do not mistake me," John said earnestly. " Do not 
 suppose I am not grateful for your former kindness to my 
 wife ; but the difference between her and you, between 
 your life and hers, is so great, so infinite." 
 
 " Vraiment!" with another shrug and smile, rather a 
 bitter one. 
 
 " Our two paths lie wide apart, wide as the poles ; our 
 house and our society would not suit you ; and that my 
 wife should ever enter yours " glancing from one to the 
 other of those two faces, painted with false roses, lit by 
 false smiles. " No, Lady Caroline," he added firmly, " it is 
 impossible." 
 
 She looked mortified for a moment, and then resumed 
 her 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 t 
 mon beau coufsin." 
 
 They drove off quickly and were gone. 
 " John, how strange this meeting was ! What will Mrs- 
 Halifax say?"
 
 238 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " My innocent girl ! thank God she is safe away from 
 them all ; safe in a poor man's honest breast ! " He suoke 
 with much emotion. 
 
 "Yet Lady Caroline" 
 
 " Did you see who sat beside her ? " 
 
 " That beautiful woman ? " 
 
 " Poor soul ! alas for her beauty ! Phineas, that was 
 Lady Hamilton." 
 
 He said no more, nor I. At my own door he left me, 
 with his old merry laugh, his old familiar grasp of my 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Lad, take care of thyself, though I 'm not by to see. 
 Remember, I am just as much thy tyrant as if I were living 
 here still." 
 
 I smiled, and he went his way to his own quiet, blessed, 
 married home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE winter and spring passed calmly by. I had much 
 ill health and could go out very little ; but they came 
 constantly to me, John and Ursula, especially the latter. 
 During this illness, when I learned to watch longingly for 
 her kind face, and listen for her cheerful voice talking 
 pleasantly and sisterly beside my chair, she taught me to 
 give up " Mrs. Halifax " and call her Ursula. It was only 
 by slow degrees I did so, truly ; for she was not one of 
 those gentle creatures whom, married or single, one calls 
 instinctively by their Christian names. Her manner in 
 girlhood was not exactly either "meek" or "gentle," ex-- 
 cept 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- 
 offishness, so that, as I said, it was not quite easy to 
 speak to or think of her as " Ursula." Afterward, when 
 eeen in the light of a new character, for which Heaven
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 239 
 
 destined and especially fitted her, and in which she ap- 
 peared 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 wilder- 
 ness 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 in- 
 digenous cabbages, came long rows of white-blossomed peas, 
 big-headed cauliflowers, and all vegetables easy of cultiva- 
 tion. My father sent contributions from his celebrated 
 gooseberry-bushes, and his wallfruit, the pride of Norton 
 Bury ; and 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, fruit, flowers, and 
 vegetables living in comfortable equality and fraternity, 
 none being 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, 
 I with here and there a great bush of southern-wood or rose- 
 mary, or a border of thyme, or a sweet-brier 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 a corner of the bed, trying to turn into a respect- 
 able cultivated herb. Dear old garden! such as one 
 rarely sees nowadays ! I would give the finest modern 
 pleasure-ground for the like of thee!
 
 240 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 creators. These were Mrs. 
 Halifax and her husband, Jem and Jenny. The master 
 could not do much ; he had long, long hours in his busi 
 ness ; but I used to watch Ursula, morning after morning, 
 superintending her domain, with her faithful attendant Jem. 
 Jem adored his " missis." Or else, when it was hot noon, 
 I used to lie in their cool parlor, and listen to her voice 
 and step about the house, teaching Jenny, or learning from 
 her ; for the young gentlewoman had much to learn, and 
 was not ashamed of it either. She laughed at her own 
 mistakes, and tried again ; she never was idle or dull for 
 a minute. She did a great deal in the house herself. 
 Often she would sit chatting with me, having on her lap a 
 coarse brown pan, shelling peas, slicing beans, picking 
 gooseberries ; her fingers Miss March's fair fingers 
 looking fairer for the contrast with their unaccustomed 
 work. Or else, in the summer evenings, she would be at 
 the window sewing, always sewing, but so placed that 
 with one glance she could see down the street where John 
 was coming. Far, far off she always saw him ; and at the 
 sight her whole face would change and brighten, like a 
 meadow when the sun comes out. Then she ran to the 
 open 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 out doors half the night. 
 Ursula had been with us a good while, strolling about on 
 her husband's arm ; then he had sent her in to rest, and 
 we two remained out together. 
 
 How soft they were, those faint, misty, summer stars? 
 what a mysterious, perfumy haze they let fall over us ! 
 a haze through which all around seemed melting away in
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 241 
 
 delicious, intangible sweetness, in which the very sky above 
 our heads the shining, world-besprinkled sky was a 
 thing felt rather than seen. 
 
 " How strange all seems ! how unreal ! " said John, in 
 a low voice, when he had walked the length of the garden 
 in silence. " Phineas, how very strange it seems ! " 
 
 " What seems ? " 
 
 " What, oh, everything." He hesitated a minute. " No, 
 not everything ; but something which to me seems now to 
 fill and be mixed up with all I do or think or feel, some- 
 thing you do not know ; but to-night Ursula said I might 
 tell you." 
 
 Nevertheless, it was several minutes before he told me. 
 
 "This pear-tree is full of fruit, is it not? How thick 
 they hang ; and yet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and 
 I were standing here trying to count the blossoms." 
 
 He stopped, touching a branch with his hand. His voice 
 sank so I could hardly hear it. 
 
 " Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare, we 
 shall, if with God's blessing all goes well, we shall have 
 a little child." 
 
 I wrung his hand in silence. 
 
 "You cannot imagine how strange it feels. A child 
 hers and mine little feet to go pattering about our house 
 a little voice to say Think that by Christmas-time I 
 shall be a father ! " 
 
 He sat down on the garden-bench, and did not speak for 
 a long time. 
 
 " I wonder," he said at last, " if when I was born, my 
 father was as young as I am ; whether he felt as I do now. 
 You cannot think what an awful joy it is to be looking 
 forward to a child, a little soul of God's giving, to be 
 made fit for His eternity. How shall we do it, we that 
 are both so ignorant, so young : she will be only just nine- 
 teen, when, please God, her baby is born. Sometimes of 
 an evening, we sit for hours on this bench, she and I, 
 talking of what we ought to do and how we ought to rear 
 the little thing, until we fall into silence, awed at the bless- 
 ing that is coming to us/' 
 
 " God will help you boto, and make you wise." 
 
 16
 
 242 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 " We trust He will, and then we are not afraid." 
 
 A little while longer 1 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 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 
 he thoughts which, in the holy hush of that summer night, 
 had risen out of the deep of his heart. And though after 
 this time they never again formed themselves into words, 
 yet he knew well that not a' hope or joy or fear of his, 
 whether understood or not, could be unshared by me. 
 
 In 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 woman-kind said 
 so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, who left our poor house 
 to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs. Halifax's, ex- 
 hibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies with 
 the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she 
 vehemently declared was the very image of its father. 
 
 For that young father 
 
 But I, what can I say ? How should / 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 exceeding 
 fair, pale, and pure-looking was she. 1 had never seen, or 
 at least never noticed, any young baby before ; but she 
 crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to have a 
 clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet 
 infancy, from the time her week-old fingers with their tiny 
 pink nails a ludicrous picture of her father's hand in 
 little made me smile as they closed over them. 
 
 She was named Muriel, after the rather peculiar name of 
 John's mother. Her own mother would have it so. only
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 243 
 
 wishing out of her full heart, happy one f 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-bc-iorgotten 
 among us, I write it now with tears. 
 
 In December, 1802, she was born, our Muriel :, and on 
 February 9th alas, I have need to remember the date ! 
 she formally received her name. We all dined at John's 
 house, Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father and I. 
 
 It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any 
 roof but his own for twenty years. We had not expected 
 him, since when asked and entreated, he only shook his 
 head ; but just when we were sitting down to the table, Ur- 
 sula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, and her lips dimpling 
 with a housewifely delight that everything was so nice and 
 neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And there 
 in the doorway stood my father. 
 
 His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth- 
 shaven face, withered but of a pale brown still, with the 
 hard lines softening down, and the keen eyes kinder than 
 they used to be ; dressed carefully in his First-day clothes, 
 the stainless white kerchief supporting his large chin, his 
 Quaker's hat in one hand, his stick in the other, looking in 
 at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his 
 mouth, thus he stood, thus I see thee, oh, 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 dainties and no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of 
 laurestinas 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 
 outside the window the thickly-falling snow. 
 
 " It has not snowed these two months," said John ; 
 ;< never since the day our little girl was born." And at this
 
 244 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 moment, as if she heard herself mentioned and was in- 
 dignant 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 
 babies. Again the little helpless wail ; Ursula rose up and 
 stole away. Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious 
 expression, then began to say something about going back- 
 to the tan-yard. 
 
 "Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ur- 
 sula wants to show you our little lady." 
 
 My father put out his hands in deprecation, or as if de- 
 siring to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling 
 thoughts. Still came faintly down at intervals the tiny 
 voice, dropping into a soft coo of pleasure, like a wood-dove 
 in its nest ; every mother knows the sound. And then 
 Mrs. Halifax entered, holding in her arms her little winter- 
 flower, her baby daughter. 
 
 Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her, closed his eyes 
 against both, and looked no more. 
 
 Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the 
 general admiration of her treasure. 
 
 " She might well come in a snow-storm," said Mrs. 
 Jessop, taking the child. " She is just like snow, so soft 
 and white." 
 
 " And as soundless ; she hardly ever cries. She just lies 
 in this way half the day over, cooing quietly, with her eyes 
 shut. There, she has caught your dress fast. Now, was 
 there ever a two-months' old baby so quick at noticing 
 things ? And she does it all with her fingers ; she touches 
 everything. Ah ! take care, doctor," the mother added, 
 reproachfully, at a loud slam of the door, which made the 
 baby tremble all over. 
 
 " I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds," said 
 John, as he began talking to it and soothing it. How 
 strange it was to see him ! And yet it seemed quite natural 
 already. " I think even now she knows the difference be- 
 tween her mother's voice and mine ; and any sudden noise 
 always startles her in this way."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 246 
 
 " She must have astonishingly quick hearing," said the 
 good doctor, slightly annoyed. 
 
 Ursula wisely began to talk of something else ; showed 
 Muriel's eyelashes, very long for such a baby, and descanted 
 on the 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 judg- 
 ing, 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, deli- 
 cately 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 unseeiny 
 look. 
 
 It caught Dr. Jessop's notice. I saw his air of vexed 
 dignity change into a certain anxiety. 
 
 " Well, whose are they like, her father's or mine ? His, 
 I hope ; it will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we '11 
 excuse all compliments." 
 
 "I I can't exactly tell. I could judge better by candle 
 light." 
 
 " We '11 have candles." 
 
 ** No, no ! Had we not better put it off altogether till 
 another day ? 1 '11 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 my 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
 
 246 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 the window, the child being held on her father's lap, while 
 Dr. Jcssop was trying to open the small, white lids, kept so 
 continually closed. At last the baby uttered a little cry of 
 pain ; the mother darted forward, and clasped it almost 
 savagely to her breast. 
 
 " I will not have my baby hurt. There is nothing wrong 
 with her sweet eyes. Go away ; you shall not touch her. 
 John." 
 
 " Love ! 
 
 She melted at that low, fond word ; leaned against his 
 shoulder, trying to control her tears. 
 
 '" It shocked me so, the bare thought of such a thing. Oh, 
 husband, don't let her be looked at again ! " 
 
 " Only once again, my darling. It is best. Then we 
 shall be quite satisfied. Phineas, give me the candle." 
 
 The words, caressing, and by strong constraint made 
 calm and soothing, were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, 
 but let him take Muriel, little, unconscious, cooing dove. 
 Lulled by her father's voice, she once more opened her eyes 
 wide. Dr. Jessop passed the candle before them many 
 times, once so close that it almost touched her face ; but 
 the full, quiet eyes never blenched nor closed. He set the 
 light down. 
 
 " Doctor ! " whispered the father, in a wild appeal against 
 ay, it was against certainty. He snatched the candle 
 and tried the experiment himself. 
 
 " She does not see at all. Can she be blind ? " 
 
 " Born blind." 
 
 Yes, those pretty baby-eyes were dark, quite dark. There 
 was nothing painful nor unnatural in their look, save per- 
 haps the blankness of gaze which I have before noticed. 
 Outwardly their organization was perfect ; but in the fine 
 inner mechanism was something wrong, something wanting. 
 She never had seen, never would see in this world. 
 
 " Blind ! " The word was uttered softly, hardly above 
 a breath, yet the mother heard it. She pushed every one 
 aside, and took the child herself. Herself, with a desperate 
 incredulity, she looked into those eyes, which never could 
 look back either her agony or her love. Poor mother ! 
 
 " John ! John ! oh, John ! " the name rising into a cry,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 247 
 
 &s if he could surely help her. He came and took her in 
 his arms, took both, wife and babe. She laid her head 
 on his shoulder in bitter weeping. " Oh, John, it is so 
 hard ! Our pretty one, our own little child ! " 
 
 John did not speak, but only held her to him, close and 
 fast. When she was a little calmer, he whispered to her 
 the comfort, the sole comfort even her husband could 
 give her, through Whose will it was that this affliction 
 came. 
 
 " And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to 
 her, poor pet ! " said Mrs. Jessop, as she wiped her friendly 
 eyes. " She will not miss what she never knew. She may 
 be a happy little child. Look how she lies and smiles." 
 
 But the mother could not take that consolation yet. 
 She walked to and fro, and stood rocking her baby, mute 
 indeed, but with tears falling in showers. Gradually 
 her anguish wept itself away, or was smothered down, 
 lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on her 
 breast. 
 
 Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm- 
 chair gently. It was Father. He sat down by her, taking 
 her hand. 
 
 " Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was 
 blind. He was the happiest creature I ever knew." 
 
 My father sighed. We all marvelled to see the wonderful 
 softness, even tenderness, which had come into him. 
 
 " Give me thy child for a minute." Ursula laid it 
 across his knees ; he put his hand solemnly on the baby 
 breast. " God bless this little one ! Ay, and she shall be 
 blessed." 
 
 These words, spoken with as full assurance as the pro- 
 phetic 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 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
 
 248 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 clasping the hand which he had laid upon her curls as he 
 rose with another murmured " God bless thee ! " 
 
 " Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy 
 husband, my girl. And John, never be thou harsh to her, 
 nor be 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 only spoke once or 
 twice, and then of things which startled me by their 
 strangeness, things which had happened a long time ago; 
 sayings and doings of mine in my childhood, which I had 
 not the least idea he had either known of or remembered. 
 
 When we got in doors, I asked if I should come and sit 
 with him till his bedtime. 
 
 " No, no ; thee looks tired, and I have a business letter 
 to write. Better go to 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 you, 
 my son ! " 
 
 I left him. I was happy. Once I had not thought 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. 1 had been 
 dreaming strangely about my own childish days, and about 
 my father and mother when they 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 to the parlor door, to tell Father that it was bedtime. 
 He did not answer, being seated with his back to the door, 
 apparently busy writing. So she went away.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 249 
 
 Half an hour afterward she came again. He sat there 
 still : he had not moved. One hand supported his head ;- 
 the other, the finger stiffly holding the pen, laying on the 
 table. He seemed intently gazing on what he had writter 
 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 I 
 
 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 profits of the tanning 
 trade had long been merely nominal ; that of necessity, 
 for the support of our two families, the tan-yard must be 
 sold, and the business confined entirely to the flour-mill. 
 
 At this crisis as if the change of all things broke her 
 stout old heart, which never could bend to any new ways 
 Jael died. We laid her at my father's and mother's feet, 
 poor old Jael ! and that grave-yard in St. Mary's Lane 
 now covered over all who loved me, all who were of my 
 youth days, 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 was one of my strong 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 dualty, no, no, let me say the unity of their 
 home.
 
 250 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 I wished to try and work for my living, if that were pos- 
 sible ; if not, that out of the wreck of my father's trade 
 might be found enough to keep me in some poor way. 
 But John Halifax would not hear of that. And Ursula 
 she was sitting sewing, while the little one lay on her lap. 
 cooing softly with shut eyes Ursula took my hand te 
 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 ex- 
 cept himself, I loved John's eldest daughter, little blind 
 Muriel. 
 
 He had several children now. The dark old house and 
 the square town-garden were alive with their voices from 
 morning till night. First, and loudest always, was Guy, 
 born the year after Muriel. He was very like his mother, 
 her darling. After him came two more, Edwin and Walter. 
 But Muriel still remained as " sister," the only sister 
 either given or desired. 
 
 If I could find a name to describe that child, it would 
 not be the one her mother gave her at her birth, but one 
 more sacred, more tender. She was better than Joy, she 
 was an embodied Peace. 
 
 Her motions were slow and tranquil, her voice soft, 
 every expression of her little face extraordinarily serene. 
 Whether creeping about the house, with a foot-fall silent as 
 snow, or sitting among us, either knitting busily at her 
 father's knee, or listening to his talk and the children's 
 play, everywhere and always, Muriel was the same. No 
 one ever saw her angry, restless, or sad. The soft, dark 
 calm in which she lived seemed never broken by the trou- 
 bles 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 251 
 
 comforted. If, busying herself about, doing faithfully her 
 portion too, that the husband when he came hi of evenings 
 might find all cheerful, and never know how heavy had 
 been the household cares during the day, if, at times, 
 Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone, at sight ot Muriel it 
 softened at once. No one could speak anything but soft 
 and sweet words when the blind child was by. 
 
 Yet I think either parent would have looked amazed had 
 any one pitied them for having a blind child. The loss 
 a loss only to them, and not to her, the darling ! became 
 familiar and ceased to wound : the blessedness was ever 
 new. " Ay, and she shall be blessed," had said my dear 
 father. So she was. From her or for her her parents 
 never had to endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of 
 infancy and childhood, of which the three others had their 
 natural share, always passed her by, as if in pity ; nothing 
 ever ailed Muriel. 
 
 The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our 
 family. Scarlet fever went through the house, safely, 
 thank God 1 but leaving Walter almost at death's door. 
 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 ! 1 am as well as possible. Did not Dr. Jes- 
 sop tell me this morning 1 was looking younger than ever ? 
 I , a mother of a family, thirty years old ? Pray, Uncle 
 Phineas, do I look my age ? " 
 
 I could not say she did not, especially now. But she wore 
 it so gracefully, so carelessly, that I saw ay, and truly 
 her husband saw a sacred beauty about her jaded cheek 
 more lovely and lovable than all the bloom of her youth. 
 Happy woman, who was not afraid of growing old ! 
 
 " Love," John usually called her " Love," putting it at
 
 2M JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 again began, 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 '11 do, for the children's sake, in any case. Ah, 
 that 's her weak point ; see, Phineas, she is yielding now. 
 We '11 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 all together, and where ever 
 since we had longed to live. For pretty as our domain had 
 grown, it was still in the middle of a town, and the chil- 
 dren, like all naturally reared children, craved after the 
 freedom of the country, after corn-fields, hay-fields, nut- 
 tings, black-berryings, delights hitherto known only at 
 rare intervals, when their father could spare a whole day, 
 and be at once the sun and the shield of the happy little 
 band. 
 
 " Hearken, children ! Father says we shall go for three 
 whole months to live at Longfield." 
 
 The three boys set up a shout of ecstasy. 
 
 " I '11 swim boats down the stream, and catch and ride 
 every one of the horses. Hurra ! " shouted Guy. 
 
 " And I '11 see after the ducks and chickens, and watch 
 all the threshing and winnowing," said Edwin, the practical 
 and grave. 
 
 " And I '11 get a 'ittle lamb to p'ay wid me," lisped 
 Walter, still " the baby," or considered such, and petted 
 accordingly. 
 
 " But what does my little daughter say ? " said the father, 
 turning, as he always turned, at the lightest touch of those 
 soft, blind fingers creeping along his coat sleeve. " What 
 will Muriel do at Longfield ? " 
 
 " Muriel will sit all day and hear the birds sing."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 253 
 
 " So she shall, my blessing ! " He often called her his 
 '* blessing," which in truth she was. To see her now, lean- 
 ing her check 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 ordinary father and daughter than like a man and 
 his good angel, the visible embodiment of the best half of 
 his soul. So she was ever to him, this child of his youth, 
 his first-born and his dearest. 
 
 The Longfield plan being once started, Father and Mother 
 and I began to consult together as to ways and means ; 
 what should be given up, and what decreased, of our abso- 
 lute luxuries, in order that the children might this summer 
 possibly every summer have the glory of " living in 
 the country." Of these domestic consultations there was 
 never any dread, for they were always held in public. 
 There were no secrets in our house. Father and Mother, 
 though sometimes holding different opinions, had but one 
 thought, one aim, the family good. Thus, even in our 
 lowest estate there had been no bitterness in our poverty ; 
 we met it, looked it in the face, often even laughed at 
 it. For it bound us all together, hand in hand ; it taught 
 us endurance, self-dependence, and, best of all lessons, self- 
 renunciation. I think one's whole after-life is made easier 
 and more blessed by having known what it is to be very 
 poor when one is 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 it the same 
 color as that identical gray gown he had seen hanging up 
 in the kitchen at Enderley. 
 
 " But one would give up anything," she said, " that the 
 children might have such a treat, and that Father might 
 
 I
 
 254 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 have rides backward and forward through green lanes aH 
 summer. Oh, how I wish we could always live in the 
 country I ' 
 
 " 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 some time." 
 
 " When our ship comes in ; namely, that money which 
 Richard Brithwood will not pay, and John Halifax will 
 not go to law to make him. Nay, Father dear, I am not 
 going to quarrel with any one of your crotchets." She 
 spoke with a fond pride, as always, even when arguing 
 against the too quixotic carrying out of the said crotchets. 
 ' Perhaps, as the reward of forbearance, the money 
 will come some day when we least expect it ; then John 
 shall have his heart's desire, and start the cloth-mills at 
 Enderley." 
 
 John smiled half sadly. Every man has a hobby ; this 
 was his, and had been for fifteen years. Not merely the 
 making a fortune, as he still firmly believed it could be 
 made, but the position of useful power, the wide range of 
 influence, the infinite opportunities of doing good. 
 
 "No, love; 1 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 inci- 
 dent of our boyhood, " you have got half through it 
 already. Everybody in Norton Bury knows and respects 
 you. I am sure, Phineas, you might have heard a pin fall 
 at the meeting last night when he spoke against hanging 
 the Luddites. And such a shout as rose when he ended, 
 oh, how proud I was ! " 
 
 " Of the shout, love ? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! but of the cause of it. Proud to see my 
 husband defending the poor and the oppressed, proud to 
 see him 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.' "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 255 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 " And how many poachers has he not persuaded out of 
 their dishonest " I 
 
 " Illegal," corrected John. 
 
 " Well, their illegal ways, and made decent, respectable 
 men of them! Then, see how he is consulted and his 
 opinion followed, by rich folk as well as poor folk, all about 
 the neighborhood. I am sure John is as popular and has 
 as much influence as many a member of Parliament." 
 
 John smiled with an amused twitch about his mouth, 
 but he said nothing. He rarely did say anything about 
 himself, not even in his own household. The glory of 
 his life was its unconsciousness ; like our own silent 
 Severn, however broad and grand its current, that course 
 seemed the natural channel into which it flowed. 
 
 " There 's Muriel," said the father, listening. 
 
 Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard 
 all over the house the sweet sounds of " Muriel's voice," as 
 some one had called the old harpsichord. When almost a 
 baby, she would feel her way to it, and find harmonies, then 
 tunes, with that quickness and delicacy of ear peculiar to 
 the blind. 
 
 " How well she plays ! I wish I could buy her one of 
 those new instruments they call ' pianofortes. ' I was look- 
 ing into the mechanism of one the other day." 
 
 " She would like an organ better," I told him. " You 
 should have seen her face in the abbey church this 
 morning." 
 
 " Hark ! she has stopped playing. Guy, run and bring 
 your sister here," said the father, ever yearning after his 
 darling. 
 
 Guy came back with a wonderful story of two gentlemen 
 in the 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
 
 256 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 coat with gold buttons, and the snowiest of cambric ker 
 chiefs swathing him up to the very chin. To this " grand ' : 
 personage John bowed formally, but his wife flushed up in 
 surprised recognition. 
 
 " It is so long since I had the happiness of meeting Miss 
 March that I conclude Mrs. Halifax has forgotten me ? " 
 
 " No, Lord Luxmore: allow me to introduce my husband." 
 
 And I fancied some of Miss March's old hauteur re- 
 turned to the mother's softened and matronly mien, pride, 
 but not for herself or in herself, now. For, truly, as the 
 two men stood together, though Lord Luxmore had been 
 handsome in his youth, and was universally said to have as 
 fine manners as the Prince Regent himself, any woman 
 might well have held her head loftily, introducing John 
 Halifax as " my husband." 
 
 Of the two, the nobleman was least at his ease, for the 
 welcome of both Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, though courteous, 
 was decidedly cold. They did not seem to feel, and, if 
 rumor spoke true, 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. 
 Halifax, my daughter encouraged me to pay this 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 
 His sister made a great pet of him as a child. He has just 
 completed his education, at the college of St. Omer, was 
 \t not,, WUliam?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 257 
 
 <* The Catholic college of St. Omer," repeated the boy. 
 
 " Tut ! what matters ? " said the. father, sharply. " Mr. 
 Halifax, do not imagine we are a Catholic family still. I 
 hope the next Earl of Luxmore will be able to take the 
 oaths and his seat, whether or no we get Emancipation. 
 By the by, you uphold the Bill?" 
 
 John expressed his firm conviction, then unhappily a rare 
 one, that every one's conscience is free, and that all men of 
 blameless life ought to be protected by, and allowed to 
 serve, the state, whatever be their religious opinions. 
 
 " Mr. Halifax, I entirely agree with you. A wise man 
 esteems all faiths alike worthless." 
 
 John drew back. " 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 
 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 
 understand." 
 
 " Ay, that is it. My dear sir, the people have no more 
 brains' than the head of my cane (his Royal Highness's gift, 
 Mr. Halifax) ; they must be led or driven, like a flock of 
 sheep. We " a lordly we ! " are the 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, some- 
 what dryly. " In short, a public orator. In the House, or 
 out of it f " 
 
 " Both , " and the Earl tapped his boot with the 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- 
 
 17
 
 258 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 ship's express desire, the lease, lately fallen in, of your 
 cloth-mills at Enderley ? " 
 
 Now John had not told us that; why, his manner too 
 plainly showed. 
 
 " And all will be arranged, I trust ? Brown says you 
 have long wished to take the mills ; I shall be most happy 
 to have you for a tenant." 
 
 " My lord, as I told your agent, it is impossible. We 
 will say no more about it." 
 
 John crossed over to his wife with a cheerful air. She 
 sat looking grave and sad. 
 
 Lord Luxmore had the reputation of being a keen-witted, 
 diplomatic personage ; undoubtedly he had or could assume 
 that winning charm of manner which had descended in 
 perfection to his daughter. Both qualities it pleased him 
 to exercise now. He rose, addressing with kindly frank- 
 ness the husband and wife. 
 
 " If I may ask, being a most sincere well-wisher o:' 
 yours, and a sort of connection of Mrs. Halifax too, why 
 is it impossible ? " 
 
 " I have no wish to disguise the reason ; it is because T 
 have no capital." 
 
 Lord Luxmore looked surprised. " Surely excuse me, 
 but I 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 
 fortune ! John, let me say it ! I will, I must ! Of his 
 wife's fortune, Lord Luxmore, he has never received one 
 farthing. Richard Brithwood keeps it back ; and my hus- 
 band- would work day and night for me and our children 
 rather than go to law." 
 
 " Oh ! on principle, I suppose ? I have heard of such 
 opinions," said the earl, with the slightest perceptible sneer. 
 " And you agree with him ? " 
 
 " I do, heartily. I would rather we lived poor all our 
 days than that he should wear his life out, trouble his 
 spirit, perhaps even soil his conscience, by squabbling with 
 a bad man over money matters." 
 
 It was good to see Ursula as she spoke ; good to see the 
 look that husband and wife interchanged, husband and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 wife, different in many points, yet so blessedly, so safely 
 one I Then John said in his quiet way, 
 
 " Love, perhaps another subject than our own affairs 
 would be more interesting to Lord Luxmore." 
 
 "Not at all, not at all!" and the earl was evident 1 " 
 puzzled and annoyed. " Such extraordinary conduct," hi 
 muttered! "so very a-hem ! unwise. If the matter 
 were known, caught up by those newspapers 1 must 
 really have a little conversation with Brithwood." 
 
 The conversation paused, and John changed it entirely 
 by making some remarks on the present minister, Mr. 
 Perceval. 
 
 " I liked his last speech much. He seems a clear-headed, 
 honest man, for all his dogged opposition to the Bill." 
 
 " He will never oppose it more." 
 
 " Nay, I think he will, my lord, to the death." 
 
 " That may be ; and yet " His lordship smiled. 
 " Mr. Halifax,! have just had news by carrier-pigeon, my 
 birds fly well, most important news for us and our party. 
 Yesterday, in the lobby of the House of Commons, Mr. 
 Perceval was shot." 
 
 We all started. An hour ago we had been reading his 
 speech. Mr. Perceval shot ! 
 
 " Oh, John," cried the mother, her eyes full of tears ; 
 " his poor wife, his fatherless children ! " 
 
 And for many minutes they stood, hearing the lamenta- 
 ble 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 orplmns bewailed their dead. He might or 
 might not be a great statesman, but he was undoubtedly a 
 good man. Many still remember the shock of his untimely 
 death, and how, whether or not they liked him living, all 
 the honest hearts of England mourned for Mr. Perceval. 
 
 Possibly that number did not include the Earl of 
 Luxmore. 
 
 " Requiescat in pace I I shall propose the canonization 
 of poor Bcllingham ; for now Perceval is dead, there will 
 be an immediate election, and on that election depends 
 Catholic Emancipation, Mr, Halifax," turning quickly
 
 260 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 round to him, "you would be of great use to us in 
 Parliament." 
 
 "Should I?" 
 
 " Will you I like plain speaking will you enter it ? " 
 
 Enter Parliament ! John Halifax in Parliament ! His 
 wife and I were both astounded by the suddenness of the 
 possibility, which, however, John himself seemed to receive 
 as no novel idea. 
 
 Lord Luxmore continued : " I assure you nothing is more 
 easy ; I can bring you in at once for a borough near here, 
 my family borough." 
 
 " Which you wish to be held by some convenient person 
 till Lord Ravenel comes of age ? So Mr, Brown informed 
 me yesterday." 
 
 Lord Luxmore slightly frowned. Such transactions, as 
 common then in the service of the country as they still are 
 in the service of the Church, were yet generally glossed 
 over, as if a certain discredit attached to them. The 
 young lord seemed to feel it ; at the sound of his name he 
 turned round to listen, and turned back again, blushing 
 scarlet. Not so the earl his father. 
 
 " Brown is may I offer you a pinch, Mr. Halifax ? 
 What, not the Prince Regent's own mixture ? Brown is 
 indeed a worthy fellow, mais trop prononce. As it happens, 
 my son is yet undecided between the Church that is, the 
 priesthood and politics. But to our conversation : Mrs. 
 Halifax, may I not enlist you on my side ? We could easily 
 remove all difficulties, such as qualification, etc. Would 
 you not like to see your husband member for the old and 
 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. "KingswelU 
 why there are not a dozen houses in the place." 
 ) " The fewer the better, my dear madam. The election 
 'would coat me scarcely any trouble, and the country be 
 1 vastly the gainer by your husband's talent and probity. Of 
 course he will give vp the I forget what is his business 
 now, and live independent. He is made to shine as a 
 politician : ft will fe& both happiness and honor to myself tq
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 261 
 
 have in some way contributed to that end. Mr. Halifax, 
 } r ou will accept my borough ? " 
 
 " Xot on any consideration your lordship could offer me." 
 
 Lord Luxinore scarcely credited his ears. " My dear sir, 
 you are the most extraordinary- May I again inquire 
 your reasons ? " 
 
 " I have several ; one will suffice. Though I wish to 
 gain influence, power perhaps, still the last thing I should 
 desire would be political influence." 
 
 " You might possibly escape that unwelcome possession," 
 returned the earl, somewhat sarcastically, "Half the 
 House of Commons is made up of harmless dummies, who 
 rote as we bid them." 
 
 " A character, my lord, for which I doubt I am unfitted. 
 Until political conscience ceases to be the thing of traffic, 
 until the people are honestly allowed to choose their own 
 honest representatives, I must decline being of that number. 
 Shall we dismiss the subject ? " 
 
 " With pleasure, sir." 
 
 And courtesy being met by courtesy, the question so 
 momentous was passed over, and merged into trivialities. 
 Perhaps the earl, who, as his pleasures palled, was under- 
 stood to be fixing his keen wits upon the pet profligacy of 
 old age, politics, saw clearly enough that in these chaotic days 
 of contending parties, when the maddened outcry of the 
 " people " was just being heard and listened to, it might be 
 as well not to make an enemy of this young man, who with 
 a few more stood, as it were, midway in the gulf, now 
 slowly beginning to narrow, between the commonalty and 
 the aristocracy. 
 
 He stayed some time longer, and then bowed himself 
 away with a gracious condescension worthy of the Prince 
 of Wales himself, carrying with him the shy, gentle Lord 
 Havenel, who had spoken scarcely six words the whole 
 time. 
 
 When he was gone, the father and mother seemed both 
 relieved. 
 
 " Truly, John, he has gained little by his visit, and I 
 hope it may be long before we see an earl in our quiet 
 house again. Come in to dinner, my children,"
 
 262 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 But his lordship had left an uncomfortable impression 
 behind him. It lasted even until that quiet hour often 
 the quietest and happiest of our day when, the children 
 being all in bed, we elders closed in round the fire. 
 
 Ursula and I sat there longer alone than usual. 
 
 * John is late to-night," she said more than once ; and 1 
 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 canie in. 
 
 Brightness always came in with him. Whatever cares 
 he had without and they were heavy enough, God knows 
 they always seemed to slip off the moment he entered his 
 own door, and whatever slight cares we had at home we 
 put them aside, as they could not but be pat aside, nay, 
 forgotten, at the sight of him. 
 
 4i Well, Uncle Phineas ! Children all right, my darling ? 
 A fire ! 1 "in glad of it. Truly, to-night is as cold as 
 November." 
 
 u 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 une 
 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 be- 
 side 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 ? " .1 thought the tone was rather sad, and 
 that the father sat listening with less interest than usual to 
 the pleasant little household chronicle, always wonderful 
 and always new, which it was his custom to ask for and 
 have, night after night, when he came home, saying it was
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 263 
 
 to him after his day's toil like a ".babbling o' green fields." 
 Soon it stopped. 
 
 " John, dear, you are very tired ? " 
 
 " Rather." 
 
 '< Have you been very busy all day ? " 
 
 " Very busy." 
 
 I understood, almost as well as his wife did, what those 
 brief answers indicated ; so stealing away to the table where 
 Guy's blurred copy-books and Edwin's astonishing addition 
 sums were greatly in need of Uncle Phineas, I left my fire- 
 side corner to those two. Soon John settled himself in my 
 easy-chair, and then one saw how very weary he was, 
 weary in body and soul alike, weary as we seldom beheld 
 him. It went to my heart to watch the listless stretch 
 of his large, strong frame, the sharp lines about his 
 mouth, lines which ought not to have come there in his 
 two-and-thirty years. And his eyes, they hardly looked like 
 John's eyes, as they gazed in a sort of dull quietude, too 
 anxious to be dreamy, into the red coals, and nowhere else. 
 
 At last he roused himself and took up his wife's work. 
 
 " More little coats ! Love, you are always sewing." 
 
 " Mothers must, you know. And I think never did boys 
 outgrow their things like our boys. It is pleasant, too. If 
 only clothes did not wear out so fast." 
 
 " Ah ! " A sigh from the very depth of the father's heart. 
 
 " Not a bit too fast for my clever fingers, though," said 
 Ursula, quickly. "Look, John, at this lovely braiding. 
 But I 'm not going to do any more of it. I shall certainly 
 have no time to waste over fineries at Longfield." 
 
 Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and 
 laid it down again. After a pause he said, 
 
 " Should you be very much disappointed if if we did not 
 go to Longfield at all?" 
 
 " Not go to Longfield ? " The involuntary exclamation 
 showed how deep her longing had been. 
 
 " Because, I am afraid it is hard, I know but I am 
 afraid we cannot manage it. Are you very sorry ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said frankly and truthfully. " Not so much 
 for myself, but the children." 
 
 " Ay, the poor children."
 
 264 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Ursula stitched away rapidly for some moments till the 
 grieved look faded out of her face ; then she turned it, all 
 cheerful once more, to her husband. " Now, John, tell me. 
 Never mind about the children. Tell me." 
 
 He told her, as was his habit at all times, of some losses 
 which had to-day befallen him, bad debts in his business 
 which would make it, if not impracticable, at least im- 
 prudent, 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 Long- 
 field," the renunciation was made, and the subject ended. 
 For this year, at least, our Arcadian dream was over. 
 
 But John's troubled looks did not pass away. It seemed 
 as if this night his long toil had come to that crisis when 
 the strongest man breaks down, or" trembles within a hair's 
 breadth of breaking down ; conscious too, horribly con- 
 scious, that if so himself will be the least part of the 
 universal ruin. His face was haggard, his movements 
 irritable and restless ; he started nervously at every sound. 
 Sometimes even a hasty word, an uneasiness about trifles, 
 showed how strong was the effort he made at self-control. 
 Ursula, usually by far the more quick-tempered of the two, 
 became to-night mild and patient. She neither watched 
 nor questioned him, wise woman as she was ; she only sat 
 still, busying herself over her work, speaking now and then 
 of little things, lest he should notice her anxiety about him. 
 He did at last. 
 
 " Nay, I am not ill, do not be afraid. Only my head 
 aches so ; let me lay it here, as the children do." 
 
 His wife made a place for it on her shoulder ; there it 
 rested, the poor, tired head, until gradually the hard and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 2G/5 
 
 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 hei 
 lap, and sat still. Her cheek leaned itself softly againsl 
 John's hair, and in her eyes, which seemed so intently con- 
 templating the little frock, I saw large, bright tears gather, 
 fall. But her look was serene, nay, happy ; as if she thought 
 of these beloved ones, ones husband and children, hei 
 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 feai 
 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 fright- 
 ening the very children in their beds. All for a mere letter 
 too, brought by a lackey of Lord Luxmore. Having, 
 somewhat indignantly, ascertained this fact, the mother 
 ran upstairs to quiet her little ones, When she came down. 
 John still stood with the letter in his hand. He had not 
 told me what it was ; when I chanced to ask, he answered 
 in a low tone, " Presently." On his wife's entrance, he 
 gave her the letter without a word. 
 
 Well might it startle her into a cry of joy. Truly the 
 dealings of Heaven to us were wonderful ! 
 
 " MR. JOHN HALIFAX : 
 
 SIR, Your wife, Ursula Halifax, having attained the age fixed bj 
 her late father as her majority, I will, within a month after date, paj 
 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 th 
 late Henry March, Esquire. 
 
 " I am, sir, yours, etc., 
 
 RICHARD BRITHWOOD."
 
 266 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Wonderful, wonderful ! " 
 
 It was all I could say. That one bad man, for his own 
 purposes, should influence, another bad man to an act of 
 justice, and that their double evil should be made to 
 work out our good! Also, that this should come just 
 in our time of need, when John's strength seemed ready to 
 fail! 
 
 " Oh, John, John ; now you need not work so hard ! " 
 
 That was his wife's first cry, as she clung to him almost 
 in tears. 
 
 He too was a good deal agitated. This sudden lifting 
 f the burden made him feel how heavy it had been, how 
 terrible the responsibility, how sickening the fear. 
 
 " Thank God ! In any case, you are quite safe now ; you 
 and the children." 
 
 He sat down, very pale. His wife kept beside him, and 
 put her arm around his neck. I quietly went out of the 
 room. 
 
 When I came in again they were both standing by the 
 fireside, both cheerful, as two people to whom had happened 
 such unexpected good fortune might naturally be expected 
 to appear. I offered my congratulations in rather a comical 
 vein than otherwise ; we all of us had caught John's habit 
 o 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 shall walk in silk attire, 
 And siller hae to spare.' 
 
 She 's quite young and handsome still, is n't she ? How 
 magnificent she '11 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 " 
 
 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, Phi- 
 neas ! make him see it as I do. Make him understand that
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 267 
 
 it will be the happiest day in his wife's life when she knows 
 him happy in his heart's desire." 
 
 We sat a little while longer, talking over the strange 
 change in our fortunes, for they wished to make me feel 
 that now, as ever, what was theirs was mine ; then Ursula 
 took her candle to depart. 
 
 " Love," John cried, calling her back as she shut the 
 door and watching her stand there patient, watching with' 
 something of the old mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 " Mrs. Halifax, when shall I have the honor of ordering 
 your long-tailed gray ponies?'* 
 
 CHAPTER 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 ripening 
 in us and round us, where summer and winter, day and 
 night, the hand of God's providence was over our roof, 
 blessing our goings out and our comings in, our basket and 
 our store ; crowning us with the richest blessing of all, that 
 we were made a household where " brethren dwelt together 
 in unity." Beloved Longfield ! my heart slow pulsing as 
 befits one near the grave thrills warm and young as I 
 remember thee ! 
 
 Yet how shall I describe it, the familiar spot, so 
 familiar that it seems to need no description at all ? 
 
 It was but a small place when we first came there. It 
 led out of the high-road by a field gate, the White Gate, 
 from which a narrow path wound down to a stream, thence 
 up a green slope to the house ; a mere farm-house, nothing 
 more. It had one parlor, three decent bedrooms, kitchen, 
 and outhouses. We built extempore chambers out of the 
 barn and cheese-room, in one of which the boys, Guy and 
 Edwin, slept, against the low roof of which the father gen-
 
 268 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 orally knocked his head every morning when he came to 
 call the lads. Its windows were open all summer round, 
 in at which the birds and bats used oftentimes to fly, 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 wall-be- 
 haved as our children, I cannot tell ; but certain it is that 
 we never found any harm from this system, necessitated by 
 our early straits at Longfield, this " liberty, fraternity, 
 and equality." 
 
 Those words, in themselves true and lovely but wrested 
 to such false meaning, whose fatal sound was now dying 
 out of Europe, merged in the equally false and fatal shout 
 of " Crloire ! Grloire I " 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 chil- 
 dren, and I were down at the stream, planning a bridge 
 across it, and a sort of picturesque stable where John's 
 horse might be put up, the mother had steadily resisted 
 the long-tailed gray ponies. For with all the necessary im- 
 provements 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 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, if the im- 
 portant deed was safely done, 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 '11
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 269 
 
 spoil John's new gravel road that he takes such pride in. 
 Uncle Phineas, would you mind going to see ? " 
 
 Whom should I see but almost the last person I expected 
 to see, who had not been beheld, hardly spoken of, in our 
 household these ten years, Lady Caroline Brithwood, 
 more fashionable than ever in her travelling habit of gay- 
 colored cloth, her velvet riding-hat with its Prince of 
 Wales' feathers, though her pretty face was withering under 
 the paint, and her lively manner growing coarse and bold. 
 
 " Is this Longfield ? Does Mr. Halifax mon Dieu ! 
 Mr. Fletcher, is that you ? " 
 
 She held out her hand with the frankest condescension, 
 and in the gayest humor in the world. She insisted on 
 sending on the carriage and accompanying me down to the 
 stream, for a " surprise," a " scene." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, seeing the coach drive on, had evidently 
 forgotten all about it. She stood in the little dell which 
 tbe stream had made, Walter in her arms, her figure 
 being thrown back so as to poise the child's weight. Her 
 right hand kept firm hold of Guy, who was paddling bare- 
 foot in the stream ; Edwin, the only one of the boys who 
 never gave any trouble, was soberly digging away beside 
 little Muriel. 
 
 The lady clapped her hands. "Brava! bravissima! A. 
 charming family picture, Mrs. Halifax." 
 
 " Lady Caroline ! " 
 
 Ursula left her children, and came to greet her old 
 acquaintance, whom she had never once seen since she 
 was Ursula March. Perhaps one 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 some- 
 what 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 a certain 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."
 
 270 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 whicl 
 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. 
 
 " Is n't it a pretty view ? " said Guy, creeping up and 
 touching the stranger's gown. Our children had lived too 
 much in an atmosphere of love to know either shyness 
 or fear. 
 
 " Very pretty, my little friend." 
 
 " That 's One-tree Hill. Father is going to take us all 
 a walk there this afternoon." 
 
 " Do you like going walks with your father ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't we ! " an electric smile ran through the whole 
 circle. It told enough of the blessed home-tale. 
 
 Lady Caroline laughed a sharp laugh. " Eh, my dear, 
 / see how things are. You don't regret having married 
 John Halifax the tanner ? " 
 
 " Regret ! " 
 
 " Nay, be not impetuous. 1 always said he was a noble 
 fellow ; so does the earl now. And William, you can't 
 think what a hero your husband is to William." 
 
 "Lord Ravenel?" 
 
 " Ay, my little brother that was ; growing a young man 
 now, a frightful bigot, wanting to make our house as 
 Catholic as when two or three of us lost our heads for 
 King James. But he is a good boy. Poor William! I 
 had rather not talk about him." 
 
 Ursula inquired courteously if her cousin Richard were 
 well. 
 
 " Bah ! I suppose he is ; he is always well. His late 
 astonishing honesty to Mr. Halifax cost him a fit of gout ; 
 mats n'importe. If they meet, I suppose all things will be 
 smooth between them ? " 
 
 " My husband never had any ill feeling to Mr. Brithwood."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 271 
 
 * I should not bear him an undying enmity if he had. 
 But you see 't is 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 " 
 
 " Tenez! tenez!" cried Lady Caroline, stopping her ears. 
 "I don't understand business; I only know that they 
 want your husband to be friendly with mine. Is this 
 plain enough ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; be under no apprehension ; Mr. Halifax 
 never bears malice against any one. Was this the reason 
 of your visit, Lady Caroline ? " 
 
 " Eh ! mon Dieu ! what would become of us if we were 
 all as straightforward as you, Mistress Ursula ? But it 
 sounds charming, in the country. No, my dear ; I came 
 nay, I hardly know why. Probably because I liked to 
 come, my usual reason for most actions. Is that your 
 salle-d-manger ? Won't you ask me to dinner, ma cousine f " 
 
 "Of course," the mother said; though I fancied after- 
 ward the invitation rather weighed upon her mind, prob- 
 ably from the doubt whether or no John would like it. 
 But in little things as in great, she had always this safe 
 trust in him, that conscientiously to do what she felt to be 
 right was the surest way to be right in her husband's 
 eyes. 
 
 So Lady Caroline was our guest for the day, a novel 
 
 guest ; but she made herself at once familiar and pleasant. 
 
 Guy, a little gentleman from his cradle, installed himself 
 
 her admiring knight attendant everywhere ; Edwin brought 
 
 1 her to see his pigeons ; Walter, with sweet, shy blushes, 
 
 %red her " a 'ittle Power ; " and the three, as the great- 
 
 ; st 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-Ame'lie. " 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 wi 
 could find a tolerable Arcadia."
 
 272 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Is there any Arcadia like home ?" 
 
 " Home ! " Her face expressed the utmost loathing, 
 fear, and scorn. I remembered hearing that the Squire, 
 since his return from abroad, had turned out just like his 
 father ; was drunk every day, and all day long. " Is your 
 husband altered, Ursula ? He must be quite a young man 
 still. Oh, what it is to be young ! " 
 
 " John looks much older, people say ; but I don't see it." 
 
 " Arcadia again ! Can such things be ? especially in 
 England, that paradise of husbands, where the first hus- 
 band 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 
 certainly take out a patent for the manufacture." 
 
 The subject touched too near home. Ursula wisely 
 avoided it by inquiring if Lady Caroline meant to remain 
 in England. 
 
 " Cela depend" She turned suddenly grave. " Your 
 fresh air makes me feel weary. Shall we go in doors ? " 
 
 Dinner was ready laid out, a plain meal, since neither 
 the father nor any of us cared for table dainties ; but T 
 think if we had lived in a hut, and fed off wooden platters 
 on potatoes and salt, our repast would have been fair and 
 orderly, and our hut the neatest that a hut could be. For 
 the mother of the family had in perfection almost the best 
 genius a woman can have, the genius of tidiness. We were 
 not in the least ashamed of our simple dinner-table, where 
 no difference was ever made for anybody. We had little 
 plate, but plenty of snow-white napery and pretty china ; 
 and what with the scents of the flower-garden on one side 
 and the green waving of the elm-tree on the other, it was 
 as good as dining out of doors. 
 
 The boys were still gathered round Lady Caroline, in the 
 little closet off the dining-room where lessons were 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 273 
 
 shoulder of their own accord, when I heard the child say 
 to herself, 
 
 " Father 's coming." 
 
 " Where, darling ? " 
 
 " Up the farm-yard way. There, he is on the gravel- 
 walk. He has stopped ; I dare say it is to pull some of the 
 'jessamine that grows over the well. Now, fly away, dove ! 
 Father's here." 
 
 And the next minute a general shout echoed, " Father 's 
 here ! " 
 
 He stood in the doorway, lifting one after the other up 
 in his arms ; having a kiss and a merry word for all, this 
 good father ! 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " 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.
 
 274 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " She always sits here, thank you." 
 
 The table-talk was chieiiy between the lady and her host ; 
 she rarely talked to women when a man was to be had. 
 Conversation veered between the Emperor Napoleon and 
 Lord Wellington, Lord William Bentinck and Sardinian 
 policy, the conjugal squabbles of Carlton House, and the 
 one absorbing political question of this year, Catholic 
 emancipation. 
 
 " You are a staunch supporter of the Bill, my father 
 says. Of course, you aid him in the Kingswell election 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I can scarcely call it an election," returned John. He 
 had been commenting on it to us that morning rather 
 severely. An election ! It was merely a talk in the King's 
 Head 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 
 generally used, John looked up quickly. 
 
 " The election being to-morrow, of course his name is no 
 secret ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Vermilye. Mr. Gerard Yermilye. 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 play- 
 ing with her bracelets. Both immediately quitted the sub- 
 ject of the Kingswell election. 
 
 Soon after, we rose from table ; and Guy, who had 
 all dinner-time fixed his admiring gaze upon the " pretty 
 lady," insisted on taking her down the garden and gather- 
 ing for her a magnificent arum lily, the mother's favorite 
 lily. 1 suggested gaining permission first, and was sent to 
 ask the question. 
 
 I found John and his wife in serious even painful 
 conversation.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 275 
 
 " Love," he was saying. " I have known it for very Ion a- ; 
 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 husband." 
 
 "1 do not believe it. Caroline was foolish, she was 
 never wicked. Listen ! If this were true, how could she 
 be laughing with our children now ? Oh ! John, think ; 
 she has no children." 
 
 The deep pity passed from Ursula's heart to her hus- 
 band's. John clasped fondly the two hands that were laid 
 on his shoulders, as, looking up in his face, the happy wife 
 pleaded silently for one who all the world knew was so 
 wronged and so unhappy. 
 
 " We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a 
 better Christian than I." 
 
 All the afternoon they both showed more than courtesy, 
 kindness, to this woman, at whom, as any one out of 
 our retired household would have known and as John did 
 know well, all the world was already pointing the finger 
 on account of Mr. Gerard Vermilye. She, on her part, 
 with her chameleon power of seizing and sunning herself 
 in the delight of the moment, was in a state of the high- 
 est enjoyment. She turned " shepherdess," fed the poul- 
 try with Edwin, pulled off her jewelled ornaments and 
 gave them to Walter for playthings ; nay, she actually 
 washed off her rouge at the spring, and came in with faint 
 natural roses upon her faded cheeks. So happy she
 
 276 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 seemed, so innocently, childishly happy, that more than 
 once I saw John and Ursula exchange satisfied looks, re- 
 joicing that they had followed after that divine charity 
 which " thinketh no evil." 
 
 After tea we all turned out, as was our wont on summer 
 evenings ; the children playing about, while the father and 
 mother strolled up and down the sloping field-path, arm in 
 arm like lovers, or sometimes he fondly leaning upon her. 
 Thus they would walk and talk together in the twilight for 
 hours. 
 
 Lady Caroline pointed to them. " Look ! Adam and 
 Eve modernized ; Baucis and Philemon when they were 
 young. Bon Dieu! what it is to be young." 
 
 She said this in a gasp, as if wild with terror of the days 
 that were coming upon her, the dark days. 
 
 " People are always young," I answered, " who love one 
 another as these do." 
 
 " Love ! what an old-fashioned word. I hate it ! it is so 
 what would you say in English ? so dechirant. I would 
 not cultivate une grande passion for the world." 
 
 I smiled at the idea of the bond between Mr. and Mrs, 
 Halifax taking the Frenchified character of une grandts 
 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 &uut teeth, "im- 
 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-appearance of her coach. At last a lackey arrived, on 
 foot. She angrily inquired why a carriage had not been 
 sent for her. 
 
 " Master did n't give orders, my lady," answered the man, 
 somewhat rudely. 
 
 Lady Caroline turned pale with anger or fear, perhaps 
 both. '
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 27? 
 
 " You have not properly answered your mistress's ques- 
 tion," said Mr. Halifax. 
 
 His tone produced an humbler tone in the servant. 
 
 " Master says, sir, begging my lady's pardon for re- 
 peating it, but he says, My lady went out against 
 his will, and she may come home when and how she 
 likes." 
 
 " My lady " burst out laughing, and laughed violently 
 and long. 
 
 " Tell him I will. Be sure you tell him I will. It is 
 the last and 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 enter- 
 tainment for our whole establishment, my husband and I. 
 We are at the Mythe what the Prince Regent and the 
 Princess of Wales are to the country at large. We divide 
 our people between us ; I fascinate, he bribes. Ha ! ha ! 
 Well done, Richard Brithwood ! I may come home ' when 
 and how I like ' ? Truly, I '11 use that kind permission." 
 
 Her eyes glittered with an evil fire ; her cheeks were hot 
 and red. 
 
 " Mrs. Halifax, I shall be thrown on your hospitality for 
 an hour or two longer. Could you send a letter for me ? " 
 
 " To your husband ? Certainly." 
 
 " My husband ? Never ! Yes, to my husband." The 
 first part of the sentence was full of fierce contempt ; the 
 latter, smothered, and slowly desperate. " Tell me, Ursula, 
 what constitutes a man one's husband ? Brutality, tyranny, 
 the tyranny which the law sanctions ; or kindness, 
 sympathy, devotion, everything that makes life beautiful, 
 everything that constitutes happiness and " 
 
 " Sin." 
 
 The word in her ear was so low that she started as if 
 conscience only had uttered it, conscience, to whom only 
 her intents were known. 
 
 John came forward, speaking gravely but not unkindly. 
 " Lady Caroline, I am dec-ply grieved that this should have 
 happened in my house, and through your visiting us against 
 your husband's will."
 
 278 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 "His will?" 
 
 " Pardon me ; but I think a wife is bound to the vcrj 
 last to obey in all things not absolutely wrong her hus 
 band's will. 1 ani glad you thought of writing to Mr. 
 Brithwood." 
 
 She shook her head in mocking denial. 
 
 " May I ask, then, since I have the honor of sending it> tc 
 whom is this letter ?" 
 
 "To ' I think she would have told a falsehood, if 
 John's eyes had not been so keenly fixed upon her. " To 
 a friend." 
 
 " Friends are at all times dangerous to a lady who " 
 
 " Hates her husband ? Ha ! ha ! Especially male 
 friends ? " 
 
 " Especially male friends." 
 
 Here Guy, who had lingered out of his little bed most 
 unlawfully, hovering about, ready to do any chivalrous 
 duty to his idol of the day, came up to bid her good- 
 night, and held up his rosy mouth eagerly. 
 
 " I kiss a little child ! 1 ! " 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 
 afterward. 
 
 Lady Caroline's tears were evanescent, like all her emo- 
 tions. Soon she became composed, asked again for writing 
 materials, then countermanded the request. 
 
 " No, 1 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. 
 
 i " Lady Caroline, you should willingly stay, were it not, 
 as you must know, so fatal a step. In your position, you 
 should be most careful to leave the world and your husband 
 no single handle against you." 
 
 " Mr. Halifax, what right have you " 
 
 " None, save that of an honest man, who sees a woman 
 cruelly wronged, and desperate with her wrong ; who would 
 thankfully save her if he could."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 275 
 
 ** Save me ? From what, or whom ? " 
 
 " Prom Mr. Gerard Verinilye, 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 con- 
 tempt, but as the simple statement of a fact. The convicted 
 woman dropped her face between her hands. 
 
 Ursula, greatly shocked, was some time before she spoke 
 
 " Is it true, Caroline ? " 
 
 " What is true ? " 
 
 " That which my husband has heard of you ? " 
 
 " Yes," she cried, springing up, and dashing back her 
 beautiful hair, beautiful still, though she must have been 
 five or six and thirty at least ; " yes, it is true ; it shall 
 be true. I will break my bonds, and live the life I was 
 made for. I would have done it long ago, but for no 
 matter. Why, Ursula, he adores me ; young and handsome 
 as he is, he adores me. He will give me my youth back 
 again, ay, he will." 
 
 And she sang out a French chanson, something about 
 " la libert^ et ses plaisirs, la jeunesse, 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 staying 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. Nature is the only God." 
 
 Ursula turned away in horror. " John, what shall we do 
 with her ? No home ! no husband ! no God ! "
 
 280 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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. I might have lived 
 innocent if I had kept my little 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. She has been happy, and you most 
 miserable." 
 
 " Oh, most miserable ! " 
 
 Tli at bitter groan went to both their hearts. Ursula 
 leaned over her, herself almost in tears. " Cousin Caroline, 
 John says true ; 1 will not turn from you. 1 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 ? " 
 
 "1? Let me think. This is terrible. Oh, John!" 
 
 Again Lady Caroline said, in a sharp, bold tone, " Take 
 away your hand." 
 
 "Husband, shall I?"' 
 
 " No." 
 
 For some minutes they stood together, both silent, over 
 this poor woman. I call her " poor," as did they ; know- 
 ing that if a sufferer needs pity, how tenfold more does a 
 
 smner 
 
 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 
 
 ?% 
 - . 
 
 She sobbed still, but less violently.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 281 
 
 " Only, first, you must promise to renounce forever this 
 sin, this disgrace." 
 
 " I feel it none. He is an honorable gentleman ; he 
 loves me, and I love him. That is the true marriage. No, 
 I will make you no such promise. Let me go." 
 
 " Pardon me ; not yet. I cannot suffer my wife's kins- 
 woman to elope from my own house without trying to pro- ; 
 vent it." 
 
 " Prevent ! sir ! Mr. Halifax ! You forget who you are, 
 and who I am, the daughter of the Earl of Luxmore." 
 
 " Were you the King's daughter it would make no dif- 
 ference. I will save you in spite of yourself, if I can. I 
 have already spoken to Mr. Vermilye, and he has gone 
 away." 
 
 " Gone away ! the only living soul that loves me ! Gone 
 away ! I must follow him quick, quick ! " 
 
 " You cannot. He is miles distant by this time ! He is 
 afraid lest the story should come out to-morrow at Kings- 
 well ; and to be an M. P. and safe from arrest is better to 
 Mr. Vermilye than even yourself, Lady Caroline." 
 
 John's wife, unaccustomed to hear him take that cool, 
 worldly, half-sarcastic tone, turned to him somewhat re- 
 proachfully ; but he judged best. For the moment this 
 tone had more weight with the woman of the world than 
 any homilies. She began to be afraid of Mr. Halifax. 
 Impulse, rather than resolution, guided her, and even these 
 impulses were feeble and easily governed. She sat down 
 again, muttering, 
 
 " My will is free. You cannot control me." 
 
 ' Only so far as my conscience allows me in preventing a 
 crime." 
 
 " A crime ? " 
 
 " It would be such. No sophistries of French philosophv 
 an your part, no cruelty on your husband's, can abrogate 
 the one law, which if you disown it as God's is still man's, 
 being necessary for the peace, 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, everi when spoken solemnly by her own hus-
 
 1J82 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 band. It tore from the self-convicted woman all the Senti- 
 mental disguises with which the world then hid, and hides, 
 its corruptions. Her sin arose and stared her blackly in 
 the face, as sin. She cowered before it. 
 
 "Am I that? And William will know it. Poor Wil- 
 fliam ! " She looked up 'at Ursula for the first time with 
 the guilty look ; hitherto it had been only one of pain or 
 despair. " Nobody knows it except you. Don't tell Wil- 
 liam. I would have gone long ago but for him. He is a 
 good boy ; don't let him guess his sister was " 
 
 She left the word unspoken. Shame seemed to crush 
 her down to the earth, shame, the precursor of saving 
 penitence at least, John thought so. He quitted the 
 room, leaving her to the ministry of his other self, his wife. 
 As he sat down with me and told me in a few words what 
 indeed I had already more than half guessed, I could not 
 but notice the expression of his 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 the earthly image of God. 
 
 Ursula came out and called her husband. They talked 
 for some time together. I guessed from what I heard that 
 she wished Lady Caroline to stay the night here, but that he 
 with better judgment was urging the necessity of her re- 
 turning 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, Ursula." 
 
 After a few minutes, Mrs. Halifax came out again. 
 
 " I have persuaded her at last. She says she will do 
 whatever you think best. Only, husband, before she goes, 
 she wants to look at the children. May she ? " 
 
 " Poor soul ! yes," he 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 283 
 
 " She can ride back again from the Mythe," said John. 
 " She wishes to go, and it is best she should ; so that 
 nothing need be said, except that Lady Caroline spent a 
 day at Longfield, and that my wife and I accompanied her 
 safe home." 
 
 While he spoke, the two ladies came down the field-path. 
 I fancied 1 heard, even now, a faint echo of that peculiarly 
 sweet and careless laugh, indicating how light were all im- 
 pressions on a temperament so plastic and weak ; how easily 
 remoulded by the very next influence that fate threw across 
 her perilous way. 
 
 John Halifax assisted her on horseback, took the bridle 
 under one arm and gave the other to his wife. Thus they 
 passed up the path and out at the White Gate. 
 
 I delayed a little while, listening to the wind, and to the 
 prattle of the stream that went singing along in daylight 
 or in darkness by our happy home at Longfield. And I 
 sighed to myself, " Poor Lady Caroline ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MIDNIGHT though it was, 1 sat up until John and his wife 
 came home. They said scarcely anything, but straightway 
 retired. In the morning all went on in the house as usual, 
 and no one ever knew of this night's episode except us three. 
 
 In the morning Guy looked wistfully around him, asking 
 for the " pretty lady ; " and being told that she was gone 
 and that he would not be likely to see her again, seemed 
 disappointed for a minute ; but soon he went down to play 
 at the stream, and forgot all. 
 
 Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about 
 the house was rarer than its wont, that her quick, active, 
 cheerful presence, penetrating every nook and visiting every 
 creature as with the freshness of an April wind, was this 
 day softer and sadder ; but she did not say anything to me, 
 nor I to her. 
 
 John had ridden off early to the flour-mill, which be still
 
 284 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 kept on, together with the house at Norton Bury : he always 
 disliked giving up 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 Lux- 
 more; 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 to- 
 gether, 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 out- 
 ward 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 their immortality. 
 Mine it happened just after John's marriage, and I may 
 confess it now had likewise its entombment, bitter as 
 brief. Many cruel hours sat I in darkness, weeping at the 
 door of its sepulchre, thinking I should never see it again ; 
 but in the dawn of the morning it rose, and I met it in the 
 desolate garden, different, yet the very same. And after 
 that, it walked with me continually, secure and imperishable 
 evermore. 
 
 I rode, and John sauntered beside me along the 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 life of duty was merging into the life he loved. He
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 \vife had agreed together to live for some years 
 to come at little Longfield, strictly within their settled in- 
 come, that all the remainder of his capital might go to the 
 improvement of Enderley Mills and mill-people. 
 
 " 1 shall be master of nearly a hundred men and women. 
 Think what good one 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?" 
 
 " Why, not exactly. I thought we would begin a sort of 
 yearly festival for the old tan-yard people and those about 
 the flour-mill, and the Kingswell tenants. Ah, Phineas, 
 was n'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' mis- 
 erable alley to these old houses, where they had at least 
 fresh country air and space enough to live wholesomely 
 and decently, instead of herding together like pigs in a 
 sty. 
 
 " You ought to be proud of your tenants, Phineas. I as- 
 sure you they form quite a contrast to their neighbors, who 
 are Lord Luxmore's." 
 
 " And his voters likewise, I suppose, the * free and in- 
 dependent burgesses' who are to send Mr. Vermilye to 
 Parliament ? " 
 
 " If they can," said John, biting his lip with that resolute 
 half-combative air which I now saw in him at times, roused 
 ,/ things which continually met him in his dealings with 
 r.ie world, things repugnant alike to his feelings and his 
 principles, but which he had still to endure, not having risen 
 high enough to oppose, single handed, the great mass of *- 
 social corruption which at this crisis of English history kept 
 gathering and gathering, until out of the very horror and 
 loathsomeness of it an outcry for purification arose. 
 
 " Do you know, Phineas, I might last week have sold your 
 houses for double price ? They are valuable, this election
 
 286 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 year, since your five tenants are the only voters in Kings 
 well who are not likewise tenants of Lord Luxmore. Don't 
 you see how the matter stands ? " 
 
 It was not difficult, for that sort of game was played all 
 over England, connived at, or at least winked at, by those 
 who had political influence to sell or obtain, until the 
 .Reform Bill opened up the election system in all its rotten- 
 ness and enormity. 
 
 " Of course I knew you would not sell your houses ; and 
 I shall use every possible influence I have to prevent your 
 tenants selling their votes. Whatever may be the conse- 
 quence, the sort of thing that this Kingswell election bid? 
 fair to be is what any honest Englishman ought to set hia 
 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 ib 
 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 what- 
 ever John was about to do, it must necessarily be some- 
 thing 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 
 indicated centuries of growth. 
 
 A carriage overtook us here ; in it were two gentlemen, 
 one of whom bowed in a friendly manner to John. He 
 returned it. 
 
 " That is well ; I shall have one honest gentleman to deal 
 with to-day." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " Sir Ralph Oldtower, from whom I bought Longfield. 
 An excellent man I like him, even his fine old Norman 
 face, like one of his knightly ancestors on the tomb in 
 Kiugswell church. There's something pleasant about big
 
 T OHN HALIFAX. 287 
 
 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 lest men of the country; 
 do you remember our Greek of old ? These ought to 
 govern, and will govern one day, whether their patent of I 
 aobility bo birth and titles, or only honesty and brains." I 
 
 Thus he talked on, and I liked to hear him, for talking 
 tvas rare in his busy life of constant action. I liked to 
 observe how during these ten years his mind had brooded 
 over many things ; how it had grown, strengthened, and 
 settled itself, enlarging both its vision and its aspirations ; 
 as a man does, who, his heart at rest in a happy home, has 
 time and will to look out from thence into the troublous 
 world outside, ready to do his work there likewise. That 
 John was able to do it ay, beyond most men few 
 would doubt who looked into his face, strong with the 
 strength of an intellect which owed all its development to 
 himself alone, calm with the wisdom which, if a man ever 
 is to be wise, comes to him after he has crossed the line of 
 thirty years. In that face, where day by day Time was 
 writing its fit lessons, beautiful, because they were so fit, 
 I ceased to miss the boyish grace, and rejoiced in the 
 manhood present, in the old age that was to be. 
 
 It seemed almost too short a journey, when putting his 
 hand on the mare's bridle, the creature loved him, and 
 turned to lick his arm the minute he came near, John 
 stopped me to see the view from across Kingswell 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 we read your namesake 
 and Shakspeare and that Anonymous Friend who has since 
 made such a noise in the world. I delight in him still. 
 Think of a man of business liking Coleridge ! ' 
 
 " I don't see why he should not."
 
 288 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Nor I. Well, my poetic tastes may come out more at 
 Enderley. Or, perhaps, when I am an old man, and have 
 fought the good fight, and Holloa, there! Matthew 
 Hales, have they made you drunk already?" 
 
 The man he was an old workman of ours touched 
 his hat, and tried to walk steadily past " the master," who 
 looked at once both stern and sad. 
 
 " I thought it would be so ! I doubt if there is a voter 
 in all Kingswell who has not got a bribe." 
 
 " It is the same everywhere," I said. " What can one 
 man do against it, single-handed ? " 
 
 " Single-handed or not, every man ought to do what he 
 can ; and no man knows how much he can do till he 
 tries." 
 
 So saying he went into the large parlor of the Luxmore 
 Arms, where the election was going on. 
 
 A very simple thing, that election ! Sir Ralph Oldtower, 
 who was sheriff, sat at a table, with his son, the grave- 
 looking young man who had been with him in the carriage ; 
 near them were Mr. Brithwood of the My the 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 Oldtower, so did the Earl of Luxmore. Richard 
 Brithwood alone took no notice, but turned his back and 
 looked another way. 
 
 It was now many years since I had seen the Squire, Lady 
 Caroline's husband. He had fulfilled the promise of his 
 youth, and grown into a bloated, coarse-featured, middle 
 aged man, such a man as one rarely meets with nowadays r 
 for even I, Phineas Fletcher, have lived to see so great a 
 change in manners and morals, that intemperance, instead 
 of being the usual characteristic of a " gentleman," has 
 become a rare failing, a universally-contemned disgrace. 
 
 " Less noise there ! " growled Mr. Brithwood. " Silence, 
 you fellows at the door ! Now, Sir Ralph, let 's get the 
 business over, and be back for dinner." 
 
 Sir Ralph turned his stately gray head to the, light, put
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 289 
 
 on his gold spectacles, and began to read the writ of elec- 
 tion. 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 whi 
 pered that Sir Ralph never forgot that the Oldtowers 
 were Crusaders when the Ravenels were nobody. Also, 
 the baronet, 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 
 'scutcheon since. So folk said ; but probably Sir Ralph's 
 high principle was at least as strong as his pride, and the 
 real cause of his dislike was founded on the too well-known 
 character of the Earl of Luxmore. 
 
 They ceased talking ; the sheriff rose and briefly stated 
 that Richard Brithwood, Esquire, of the Mythe, would nomi- 
 nate a candidate. 
 
 The candidate was Gerard Vermilye, Esquire, at the 
 mention of "whose name one Norton Bury man broke into a 
 horse laugh, which was quenched by his immediate ejection 
 from the meeting. 
 
 Then Mr. Thomas Brown, steward of the Earl of Lux- 
 more, seconded the nomination. 
 
 After a few words between the sheriff, his son, and Lord 
 Luxmore, the result of which seemed rather unsatisfactory 
 than otherwise, Sir Ralph Oldtower again rose. 
 
 " Gentlemen and electors, there being no other candidate 
 proposed, nothing is left me but to declare Gerard Vermilye, 
 Esquire, " 
 
 John Halifax made his way to the table. " Sir Ralph, 
 pardon my interruption, but may I speak a few words ?" 
 
 Mr. Brithwood started up with an angry oath. 
 
 " My good sir," said the baronet, with a look of reprehen- 
 sion which proved him of the minority who thought swear- 
 ing ungentlemanly. 
 
 " By , Sir Ralph, you shall not hear that low fellow!' 
 
 '' Excuse me, I must, if he has a right to be heard. Mr 
 Halifax, are you a freeman of Kingswell ? '*
 
 290 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 1 know." 
 
 " You do know very well, Mr. Brithwood. Sir Ralph, I 
 was never either a beggar or a thief. I began life as a 
 working lad, a farm-laborer, until Mr. Fletcher the tanner 
 took me into his employ." 
 
 " So I have always understood," said Sir Ralph, cour- 
 teously. " And next to the man who is fortunate enough to 
 boast a noble origin, I respect the man who is not ashamed 
 of an ignoble one." 
 
 " That is not exactly my position either," said John, with 
 a half-smile. " But we are passing from the question in 
 hand, which is simply my claim to be a freeman of this 
 borough." 
 
 " On what grounds ? " 
 
 " You will find in the charter a clause, seldom put in 
 force, that the daughter of a freeman has a right to confer 
 the freedom on her husband. My wife's late father, Mi- 
 Henry March, was a burgess of Kingswell. Ask your clerk, 
 Sir Ralph, if I have not spoken correctly." 
 
 The old white-headed clerk allowed the fact. 
 
 Lord Luxmore looked considerably surprised, and politely 
 incredulous still. His son-in-law broke out into loud abuse 
 of this " knavery." 
 
 '" I will pass over that ugly word, Mr. Brithwood, merely 
 stating that I have been aware of my rights for two years, 
 though I have never urged them, and should not now, 
 except " 
 
 " We are quite satisfied," interrupted Lord Luxmore, 
 blandly. " My dear sir, may I request so useful a vote 
 and so powerful an interest as yours for our friend, Mr. 
 Vermilye?" 
 
 " My lord, I should be very sorry for you to misapprehend 
 me for a moment. It is not my intention, except at the 
 last extremity, to vote at all. If I do, it will certainly not 
 le for Mr. Brithwood's nominee. Sir Ralph, I doul**- i f
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 291 
 
 under some circumstances, which by your pcrnr'ssion I an. 
 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 ever 
 nobility, had hitherto hung sheepishly back, but now, lik 
 all English crowds, were quite ready to "follow the leader,' 
 especially one they knew. 
 
 " Hear him ! hear the master ! " was distinguishable on 
 all sides. Mr. Brithwood looked too enraged for words; 
 but Lord Luxmore taking snuff with a sarcastic smile said : 
 
 " Honores mutant mores ! I thought, Mr. Halifax, you 
 eschewed politics ? " 
 
 " Mere politics I do, but not honesty, justice, morality ; 
 and a few facts have reached my knowledge, though possi- 
 bly not Lord Luxmore's, which make me feel that Mr. 
 Vermilye's election would be an insult to all three ; there- 
 fore I oppose it." 
 
 A louder murmur rose. 
 
 " Silence, you scoundrels ! " shouted Mr. Brithwood, 
 adding his usual formula of speech, which a second time 
 extorted the old baronet's grave rebuke. 
 
 " It seems, Sir Ralph, that democracy is rife in your 
 neighborhood. True, my acquaintance has not lain much 
 among the commonalty, but still I was not aware that the 
 people choose the member of Parliament." 
 
 "They do not, Lord Luxmore," returned the sheriff 
 somewhat haughtily. " But we always hear the people 
 Mr. Halifax, be brief : what have you to allege against Mr. 
 Brithwood's nominee ? " 
 
 " First, his qualification. He has not three hundred, nor 
 one hundred a year. He is deeply in debt, at Norton Bury 
 and elsewhere. Warrants are out against him, and only 
 as an M. P. can he be safe from outlawry. Add to this an 
 offence common as daylight, yet which the law dare not 
 wink at when made patent, that he has bribed, with 
 great or small sums, every one of the fifteen electors of 
 Kingswell, and I think I have said enough to convince 
 any honest Englishman that Mr. Gerard Vermilye is not 
 fit to represent them in Parliament."
 
 292 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Here a loud cheer broke from the crowd at the door and 
 under the open windows, where, thick as bees, the villagers 
 had now collected. They the unvoting, and consequently 
 unbribable portion of the community began to hiss indig- 
 nantly 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 honest 
 public generally condemned it, if they themselves had not 
 been concerned therein. 
 
 The sheriff listened uneasily to a sound, very uncommon 
 at elections, of the populace expressing an opinion contrary 
 to that of the lord of the soil. 
 
 " Really, Mr. Brithwood, you must have been as ignorant 
 as I was of the character of your nominee, or you would 
 have chosen some one else. Herbert," - he turned to his 
 son, who until the late dissolution had sat for some years 
 as member for Norton Bury "Herbert, are you acquainted 
 with any of these facts ? " 
 
 Mr. Herbert Oldtower looked uncomfortable. 
 
 " Answer," said his father ; " no hesitation in a matter 
 of right and wrong. Gentlemen, and my honest friends, 
 will you hear Mr. Oldtower, whom you all know ? Her- 
 bert, 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." 
 
 " 1 think," Lord Luxmore said with meaning, *' it would 
 be better for all parties that Mr. Yermilye should stand." 
 
 " My lord," said the baronet, and one could see that not 
 only rigid justice but a certain obstinacy marked his char- 
 rcter, especially when anything jarred against his personal 
 dignity or prejudices, " you forget that, however desirous 
 J am to satisfy the family to whom this borough belongs, it 
 is impossible for me to see with satisfaction the election 
 of any person unfit to serve his Majesty. If indeed there 
 were another candidate, so that the popular feeling might 
 decide this very difficult matter "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 293 
 
 "Sir Ralph," said John Halifax, determinedly, "this 
 brings* me to the purpose for which I spoke. Being a land- 
 holder, and likewise a freeman of this borough, I claim the 
 right of nominating a second candidate." 
 
 Intense, overwhelming astonishment struck all present. 
 Such a right had been so long unclaimed, that everybody 
 had forgotten it was a right at all. Sir Ralph and his clerk 
 laid their venerable heads together for some minutes before 
 they could come to any conclusion on the subject. At last 
 the sheriff rose, 
 
 " 1 am bound to say that though very uncommon, this 
 proceeding is not illegal." 
 
 " Not illegal ? " almost screamed Richard Brithwood. 
 
 "Not illegal. 1 therefore wait to hear Mr. Hali- 
 fax's nomination. Sir, your candidate is, I hope, no 
 democrat ? " 
 
 " His political opinions differ from mine ; but he is the 
 only gentleman whom I in this emergency can name, and 
 is one whom I myself, and I believe all my neighbors, will 
 be heartily glad to see once more in Parliament. 1 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 county families there were few so warmly respected as 
 the Oldtowers. 
 
 Sir Ralph rose, much perplexed. " I trust that no one 
 present will suppose I was aware of Mr. Halifax's intention, 
 nor, 1 understand, was Mr. Oldtower. My son must speak 
 for himself." 
 
 Mr. Oldtower, with his accustomed gravity accompanied 
 by a not unbecoming modesty, said that in this conjuncture, 
 and being personally unacquainted with both Mr. Brithwood 
 and the Earl of Luxmore, he felt no hesitation in accepting 
 the honor offered to him. 
 
 " That being the case," said his father, though evidently 
 annoyed, " 1 have only to fulfil my duty as public officer of 
 the crown." 
 
 Amidst some confusion a show of hands was called for, 
 and then a cry arose of " Go to the poll ! " 
 
 " Go to the poll t " shouted Mr. Brithwood. " This is a
 
 204 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 family borough. There has not been a poll here these fifty 
 years. Sir Ralph, your son is 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, ii would hardly be worth your 
 while. May I offer you " 
 
 It was only his snuff-box. But the earl's polite and 
 meaning smile filled up the remainder of the sentence. 
 
 Sir Ralph Oldtowcr 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 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, 
 jouder and more emphatically. " A gentleman " - he 
 paused, as if doubtful whether in that title he were award- 
 ing a right or bestowing a courtesy, looked at John and 
 decided, "a gentleman for whom, ever since I have 
 known him, I have entertained the highest respect." 
 
 It was the first public recognition of the position which 
 for some time had been tacitly given to John Halifax in his 
 own neighborhood. Comingthus from this upright and honor- 
 able old man, whose least merit it was to hold, and worthily, 
 a baronetage four 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 1 
 came. 
 
 As I once more rode up Kingswell Hill it seemed as if
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 295 
 
 the whole parish were agog to see the novel sight. A con- 
 tested election ! truly, such a thing had not been known 
 within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. The fifteen 
 voters 1 believe that was the number were altogethei 
 bewildered by a sense of their own importance ; also by & 
 new and startling fact, which I found Mr. Halifax trying tc 
 impress upon a few of them gathered under the great yew 
 tree in the church-yard, that a man's vote ought to be tht 
 expression of his own conscientious opinion, and that foi- 
 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 ringleader of the 
 bread riots, who had long worked steadily in the tan-yard 
 and then at the flour-mill. He was the honestest and faith- 
 fulest of all John's people, illustrating unconsciously that 
 Divine doctrine that often they love most to whom most has 
 been forgiven. 
 
 The poll was to be held in the church, a not uncommon 
 usage in country boroughs, but which from its rarity struck 
 great awe into the Kings well folk. The churchwarden 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 
 reverent manner imposing due decorum, which was care- 
 fully observed by all except Lord Luxmore and Mr. Brith- 
 wood. 
 
 These two, apparently sure of their cause, had recovered 
 their spirits, and talked and laughed loudly on the other 
 side of the church. It was a very small building, narrow 
 and cruciform ; every word said in it was distinctly audible 
 throughout. 
 
 " My lord, gentlemen, and my friends all," said Sir Ralph, 
 rising gravely, " let me hope that every one will respect the 
 sanctity of this place." 
 
 Lord Luxmore, who had been going about with his daz- 
 zling diamond snuff-box and equally dazzling smile, stopped 
 in the middle of the aisle, bowed, replied, " With pleasure, 
 certainly ! " and walked inside the communion-rail, as if 
 believing that his presence there conveyed the highest 
 compliment he could pay.
 
 296 
 
 The poll began in perfect silence. One after the other, 
 three farmers went up and voted for Mr. Vermilye. There 
 was snuff under their noses, probably something heavier 
 than snuff in their pockets. 
 
 Then came up the big, gray-headed fellow I have before 
 mentioned, Jacob Baines. He pulled his forelock to Sir 
 Ralph rather shyly ; possibly in his youth he had made the 
 sheriff's 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 
 baronet, who was noted for his kindly manner to humble 
 folk. 
 
 " Sir, I be a poor man. I lives in one o' my lord's 
 houses. I hanna paid no rent for a year. Mr. Brown zays 
 to me, he zays, 'Jacob, vote for Vermilye and I '11 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." 
 
 " Holloa ! 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. Brith- 
 wood. " 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 
 could n'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 '11 vote, sir, and it won't be for Vermilye." 
 
 A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob as 
 be marched back down the aisle, where on the stone benches
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 297 
 
 of the porch was seated a rural jury who discussed not over- 
 favorably the merits of Lord Luxmore's candidate. 
 
 " He owes a power o' money in Norton Bury, he do." 
 
 " Why does n't he show his face at the 'lection like a 
 .decent gentleman ?" 
 
 "Feared o' bailiffs!" suggested the one constable, old 
 and rheumatic, who guarded the peace of Kingswell. "He's 
 the biggest swindler in all England." 
 
 " Curse him ! " muttered an old woman. " She were a 
 bonny lass, my Sally ! Curse him ! " 
 
 All this while Lord Luxmore sat in lazy dignity on the 
 communion chair, apparently satisfied that as things always 
 had been, so they would continue to be ; that, despite the 
 unheard-of absurdity of a contested election, his pocket 
 borough was quite secure. It must have been, to say the 
 least, a great surprise to his lordship when, the poll being 
 closed, its result was found thus : out of the fifteen votes, 
 six were for Mr. Vermilye, nine for his opponent. Mr. 
 Herbert Oldtower was therefore declared duly elected as 
 member for the borough of Kingswell. 
 
 The earl received the announcement with dignified, mere- 
 dulous 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 little heap before Mr. Brown the steward. " Small as 
 the number 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. Brith- 
 wood," 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. 
 " 1 believe, gentlemen, our business is ended for to-day, and 
 it is along drive to Norton Bury. Sir Ralph, might we 
 hope for the honor of your company ? No ? Good day, my 
 friends. Mr. Halifax, your servant."
 
 298 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 aa 
 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 o( 
 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 filled the church and church-yard, 
 making there a tumult that is chronicled to this very day 
 by some ancient villagers, who still think themselves greatly 
 ill-used because the Reform Act has blotted out of the list 
 of English boroughs the " loyal and independent " borough 
 of Kings well. 
 
 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 
 
 corruptions will arise ; we regret, we even blame, but we 
 
 ^cannot remove them. It is impossible." 
 
 " Do you think, Sir Ralph, that the Maker of this world 
 
 which, so far as we can see, he means, like all other of his 
 
 creations, gradually to advance toward perfection do you 
 
 think he would justify us in pronouncing any good work 
 
 therein ' impossible ' ? " 
 
 "You talk like a young man," said the baronet, half 
 sadly. " Coming years will show you the world and the 
 ways of it in a clearer light." 
 
 " I earnestly hope so." 
 
 Sir Ralph glanced sideways at him, perhaps with a sort 
 of envy of the very youth which he thus charitably excused 
 as a thing to be allowed for till riper wisdom came. Some
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 299 
 
 thing 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, honorable dust, to be reverently inurned, and 
 never parricidally profaned by us the living age, who in our 
 turn must follow the same downward path ; dust, venerable 
 and beloved, but still only dust. 
 
 The conversation ending, we took our diverse ways, --Sir 
 Ralph giving Mr. Halifax a hearty invitation to the manor- 
 house, seeing him hesitate, and adding with true instinct 
 that Lady Oldtower would shortly have the honor of calling 
 upon Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 John bowed. " But I ought to tell you, Sir Ralph, that 
 my wife and I are very simple people ; that we make no 
 mere acquaintances, and only desire friends." 
 
 " It is fortunate that Lady Oldtower and myself share 
 the same peculiarity ; " and shaking hands with a stately 
 cordiality, the old man took his leave. 
 
 " John, you have made a step in the world to-day." 
 
 " Have I ? " he said absently, walking in deep thought 
 and pulling the hedge-leaves as he went along. 
 
 " What will your wife say ? " 
 
 " My wife ? bless her ! " and he seemed to be only speak- 
 ing the conclusion of his thinking. " It will make no dif- 
 ference to her, though it might to me. She married me in 
 my low estate ; but some day, God willing, no lady in the 
 land shall be higher than my Ursula." 
 
 Thus as in all things each thought most of the other, and 
 both of Him whose will was to them beyond all human love, 
 ay, even such love as theirs. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, I watched the 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. 
 
 " 1 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 of home,
 
 300 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 "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 ; lie must fly the 
 country." 
 
 " Then she is saved ! " 
 
 " Let us hope she is, Come, my darling ! ' ' and he 
 wrapped his warm arm round her, for she was shivering. 
 " We have done all we could, and must wait for the rest. 
 Come home. Oh ! " with a lifted look and a closer strain, 
 " thank God for home ! " 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 WE always rose early at Longfield. It was lovely to see 
 the morning sun climbing over One-tree Hill, catching the 
 larch-wood, and creeping down the broad slope of our field , 
 thence up toward Redwood and Leckington, until, while the 
 dews yet lay thick on our shadowed valley, Leckington Hill 
 was all in a glow of light. Delicious, too, to hear the little 
 ones, running in and out, bright and merry as children 
 ought to be in the first wholesome hours of the day ; to see 
 them feeding their chickens and petting their doves, calling 
 every minute on Father or Mother to investigate and enjoy 
 some wonder in farm-yard or garden. And either was ever 
 ready to listen to the smallest of these little mysteries, 
 knowing that nothing in childhood is too trivial for ths 
 notice, too foolish for the sympathy, of those on whom 
 the Father of all men has bestowed the holy dignity of 
 parenthood. 
 
 I could see them now, standing among the flower-beds, 
 out in the sunny morning, the father's tall head in the 
 centre of the group, for he was always the important per 
 during the brief hour or two that he was able to be
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 301 
 
 at home ; the mother close beside him, and both knotted 
 round with an interlaced mass of little arms and little 
 eager faces, each wanting to hear everything and* to look 
 at everything, everybody to be first, and nobody last. 
 None rested quiet or mute for a second, except the one who 
 kept close as his shadow to her father's side, and unwit- 
 tingly 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. When- 
 ever he came home and did not see her waiting at the door, 
 his first question was always, " Where 's Muriel?" 
 
 Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning, the 
 Monday morning after the election, because her father was 
 going to be at home the whole day. It was the annual 
 holiday he had planned for his work-people. This only 
 " dinner-party " we had ever given was in its character not 
 unlike that memorable Feast to which were gathered the 
 poor, the lame, the halt, and the blind, all who needed and 
 all who could not return the kindness. There were great 
 cooking preparations, everything that could make merry 
 the heart of man tea, to comfort the heart of woman, 
 hard-working woman, and lots of bright pennies and silver 
 groats to rejoice the very soul of youth. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax, Jem Watkins, and his Jenny were as busy as 
 bees all the morning. John did his best to help, but finally 
 the mother pleaded how hard it was that the children should 
 miss their holiday walk with him ; so we were all dismissed 
 from the scene of action, to spend a long, quiet two hours 
 lying under the great oak on One-tree Hill. The little ones 
 played about till they were tired ; then John took out the 
 newspaper, and read about Ciudad Rodrigo and Lord Wei 
 lington's entry into Madrid; the battered eagles and the 
 torn and bloody flags of Badajos, which were on their way 
 home to the Prince Regent. 
 
 " I wish the fighting were over, and peace were come," 
 said Muriel. 
 
 But the boys wished quite otherwise ; they already gloried 
 in the accounts of battles, played domestic games of French 
 and English, acted garden sieges and blockades.
 
 302 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " How strange and awful it seems to sit on this green 
 grass looking down our quiet valley, and then think cf 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 remembe. 
 nothing but war time." 
 
 " What would peace be like ? " asked Muriel. 
 
 " A glorious time, my child ; rejoicings everywhere, fathers 
 and brothers coming home, work thriving, poor men's food 
 made cheap, and all things prospering." 
 
 " I should like to live to see it. Shall I be a woman then, 
 Father?" 
 
 He started. Somehow she seemed so unlike an ordinary 
 child, that while all the boys' future was merrily planned 
 out, the mother often said, laughing, she knew exactly 
 what sort of a young man Guy would be, none of us ever 
 seemed to think of Muriel as a woman. 
 
 " Is Muriel anxious to be grown up ? Is she not satisfied 
 with being my little daughter always ? " 
 
 " Always." 
 
 Her father drew her to him, and kissed her soft, shut, 
 blind eyes. Then sighing, he rose, and proposed that we 
 should all go home. 
 
 This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day. The 
 men and their families came about noon. Soon after, they 
 all sat down to dinner, Jem Watkins* plan of the bain 
 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 through- 
 out the day furnished great private amusement to Ursula, 
 John, and me. 
 
 In the afternoon all rambled about as they liked, many 
 under the ciceroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, 
 who were very popular and grand indeed. Then the 
 mother, with little 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,
 
 JfOHN HALIFAX. 30B 
 
 wlien reproving comment was needed ; but her earnest kind- 
 lincss, her active goodness, darting at once to the truth and 
 right of things, touched the women's hearts. While a few 
 were a little wholesomely afraid of her, all recognized the 
 influence of " the mistress," penetrating deep and sure, 
 extending far and wide. 
 
 She laughed at me when I told her so ; said it was all 
 nonsense, that she only followed John's simple recipe for 
 making his work-people feel that he was a friend as well as 
 a master. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " To pay attention and consideration to all they say, and 
 always to take care and remember to call them by their 
 right Christian names." 
 
 I could not help smiling. It was an answer so like Mrs. 
 Halifax, who never indulged in any verbal sentimentalisms. 
 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 up- 
 land 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. 
 
 " I think they have had a happy day, John. They will 
 work all the better to-morrow." 
 
 " I am quite sure of it." 
 
 " So am I," said Guy, who had been acting the young 
 master all day, condescendingly stating his will and giving 
 his opinion on every subject, greatly petted and looked up 
 to by all, to the no small amusement of us elders. 
 
 " Why, my son ? " asked the father, smiling. 
 
 But here Master Guy was posed, and everybody laughed 
 at him. He 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
 
 304 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 the better, because they will work from love ; not m^relj 
 doing their duty, and obeying their master in a blind way, 
 but feeling an interest in him and all that belong to hiiUj 
 knowing that he feels the same in them ; knowing, too, 
 that although, being their superior in many things, he is 
 Iheir master and they his servants, he never forgets that- 
 saying which I read out of the Bible, children, this morning: 
 '- One is your master, even Christ, and all ye are brethren.' 
 Do you understand ? " 
 
 I think they did. for he was accustomed to talk with 
 them thus, even beyond their years, not in the way of 
 preachifying, for these little ones had in their childish days 
 scarcely any so-called " religious instruction," save the daily 
 chapter out of the New Testament, and the father's 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 read- 
 ing and learning 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 ceased to frown. The little storm 
 blew over, as our domestic storms usually did, leaving a 
 clear, free heaven. Loving one another, of course we 
 quarrelled sometimes ; but we always made it up again, 
 because we loved one another. 
 
 " Father, I hear the click of the gate. There 's some- 
 body 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. " 'T is only a poor boy ; who can he 
 be?" 
 
 " One of the folk that come for milk, most likely ; but
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 305 
 
 are have none to give away to-day. What do you want, my 
 
 The lad, who looked miserable and scared, opened his 
 mouth with a stupid " Eh ? " 
 
 Ursula repeated the question. 
 
 " I wants Jacob Baines." 
 
 " You '11 find him with the rest, in front of that hay-rick, 
 over his pipe and ale." 
 
 The lad was off like a shot. 
 
 " He is from Kingswell, I think. Can anything be the 
 matter, John ? " 
 
 " I will go and see. No, boys, no more games ; I will be 
 back presently." 
 
 He went, apparently rather anxious, as was easy to find 
 out by only a glance at the face of Ursula. Soon she rose 
 and went after him. I followed her. 
 
 We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men angrily 
 talking. The gossiping mothers were just joining them. 
 Far off, in the field, the younger folk were still dancing 
 merrily down their long line of " Thread-the-needle." 
 
 As we approached, we heard sobbing from one or two 
 women and loud curses from the men. 
 
 " What 's amiss ? " said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the 
 midst, and both curses and sobbings were silenced. All 
 began a confused tale of wrongs. " Stop. Jacob, I can't 
 make it out." 
 
 " This lad ha* seen it all ; and he bean't a liar in big 
 things. Speak up, Billy." 
 
 Somehow or other we extracted the news brought by 
 ragged Billy, who on this day had been left in charge of 
 Hie five dwellings rented of Lord Luxmore. During the 
 owners' absence there had been a distraint for rent ; every 
 bit of the furniture was carried off ; two or three aged and 
 sick folk were left lying on the bare floor, and the poor 
 families here would have to go home to nothing but their 
 four walls. 
 
 Again at repetition of the story, the women wept and the 
 men swore. 
 
 " Be quiet," said Mr. Halifax again. But I saw that his 
 honest English blood was boiling within him. " Jem,"
 
 306 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 and Jem Watkins started, so unusually sharp and command- 
 ing was his master's tone, " saddle the mare, quick ! 
 shall ride to Kingswell, and thence to the sheriff's." 
 
 " God bless 'ee, sir ! " sobbed Jacob Baines' widowed 
 daughter-in-law, who had left, as 1 overheard her telling 
 Mrs. Halifax, 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 
 anything ; yet he made them listen to reason. He ex- 
 plained as much as he could of the injustice which had 
 apparently been done them, injustice which had over- 
 stepped the law, and could only be met by keeping abso- 
 lutely 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 '11 
 take the women and children hi till morning, can we not, 
 love?" 
 
 " Ay, readily ! " said the mother. " Don't cry, my good 
 women. Mary Baines, give me your baby. Cheer up, the 
 master will set all right ! " 
 
 John smiled at her in fond thanks, the wife who hin- 
 dered him by no selfishness or weakness, but was his right 
 hand and support hi everything. As he mounted, she gave 
 him his whip, whispering, 
 
 " Take care of yourself, mind. Come back as soon as 
 you can." 
 
 And lingeringly she watched him gallop down the field. 
 
 It was a strange three hours we passed in his absence. 
 The misty night came down, and round about the house
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 807 
 
 crept wailing the loud September wind. We brought the 
 women into the kitchen; the men lit a fire in the fa -in-yard, 
 and sat sullenly round it. It was as much as 1 ct n Id do to 
 persuade Guy and Edwin to go to bed, instead of vatehing 
 that " beautiful blaze." There, more than once, 1 saw the 
 mother standing, with a shawl over her head and her white 
 gown blowing, trying to reason into patience tb ,se poor 
 fellows, savage with their wrongs. 
 
 " How far have they been wronged, Phineas ? What ia 
 the strict law of the case ? Will any harm come to John 
 for interfering?" 
 
 I told her no, so far as I knew. That the cruelty and 
 illegality lay in the haste of the distraint, and in the goods 
 having been carried off at once, giving no opportunity of 
 redeeming them. It was easy to grind the faces oi 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. T fear noth- 
 ing 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 bluster- 
 ing night. We found her standing all by herself under the 
 vvalnut 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 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 whiter, 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 ua 
 to kkow this ; it is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved 1
 
 308 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 We brought her within the house, but she persisted in 
 sitting in her usual place on the door-sill, " waiting " for 
 her father. It was she who first heard the White Gate 
 swing, and told us he was coming. 
 
 Ursula ran down to the stream to meet him. 
 
 When they came up the path, it was not alone. John 
 was helping a lame old woman, and his wife carried in her 
 arms a sick child, on whom, when they entered the kitchen, 
 Mary Baines threw herself in a passion of crying. 
 
 " What have they been doing to 'ee, Tommy ? 'ee warn 't 
 like this when I left 'ee. Oh, they 've been killing my lad, 
 they have ! " 
 
 " Hush ' " said Mrs. Halifax ; " we '11 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 result* of his journey. 
 
 It was, as I had expected from his countenance the first 
 minute he appeared, fruitless. He had found all things 
 at Kings well as stated. Then he rode to the sheriffs ; 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 poor- 
 est among you than Lord Luxmore this night. Be patient ; 
 we '11 lodge you all somehow. To-morrow I will pay your 
 rent, get your goods back, and you shall begin the world 
 again as my tenants, not Lord Luxmore's." 
 
 " Hurra ! " shouted the men, easily satisfied, as working- 
 people are, who have been used all their days to live from 
 nand 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 hi : his mother
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 309 
 
 says hunger is the chief thing that ails the lad. She fancies 
 lie has had 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 
 mother and her two children in a little closet outside the 
 nursery-door ; cheered her with comfortable words ; helped 
 her ignorance with wise counsels, for Ursula was the gen- 
 eral 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 warm, cheerful fire. 
 
 " Tired ? Oh, of course ; but you can't think how com- 
 fortable they are upstairs. Only poor Mary Baines does 
 nothing but cry, and keep telling me that nothing ails her 
 lad but hunger. Are they so very poor ? " 
 
 John did not immediately answer ; I fancied he looked 
 suddenly uneasy, and imperceptibly pressed his little girl 
 closer to him. 
 
 " The lad seems very ill ; much worse than our children 
 were." 
 
 " 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 for 
 got to ask till now, what is that * painful business ' you 
 mentioned, whicli called the sheriff to Lord Luxmore's ?" 
 
 John glanced at his wife, leaning fondly against him, her 
 face full of sweet peace, then at his little daughter asleep, 
 then round the cheerful fire-lit room, outside which the 
 autumn night-wind went howling furiously. 
 
 " Love, we that are so happy, we must not, dare not, 
 condemn."
 
 310 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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. Ver- 
 milye did all the property of Lord Luxmore that he 
 could lay his hands upon, family jewels and money to 
 a considerable amount. The earl is pursuing him now, 
 not only as his daughter's seducer, but as a swindler and a 
 thief." 
 
 " And Richard Brithwood ?" 
 
 " Drinks, and drinks, and drinks. That is the beginning 
 and the end of all." 
 
 There was no more to be said. She had dropped forever 
 out of her old life, as completely as a star out of the sky. 
 Henceforth, for years and years, neither in our home, nor I 
 believe in any other, was there the slightest mention made 
 of Lady Caroline Brithwood. 
 
 All the next day John was from home settling the 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 dis- 
 eases, except no, that is quite impossible ! " added the 
 imother, hastily. She cast an anxious glance on her little 
 ones ; her hand slightly shook as she poured out their cups 
 of milk. " Do you think, John, it was hard to do it when 
 the child is so ill I ought to have sent them away with 
 the others?" 
 
 " Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course 
 Mary Baines would have told us. What are the lad'i 
 symptoms ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 311 
 
 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 him- 
 self, and never said it afterward like Muriel talking with 
 angels. 
 
 He sat listening awhile, then, without any remark, put 
 on his coat and went out to fetch the good doctor. I 
 followed him down to the stream. 
 
 u Phineas," he said, " will you mind don't notice it to 
 the mother but mind and keep her and the children 
 downstairs till I come back ? " 
 
 I promised. " Are you uneasy about Mary Baines' lad ? " 
 
 " No ; I have full trust both in human means, and above 
 all, in what I need not speak of. Still, precautions are 
 wise. Do you remember that day when rather against 
 Ursula's wish I vaccinated the children ? " 
 
 I remembered ; also that the virus had taken effect with 
 all but Muriel ; and we had lately talked of repeating the 
 much-blamed and miraculous experiment upon her. I 
 hinted this. 
 
 "Phineas, you mistake," he answered rather sharply. 
 " She is quite safe, as safe as the others. I wrote to Dr 
 Jenner himself. But don't mention that I spoke about 
 this." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because to-day I heard that they have had the small- 
 pox at Kingswell." 
 
 I felt a cold shudder. Though inoculation and vaccina- 
 tion had made it less fatal among the upper classes, this 
 frightful scourge still decimated the poor, especially children. 
 Great was the obstinacy { u refusing relief, and loud the out-
 
 312 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 cry in Norton Bury, when Mr. Halifax, who had met and 
 known Dr. Jenner in London, finding no practitioner who 
 would do it, persisted in administering the vaccine virus 
 himself to his own children. But still, with a natural fear, 
 he had kept them out of all risk of taking the small-poj 
 until now. 
 
 " John, do you think " 
 
 " No ; I will not allow myself to think. Not a word of 
 this at home, mind. Good-by." 
 
 He walked away, and I returned up the path heavily, as 
 if a cloud of terror and dole were visibly hanging over our 
 happy Longfield. 
 
 The doctor appeared ; he went up to the sick lad ; then 
 he and Mr. Halifax were closeted together for a long time. 
 After he was gone, John came into the kitchen, where 
 Ursula sat with Walter on her knee. The child was in his 
 little white night-gown, playing with his elder brothers, and 
 warming his rosy toes. 
 
 The mother had recovered herself entirely ; was content 
 and gay. I saw John's glance at her, and then, 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 ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 313 
 
 a 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 die i 
 her good ; we comforted the little boys and Muriel, telling 
 them that in truth nothing was the matter, only we were 
 afraid of their catching the little lad's sickness, and they 
 must not go near him. 
 
 " Yes ; she shall quit the house this minute, this very 
 minute," said the mother, sternly, but with a sort of wild- 
 ness too. 
 
 Her husband made no immediate answer ; but as she rose 
 to leave the room, he detained her. " Ursula, do you know 
 the child is all but dying ? " 
 
 " Let him die ! The wicked woman ! She knew it, and 
 she let me bring him among my children, my own poor 
 children ! " 
 
 " I would she had never come ! But what is done is 
 done. Love, think ; if you were turned out of doors this 
 bleak, rainy night, with a dying child." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " she sank down with a sob. 
 
 " My darling ! " whispered John, as he made her lean 
 against him, her support and comfort in all things ; " do 
 you think my heart is not ready to break, like yours ? But 
 I trust in God. This trouble came upon us while we were 
 doing right; let us do right still, and we need not fear. 
 Humanly speaking, our children are safe ; it is only our 
 own terror which exaggerates the danger. They may not 
 take the disease at all. Then how could we answer it to 
 our conscience if we turned out this poor soul, and her child 
 died?" 
 
 "No! no!" 
 
 " We will use all precautions. The boys shall be moved 
 to the other end of the house." 
 
 I proposed that they should occupy my room, as I had 
 had small-pox, and was safe. 
 
 " Thank you, Phineas ; and even should they take it, Dr,
 
 B14 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Jenner has assured me that in every case after vaccination 
 it has been the very slightest form of the complaint. Be 
 patient, love ; trust in God, and have no fear." 
 
 Her husband's voice gradually calmed her. At last she 
 turned and clung round his neck, silently and long. Then 
 she rose up and went about her usual duties, just as if this 
 horrible dread were not upon us. 
 
 Mary Baines and her children stayed in the house. Next 
 day, about noon, the little lad died. 
 
 It was the first death that had ever happened under our 
 roof. It shocked us all very much, especially the children. 
 We kept them far away on the other side of the house, 
 out of the house when possible ; but still they would be 
 coming back and looking up at that window, at which, as 
 Muriel declared, the little sick boy " had turned into an 
 angel and flown away." The mother allowed the fancy to 
 remain ; she thought it wrong and horrible that a child's 
 first idea 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 ihe poor little body should be coffined and removed 
 before the children rose next morning. 
 
 It was a very quiet tea-time. A sense of awe was upon 
 the little ones, they knew not why. Many questions they 
 asked about poor Tommy Baines and where he had gone 
 to, which the mother only answered after the simple man- 
 ner of Scripture, he " was not, for God took him." But 
 when they saw Mary Baines go crying down the field-path, 
 Muriel asked " why she cried ? how could she cry, when it 
 was God who had taken little Tommy ? " 
 
 Afterward she tried to learn of me privately what sort of 
 place it was he had gone to, and how he went ; whether he 
 had carried with him all his clothes, and especially the 
 great bunch of woodbine she sent to him yesterday : 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 315 
 
 And seeing how the child's mind was running on the 
 subject, I thought it best to explain to her as simply as 1 
 could the solemn putting off of life and putting on of im 
 mortality. 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 an 
 other 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, 
 1 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, shudder- 
 ing ; 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 comforted, and the household sank into quiet slum- 
 bers, even though under its roof slept, in deeper sleep, the 
 little dead child. 
 
 That small closet which 1 occupied, which was next to the 
 nursery., 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 1 
 almost fancied I was dreaming still ; for there I saw a little 
 white figure gliding past my bed's foot, so softly and sound- 
 lessly it might have been the ghost of a child, and it, went 
 into the dead child's room. 
 
 For a moment that superstitious intuition, which I believe 
 we all have, paralyzed me. Then I tried to listen. Ther 
 was most certainly a sound in the next room, a faint cr ,
 
 316 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 quickly smothered, a heavy human cry. All the stories 
 1 had ever heard of supposed death and premature burial 
 rushed horribly into my mind. Conquering alike my super- 
 stitious 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 ot 
 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 is n't 
 poor little Tommy ? " 
 
 "No, my blessed one, no, my dearest child! Don't 
 think of it any more." 
 
 And, hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called 
 John and told him where I had found his little daughter. 
 He never spoke, but snatched her out of my arms into his 
 own, took her in his room, and shut the door. 
 
 From that time our fears never slumbered. For one 
 whole week we waited, watching the children hour by 
 hour, noting each change in each little face ; then Muriel 
 sickened. 
 
 It was I who had to tell her father, when as he came 
 home in the evening I met him by the stream. It seemed 
 to him almost like the stroke of death. 
 
 " Oh, my God, not her ! Any but her ! " and by that I 
 knew, what I had long guessed, that she was the dearest of 
 all his children. 
 
 Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though 
 lightly. No one was in absolute danger except Muriel. 
 But for weeks we had what people call "sickness in the 
 house, " that terrible overhanging shadow which mothers 
 and fathers well know, under which one must live and 
 move, never resting night nor day. This mother and father 
 bore their portion, and bore it well. When she broke down, 
 which was not often, he sustained her. If I were to tell of
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 817 
 
 all he did, how, after being out all day, night after night 
 he would sit up watching by and nursing each little fretful 
 sufferer, patient as a woman, and pleasant as a child-play- 
 nrite, perhaps those who talk loftily of "the dignity of 
 nun " would smile. 1 pardon them. 
 
 The hardest minute of the twenty-four hours was, 1 
 think, that when coming home he caught sight of me afai 
 off, waiting for him, as I always did, at the White Gate ; 
 and many a time, as we walked down to the stream. I saw 
 what no one else saw but God. After such times I used 
 often to ponder over what great love His must be, who, as 
 the clearest revelation of it and of its nature, calls himself 
 the Father." 
 
 And He brought us safe through our time of anguish ; 
 He left us every one of our little ones. 
 
 One November Sunday, when all the fields were in a 
 mist, and the rain came pouring softly and incessantly upon 
 the patient earth, which had been so torn and dried up by 
 east winds that she seemed glad enough to put aside the 
 mockery of sunshine and melt in quiet tears, we once 
 more gathered our flock together with thankfulness and 
 
 joy- 
 Muriel came downstairs triumphantly in her father's 
 arms, and lay on the sofa smiling, the firelight dancing on 
 her small white face, white and unscarred. The disease 
 had been kind to the blind child ; she was, I think, more 
 sweet-looking than ever, older, perhaps, the round pret- 
 tiness of childhood gone ; but her whole appearance wore 
 that inexpressible expression, in which for want of a suit- 
 able word we all embody our vague notions of the unknown 
 world, and call " angelic." 
 
 " Does Muriel feel quite well, quite strong and well ? " 
 he father and mother both kept saying every now and 
 then, as they looked at her. She always answered, " Quite 
 well." 
 
 In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the 
 
 kitchen, and John and I were standing at the open door, 
 
 listening to the dropping of the rain in the garden, we 
 
 heard, after its long silence, Muriel's "voice." 
 
 "Father, listen'" i hispered the mother, linking her
 
 818 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 arm through his as he stood at the door. Soft and slow 
 jame the notes of the old harpsichord : she was playing 
 one of the abbey anthems. Then it melted away into 
 melodies we knew not, sweet and strange. Her parents 
 looked at one another; their hearts were full of thank- 
 fulness and joy. 
 " And Mary Baines' little lad is in the church-yard," 
 
 CHAPTER 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 particu- 
 lar arm-chair, where, somehow or another, Muriel always 
 lay curled up at tea-time now (ay, and many hours in the 
 daytime, 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 
 always put off. What do you think, Mother ; is the little 
 maid strong enough ? " 
 
 Mrs. Halifax hesitated, said something about " east 
 winds." 
 
 "Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east 
 winds, and played out of doors as the boys do. Would you 
 not like it, Muriel ? " 
 
 The child shrank back with an involuntary " Oh, no ! " 
 . "That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less 
 strong than the lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas ? " 
 continued her father, hastily, for I was watching them. 
 
 "Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather 
 comes. We have had such a severe winter, every one of 
 the children has suffered," said the mother, in a cheerful
 
 JOI1N HALIFAX. 319 
 
 tone, as she poured out a cup of cream for her daughter, to 
 whom wus now given, by common consent, all the richest 
 and rarest of the house. 
 
 "I think every one has," said John, looking round on 
 his apple-cheeked boys it must have been a sharp eye 
 that detected any decrease of health or increase of suffer- 
 ing there. " But my plan will set all to rights. I spoke 
 to Mrs. Tod yesterday. She will be ready to take us all in. i 
 Boys, shall you like going to Enderley ? You shall go as' 
 soon as ever the larch wood is green." 
 
 For, at Longfield, already we began to make a natural 
 almanac 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 be- 
 gan 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 possi- 
 ble ? They cannot last, let Lord Luxmore do what he will. 
 If, as I told you, we re-let Longfield for this one summer to 
 Sir Ralph, we shall save enough to put the mill in thorough 
 repair. If my landlord will not do it, I will; and add a 
 steam-engine, too." 
 
 Now the last was a daring scheme, discussed many a 
 winter nijrht by us three in Longfield parlor. At first Mrs. 
 Halifax had looked grave ; most women would, especially 
 *vives and mothers, in those days when every innovation 
 was regarded with horror, and improvement and ruin were 
 held synonymous. She might have thought so too, had she 
 not believed in her husband. But now, at mention of the 
 steam-engine, she looked up and smiled. 
 
 " Lady Oldtower asked me about it to-day. She said 
 she hoped you would not ruin yourself, like Mr. Miller of 
 Glasgow. I said I was not afraid."
 
 320 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Her husband returned a bright look "It is easier to 
 make the world trust one, when one is trusted by one's 
 own household." 
 
 " Ah ! never fear ; you will make your fortune yet, in 
 spite of Lord Luxmore." 
 
 For, all winter, John had found out how many cares 
 come with an attained wish, chiefly, because, as the earl 
 had said, his lordship possessed an " excellent memory." 
 The Kingswell election had worked its results in a hun- 
 dred small ways, wherein the heavy hand of the landlord 
 could be laid upon the tenant. He bore up bravely against 
 it ; but hard was the struggle between might and right, 
 oppression and stanch resistance. It would have gone 
 harder but for one whom John now began to call his 
 "friend," at least, one who invariably called Mr. Halifax 
 so, our neighbor, Sir Ralph Oldtower. 
 
 " How often has Lady Oldtower been here, Ursula ? " 
 
 " She called, first, you remember, after our trouble with 
 the children ; she has been twice since, I think. To-day 
 she wanted me to bring Muriel and take luncheon at the 
 manor-house. I shall not go : I told her so." 
 
 " But gently, I hope ? You are so very outspoken, love. 
 You made her clearly understand that it is not from in- 
 civility 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 the spot, superintending his mills, yet I fancied I could 
 detect a secondary reason, which he would not own even to 
 himself, but which peered out unconsciously in his anxious 
 IOOKS. 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 821 
 
 wild and fresh the wind swept over the common, morning 
 and night. His daily longing seemed to be to make her 
 love the world and the things therein. He used to turn 
 away, almost in pain, from her smile, as she would listen 
 to all he said, then steal off to the harpsichord, and begin 
 that soft, dreamy music, which the children called " talking 
 to angels." 
 
 We came to Enderley through the valley where was 
 John's cloth-mill. Many a time in our walks he and 1 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 " under-shot " and " over-shot," as 
 he used to lecture me. 
 
 It was sweet, though half-melancholy, to see Enderley 
 again ; to climb the steep meadows and narrow mule-paths, 
 up which he used to help me so kindly. He could not now ; 
 he had his little daughter in his arms. It had come, alas ! 
 to be a regular thing that Muriel should be carried up every 
 slight ascent, and along every hard road. We paused half 
 way up on a low wall, where I had many a time rested, 
 watching the sunset over Nunnely 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 Nunnely 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 Shakspeare, one to Ham- 
 let, the other to Othello: "Tis very strange,' and "Tia 
 better as it is.' " 
 
 fl
 
 322 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 * Ay, ay, said 1, thoughtfully. Better as it was ; better 
 a thousand times ! 
 
 I went to Mrs. Halifax, and helped her to describe the 
 prospect to the inquisitive boys ; finally coaxing the refrac- 
 tory Guy up the winding road, where, just as if it had been 
 yesterday, stood ruy old friends, my four Loinbardy poplars, 
 three together and one apart. 
 
 Mrs. Tod descried us afar off and was waiting at the 
 gate, a little stouter, a little rosier, that was all. In her 
 delight, she absolutely forgot herself so far as to address 
 the mother as Miss March, at which long-unspoken name 
 Ursula started, her color went and came, and, her eyes 
 turned restlessly toward the church hard by. . & 
 
 " It is all right, Miss ma'am, I mean.* T^pd fyeap in 
 mind Mr. Halifax's orders, and has planter lots* o' Jldwer- 
 roots and evergreens." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 And when she had put all her little ones to bed, we, 
 wondering where the mother was, went out toward the little 
 church-yard, and found her quietly sitting there. 
 
 We were very happy at Enderley. Muriel brightened up 
 before she had been there many days. She began to throw 
 off her listlessness, and go about with me everywhere. It 
 was the season she enjoyed most, the time of the singing 
 of birds and the springing of delicate-scented flowers. I 
 myself never loved the beech wood better than did our 
 Muriel. She used continually to tell us this was the hap- 
 piest 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 then-. 
 Very often, Muriel and I followed him, and spent whole 
 mornings in the mill meadows. Through them the stream 
 on which the machinery depended was led by various 
 contrivances, checked or increased in its flow, making 
 small ponds, or locks, or waterfalls. We used to stay 
 for hours listening to its murmur, to the sharp, strange 
 cry of the swans that were kept there, and the twitter 
 of the water-hen to her young among the reeds. Then 
 'jhe father would come to us and remain a few minutest
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 323 
 
 fondling Muriel and telling me how things went on at the 
 mill. 
 
 One morning as we three sat there on the brick-work of 
 R little bridge, underneath an elm-tiee, round the roots of 
 v.-hich the water made a pool so clear that we could see r 
 i irge pike lying like a black shadow, half way down, Joh 
 suddenly said, 
 
 " What is the matter with the stream ? Do you notice, 
 Phineas?" 
 
 " I have seen it gradually lowering these two hours. I 
 thought you were drawing off the water." 
 
 " Nothing of the kind : I must look after it. Good-by, 
 my little daughter. Don't cling so fast; Father will be 
 back soon, and is n't this a sweet, sunny place for a little 
 maid to be lazy in ? " 
 
 His tone was gay, but he had an anxious look. He 
 walked rapidly down the meadows and went into his mill. 
 Then I saw him retracing his steps, examining where the 
 stream entered the bounds of his property. Finally, he 
 walked off toward the little town at the head of the valley, 
 beyond which, buried in woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was 
 two hours more before we saw him again. 
 
 Then he came toward us, narrowly watching the stream. 
 It had sunk more and more ; the muddy bottom was showing 
 plainly. 
 
 " Yes, that 's it ; it can be nothing else ! I did not think 
 he would have dared to do it." 
 
 " Do what, John ? Who ? " , 
 
 " Lord Luxmore," he spoke in the smothereo tones oi 
 violent passion; "Lord Luxmore has turned out of its 
 course the stream that works my mill." 
 
 I tried to urge that such an act was improbable, in fact, 
 against the law. 
 
 "Not against the law of the great against the little! 
 Besides, he gives a decent 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 is determined to ruin me ! " 
 
 John "said this in much excitement. He hardly felt 
 Muriel's tiny, creeping
 
 324 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " What does ' ruin ' mean ? Is anybody making Father 
 angry ? " 
 
 " No, my sweet, not angry ; only very, very miserable ! " 
 
 He snatched her up and buried his head in her soft, 
 3hildish bosom. She kissed him and patted his hair. 
 
 " Never mind, dear Father. You say nothing signifies, if 
 ;re 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 '11 be hard upon me. But it is only temporary. 
 I must reason them into patience, if I can ; God knows, it 
 is not they alone who want it." 
 
 He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on 
 the far, white wing of Luxmore Hall. 
 
 " Have you no way of righting yourself ? If it is an 
 unlawful act, why not go to law?" 
 
 " Phineas, you forget my principle, only mine, however, 
 I do not force it upon any one else, my firm principle 
 that I will never go to law. Never ! I would not like to 
 have it said, in contradistinction to the old saying, ' See 
 how these Christians/^/ ' ' 
 
 I urged no more, since, whether abstractly the question 
 be right or wrong, there can be no doubt that what a man 
 believes to be evil, to him it is evil. 
 
 "Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tel 
 my wife what has occurred. Say I will come to tea as soou 
 C3 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 pueril? 
 apprehensions; it was not h,er nature. She had the rar: 
 e virtue of never.',' fidgeting," * --it least, external 1
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 325 
 
 What was to be borne, she bore ; what was to be done, she 
 did ; but she rarely made any " fuss " about either her 
 doings or her sufferings. 
 
 To-night she heard all my explanation, understood it, I 
 think, more clearly than I did, probably from being better 
 acquainted with her husband's plans and fears. She saw 
 at once the position in which he was placed, a grave one 
 to judge by her countenance. 
 
 " Then you think John is right." 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 I had not meant it as a question or even a doubt. But 
 it was pleasant to hear her thus answer. For as I have 
 said, Ursula was not a woman to be led blindfold, even by 
 her husband. Sometimes they differed on minor points, 
 and talked their differences lovingly out ; but on any great 
 question she had always this safe trust in him, that if one 
 were right and the other wrong, the erring one was much 
 more likely to be herself than John. 
 
 She said no more, but put the children to bed, then 
 came downstairs with her bonnet on. 
 
 " Will you come with me, Phineas; or are you too tired? 
 I am going down to the mill." 
 
 She started, walking quickly, yet not so quick but that 
 on the slope of the common she stopped to pick up a crying 
 child and send it home to its mother in Enderley village. 
 
 .It was almost dark, and we met no one else except a 
 young man, whom I had occasionally seen about of evenings. 
 He was rather odd-looking, being invariably muffled up in 
 a large cloak and a foreign sort of hat. 
 
 " Who is that watching our mills ? " said Mrs. Halifax, 
 hastily. 
 
 I told her all I had seen of the person. 
 
 "A Papist, most likely I mean a Catholic." (Johi 
 objected to the opprobrious word " Papist.") " Mrs. Tod 
 says there are a good many hidden hereabout. 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
 
 326 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 looms, we found the master. He was very much dejected 
 Ursula touched his arm before he even saw her. 
 
 " Well, love, you know what has happened ? " 
 
 " Yes, John. But never mind." 
 
 " I would not, except for my poor people." 
 
 " What do you intend doing, that which you have 
 wished to do all the year ? " 
 
 " Our wishes come as a cross to us sometimes," he said 
 rather bitterly. " It is the only thing I can do. The 
 water-power being so greatly lessened, I must either stop 
 the mills or work them by steam." 
 
 " Do that, then. Set up your steam-engine." 
 
 " And have all the country down upon me for destroying 
 hand 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 machinery-work, which they fancy is taking the 
 very bread out of their mouths, what must they think of 
 the master ? " 
 
 He spoke as we rarely heard John speak, as worldly cares 
 and worldly injustice cause even the best of men to speak 
 sometimes. 
 
 " Poor people ! " he added, " how can I blame them ? I 
 was actually dumb before them to-night when they said I 
 must take the cost of what I do ; they must have bread for 
 their children, but so must I for mine. Lord Luxmore is 
 the cause of all." 
 
 Here I heard, or fancied I heard, out of the black shadow 
 behind the loom a heavy sigh. John and Ursula were toe 
 anxious to notice it. 
 
 " Could not anything be done," she asked, " just to 
 keep things going till your steam-engine is ready ? Will it 
 cost much ? " 
 
 " More than I like to think of. But it must be ; nothing 
 venture, nothing have. You and the children are secure 
 anvhow, that's one comfort. But oh, my poor people at 
 Enderley!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 327 
 
 Again Ursula asked if nothing could be done. 
 
 " Yes, I did think of one plan ; but " 
 
 " John, I know what you thought of." 
 
 She laid her hand on his arm, and looked straight up a1 
 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 
 renunciations, three months of the old narrow way of living 
 as at Norton Bury, and the poor people at Enderley might 
 have full wages, whether or no there was full work. Then 
 in our quiet valley there would be no want, no murmurings, 
 and above all, no blaming of the master. 
 
 They decided it all in fewer words than I have taken to 
 write it ; it was so easy to decide when both were of one 
 mind. 
 
 " Now," said John, rising, as if a load were taken off his 
 breast. " Now, do what he will, Lord Luxmore cannot do 
 me any harm." 
 
 " Husband, don't let us speak of Lord Luxmore." 
 
 Again that sigh, quite ghostly in the darkness. They 
 heard it likewise, this time. 
 
 " Who 's there ? " 
 
 " Only I. Mr. Halifax, don't be angry with me." 
 
 It was the softest, mildest voice, the voice of one long 
 used to oppression ; and the young man whom Ursula had 
 supposed to be a Catholic appeared from behind the 
 loom. 
 
 " I do not know you, sir. How came you to enter my 
 mill?"
 
 328 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " I followed Mrs. Halifax. I have often watched her and 
 your children. But you don't remember me." 
 
 Yes, when he came underneath the light of the one 
 tallow candle, we all recognized the face, more wan and 
 wasted 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 lawful authority. 
 
 " It matters not ; he is away. He has left me these six 
 months alone at Luxmore." 
 
 " Have you offended him ? " asked Ursula, who had 
 cast kindly looks on the wan face, which perhaps reminded 
 her of another, 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 
 wtray 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 denounced as schismatics, deists, atheists, it 
 was all one.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 329 
 
 " But why do you wish to leave the world ? " 
 
 " I am sick of it. There never was but one in it I cared 
 for, or who cared for me, and now ' Sancta Maria, ora pro 
 nobis.' " 
 
 His lips moved in a paroxysm of prayer, helpless, 
 parrot-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. 
 
 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 enthu- 
 siastic 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 sacrednees that one rare thing, sincerity. 
 
 So henceforward " Brother Anselmo " was almost domes- 
 ticated at Rose Cottage. What would the earl have said 
 had a little bird flown over to London and told him that his 
 only son, the heir-apparent to his title and political opinions, 
 was in constant and open association for clandestine ac- 
 quaintance 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 V 
 
 Above all, what would that noble parent have said had 
 he been aware that this, his only son, for whom, report
 
 830 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 whispered, hg was already planning a splendid marriage, - 
 as grand in a financial point of view as that 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 sail "She made him good," our child of peace. 
 He would sit gazing on her almost as if she were his guar- 
 * dian angel, his patron saint. And the little maid in her 
 quiet way was very fond of him, delighting in his company 
 when her father was not by. But no one ever was to her 
 like her father. 
 
 The chief bond between her and Lord Ravenel or 
 " Anselmo," as he would have us all call him was music. 
 He taught her to play on the organ in the empty church 
 close by. There, during the long midsummer evenings, they 
 two would sit for hours in the organ gallery, while I lis- 
 tened down below, hardly believing that such heavenly 
 dounds could come from those small child-fingers ; almost 
 ready to fancy she had called down some celestial harmo- 
 nist to aid her in playing, since, as we used to say 
 but by some instinct never said now Muriel was so fond 
 of " talking with the angels." 
 
 Just at this time her father saw somewhat less of her 
 than usual. He was oppressed with business cares, daily, 
 hourly vexations. Only twice a week the great water- 
 wheel the delight of our little Edwin, as it had once been 
 of his father might be seen slowly turning ; and the water- 
 courses along the meadows with their mechanically-forced 
 channels and their pretty sham cataracts were almost al- 
 ways low or dry. It ceased to be a pleasure to walk in the 
 green hollow between the two grassy hills, which hereto- 
 fore Muriel and I had liked even better than the Flat. 
 Now she missed the noise of the water, the cry of the 
 water-hens, the stirring of the reeds. Above all, she 
 missed her father, who was too busy to come out of his 
 mill to us, and hardly ever had a spare minute even for 
 his little daughter. 
 
 He was setting up that wonderful novelty, a steam
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 331 
 
 engineo He had already been to Manchester and else- 
 where and seen how the new power was applied by 
 Arkwright, Hargreaves, and others ; his own ingenuity and 
 mechanical knowledge furnished the rest. He worked 
 early and late, often with his own hands, aided by the 
 men he brought with him from Manchester; for it w; 
 necessary to keep the secret, especially in our primitiv, 
 valley, until the thing was complete. So the ignorant, 
 simple mill-people, when they came for their easy Satur- 
 day's wages, only stood and gaped at the mass of iron and 
 the curiously-shaped brickwork, and wondered what on 
 earth " the master " was about ? But he was so thoroughly 
 " the master," with all his kindness, that no one ventured 
 either to question or interfere. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 SUMMER waned. Already the beech wood began to turn 
 red and the little yellow autumn flowers to sow themselves 
 all over the common, while in the midst of them looked up 
 the large purple eye of the ground-thistle. The mornings 
 grew hazy and dewy. We ceased to take Muriel out with 
 us in our slow walk along John's favorite " terrace " before 
 any one else was stirring. Her father at first missed her 
 sorely, but always kept repeating that " early walks were 
 not good for children." At last he gave up the walk alto- 
 gether, and used to sit with her on his knee in front of the 
 cottage till breakfast -time. 
 
 After that, saying with a kind of jealousy "that every 
 one of us had more of his little daughter than he," he got 
 into the 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
 
 332 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 which they watched for weeks the setting up of the steam- 
 engine, was partly owing to their strong impression of Mr. 
 Halifax's goodness as a father, and the vague, almost su 
 perstitious interest which attached to the pale, sweet face 
 of Muriel. 
 
 Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate 
 the cozy fireside of Longfield. 
 
 " The children will all go home looking better than the) 
 came ; do you not think so, Uncle Phineas ? Especially 
 Muriel?" 
 
 To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent, 
 after which I was fain to rise and walk away, thinking how 
 blind love was, all love save mine, which had a gift for 
 seeing the saddest side of things. 
 
 When I came back, I found the mother and daughter 
 talking mysteriously apart. I guessed what it was about, 
 for I had overheard Ursula saying they had better tell the 
 child ; it would be " something for her to look forward to, 
 something to amuse her next winter." 
 
 " It is a great secret, mind," the mother whispered after 
 its communication. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " The tiny face, smaller than ever, I thought, 
 flushed brightly. " But I would much rather have a little 
 sister, if you please. Only " and the child suddenly grew 
 earnest " will she be like me ? " 
 
 " Possibly, sisters often are alike." 
 
 " No, I don't mean that ; but you know ? " and Muriel 
 touched her own eyes. 
 
 " I cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else pray God 
 she may be like you, Muriel my darling, my child of 
 peace ! " said Ursula, embracing her with tears. 
 
 After this confidence, of which Muriel was very proud, 
 and only condescended, upon gaining express permission, to 
 reconfide it to me, she talked incessantly of the sister that 
 was coming until " little Maud " the name she chose for 
 her became an absolute entity in the household. 
 
 The dignity and glory of being sole depositary of this 
 momentous fact seemed for a time to put new life, bright 
 human life, into this little maid of eleven years old. She 
 grew quite womanly as it were, tried to help her mother in
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 333 
 
 a thousand little ways, and especially by her own solitary- 
 branch of feminine industry, poor darling ! She set on a 
 pair of the daintiest elfin socks that ever were knitted. I 
 found them years after, one finished, one with the needles 
 (all rusty) stuck through the fine worsted ball just as the 
 child had laid it out of her hand. Ah Muriel, Muriel ! 
 
 The father took great delight in this change, in her 
 resuming her simple work, and going about constantly with 
 her mother. 
 
 " What a comfort she will be to Ursula one day : an 
 eldest daughter always is. So will she ; will she not, Uncle 
 Phineas?" 
 
 I smiled assentingly. Alas! his 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 
 that is to carry on the mills, will you promise to hold fast 
 by Uncle Phineas if I let you see the steam-engine work ?" 
 
 Edwin lifted up from his slate bright, penetrating eyes. 
 He was quite an old man in his ways, wise even from his 
 babyhood and quiet even when Guy snubbed him, but I 
 noticed he did not come to " kiss and make friends " so 
 soon as Guy, And though Guy was much the naughtiest 
 we all loved him best. Poor Guy! he had the frankest, 
 warmest, tenderest boy-heart, always struggling to be good, 
 and never able to accomplish it. 
 
 " Father," Guy cried, " I want to see the steam-engine 
 move, but I '11 not be a baby like Edwin ; I won't hold 
 Uncle Phineas's hand." 
 
 Hereupon ensued one of those summer storms which 
 sometimes swept across the family horizon, in the midst of 
 which Muriel and I stole out into the empty church, where, 
 almost in the dark, which was no dark to her, for a long 
 hour she sat and played. By and by the moon looked in, 
 showing the great gilt pipes of the organ and the little fairy 
 figure sitting below.
 
 334 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore the general household moved back to Longfield we 
 had fully expected. 
 
 At last he came, sat down by me, and listened. She was 
 playing a fragment from 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 in- 
 fant Mozart ever surpassed the wonderful playing of our 
 blind child. 
 
 " Now the Dies Iroe. It will come," he muttered, " to us 
 all." 
 
 The child struck a few notes, heavy and dolorous, filling 
 the church like a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, 
 and opening the flute-stop, burst into altogether different 
 music. 
 
 " That is Handel, * I know that my Redeemer liveth.' " 
 
 Exquisitely she played it, the clear treble notes seeming 
 to utter, like a human voice, the very words, 
 
 "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall 
 etand at the latter day upon the earth. 
 
 " And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh 
 bhall 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 
 Wgan lid. 
 
 " But my little Muriel has not finished her tune." 
 
 " She will, some day," said the child. 
 
 So she came down from the organ-loft, feeling her way 
 tlong the aisles ; and we all went out together, locking the 
 church door. 
 
 Lord Ravenel was rather sad that night : he was going 
 away from Luxmore for some time. We guessed why, be 
 cause the earl was coming. Bidding us good-by, he said,
 
 JOKN HALIFAX. 335 
 
 mournfully, to his little pet, " I wish I were not leaving 
 you. Will you remember me, Muriel ? " 
 
 " Stoop down ; I want to see you." 
 
 This was her phrase for a way she had of passing her 
 extremely sensitive ringers 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 wor- 
 shipped, 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. 
 
 1 There was rather a dolorous good-by and much lamenting 
 
 *om good Mrs. Tod, who, her own bairns being grown up, 
 
 Bought 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 
 
 county. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax looked after them proudly ; motherlike, she 
 gloried in her sons; while John, walking slowly, and assur- 
 ing Mrs. Tod over and over again that we should all come 
 back next summer, went down the steep hill carrying,
 
 336 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 hidden under many wraps and nestled close to his warm 
 shoulder, his little frail winter rose, his only daughter. 
 
 in front of the mill we found a considerable crowd, for, 
 the time being ripe, Mr. Halifax had made public the fact 
 that he meant to work his looms by steam, the only way in 
 which he could carry on the mill at all. The announce- 
 ment had been received with great surprise and remarkable 
 nietness both by his own work-people and all along Enderley 
 valley. Still there was the usual amount of contemptuous 
 scepticism incident on any new experiment. Men were peer- 
 ing 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 it 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 ho 
 crossed the mill-yard, his wife on his arm, followed by an 
 involuntary murmur of respect. 
 
 " He be a fine fellow, the master, he sticks at nothing,'" 
 was the comment heard made upon him by one of his 
 people, and probably it expressed the feeling of the rest. 
 There are few things which give a man more power over 
 his fellows than the thoroughly English quality of daring. 
 
 Perhaps this was the secret why John had as yet passed 
 safely through the crisis which had been the destruction of 
 so many mill-owners, namely, the introduction of a power 
 which the mill-people were convinced would ruin hand 
 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 mal- 
 content, whoever he was, shrunk into silence. 
 
 Mr. Halifax walked past them, entered his mill, and un
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 337 
 
 locked the door of the room which he had turned into an 
 engine-room, and where, along with the two men he had 
 brought from Manchester, he had been busy almost night 
 and day for this week past in setting up his machinery. 
 ,They worked as the Manchester fellows said they had 
 often been obliged to work under lock and key. 
 
 " Your folk be queer 'uns, Mr. Halifax. ' They say there's 
 six devils inside on her, theer." 
 
 And the man pointed to the great boiler which had been 
 built up in an outhouse adjoining. 
 
 " Six devils, say they ? Well, I '11 be Maister Michael 
 Scott eh, Phineas ? and make my devils work hard." 
 
 He laughed, but he was much excited. He went over, 
 piece by piece, the complicated but delicate machinery ; 
 rubbed here and there at the brass-work, which shone as 
 bright as a mirror ; then stepped back, and eyed it with 
 pride, almost with affection. 
 
 " Is n't it a pretty thing ? If only I have set it up right ; 
 if it will but work ! " 
 
 His hands shook, his cheeks were burning ; little Edwia 
 came peering about at his knee, but he pushed the child 
 hastily away ; then he found some slight fault with the ma- 
 chinery, and while the workmen rectified it, stood watching 
 them breathless with anxiety. His wife came to his side. 
 
 " Don't speak to me don't, Ursula. If it fails, I am 
 ruined ! " 
 
 " John ! " She just whispered his name, and the soft, 
 firm fold of her fingers closed round his, strengthening, 
 cheering. Her husband faintly smiled. 
 
 " Here ! " He unlocked the door and called to the people 
 outside. 
 
 " Come in, two of you fellows, and see how my devils 
 work. Now then ! Boys, keep out of the way ; my little 
 girl," his voice softened, " my pet will not be frightened ? 
 Now, my men, ready ? " 
 
 He opened the valve. 
 
 With a strange noise that made the two Enderley men 
 spring back as if the six devils were really let loose upon 
 them, the steam came rushing into the cylinder. There 
 was a slight motion of the piston-rod.
 
 838 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 cogwheels caught up the motive power, revolving 
 slowly and majestically and with steady, regular rotation, 
 or whirling round so fast you could hardly see that they 
 stirred at all. Of a sudden, a soul had been put into that 
 wonderful creature of man's making, that inert mass of 
 wood and metal mysteriously combined. The monster was 
 alive ! 
 
 Speechless, John stood watching it. Their trial over, 
 his energies collapsed ; he sat down by his wife's side, and 
 taking Muriel on his knee, bent his head over hers. 
 
 " Is all right, Father ? " the child whispered. 
 
 " All quite right, my own." 
 
 " You said that you could do it, and you have done it," 
 cried his wife, her eyes glowing with triumph, her head 
 erect and proud. 
 
 John dropped his lower, lower still. " Yes," he mur- 
 mured ; " 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 pos- 
 sible 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 pleasant look to the monoto- 
 nous, regular sound, like the breathing of the demon, was 
 unwilling to go.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 839 
 
 "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 we came back to Enderley, she should be with him at 
 the mills every day, and all day over if she liked. 
 
 There was now nothing to be done but to hasten as 
 quickly and merrily as possible to our well-beloved 
 Longfield. 
 
 Waiting for the post-chaise, Mrs. Halifax and the boys 
 sat down on the bridge over the defunct and silenced water- 
 fall, on the muddy steps of which, where the stream used 
 to dash musically over, weeds and long grasses, mingled with 
 the drooping water-fern, were already beginning to grow. 
 
 " It looks desolate, but we need not mind that now," said 
 Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 " No," her husband answered. " Steam-power once 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 liked to have married 
 a man whom nobody was afraid of." 
 
 John smiled ; he was looking at a 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 with 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 
 " Hurra for the master ! " " Hurra for Mr. Halifax ! " was 
 distinctly heard. The mother smiled right proudly. 
 
 Lord Luxmore turned to his tenant ; they might have 
 been on the best terms imaginable from his bland air. 
 
 " What is that rather harsh noise I hear, Mr. Halifax * "
 
 840 JOHN 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 
 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 watercourse 
 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 tbe child in his arms by
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 341 
 
 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, Father." 
 
 Lord Luxir ore, 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 '11 kill you, wicked man ! 
 I would have done it, if you had killed my sister." 
 
 Lord Luxmore laughed at the boy's fury, threw him a 
 guinea, which Guy threw back at him with all his might, 
 and rode placidly away. 
 
 " Guy, Guy ! " called the faint, soft voice which had more 
 power over him than any other except his mother's. *' Guy 
 must not be angry. Father, don't let him be angry." 
 
 But the father was wholly occupied with 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 mira- 
 culous. 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 little 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 tho 
 child. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax sat down by the roadside, bathed Muriel's 
 forehead, and smoothed her hair ; but still the little curls 
 lay motionless against the mother's breast, and still, to 
 every question, she only ansvrered that she was not hurt.
 
 342 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 All this while the post-chaise was waiting. 
 
 " What must be done ? " I inquired of Ursula ; for it waa 
 no use asking John anything. 
 
 " We must go back again to Enderley," she said, 
 decidedly. 
 
 So, giving Muriel into her father's arms, she led the way ; 
 and, a melancholy procession, we again ascended the nil] 
 Vo Rose Cottage door 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 WITHOUT any discussion our plans were tacitly changed , 
 no more was said about going home to dear Longfield. 
 Every one felt, though no one trusted it to words, that the 
 journey was impossible. For Muriel lay day after day on 
 her little bed in an upper chamber, or was carried softly 
 down in the middle of the day by her father, never com- 
 plaining, but never attempting to move or talk. When we 
 asked her if she felt ill, she always answered, " Oh no ! 
 only so very tired." Nothing more. 
 
 "She is dull for want of the others to play with her. 
 The boys should not run out and leave their sister alone," 
 said John, almost sharply, when one bright morning the 
 lads' merry voices came down from the Flat, while he and 
 I were sitting by Muriel's sofa in the still parlor. 
 
 " Father, let the boys play without me, please. Indeed, I 
 do riot mind. I had rather lie quiet here." 
 
 " But it is not good for my little girl always to be quiet, 
 and it grieves Father." 
 
 " Does it ? " She roused herself, sat upright, and began 
 to move her limbs, but wearily. 
 
 " That is right, my darling. Now let me see how well 
 you can walk." 
 
 Muriel slipped to her feet and tried to cross the room, 
 catching at table and chairs, now, alas ! not only for guid- 
 ance but actual support. At last she began to stagger, and 
 , half crying,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 343 
 
 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, / had seen 
 stretched out of the immutable heavens, claiming that which 
 was its own. Ever after, there was discernible in John's 
 countenance a something which all the cares of his anxious 
 yet happy life had never written there, an ineffaceable 
 record burnt in with fire. 
 
 He held her in his arms all day. He invented all sorts 
 of tales and little amusements for her ; and when she was 
 tired of these, he let her lie in his bosom and sleep. After 
 her bed-time, he asked me to go out with him on the Flat. 
 
 It was a misty night. The very cows and asses stood up 
 large and spectral as shadows. There was not a single star 
 to be seen. 
 
 "We took our walk along the terrace and came back 
 again, without exchanging a single word. Then John said 
 hastily, 
 
 " I am glad her mother was so busy to-day, too busy to 
 notice." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, unconnected as his words were. 
 
 " Do you understand me, Phineas ? Her mother must 
 not on any account be led to imagine or to fear anything. 
 You must not look as you looked this morning, you must 
 not, Phineas." 
 
 He spoke almost angrily. I answered in a few quieting 
 words. We were silent until over the common we caught 
 sight of the light in Muriel's window. Then I felt rather 
 than heard the father's groan, 
 
 " Oh, God ! my only daughter, my dearest child ! " 
 
 Yes, she was the dearest ; I knew it. Strange mystery, 
 that He should so often take, by death or otherwise, the 
 dearest, always the dearest. Strange that he should hear us 
 cry, us writhing in the dust, " Oh, Father ! anything, 
 anything but this ! " But our Father answers not ; and 
 meanwhile the desire of our eyes, be it a life, a love, or a 
 blessing, slowly, slowly goes, is gone. And yet we have
 
 344 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 
 blindness before her eyes, and gave her other duties and 
 other cares to intercept the thought of Muriel. While from 
 morning till night it was the incessant secret care of her 
 husband, myself, and good Mrs. Tod to keep her out of her 
 little daughter's sight, and prevent her mind from catching 
 the danger of one single fear. 
 
 Thus within a week or two the mother lay down 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 a strangely quiet, meditative way, unlike a child, unlike 
 even her old self. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, my pet ? " 
 
 " That though Father has another daughter, I hope he will 
 remember the first one sometimes." 
 
 " She is jealous ! " cried John, in the curious delight with 
 which he always detected in her any weakness, any fault, 
 which brought her down to the safe level of humanity 
 w See, Uncle Phineas, our Muriel is actually jealous." 
 
 But Muriel only smiled. 
 
 That smile, so serene, so apart from every feeling or
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 345 
 
 passion appertaining to us who are " of the earth, earthy," 
 smote the father to the heart's core. 
 
 He sat down by her, and she crept up into his arms. 
 
 " What day is it, Father ? " 
 
 " The first of December." 
 
 " I am glad little Maud's birthday will be in the same 
 month as mine." I 
 
 " But you came in the snow, Muriel, and now it is warm 
 and mild." 
 
 " There will be snow on my birthday though. There 
 always is. The snow is fond of me, Father. It would like 
 me to lie down and be all covered over, so that you could 
 not find me anywhere." 
 
 I heard John try to echo her weak, soft laugh. 
 
 " This month it will be eleven years since I was born, 
 will it not, Father ? " 
 
 " Yes, my darling." 
 
 " What a long time ! Then, when my little sister is as 
 old as I am, I shall be that is, I should have been a 
 woman grown. Fancy me twenty years old, as tall as 
 Mother, wearing a gown like her, talking and ordering, and 
 busy about the house. How funny ! " and she laughed 
 again. " Oh, no, Father, I could n't do it ! I had better 
 remain always your little Muriel, weak and small, who 
 liked to creep close to you and go to sleep in this way." 
 
 She ceased talking; very soon she was sound asleep 
 But the father! 
 
 Muriel faded, though slowly. Sometimes she was so 
 well for an hour or two that the Hand seemed drawn 
 back into the clouds, till of a sudden again we discerned it 
 there. 
 
 One Sunday it was ten days or so after Maud's birth, 
 and the weather had been so bitterly cold that the mother 
 had herself forbidden our bringing Muriel to the other side 
 of the house whore 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 ? "
 
 846 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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. 
 t '11 be warmer for the dear child to-morrow." 
 
 " You are right. Yes, I had forgotten the snow Sh< 
 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, vieing 
 which should get most kisses from little sister Maud, she 
 looked round, surprised amidst her smiling, and asked, 
 
 " Where is Muriel ? " 
 
 " She seems to feel this bitter weather a good deal," John 
 said ; " and I thought it better she should not come down 
 to dinner." 
 
 " No," added Guy, wondering and dolefully, " Sister has 
 not been down to dinner with us for a great many days." 
 
 The mother started, looked first at her husband and then 
 at me. 
 , " Why did nobody tell me this ? " 
 
 " Love, there was nothing to be told." 
 
 " Has the child had any illness that I do not know of ? ' 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Has Dr. Jessop seen her ? " 
 
 *' Several times." 
 
 " Mother," said Guy, eager to comfort, for naughty as he 
 wag sometimes, he was the most tender-hearted of all the 
 ooys, especially to Muriel and to his mother, " Sister is n't 
 ill a bit, I know. She was laughing and talking with me
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 347 
 
 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 Mu- 
 riel. Phineas, take the others with you. You shall go up- 
 stairs in one minute, my darling wife." 
 
 He turned us all out of the room, and shut the door. 
 How he told her that which 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. 
 
 1 was sitting by Muriel's bed when they came upstairs. 
 The darling lay listening to her brother, who was squatting 
 on her pillow, making all sorts of funny talk ; there was a 
 smile on her face, she looked quite rosy. 1 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 
 : dumb, piteous, desperate look, as though to say, " Help 
 ;.ie ; my sorrow is more than I can bear ! " 
 
 But Muriel, hearing the step, cried with a joyful cry, 
 a 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.
 
 348 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Now," said she, " my pet will be good, and not cry ? It 
 would do her harm. We must be very happy to-day." 
 
 " Oh, yes." Then in a fond whisper, " Please, I do so 
 want to see little Maud." 
 
 " Who ? " with an absent gaze. 
 
 " My little sister, Maud, Maud, that is to take my place, 
 and be everybody's darling now." 
 
 " Hush, Muriel," said the father, hoarsely. 
 
 A strangely soft smile broke over her face, and she was 
 silent. 
 
 The new baby was carried 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-sisterly air she felt all over the baby limbs, and when 
 Maud set up an indignant cry, began hushing her with 
 so quaint an imitation of motherliness that we all were 
 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 Long- 
 field. 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 
 anxiously. 
 
 " No, my darling ; not like you there," was the low 
 answer. 
 
 " I am very glad. Please, little Maud, don't cry ; it 's 
 only Sister. How wide open your eyes feel ! I wonder ! " 
 with a thoughtful pause, " I wonder if you can see me ? 
 Little Maud, I should like you to see your 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. $49 
 
 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 
 'hem ; a group perfect and complete in itself, like a root of 
 daisies, or a branch of ripening fruit, which not one could 
 be added to, or taken from 
 
 No, I was sure, from the parents' smile, that this once 
 Mercy had blinded their eyes, so that they saw nothing 
 beyond the present moment. 
 
 The children were wildly happy. All the afternoon they 
 kept up their innocent little games by Muriel's bedside, she 
 sometimes sharing, sometimes listening apart. Only once 
 or twice came that wistful, absent look, as if she were 
 listening partly to us, and partly to those we heard not ; as 
 if through the wide-open orbs the soul were straining at 
 sights wonderful and new, sights unto which her eyes 
 were the clear-seeing, and ours the blank and blind. 
 
 It seems strange now to remember that Sunday afternoon, 
 and how merry we all were ; how we drank tea in the queer 
 bedroom at the top of the house ; and how 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 
 fading or the life but just begun. The breaths seemed to 
 mix and mingle, and the two faces, lying close together, to 
 grow into a strange likeness each to each. At least we all 
 fancied so. 
 
 Meanwhile John kept his boys as still as mice in the 
 :v>ad window-seat, looking across the white, snowy sheet, 
 nth black bushes peering out here and there, to the feath- 
 ery beech wood, over the tops of which the new moon was 
 going down. Such a little young moon ! and how peace ' 
 fully, nay smilingly, she set among the snows ! 
 
 The children watched her till the very last minute, when 
 Guy startled the deep quiet of the room by exclaiming, 
 u There ; she 's gone ! " 
 
 "Hush!"
 
 350 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " No, Mother, I am awake," said Muriel. " Who is gone, 
 Guy?" 
 
 " The moon ; such a pretty little moon." 
 
 " Ah, Maud will see the moon some day ! " She dropped 
 her cheek down again beside the baby sister, and was asleep 
 >nce more. 
 
 This is the only incident I remember of that peaceful, 
 heavenly hour. 
 
 Maud broke upon its quietude by her waking and wailing, 
 and Muriel very unwillingly let the little sister go. 
 
 u 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, Mother ; " 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 downstairs ? " 
 
 Not yet, dear Father." 
 
 " What would you like, then ? " 
 
 " Only to lie here, this Sunday evening, among you all." 
 
 He asked her if she would like him to read aloud, as he 
 generally did of 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 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 351 
 
 iiand he held, and whose face he every now and then turned 
 to look at ; then, satisfied, continued to read. 
 
 In the reading his voice had a fatherly, flowing calm, as 
 Jacob's might have had when " the children were tender," 
 and he gathered them all round him under the palm-trees 
 of Succoth, years before he cried unto the Lord that bitter 
 cry (which John hurried over as he read), "If I am 
 bereaved of my children, I am bereaved." 
 
 For an hour nearly we all sat thus, with the wind 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 and put it aside. The group that last perfect 
 household picture was broken u'p. It melted away into 
 things of the past and became only a picture forevermore. 
 
 " 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 '11 thrash you if you say that again," cried Guy. 
 " Which, indeed ? Maud is but the baby ; Muriel will be 
 always ' Sister.' ' : 
 
 " Sister " faintly laughed, as she answered his fond kiss. 
 Guy was often thought to be her favorite brother. 
 
 " Now off with you, boys ; and go downstairs 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 respec- 
 tive 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 cozy 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 old Debatable 
 Land. We began talking of that 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 upon by at least ten years. Nor did we give expression to 
 a thought which strongly oppressed me, and which 1 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. 
 
 " 1 think the mother seemed very well and calm to-night," 
 I said hesitatingly, as we were retiring. 
 
 " She is. God help her and us all ! " 
 
 " He will." 
 
 This was all we said. 
 
 He went upstairs the last thing, and brought down word 
 that mother and children were all sound asleep. 
 
 " I think I may leave them until daylight to-morrow. 
 And now, Uncle Phineas, go you to bed, for you look as 
 tired as tired can be." 
 
 I went to bed, but all night long I had disturbed dreams, 
 in which I pictured over and over again, first, the night on 
 which 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, 
 
 " Halloa ! Uncle Phineas, is it a fine morning ? for 1 
 want to go down into the wood and get a lot of beechnuts 
 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 mj 
 old heart quails before it still. 
 
 John went e.arly to the room upstairs. It waa very still
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 353 
 
 (Trsuia 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 Ursula, 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, 
 nursing Maud, and trying to still her crying with a little 
 foolish baby-tune that had descended as a family lullaby 
 from one to the other of the whole five how sad it 
 sounded ! 
 
 John, who sat at the table, shading the light from his 
 eyes, an open book lying before him of which he never 
 turned one page, looked up at her. 
 
 " Love, you must not tire yourself. Give me the 
 child." 
 
 " No, no ! Let me keep my baby, she comforts me so ! " 
 and the mother burst into uncontrollable weeping. 
 
 John shut his book and came to her. He supported her 
 on his bosom, saying a soothing word or two at intervals, 
 or when the paroxysm of her anguish was beyond all 
 bounds, supporting her silently till it had gone by ; never 
 once letting her feel that, bitter as her sorrow was, his was 
 heavier even than hers. 
 
 Thus, during the whole of the day, had he been the 
 stay and consolation of the household. For himself, the 
 father's grief was altogether dumb. 
 
 At last Mrs. Halifax became more composed. She sat 
 beside her husband, her hand in his, neither speaking, but 
 gazing, as it were, into the face of this their great sorrow, 
 and from thence up to the face of God. They felt that He 
 could help them to bear it ; ay, or anything else that it was 
 His will to send, if they might thus bear it together. 
 
 We all three sat thus, and there had not been a sound i% 
 
 23
 
 354 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 the parlor for ever so long, when Mrs. Tod opened the door 
 and beckoned me. 
 
 " He will come in ; he 's crazy-like, poor fellow ! He 
 has only just heard " 
 
 She broke off with a sob. Lord Ravenel pushed her 
 aside and stood at the door. We had not seen him since 
 the day of that innocent jest about his " falling in love " 
 with Muriel. Seeing us all so quiet, and the 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, distinct and peculiar from every other grief, every 
 other renunciation, must be that of a woman who is thus 
 chosen to give her very flesh and blood, the fruit of her own 
 womb, unto the Lord ! 
 
 This dignity, this sanctity, seemed gradually to fall upon 
 the mourning mother as she talked about her lost one, 
 repeating often, " I tell you this, because you were so fond 
 of Muriel." 
 
 He listened silently. At length he said, " I want to see 
 Muriel." 
 
 The mother lit a candle, and he followed her upstairs. 
 
 Just the same homely room, half bedchamber, half nurs- 
 ery, 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 cornei of the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 355 
 
 window-sill, and on the chest of drawers stood the nosegay 
 of Christmas roses Arhich Guy had brought for his sister 
 yesterday morning. Nay, her shawl a white, soft, furry 
 shawl, that she was fond of wearing remained still hang- 
 ing up behind the door. One could almost fancy the littli 
 amid had just been said " good-night" to, and left to dreai. 
 childish dreams on her nursery pillow, where the small 
 head rested so peacefully, with that pretty babyish nightcap 
 tied over the pretty curls. 
 
 There she was, the child who had gone out of the number 
 of our children our earthly children forever. 
 
 Her mother sat down at the side of the bed, her father at 
 its foot, looking at her. Lord Ravenel stood by, motionless ; 
 then stooping down he kissed the small marble hand. 
 
 " Good-by, good-by, my little Muriel ! " 
 
 And he left the room abruptly, in such an anguish of 
 grief that the mother rose and followed him. 
 
 John went to the door and locked it, almost with a sort of 
 impatience, then came back and stood by his darling, alone. 
 Me he never saw, no, nor anything in the world except 
 that little face, even in death so strangely like his own, 
 the face which had been for eleven years the joy of his 
 heart, the very apple of his eye. 
 
 For a long time he remained gazing in a stupor of silence ; 
 then sinking on his 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 ! " 
 
 But thou wert with the angels, Muriel, Muriel ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 WE went home, leaving all that was mortal of our darling: 
 sleeping at Enderley underneath the snows. 
 
 For twelve years after then we lived at Longfieldjn such 
 unbroken, uneventful peace, that looking back seems like
 
 356 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 looking back over a level sea whose leagues of tiny ripples 
 make one smooth glassy plain. 
 
 Let me recall, as the first wave that rose ominous of 
 change, a certain spring evening when Mrs. Halifax and I 
 were sitting, as was our wont, under the walnut-tree, the 
 same old walnut-tree, hardly a bough altered, though many 
 of its neighbors 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 Burv," said Ursula, 
 
 " So is his father." 
 
 " No, this is just John's time. Hark ! there are the 
 carriage-wheels ! " 
 
 For Mr. Halifax, a prosperous man now, drove daily to 
 and from his mills in as tasteful an equipage as any of the 
 country gentry between here and Enderley. 
 
 His wife went down to the stream to meet him, as usual, 
 and they came up the field path together. 
 
 Both were changed from the John and Ursula Halifax 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 not to say painfully 
 defined, and the hair worn 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 the children, and asked if the boys and Maud 
 would be home to tea. 
 
 " I think Guy and Walter never do come home in time 
 when they go over to the manor-house." 
 
 " They 're young, let them enjoy themselves," said the 
 father, smiling. " And you know, love, of all your ' fine ' 
 friends, there are none you so heartily approve of as the 
 Oldtowers." 
 
 These were not of the former race. Good old Sir Ralph 
 had gone to his rest, and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead, 
 Sir Herbert, who in his dignified gratitude never forgot a
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 857 
 
 certain election day when he first made the personal ac- 
 quaintance of Mr. Halifax. The manor-house family 
 brought several other " county families " to our notice, or us 
 to theirs. These, when John's fortunes grew rapidly, as 
 mans 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 
 bet\veen John Halifax the tanner of Norton Bury, and Mr. 
 Halifax the prosperous owner of Enderley Mills. Some of 
 them, too, were clever enough to discover what a pleasant 
 and altogether " visitable " lady was Mrs. Halifax, daughter 
 of the late Mr. March, who had been a governor in the West 
 Indies, and cousin of Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe. But 
 Mrs. Halifax, with a certain tenacity of pride, altogether 
 declined being visited as anything but Mrs. Halifax, wife of 
 John Halifax, tanner or mill-owner, or whatever he migh- 
 be. All honor 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 Avorthy of the sacred 
 name of " friend." Consequently, our circle of associations 
 was far more limited than that of many families holding an 
 equal position with us, on which circumstance our neigh- 
 bors commented a good deal. But little we cared, no more 
 than we had cared for the chit-chat of Norton Bury. Our 
 whole hearts were bound up within our own home, our happy 
 Longfield. 
 
 " I do think this place is growing prettier than ever," said 
 John, when, tea being over, a rather quiet meal without a 
 single child, we elders went out again to the walnut-tree 
 bench. " Certainly, prettier than ever,'' and his eye wan- 
 dered 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, Jein 
 Watkins' special pride, it rested on the sloping field, yellow 
 with tall buttercups, wavy with growing grass. "Let me
 
 '658 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 see, how long have we lived here ? Phineas, you are the 
 one for remembering dates. What year was it we came to 
 Longfield?"- 
 
 " Eighteen hundred and twelve. Thirteen years ago." 
 
 "Ah, so long?" 
 
 " Not too long," said Mrs. Halifax, earnestly. " I hope 
 we may end our days here, do not you, John ? " 
 
 He paused a little before answering. " Yes, I wish it ; 
 but I am not sure how far it would be right to do it." 
 
 " We will not open that subject again," said the mother, 
 uneasily. " I thought we had all made up our minds that 
 little Longfield was a thousand times pleasanter than 
 Beechwood, grand as it is. But John thinks he never can 
 do enough for his people at Enderley." 
 
 " Not that alone, love ; other reasons combined. Do 
 you know, Phineas," he continued, musingly, as he watched 
 the sun set over Leckington Hill, " sometimes 1 fancy my 
 Jife is too easy, that I am not a wise steward of the riches 
 that have multiplied so fast. By fifty a man so blessed as 
 J have been ought to have done something really of use in 
 the world, and I am actually forty-five. Once I hoped to 
 have done wonderful things ere I was forty-five, but 
 somehow the desire faded." 
 
 His wife and I were silent. We both knew the truth : 
 that calm as had flowed his outer existence, in which 
 was omitted not one actual duty, still for these twelve 
 years all the high aims which make the glory and charm 
 of life as duties make its strength, all the active energies 
 and noble ambitions which especially belong to the prime 
 of manhood, in him had been, not dead perhaps, but sleeping, 
 sleeping, beyond the power of any human voice to waken 
 them, under the daisies of a child's grave at Enderley. 
 
 I know not if this was right, but it was scarcely un- 
 natural. In that heart, which loved as few men love and 
 remembered as few men remember, so deep a wound could 
 never be thoroughly healed. A certain something in him 
 seemed different ever after, as if a portion of the father's 
 own life had been taken away with Muriel, and lay buried 
 in the little dead bosom of his first-born, his dearest child. 
 
 " You forget," said Mrs. Halifax, tenderly, " you forget,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 853 
 
 John, how much you have been doing, and intend to do 
 What with your improvements at Enderley, and your 
 Catholic Emancipation, your Abolition of Slavery and your 
 Parliamentary Reform, why there is hardly a scheme 
 for good, public or private, to which you do not lend a 
 helping hand." 
 
 "A helping purse, perhaps, which is an easier thing^ 
 much." 
 
 "I will not have you blaming yourself. Ask Phineas 
 there, our household Solomon " (which it was very kind of 
 the mother to believe me). " 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, 
 and yet honestly proud over his own hardly-gained acquire- 
 ments. 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, 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-taught, loving simplicity, they would 
 neither have been ashamed nor annoyed at the epithet, 
 these two tall lads, who in the dusk looked as man-like as 
 their father. 
 
 " Where is your sister, boys ? " 
 
 "Maud stopped at the stream with Edwin," answered 
 Guy, rather carelessly. His heart had kept its childish 
 faith ; the youngest, pet as she was, was never anything to 
 him but " little Maud." One whom the boys still talked 
 of, softly and tenderly, in fireside evening talks, when the 
 winter winds came and the snow was falling one only 
 was ever spoken of by Guy as his " sister." 
 
 Maud, or Miss Halifax, as from the first she was naturally
 
 360 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 called, as naturally as our lost darling was never called 
 anything else than Muriel, came up, hanging on Edwin's 
 arm, which she was fond of doing, both because it hap- 
 pened to be the only arm low enough to suit her childish 
 stature, and because she was more especially " Edwin's 
 girl," and had been so always. She had grown out of the 
 likeness that we longed for in her cradle-days, or else we 
 had grown out of the perception of it ; for though the 
 external resemblance in hair and complexion still remained, 
 nothing could be more jnlike in spirit than this sprightly 
 elf, at once the plague and the pet of the family, to our 
 Muriel. 
 
 " Edwin's girl " stole away with him, merrily chattering. 
 Guy sat down beside his mother, and slipped his arm round 
 her waist. They still fondled her with a child-like simplicity, 
 these her almost grown-up sons, who had never been 
 sent to school for a day, and had never learned from other 
 sons of far different mothers that a young man's chief 
 manliness ought to consist in despising the tender charities 
 of home. 
 
 " Guy, you foolish boy ! " as she took his cap off and 
 pushed back his hair, trying not to look proud of his hand- 
 some 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 Guy." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said his mother, while Guy only laughed, 
 too accustomed to this family admiration to be much dis- 
 concerted 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 361 
 
 mother's at home ; better than growing up tc be our eldest 
 son, our comfort and our hope ? I think not, Guy." 
 
 " You are right, Father," was the answer, with an uneasy 
 look. For this description seemed less what Guy was than 
 what we desired him to be. With his easy, happy temper. 
 generous but uncertain, and his showy, brilliant parts, he 
 was not nearly so much to be depended on as the grave 
 Edwin, who was already a thorough man of business and 
 plodded between Enderley Mills and a smaller one which 
 had taken the place of the flour-mill at Norton Bury with 
 indomitable perseverance. 
 
 Guy fell into a brown study, not unnoticed by those 
 anxious eyes which lingered oftener upon his face than on 
 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 candle-stick shed a subdued light on her work-basket 
 that never was empty and her busy fingers that never were 
 still. The father sat beside her ; he kept his old habit of 
 liking to have her close to him, ay, even though he was 
 falling into the middle-aged comforts of an arm-chair '\nd 
 a newspaper. There he sat, sometimes reading aloua 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 fierself , 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 Pliineas." 
 
 Uncle Phineas tried to soften the fact, but the little lady 
 was certainly the most trying of his pupils. Her mother
 
 862 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 she had long; escaped from, for the advantage of both ; for 
 to tell the truth, while in the invisible atmosphere of moral 
 training the mother's influence was invaluable, in the minor 
 branch of lesson-learning there might have been found many 
 a better teacher than Ursula Halifax. So the children's 
 education was chiefly left to me, other tutors succeeding as 
 was necessary ; and it had just begun tp be considered 
 whether a lady governess ought not to " finish " the educa- 
 tion of Miss Halifax. But always at home. Not for all 
 the knowledge and all the accomplishments in the world 
 would these parents have suffered either son or daughter 
 living souls intrusted to them by the Divine Father to be 
 brought up anywhere out of their own sight, out of the 
 shelter and safeguard of their own natural home. 
 
 " Love, when I was waiting to-day in Jessop's bank " 
 
 (Ah ! that was another change to which we were even 
 yet not familiar, the passing away of our good doctor and 
 his wife, and his brother and heir turning the old dining- 
 room into a " County Bank, open from ten till four.") 
 
 " While waiting there, I heard of a lady >vho struck me 
 as likely to be an excellent governess for Maud." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mrs. Halifax, not over-enthusiastically. 
 Maud became eager to know " what the lady was like," I 
 at the same time inquiring " who was she ? " 
 
 " Who ? I really did not ask," John answered smiling. 
 " But of what she is, Jessop gave me first-rate evidence, 
 a good daughter, who teaches in Norton Bury anybody's 
 children for any sort of pay, in order to maintain an ailing 
 mother. Ursula, you would let her teach our Maud, I 
 know?" 
 
 " Is she an Englishwoman ? " For Mrs. Halifax, preju- 
 diced by a certain French lady who had for a few months 
 completely bouleversed the manor-house and even slightly 
 tainted her own favorite, pretty Grao^ Oldtower, had re- 
 ceived 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."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " But we may have to leave Longfield." 
 
 The boys here turned to listen; for this question had 
 already been mooted, as all family questions were. In our 
 house we had no secrets ; the young folk, being trusted, 
 were ever trustworthy ; and the parents, clear-handed and 
 pure-hearted, had nothing that they were afraid to tell theii 
 children. 
 
 " Leave Longfield ! " repeated Mrs. Halifax ; " surely, 
 surely- But glancing at her husband, her tone of 
 impatience ceased. 
 
 He sat gazing into the fire with an anxious air. 
 
 " Don't let us discuss that question, at least, not to-night. 
 It troubles you, John. Put it off till to-morrow." 
 
 No, that was never his habit. He was one of the very 
 few, who, a thing being to be done, will not trust it to un- 
 certain " to-morrows." His wife saw at once that he wanted 
 to talk to her, and listened. 
 
 "Yes, it does trouble me a good deal, whether, now 
 that our children are growing up and our income is doub- 
 ling and trebling year by year, we ought to widen our circle 
 of usefulness, or close it up permanently within the quiet 
 bound of little Longfield. Love, which say you ? " 
 
 " The latter, the latter ; because it is far the happier." 
 
 " I am afraid, not the latter, because it is the happier." 
 
 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 Hugue- 
 not lovers. The woman is trying to fasten round the man's 
 neck the white badge that will save him from the massacre 
 (of St. Bartholomew) ; he clasping her the while, gently 
 puts it aside, not stern, but smiling. That quiet, tender 
 smile, firmer than any frown, will, you feel sure, soon control 
 the woman's anguish, so that she will sob out, any faith- 
 ful 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 ex- 
 pression, might have caught John's, just as in a few crises
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 aad expedient for us 
 to quit Longfield, our happy home for so many years, oi 
 which the mother loved every flower ID the garden, every 
 nook and stone in the walls. 
 
 " Leave Longfield ! " she repeated again with a bittei 
 sigh. 
 
 " Leave Longfield ! " echoed the children, first the young- 
 est, then the eldest, but rather in curiosity than regret, 
 Edwin's keen, bright eyes were just lifted from his boot 
 and fell again ; he w?,s not a lad of much speech, or much 
 demonstration of any kind. 
 
 " Boys, come an^i let us talk over the matter." 
 
 They came at c/,c3 and joined in the circle ; respectfully, 
 yet with entire f/eedom, they looked toward their father, 
 these, the son*, of his youth, to whom he had been from 
 their birth not 'jnly parent and head, but companion, guide, 
 and familiar friend. They honored him, they trusted him, 
 they loved him ; not, perhaps, in the way that they ai; 
 least, some of them loved their mother, for it often seems 
 Nature's own ordinance that a mother's influence should be 
 strongest over her sons, while the father's heart yearns 
 most over his daughters. But even a stranger could not 
 glance from each to each of those attentive faces, so dif- 
 ferent, yet with a curious " family look " running through 
 them all, without seeing in what deep, reverent affection 
 such as naturally takes the place of childish fondness, these, 
 youths held their father. 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid, after much serious thought on the 
 matter and much consultation with your mother here, that 
 we ought to leave Longfield." 
 
 " So think I," 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 365 
 
 or no his father's plan had her approval and therefore 
 ought to be assented to, relapsed into satisfied, undivided 
 attention. 
 
 " I have again been over Beechwood Hall. You all 
 remember Beechwood ? " 
 
 Yes, it was the " great house " at Enderley, just on the 
 slope of the hill, below Rose Cottage. The beech wood it- 
 self 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, especial!} 7 at Luxmore ; and Maud counted 
 on the numerous visitors that would come to John Halifax, 
 Esquire, of Beechwood Hall. 
 
 " Neither of which excellent reasons happens to be your 
 father's," said Mrs. Halifax, shortly. But John, often 
 tenderer over youthful frivolities than she, answered, 
 
 "I will tell you, boys, what are my reasons. When I 
 was a young man, before your mother and I were married, 
 indeed before I had ever seen her, I had strongly impressed 
 on my mind the wish to gain influence in the world, 
 riches if I -could, but at all events influence. I thought 
 I could use it well, better than most men ; those can best 
 help the poor who understand the poor. And I can ; since, 
 you know, when Uncle Phineas found me, I was " 
 
 " Father," said Guy, flushing scarlet, " we may as well 
 pass over that fact. "We are gentlefolks now." 
 
 " We always were, my son." 
 
 The rebuke out of its very mildness cut the youth to 
 the heart. He dropped his eyes, 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
 
 366 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 out of his own thoughts as aloud to his children : " now, 
 twenty-five years of labor have won for ine 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 Can- 
 nings, Huskissons, Peels." 
 
 " Would you enter Parliament ? Sir Herbert asked me 
 to-day if you ever intended it. He said there was noth- 
 ing' 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 Beech- 
 wood 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 philanthro- 
 pists who would benefit all the world except their own 
 household and their own kin. He wished since the 
 higher a man rises, the wider and nobler grows his sphere 
 of usefulness not only to lift himself, but his sons after 
 him ; lift them high enough to help on the ever-advancing 
 tide of human improvement, among their own people first, 
 and thence extending outward in the world whithersoever 
 their talents or circumstances might call them. 
 
 " I understand," cried the eldest son, his eyes sparkling ; 
 " you want to found a family. And so it shall be : we will 
 settle at Beech wood 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 generations of 
 the earth are blessed.' In thus far only do I wish to ' found 
 a family,' as you call it, that our light may shine before 
 men ; that we may be a city set on a hill ; that we may say 
 plainly unto all that ask us, ' For me and my house, we will 
 serve the Lord.' " 
 
 It was not often that John Halifax spoke thus, adopting 
 solemnly the literal language of the Book, his and our 
 life's guide, no word of which was ever used lightly in our
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 367 
 
 family. We all listened, as in his earnestness he rose, and 
 standing upright in the firelight, spoke on. 
 
 " I believe, with His blessing, that one may ' serve the 
 Lord ' as well in wealth as in poverty, in a great house as 
 in a cottage like this. I am not doubtful, even though my 
 possessions are increased. I am not afraid of being a rich 
 man ; nor a great man, neither, if I were called to such a 
 destiny." 
 
 " It may be, who knows ? " said Ursula, softly. 
 
 John caught his wife's eyes and smiled. 
 
 " Love, you were a true prophet once with a certain * Yes, 
 you will,' but now Children, you know when I married 
 your mother I had nothing, and she gave up everything for 
 me. I said I would yet "make her as high as any lady in 
 the land, in fortune I then meant, thinking it would 
 make her happier ; but she and I are wiser now. We 
 know that we never can be happier than we were in the 
 old house at Norton Bury or in this little Longfield. By 
 making her lady of Beechwood, I should double her re- 
 sponsibilities and treble her cares ; give her an infinitude 
 of new duties, and no pleasures half so sweet as those we 
 leave behind. Still, of herself and for herself, my wife 
 shall decide." 
 
 Ursula looked up at him ; tears stood in her eyes, though 
 through them shone all the steadfastness of faithful love. 
 "Thank you, John, I have decided. If you wish it, 
 if you think it right, we will leave Longfield and go to 
 Beechwood." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her forehead, saying only, " We 
 iwill go." 
 
 Guy looked up, half-reproachfully, as if the father were 
 exacting a sacrifice; but I question whether the greater 
 sacrifice was 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-
 
 368 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 garden, the meadow and the stream, the woody hills 
 beyond, every line and wave of which was pleasant and 
 dear almost as our children's faces ; ay, almost as that face 
 which for a year, one little year, had lived in sight of 
 but never beheld their beauty ; the child who one spring 
 day had gone away merrily out of the White Gate with 
 her three brothers and never come back to Longfield any 
 more. 
 
 Perhaps this circumstance, that her fading away and her 
 departure happened away from home, was the cause why 
 her memory the memory of our living Muriel, in all her 
 human childhood afterward clung more especially about 
 the house at Longfield. The other children altered, imper- 
 ceptibly yet scr swiftly that from year to year we half forgot 
 their old likenesses. But Muriel's never changed. Her 
 image, only a shade, yet often more real than any of these 
 living children, seemed perpetually among us. It crept 
 through the house at dusk ; in winter firelight it sat smil- 
 ing 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 (me 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 park to- 
 gether, as they had done for so many, many years, ay, 
 even then I thought I saw his eyes turn to the spot where 
 a '/it-tie pale figure used to sit on the door-sill, listening and 
 waiting for him, with her dove in her bosom. We never 
 kept doves now. 
 
 And the same night, when all the household was in bed, 
 even the mother, who had gone about all day with a rest- 
 less activity, trying to persuade herself that there would be 
 at least no possibility of accomplishing the flitting to-mor- 
 row, 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 1
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 869 
 
 sighed, thinking we should never again have such another 
 home. 
 
 John did not answer. He had been mechanically bend- 
 ing 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. 
 
 " I wonder if she knows we are leaving Longfield ? " 
 
 " Who ? " said I, for the moment forgetting. 
 
 "The child." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 FATHER and son, a goodly sight, as they paced side by 
 side up and down the gravel walk, (alas ! the pretty field 
 path belonged to days that were !) up and down the 
 broad sunshiny walk, in front of the breakfast-room win- 
 dows of Beechwood Hall ! 
 
 It was early, little past eight o'clock, but we kept 
 Longfield hours and Longfield ways still. And besides, 
 this was a grand day, the day of Guy's coming of age. 
 Curious it seemed to watch him as he walked along by his 
 father, looking every inch " the young heir," and perhaps 
 not unconscious that he did so, curious enough, remem- 
 bering 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 cozy breakfast-table. 
 There, as heretofore, it was the mother's pride and the 
 father's pleasure that not one face should be missing, 
 that, summer and winter, all should assemble for an hour 
 of family fun and family chat, before the busy cares of the 
 day ; and by general consent, which had grown into habit, 
 every one tried to keep unclouded this little bit of early 
 sunshine before the father and brothers went away. No
 
 370 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 sour nor 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 hi the Gazette 
 to-day." 
 
 " But it will not harm us, Father." , 
 
 " Edwin is always thinking of ' us,' and ' our business,' "' 
 remarked Guy, rather sharply. It was one of the slight 
 the very slight jars in our household that these two lads, 
 excellent lads both, as they grew into manhood did not ex- 
 actly " pull together." 
 
 " Edwin is scarcely wrong in thinking of ' us,' since upon 
 us depend so many," observed the father, hi that quiet tone 
 with which, when he did happen to interfere between his 
 sons, he generally smoothed matters down and kept the bal- 
 ance even. " Yet, though we are ourselves secure, I trust, 
 the losses everywhere around us make it the more neces- 
 sary that we should not parade our good fortune by launch- 
 ing 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 Beech wood his pleasuiB- 
 loving temperament had wanted all sorts of improvements 
 on our style of living, foxhounds, dinner-parties, balls ; 
 that the father's ways, which though extended to liberal 
 hospitalities, forbade outside show and made our life a 
 thorough family life still, were somewhat distasteful to 
 that most fascinating young gentleman, Guy Halifax, Es- 
 quire, 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, too, we that are known to be 
 the wealthiest family - 
 
 He stopped abruptly, for the door opened ; and Guy had 
 too much good taste and good feeling to discuss our riches 
 before Maud's poor governess, the tall, grave, sad-looking, 
 sad-clothed Miss Silver ; the same whom John had seen at 
 Mr. Jessop's bank, and who had been with us four months, 
 ever since we came to Beechwood. 
 
 One of the boys rose and offered her a chair; for th
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 371 
 
 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 Wat- 
 kins 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. She looks so cold." 
 
 But Miss Silver, declining the kindness, passed on to her 
 own seat opposite, away from the fire. 
 
 Ursula busied herself over the breakfast equipage, rather 
 nervously. Though an admirable person, Miss Silver, in 
 her extreme and all but repellant quietness, was one whom 
 the mother found it difficult to get on with. She was 
 scrupulously kind to her, and the governess was as scru- 
 pulously exact in all courtesy and attention ; still that im- 
 passible, self-contained demeanor, that great reticence it 
 might be shyness, it might be pride sometimes Ursula 
 privately admitted " fidgeted " her. 
 
 To-day was to be a general holiday for both masters and 
 servants, a dinner at the mills, and in the evening some- 
 thing which, though we called it a tea-drinking, began to 
 look, I was amused to see, exceedingly like " a ball." But 
 on this grand occasion 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 a way," said the mother, half-ashamed of 
 herself for thus indulging the boy, as giving his shoulder 
 a fond shake, she called him " a foolish fellow." 
 
 Then we all dispersed, Guy and Walter to ride to the 
 manor-house, Edwin vanishing with his sister, to whom he 
 was giving daily Latin lessons in the school-room. 
 
 John asked me to take a walk on the hill with him. 
 
 " Go, Phineas," whispered his wife, " it will do him good ; 
 and don't let him talk too much of old tunes. 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
 
 372 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 them, 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 a 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 the date 
 when she saw. Nothing more : it was not needed. 
 
 " December 5, 1813," said the father, reading the date. 
 " She would have been quite a woman now. How strange ! 
 My little Muriel ! " 
 
 And he walked thoughtfully along, almost in the same 
 footprints where he had been used to carry his darling up 
 the hillside to the brow of Enderley Flat. He seemed in 
 fancy to bear her in his arms still, this little one, whom, 
 as I have before said, Heaven in its compensating mercy, 
 year by year, through all changes, had made the one treas- 
 ure that none could take away, the one 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 likable, John. It vexes me 
 sometimes to see how coldly she returns the mother's 
 kindness." 
 
 " Poor thing ! she has evidently not been used to kind- 
 ness. You should have seen how amazed she looked yes-
 
 373 
 
 terday 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 cry- 
 ing, in girlish fashion." 
 
 " Is she a girl ? Why, the boys say she looks thirty at 
 least. Guy and Walter laugh amazingly at her dowdy 
 dress and her solemn, haughty ways." 
 
 " That will not do, Phineas ; I must speak to them. 
 They ought to make 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 '11 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 tena- 
 cious over the lightest approach to such jests as these ; and 
 besides, just at this moment Mr. Brown, Lord Luxmore's 
 steward, passed riding solemnly along. He barely touched 
 his hat to Mr. Halifax. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Brown ! He has a grudge against me for 
 those Mexican speculations I refused to embark in ; he did, 
 and lost everything but what he gets from Lord Luxmore. 
 I do think, Phineas, the country has been running mad this 
 year after speculation. There is sure to come a panic after- 
 ward, 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 
 falling on all sides is a most trying position. Misfortune 
 makes people unjust. The other day at the sessions, I got 
 cold looks enough from my brother magistrates, looks 
 that would have set my blood boiling twenty years ago.
 
 374 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 And you saw in the Norton Bury Mercury that article about 
 ' grasping plebeian millionaires ' -' wool-spinners, spinning 
 out of their country's vitals.' That 's meant for me, Phineas, 
 don't look incredulous, yes, for me." 
 
 " How disgraceful ! " 
 
 " Perhaps so, but to them more than to me. I feel 
 sorry because of the harm it may do me, especially among 
 working-people, who know nothing but what they hear and 
 believe everything that is told them. They see I thrive and 
 others fail ; that my mills are the only cloth-mills in full 
 work, and that 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 exactly upon a bed of 
 roses." 
 
 " It is wicked, atrocious ! " 
 
 " Not at all ; only natural, the penalty one has to pay 
 for success, I suppose. It will die out most likely ; mean- 
 time, we will mind it as little as we can." 
 
 " But are you safe ? Your life " For a sudden fear 
 crossed me, a fear not unwarranted by more than one 
 event of this year, this terrible 1825. 
 
 " Safe ? Yes," and his eyes were lifted, " I believe my 
 life is safe if I have work to do. Still, for others' sake, I 
 have carried this month past, whenever I go to and from 
 the Coltham ban"k, besides my cash-box this." 
 
 He showed me, peering out of his breast-pocket, a small 
 pistol. 
 
 I was greatly startled. 
 
 " Does your wife know ? " 
 
 " Of course. But she knows too that nothing but the last- 
 extremity would force me to use it ; also that my carrying 
 it, and its being noised about that I do so, may prevent my 
 ever having occasion to use it. God grant I never may ! 
 Don't let us talk about this."' 
 
 He stopped, gazing with a sad abstraction down the Bun- 
 shiny valley, most part of which was already his own prop- 
 erty ; for whatever capital he could spare from his business 
 he never sunk in speculation, but took a patriarchal pleas-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 375 
 
 ure in investing it in land, chiefly for the benefit of hig 
 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 in some way. 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 ! ' Sanspeur et sans 
 reproche ! ' 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 
 li&ht snow was beginning to fall, John said, musingly, 
 
 " It will be a hard winter ; we shall have to help our 
 poor people a great deal. Christmas dinners will be much 
 in request." 
 
 " There 's a saying that the way to an Englishman's 
 heart is through his stomach. So perhaps you'll get justice 
 by spring." 
 
 " Don't be angry, Phineas ; as I tell my wife, it is not 
 worth while. Half the wrongs people do to us are through 
 sheer ignorance. We must be patient. ' In your patience 
 possess ye your souls.' " 
 
 He s lid this more to himself than aloud, as if carrying 
 out the thread of his own thought. Mine, following it and 
 observing him, involuntarily turned to another passage in 
 our Book of books about the blessedness of some men, even 
 yhen reviled and persecuted. 
 
 Ay, and for all his many cares, John Halifax looked like 
 a man who was " blessed." 
 
 Blessed and happy too, throughout that day, especially 
 in the midst of the mill-yard dinner, which reminded me 
 forcibly of that Feast at which guests were gathered out of 
 the highways and hedges, guests such as John Halifax
 
 376 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 mas- 
 ter too, who was to-day for the first time presented as such, 
 as the firm was to be henceforward " Halifax and Son." 
 
 And full of smiling satisfaction was the father's look, 
 when in the evening he stood in the midst of his children, 
 waiting for " Guy's visitors," as he pertinaciously declared 
 them to be, these fine people for whose entertainment 
 our house had been these three days turned upside down, 
 the sober old dining-room converted into a glittering ball- 
 room, and the entrance-hall a very " bower of blisse," 
 all green boughs and Chinese lanterns. John protested he 
 should not have known his own study again, and that if 
 these festive transformations were to happen frequently, he 
 should soon not even know himself ! 
 
 Yet for all that, and in spite of the comical horror he 
 testified at this first bouleversement of our quiet home ways, 
 I think he had a real pleasure in his children's delight ; in 
 wandering with them through the decorated rooms, tapes- 
 tried with ivy and laurel and arbor vitas ; in making them 
 all pass in review before him, and admiring their handiwork 
 and themselves. 
 
 A goodly group they made, our young folk. There were 
 no " children " now ; for even Maud, who was tall and 
 womanly for her age, had bloomed out in a ball-dress, all 
 white muslin and camellias, and appeared every inch " Miss 
 Halifax." Walter, too, had lately eschewed jackets and 
 begun to borrow razors ; while Edwin, though still small, 
 had a keen old-man-like look, which made him seem as 
 he was indeed in character the eldest of the three. Al- 
 together they were " a fine family," such as any man might 
 rejoice to see growing or grown up around him. 
 
 But my eyes naturally sought the father, as he stood 
 among his boys, taller than any of them, and possessing far 
 more than they that quality for which John Halifax had 
 always been remarkable, dignity. True, Nature had 
 favored him beyond most men, giving him the stately, hand- 
 some presence befitting middle age, throwing a kind of 
 apostolic grace over the high, half-bald crown, and touch-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 377 
 
 ing with a softened gray the still curly locks behind. But 
 these were mere accidents ; the true dignity lay hi himself 
 and his own personal character, independent of any exterior. 
 
 It was pleasant to watch him and note how advancing 
 years had given rather than taken away from his outward 
 mien. As ever, he was distinguishable from other men 
 even to his dress, which had something of the Quaker about ( 
 it still, in its sober 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 great- 
 est pride in his appearance. 
 
 " John looks well to-night," she said, coming in and sit- 
 ting down by me, her eyes following mine. One would not 
 have guessed from their quiet gaze that she knew what 
 John had told me she knew, this morning. But these two 
 in their perfect union had a wonderful strength, a won- 
 derful fearlessness ; and she had learned from him, what 
 perhaps originally was foreign to her impressible and some- 
 what anxious mind, that steadfast faith, which, while ready 
 to meet every ill when the time comes, until the time waits 
 cheerfully and will not disquiet itself in vain. 
 
 Thus, for all their cares, her face as well as his was 
 calm and bright, bright, even with the prettiest girlish 
 blush, when John came up to his wife and admired her 
 as indeed was not surprising. 
 
 She laughed at him, and declared she had always in- 
 tended to grow lovely in her old age. " I thought I ought 
 to dress myself grandly, too, on Guy's birthday. Do you 
 like me, John ? " 
 
 " Very much ; I like that black velvet gown, substantial, 
 soft, and rich, without any show. And that lace frill round 
 your throat what sort of lace is it?" 
 
 " Valenciennes. When I was a girl, if I had a weakness 
 it was for black velvet and Valenciennes." 
 
 John smiled, with visible pleasure that she had even a 
 " weakness " gratified now. " And you have put on my 
 brooch at last, I see." 
 
 "Yes; but "and she shook her head "remember 
 your promise ! "
 
 378 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Phineas, this wife of mine is a vain woman. She 
 knows her own price is 'far above rubies,' or diamonds 
 either. No, Mrs. Halifax, be not afraid ; I shall give you 
 no more jewels." 
 
 She did not need them. She stood amidst her three sons 
 with the smile of a Cornelia. She felt her husband's eyes 
 rest on her, with that quiet perfectness of love, better than 
 any lover's love, 
 
 " The fullness 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. Specula- 
 tions of all kinds sprung up like fungi out of dead wood, 
 flourished a little, and dropped away. Then came ruin, not 
 of hundreds, but thousands, of all ranks and classes. This 
 year, and this month in this year, the breaking of many 
 established firms, especially bankers, foretold that the uni- 
 versal crash had just begun. 
 
 It was felt even in our retired country neighborhood and 
 among our friendly guests this night, both gentle and sim- 
 ple, and there was a mixture of both, as only a man in 
 Mr. Halifax's position could mix such heterogeneous ele- 
 ments, townspeople and country people, Dissenters and 
 Church folk, professional men and men of business. John 
 dared to do it, and did it. But though through his own 
 personal influence many of different ranks whom he liked 
 and respected, meeting in his house, learned to like and 
 respect one another, still, even to-night, he could not re- 
 move the cloud which seemed to hang over all, a cloud so 
 heavy that none present liked referring to it. They hit 
 upon all sorts of extraneous subjects, keeping far aloof from 
 the one which evidently pressed upon all minds 9 the uni
 
 " Miss Silver, wlio sat playing tunes.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 379 
 
 versal distress abroad, the fear that was knocking 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 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 anything with Lord Ravenel, a mere selfish, cynical, 
 idle voluptuary ! " 
 
 " Indeed, you are mistaken, Sir Herbert ! " cried Mr. 
 Jessop, of Norton Bury, a very honest fellow was Josiah 
 Jessop. " He banks with me that is, there are some 
 poor Catholics in this 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 unspoken sacredness distinct from all other days, 
 John moved away and went and talked to a girl whom 
 both he and the mother liked above most young girls we 
 knew, -T- simple, sunny-faced Grace Oldtower. 
 
 Dancing began. Spite of my Quaker education, or per- 
 haps for that very reason, I delighted to see dancing, 
 dancing such as it was then, when young folk moved 
 breezily and lightly, as if they loved it; skimming like 
 swallows down the long lines of the Triumph, gracefully 
 winding in and out through the graceful country-dance, 
 lively always, but always decorous. In those days people 
 did not think it necessary to the pleasures of dancing that 
 any stranger should have liberty to snatch a shy, innocent 
 girl round the waist and whirl her about in mad waltz or 
 awkward polka, till she stops, giddy and breathless, with 
 burning cheeks and tossed hair, looking as I would not 
 have liked to see our pretty Maud look.
 
 380 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 No ; though while watching the little lady to-night, 1 
 was inclined to say to her, 
 
 " When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that." 
 
 And in her unwearied spirits she seemed as if she would 
 readily have responded to the wish. 
 
 We did not see Guy among the dancers, who were now 
 forming in a somewhat confused square, in order to execute 
 a new dance called quadrilles, of which Miss Grace Oldtower 
 was to be the instructress. 
 
 " Where is Guy ? " said the mother, who would have 
 missed him among a room-full of people. " Have you seen 
 Guy anywhere, Miss Silver ? " 
 
 Miss Silver, who sat playing tunes, she had declined 
 dancing, turned, 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 even than usual. Her silk gown, ol: 
 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 
 Oldtower ! a thoroughly English rose ! I like her. Poor 
 Miss Silver ! I wish 
 
 What, out of compunction for a certain sharpness with 
 which she had spoken, Mrs. Halifax was about to wish, re- 
 mained undeclared. For just this minute Guy entered, and 
 leaning his handsome head and his tender petits soins over 
 the " English Rose," as his mother called her, led her out 
 to the dancing. 
 
 We sat down and looked on. 
 
 " Guy dances lazily ; he is rather pale too, I fancy." 
 
 tt Tired, probably. He was jout far too long on the ice
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. SSI 
 
 to-day with Maud and Miss Silver. What a pretty creature 
 his partner is ! " added Ursula, thoughtfully. 
 
 " The children are growing up fast," I said. 
 
 " Ay, indeed. To think that Guy is actually twenty-one, 
 the age when his father was married ! " 
 
 " Guy will be reminding you of that fact some day soon." 
 
 Mrs. Halifax smiled. " The sooner the better, if only he 
 makes a worthy choice, if only he brings me a daughter 
 whom I can love." 
 
 And I fancied there was love motherly love in the 
 eyes that followed through the graceful mazes of her dancing 
 the bonny English Rose. 
 
 Guy and his partner sat down beside us. His mother 
 noticed that he had turned very pale again, and the lad 
 owned to be in some pain ; he had twisted his foot that 
 morning in helping Maud and Miss Silver across the ice, but 
 it was a mere trifle, not worth mentioning. 
 
 A mere trifle ! How strangely one often looks back 
 afterward upon " mere trifles." 
 
 But now 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 miss dancing with 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 to fill our longest table in John's study, 
 came thronging around in a buzz of mirthf ulness. 
 
 Either the warm, hospitable atmosphere or the sight of 
 the merry youngsters or the general influence of social 
 pleasantness had for the time being dispelled the cloud. 
 But certainly it was dispelled. The master of the feast 
 >ioked down two long lines of happy faces his own as 
 bright as theirs down to where, at the foot of the table, 
 the mother and mistress sat. She had been slightly nervous 
 at times during the evening ; but now she appeared thor- 
 oughly 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 be- 
 loved. It seemed a. good omen, an omen that the bitter 
 things outside would pass a
 
 382 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 seemed to notice 
 every look, every word of those around her, which might 
 chance to bear reference to her husband ; in her quick 
 a-'oidance of every topic connected with these disastrous 
 times, and above all in her hurried grasp of a newspaper 
 that some careless servant brought in fresh from the night 
 mail, wet with sleet and snow. 
 
 " Do you get your county paper regularly ? " asked some 
 one at table. And then some others appeared to recollect 
 the Norton Bury Mercury and its virulent attacks on their 
 host, for there ensued an awkward pause, during which 
 I saw Ursula's face beginning to burn. But she conquered 
 her wrath. 
 
 " There is often much of interest hi our provincial papers, 
 Sir Herbert. My husband makes a point of taking them 
 all in, bad and good, of every shade of politics. He be- 
 lieves it is only by hearing all sides that you can truly 
 ; udge of the state of the country." 
 
 "Just as a physician must hear all symptoms before 
 he decides on the patient's case. At least, so our good old 
 friend Dr. Jessop used to say." 
 
 " Eh ? " said Mr. Jessop the banker, catching his own 
 name and waking up from a brown study, in which he had 
 seemed to see nothing except perhaps the newspaper, 
 which in its printed cover lay between himself and Mrs. 
 Halifax. " Eh ? Did any one Oh, I beg pardon, beg par- 
 don, Sir Herbert," hastily added the old man, who was a 
 very meek and worthy soul, and had been perhaps more 
 subdued than usual this evening. 
 
 " I was referring," said Sir Herbert, with his usual 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 obtain 
 silence for the customary speech, prefatory to the customary 
 toast of " Health and prosperity to the heir of Beechwood."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 383 
 
 There was great applause and filling of glasses, great 
 smiling and whispering, everybody glancing at poor Guy, 
 who turned red and white, and evidently wished himself a 
 hundred miles off. In the confusion I felt my sleeve 
 touched and saw leaning toward me, hidden by Maud's 
 laughing, happy face, the old banker. HP held in his hand 
 the newspaper which seemed to have so fascinated him. 
 
 " It 's the London Gazette. Mr. Halifax gets it three I 
 Lours before any of us. I may open it, eh ? 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 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, 
 except to say that his good heart would have rejoiced to see 
 this day. The high esteem in which Sir Ralph always held 
 Mr. Halifax has descended, and will descend " 
 
 Here some one called out, 
 
 " Mr. Jessop ! look at Mr. Jessop ! " 
 
 The old man had suddenly sunk back with a sort of 
 choking 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. 
 
 " 'T is 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 ciitical times men 
 were only too quick to divine, in what that news consisted ; 
 tidings which now made every newspaper a .sight of fear, 
 especially this, the London Gazette. 
 
 Edwin caught and read the fatal page, the fatal column, 
 cnown only too well. 
 
 " Father, it 's here. W - 's have stopped payment ! " 
 
 \V ' 8 w -is a great London house, the favorite banking
 
 3OHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 Ga 
 zette was passed hurriedly from hand to hand ; and then 
 our guests, one and all, sat looking at one another in breath- 
 less fear, suspicion, 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 saying, glancing to where the poor 
 old banker still sat with a vacant, stupefied smile, assur- 
 ing 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 sat in his place, his eyes cast down, his right hand 
 half covering as had grown into a habit with him that 
 sensitive, expressive mouth, which years had failed to harder 
 into even necessary hypocrisy. He sat perfectly quiet and 
 nad never spoken a syllable. 
 
 When Sir -Herbert, who was the first to recover from 
 the shock of these ill tidings, called him by his name, Mr. 
 Halifax looked quickly up. It was to see, instead of those 
 two lines of happy faces, faces already gathering in troubled 
 groups, faces angry, sullen, or miserable, all of which, with 
 a vague distrust, seemed instinctively turned upon him.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 885 
 
 *Mr. Halifax," said the baronet, and one could see 
 how, in spite of his steadfast politeness, he too was not 
 without his anxieties, "this is an unpleasant breaking-in 
 upon your kindly hospitalities. I suppose through this 
 unpropitious event each of us must make up our minds to 
 some loss. Let me hope yours will be trifling." 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 " Or perhaps though I can hardly hope anything so 
 fortunate perhaps this failure will not affect you at all ? " 
 
 He waited, as did many others, for Mr. Halifax's reply, 
 which was long in coming. However, since all seemed ts 
 expect it, it did come at last, but grave and sad, as if it 
 were the announcement of some great misfortune. 
 
 " No, Sir Herbert, it will not affect me at all." 
 
 Sir Herbert, and not he alone, looked surprised, uneasily 
 surprised. Some mutters there were of " congratulation." 
 Then arose a troubled murmur of talking, in which the 
 master of the house was forgotten until the baronet said, 
 " My friends, I think we are forgetting our courtesy. Allow 
 me to give you, without more delay, the toast I was about 
 to propose : Health, long life, and happiness to Mr. Guy 
 Halifax." 
 
 And so poor Guy's birthday toast was drunk almost in 
 silence ; and the few words he said in acknowledgment 
 were just listened to, scarcely heard. Every one rose from 
 table, and the festivities were over. 
 
 One by one all our guests began to make excuse ; one by 
 one, involuntarily perhaps, yet not the less painfully and 
 plainly, they all shrunk away from us as if, in the universal 
 trouble, we who had nothing to fear had no part nor lot. 
 Formal congratulations, given with pale lips and wandering 
 eyes ; brusque adieux, as some of the more honest or less 
 courteous showed but too obviously how cruelly, even re- 
 sentfully, they felt the inequalities of fortune ; hasty depar- 
 tures, full of* a dismay that rejected angrily every shadow 
 of consolation, all these things John had to meet and 
 to bear. 
 
 He met them with composure, scarcely speaking a word, 
 as indeed what was there to say? To all the friendly 
 speeches, real or pretended, he listened with a kind of sad 
 
 26
 
 386 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 hi" 
 jwn hearth, quite alone. 
 
 The last carriage had rolled away ; the tired househo.d 
 had gone to bed; there was no one in the study but me. 
 John came in and stood leaning with both his arms against 
 the 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 heart's 
 core. 
 
 " Are you thinking of these honest, friendly, disinterested 
 guests of ours ? Don't ! They are not worth a single 
 thous-ht." 
 
 Mot 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 own individual interest to fight for, and 
 cared not a straw for that of any one else ! 
 
 It was a market-day, and this crowd was collected and 
 collecting every minute before the bank at Norton Bury. 
 It included all classes, from the stout farmer's wife or 
 market-woman to the pale, frightened lady of "limited 
 income," who had never been in such a throng before; 
 from the aproned mechanic to the gentleman who sat in 
 his carriage at the street corner, confident that whatever 
 poor chance there was, his would be the best.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 387 
 
 Everybody was, as I have said, extremely quiet. Yon 
 hoard 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 
 i i.sf-bolted, red-baize door, and on the green blind of the 
 indows, which informed them that it was "open from ten 
 till four." 
 
 The abbey clock struck three quarters. Then there was 
 a slight stirring, a rustling here and there of paper, as 
 some one drew out and examined his bank-notes openly, 
 with small fear of theft, they were not worth stealing. 
 
 John and I, a little way off, stood looking on, where 
 we had once watched a far different crowd ; for Mr. 
 Jessop owned the doctor's former house, and in sight of 
 the green bank blinds were my dear old father's well- 
 known windows. 
 
 Guy's birthday had fallen on a Saturday. This was 
 Monday morning. We had driven over to Norton Bury, 
 John and I, at an unusually early hour. He did not exactly 
 tell me why, but it was not difficult to guess ; not difficult 
 to perceive how strongly he was interested, even affected, 
 as any man knowing all the circumstances could not but 
 be affected, by the sight of that crowd, all the sadder for 
 its being such a patient, decent, respectable crowd, out of 
 which so large a proportion was women. 
 
 1 noticed this latter fact to John. 
 
 " Yes, 1 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 blue, sunshiny atmosphere of 
 morning. 
 
 Its fingers touched the one heel of the great, striding 10, 
 glided on to the other j the ten strokes fell leisurely and
 
 388 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 regularly upon the clear, frosty air; then the chimes 
 Norton Bury was proud of its abbey chimes burst out in 
 the tune of " Life let us Cherish." 
 
 The bells went through all the tune to the very last note ; 
 then ensued silence. The crowd were silent, too, almost 
 breathless with intent listening, but alas ! not to the merry 
 abbey chimes. 
 
 The bank door remained closed ; not a rattle at the bolts, 
 not a clerk's face peering out above the blind. The house 
 was as shut-up and desolate as if it were entirely empty. 
 
 Five whole minutes by the abbey clock did that poor, 
 patient crowd wait on the pavement. Then a murmur 
 arose. One or two men hammered at the door; some 
 frightened women, jostled hi 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 flowers 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 inci- 
 dent ; at all events, he never mentioned it to me there 
 had been transacted a certain momentous event in Ursula's 
 life and mine. Entering by the French window, there rose 
 up to my mental vision, in vivid contrast to all present 
 scenes, the picture of a young girl I had once seen sitting 
 there, with head drooped, knitting. Could that day be 
 twenty-five years ago? 
 
 No summer 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 t iad 
 Lurned itself away unstirred into black, dingy caverns. 
 Before it, with breakfast untasted, sat Josiah Jessop, his 
 feet on the fencer, his elbows on his knees, the picture of 
 despair. 
 
 " Mr. Jessop, my good friend ! " 
 
 u No, I have n't a frien.d in the world, or shall not have 
 &u hour heuQe. Oh, it's you, Mi . lialifax ! You h*ve
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 389 
 
 an accoimt to close ? You don't hold any notes of mine, 
 do you V " 
 
 John put his hand on the old man's shoulder and 
 repeated that he only came as a friend. 
 
 " Not the first ' friend ' I have received this morning. I 
 knew 1 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 ?" 
 ' " 1 know," said John, gloomily. 
 
 " Hark ! those people outside will hammer my doo.' down ! 
 Speak to them, Mr. Halifax ; tell them I 'm an old man, 
 that I was always an honest man, always. If only they 
 would give me time ; hark, just hark ! Heaven bless me ! 
 do they want to tear me in pieces ? " 
 
 John went out for a few moments, then came back and 
 sat down beside Mr. Jessop. 
 
 " Compose yourself." The old man was shaking like an 
 aspen leaf. " Tell me, if you have no objection to give me 
 this confidence, exactly how your affairs stand." 
 
 With a gasp of helpless thankfulness, looking up in John's 
 face while his own quivered like a frightened child's, the 
 banker obeyed. It seemed that great as was his loss by 
 
 W 's failure, it was not absolute ruin to him. In 
 
 effect he was at this moment perfectly solvent, and by 
 calling in mortgages, etc., could meet both the accounts of 
 the gentry who banked with him together with all his own 
 notes now afloat in the county, principally among the 
 humbler ranks, petty tradespeople, and such like, if only 
 both classes of customers would give him time to pay them. 
 
 " But they will not. There will be a run upon the bank, 
 and then all 's over with me. It 's a hard case, solvent as 
 1 am, ready and able to pay every farthing, if only I had 
 a week's time. As it is, I must stop payment to-day. 
 Hark ! they are at the door again ! Mr. Halifax, for God's 
 sake quiet them ! " 
 
 " I will ; only tell me first what sum, added to the cash 
 you have available, would keep the bank open just for a 
 dav or two." 
 
 A.t once guided and calmed, the old man's busine&a
 
 390 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 faculties seemed to return. He began to calculate, and 
 soon stated the sum he needed ; I think it was three or four 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 " Very well ; I have thought of a plan. But first those 
 poor fellows outside. Thank Heaven, I am a rich man, and 
 everybody knows it. Phineas, that inkstand, please." 
 
 He sat down and wrote. Curiously the attitude and 
 manner reminded me of his sitting down and writing at 
 my father's table after the bread riot, years and years ago. 
 Soon a notice, signed by Josiah Jessop and afterward by 
 himself, to the effect that the bank would open, " without 
 fail, at one o'clock this day," was given by him to the 
 astonished clerk, to be posted in the window. 
 
 A responsive cheer outside showed how readily those out- 
 side had caught at even this gleam of hope ; also how 
 implicitly 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, 
 desiring 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, 
 grimly-colored daubs, yet with a certain apology of like- 
 ness too, which broadly smiled at one another from opposite 
 walls, the only memorials now remaining of the good 
 doctor and his cheery little old wife. " Come, Mr. Jessop, 
 leave the matter with me ; believe me, it is not only a 
 pleasure but a duty." 
 
 The old man melted into senile tears. 
 
 I do not know how John managed the provincial mag- 
 nates who were sitting in council considering how best to 
 save, first themselves, then the bank, lastly If the poor 
 public outside had been made acquainted with that ominous 
 " lastly ! " or if to the respectable conclave above stairs, 
 who would have recoiled indignantly at the vulgar word
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 391 
 
 rt jobbing," had been hinted a phrase which ran oddly in 
 and out of the nooks of my brain, keeping time to the 
 murmur in the street, " Vox populi, vox Dei," truly, I 
 should have got little credit for my Latinity. 
 
 John came out in about half an hour with a cheerful 
 countenance, told me he was going over to Coltham for an 
 hour or two : would I wait his return ? 
 
 " And all is settled ? " I asked. 
 
 " Will be soon, I trust. I can 't stay to tell you more 
 now. Good-by." 
 
 I was no man of business and could assist in nothing, so 
 I thought the best I could do was to pass the time in 
 wandering up and down the familiar garden, idly watching 
 the hoarfrost 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 even- 
 ing, the evening when Ursula's bent neck flushed more 
 crimson than the sunset itself, as I told her John Halifax 
 was " too noble to die for any woman's love." 
 
 No, he had lived for it, earned it, won it. And 
 musing over these long-ago times my heart melted, foolish 
 old heart that it was ! with a trembling joy, to think that 
 Providence had in some way used my poor useless hand to 
 give to him this blessing, a man's chiefest blessing, of a 
 virtuous and loving wife, which had crowned his life for all 
 these wonderful years. 
 
 As it neared one o'clock I could see my ancient friend 
 the abbey clock, with not a wrinkle in his old face, staring 
 at me through the bare abbey trees. I began to feel rather 
 anxious. I went into the deserted office, and thence, none 
 forbidding, ensconced myself behind the sheltering bank 
 blinds. 
 
 The crowd had scarcely moved, a very honest, patient, 
 weary crowd, dense in the centre, thinning toward the 
 edges. On its extremest verge, waiting in a curricle, was 
 a gentleman who seemed observing it with a lazy curiosity. 
 I, having like himself apparently nothing better to do, 
 observed this gentleman. 
 
 He was dressed in the height of the mode, combined 
 with a n^vel and eccentric fashion which had been lately
 
 392 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 set by that extraordinary young nobleman whom everybody 
 talked about, my Lord Byron. His neckcloth was loose, 
 his throat bare, and his hair fell long and untidy. His 
 face, that of a man about thirty, I fancied I had seen it 
 before, but could not recall where, was delicate, thin, 
 with an expression at once cynical and melancholy. He 
 sat in his carriage, wrapped in furs, or looked carelessly 
 out on the scene before him, as if he had no interest 
 therein, as if there was nothing in life worth living for. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said 1 to myself, recalling the bright, 
 rusy, laughing faces of our growing-up lads, recalling 
 especially their father's, full of all that active energy and 
 wise cheerfulness which gives zest to existence, God for- 
 bid any man should die till he has lived to learn it ! 
 " Poor fellow ! I wish his moodiness could take a lesson 
 from us at home ! " 
 
 But the gentleman soon retired from my observation 
 under his furs, for the sky had gloomed over, and snow 
 began to fall. Those on the pavement shook it drearily 
 off, and kept turning every minute to the abbey clock. I 
 feared it would take the patience of Job to enable them to 
 hold out another quarter of an hour. 
 
 At length some determined hand again battered at the 
 door. I fancied I heard a clerk speaking out of the first- 
 floor window. 
 
 "Gentlemen," how tremblingly polite the voice was! 
 " gentlemen, in five minutes, positively five minutes, the 
 bank will " 
 
 The rest of the speech was drowned and lost. Dashing 
 round the street corner, the horses all in a foam, came our 
 Bcechwood carriage. Mr. Halifax leaped out. 
 
 Well might the crowd divide for him, well might they 
 cheer him, for he carried a canvas bag, a great, ugly, 
 grimy-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 this year. 
 
 The bank door flew open like magic, the crowd came 
 pushing in ; but when John called out to them, " Good
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 393 
 
 people, pray let me pass ! " they yielded, and suffered him 
 to go in first. He went right up to the desk, behind which, 
 flanked by a tolerable array of similar canvas bags, full of 
 gold, but nevertheless waiting in mortal fear and as white 
 as his own neckcloth, the old banker stood. 
 
 " Mr. Jessop," John said, in a loud, distinct voice that all 
 might hear, " 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. 
 Such a sum seemed unlimited. It gave universal confi- 
 dence. Many who had been scrambling, swearing, almost 
 fighting, to reach the counter and receive gold for their 
 notes, put them again into their pockets, uncashed. Others, 
 chiefly women, got them cashed with a trembling hand, 
 nay, with tears of joy. A few who had come to close 
 accounts changed their minds, and even paid money in. 
 All were satisfied : the run upon the bank ceased. 
 
 Mr. Halifax stood aside looking on. After the first 
 murmur of surprise and pleasure no one seemed to take 
 any notice of him or of what he had done. Only one old 
 widow woman, as she slipped three bright guineas under 
 the lid of her market basket, dropped him a courtesy in 
 passing by. 
 
 " It 's your doing, Mr. Halifax. The Lord reward you, 
 sir." 
 
 "Thank you," he said, and shook her by the hand. I 
 thought to myself, watching the many that came and went 
 unmindful, " only this Samaritan!" 
 
 No, one person more standing by addressed him by 
 name. " This is indeed your doing, and an act of benevo- 
 lence which I believe no man alive would have done except 
 Mr. Halifax." 
 
 And the gentleman who spoke, the same I had seen out- 
 side 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.
 
 394 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 this sudden meeting had brought back, with a cruel tide of 
 memory, the last time they met hy 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 we 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 irreso- 
 lute he drew his hand across his eyes, the same white, 
 long-fingered, womanish hand which had used to guide 
 Muriel's over the organ keys. 
 
 " Yes ; I think I will go back with you to Enderley ; 
 but first I must speak to Mr. Jessop here." 
 
 It was about some poor Catholic families, who, as we 
 had before learned, had long been his pensioners. 
 
 " You are a Catholic still, then ? " I asked. " We heard 
 the contrary." 
 
 " Did you ? Oh, of course. Probably you heard also 
 that I have been to the Holy Land and turned Jew, called 
 at Constantinople and come back a Mohammedan." 
 
 " But are you of your old faith," John said ; " still a 
 sincere Catholic ? " 
 
 " If you take Catholic in its original sense, certainly. I 
 
 am a universal believer. I credit everything, and nothing. 
 
 Let us change the subject." The contemptuous skepticism 
 
 ' of his manner altered as he inquired after Mrs. Halifax and 
 
 the children. " No longer children now, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Scarcely. Guy and Walter are as tall as yourself ; and 
 my daughter 
 
 " Your daughter ? " with a start. " Oh, yes, I recollect, 
 baby Maud. Is she at all like like " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Neither said more than this, but it seemed as if their 
 hearts warmed to one another, knitted by the same tender 
 remembrance. 
 
 We drove home. Lord Ravenel muffled himself up in bis 
 furs, complaining bitterly of the snow and sleet.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 395 
 
 " Yes, the winter is setting in sharply," John replied, as 
 he reined in his horses at the turnpike-gate. " This will be 
 a hard Christmas for many." 
 
 " Ay, indeed, sir," said the gate-keeper, touching his hat ; 
 " and if I might make so bold, it 's a dark night, and the 
 road 's lonely " he added, in a mysterious whisper. 
 
 " Thank you, my friend. I am aware of all that ; " but 
 as John drove on, he remained for some time very silent. 
 
 On, across the bleak country, with the snow pelting in 
 our faces, along roads so deserted that our carriage-wheels 
 made the only sound audible, and that might have been 
 heard distinctly for miles. 
 
 All of a sudden the horses were pulled up. Three or 
 four ill-looking figures had started out of a datch-bank and 
 caught hold of the reins. 
 
 " Holloa, there ! What do you want ? " 
 
 " Money." 
 
 " Let go my horses ! They 're spirited beasts ; you '11 
 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 up- 
 right on the cox-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 min- 
 ute. Hold off, I say ! " 
 
 Tf ever these men, planning perhaps their first ill deed, 
 were struck dumb with astonishment, it was to see the gen- 
 tleman they were intending to rob take up their comrade in 
 his arms, drag him toward the carriage lamps, rub snow on 
 his face,, and chafe his heavy hands. But all in vain. The 
 blood trickled down from a wound in the temples ; th
 
 396 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 head with its open mouth, dropping, fell back upon John's 
 knee. 
 
 " He is quite dead." 
 
 The others gathered round in silence, watching Mr. Hali- 
 fax, as he still knelt with the dead man's head leaning 
 against him, mournfully regarding it. 
 
 " I think I know him. Where does his wife live ? " 
 
 Some one pointed across the moor to a light, faint as a 
 glow-worm. "Take that rug out of my carriage, wrap 
 him in it." The order was at once obeyed. " Now carry 
 him home. I will follow presently." 
 
 " Surely not," expostulated Lord Ravenel, who had got 
 out of the carriage and stood, shivering and much shocked, 
 beside Mr. Halifax. " You would not surely put yourself 
 in the power of these scoundrels? What brutes they are, 
 the lower orders ! " 
 
 "Not altogether, when you know them. Phineas, will 
 you drive Lord Ravenel on to Beechwood ? " 
 
 "Excuse me, certainly not," said Lord Ravenel with 
 dignity. " We will stay to see the result of the affair. 
 What 'a singular man Mr. Halifax is, and always was," he 
 added thoughtfully, as he muffled himself up again in his 
 furs and relapsed into silence. 
 
 Soon, following the track of those black figures across 
 the snow, we came to a cluster of peat huts, alongside of 
 the moorland road. John took one of the carriage lamps 
 in his hand and went in, without saying a word. To my 
 surprise, Lord Ravenel presently dismounted and followed 
 him. I was left with the reins in my hand and two or 
 three of those ill-visaged men hovering about the carriage, 
 but no one attempted to do me any harm. Nay, when 
 John reappeared, after a lapse of some minutes, one of 
 them civilly picked up the whip and put it into his hand. 
 
 " Thank you. Now, my men, tell me what did you want 
 with me just now ? " 
 
 " Money," cried one. " Work," shouted another. 
 
 4< 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 
 90 cowardly."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 397 
 
 " We bean't cowards," was the surly answer. " Thee 
 carries pistols, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 " You forced me to do it. My life is as precious to my 
 wife and children as as that poor fellow's." John 
 stopped. " God help us, my men ! it 's a hard world for us 
 all sometimes. Why did you not know me better ? Why 
 not come to my house and ask honestly for a dinner and a 
 half crown ? You should have had both, any day." 
 
 " Thank 'ee, sir," was the general cry. " And, sir," begged 
 one old man, " you '11 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 '11 trust you. Look here ! " He took the pistol out of 
 his breast-pocket, cocked it, and fired its two barrels harm- 
 lessly into the air. " Now, good night ; and if ever I carry 
 firearms again, it will be your fault, not mine." 
 
 So saying, he held the carriage door open for Lord Ravenel, 
 who took his place with a subdued and thoughtful air; then 
 mounting the box-seat, John drove, in somewhat melancholy 
 silence, across the snowy, starlit moors to Beechwood. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 IN the homelight. 
 
 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 exis- 
 tence we should be reconciled to loss, and taught that 
 change itself is but another form for aspiration, aspira- 
 tion which never can rest, nor ought to rest, in anything 
 short of the One absolute Perfection, the One all-satisfy - 
 inr Good, " in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of 
 turning."
 
 398 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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, happen- 
 ing to a tall and strong young man, became serious. He 
 bore his imprisonment restlessly enough at first, but after- 
 ward grew more reconciled, took to reading, drawing, and 
 society, and even began to interest himself in the pursuits 
 of his sister Maud, who every morning had her lessons in 
 the study. 
 
 Miss Silver first proposed this. She had evinced more 
 feeling than was usual to her since Guy's accident, showed 
 him many little feminine kindnesses, out of compunction, 
 it seemed, - and altogether was much improved. Of even- 
 ings, as now, she always made one of the "young people," 
 who were generally grouped together round Guy's sofa, 
 Edwin, Walter, and little Maud. The father and mother 
 sat opposite, as usual, side by side, he with his newspaper, 
 she with her work ; or sometimes, falling into pleasant 
 idleness, they would slip hand in hand, and sit talking to 
 one another in an undertone or silently and smilingly 
 watching the humors of their children. 
 
 For me, I generally took to my nook in the chimney- 
 corner, it was a very ancient fireplace, with settles on 
 each side and dogs instead of a grate, upon which many a 
 fagot hissed and crackled its merry brief life away. Nothing 
 could be more cheery and comfortable than this old-fash- 
 ioned, 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 
 out of the whole house, his own especial domain. But 
 then 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 book, and even the grave governess relax into a smile ; and 
 since she had learned to smile, it became more and more 
 apparent how very handsome Miss Silver was. " Hand- 
 some" is, I think, the fittest word for her, that correctness 
 of form and color which attracts the eye alone, and perhaps 
 the eye of men rather than of women ; at least, Mrs. Hali- 
 fax could never be brought to see it. But then her peculiar 
 taste was for slender, small brunettes, like Grace Oldtower, 
 whereas Miss Silver was large and fair. 
 
 Fair, in every sense, most decidedly ; and now that she 
 evidently began to pay a little more attention to her dress 
 and her looks, we found out that she was also young. 
 
 " Only twenty-one to-day, Guy says," I remarked one 
 day to Ursula. 
 
 " How did Guy know it ? " 
 
 "I believe he discovered the wonderful secret from 
 Maud." 
 
 " Maud and her brother Guy have grown wonderful 
 frends 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 to observe. They all sat in most 
 harmless quietude, Edwin reading, Maud at his feet play- 
 ing with the cat, Miss Silver busy at a piece of that deli- 
 cate muslin-work with which young women used then to 
 ornament their gowns. Guy had been drawing a pattern 
 t for it. and now leaned back upon his sofa, shading off the 
 ire with his hand and from behind it gazing, as I had 
 'ten seen him gaze lately, with a curious intentness at 
 the young governess. 
 
 " Guy," said his mother (and Guy started), "what were 
 you thinking about ? " 
 
 "Oh, nothing! that is " Here, by some accident, 
 Miss Silver quitted the room. " Mother, come over here, 
 I want your opinion. There, sit down, though it's noth- 
 ing of the least importance." 
 
 Nevertheless, it was with some hesitation that he brought
 
 400 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 out the mighty question, namely, that it was Miss Silver's 
 birthday to-day ; that he thought we ought to remember it, 
 and give her some trifle as a present. 
 
 " And I was considering this large ' Flora ' I ordered 
 from London, she would like it extremely; she is so 
 fond of botany." 
 
 " What do you know about botany ? " said Edwin, 
 sharply, and rather irrelevantly as it seemed, till I re- 
 membered how he plumed himself upon his knowledge of 
 this science, and how he had persisted in taking Maud and 
 her governess also long wintry walks across the country, 
 " in order to study the cryptogamia." 
 
 Guy vouchsafed no answer to his brother ; he was too 
 much absorbed in turning over the pages of the beautiful 
 " Flora " on his knee. 
 
 " What do you say, all of you ? Father, don't you think 
 she would like it ? Then, suppose you give it to her?" 
 
 At this inopportune moment Miss Silver returned. 
 
 She might have been aware that she was under discus- 
 sion, at least so much of discussion as was implied by 
 Guy's eager words and his mother's silence, for she looked 
 around her uneasily and was about to retire. 
 
 " Do not go," Guy exclaimed anxiously. 
 
 " Pray do not," his mother added ; " we were just talk- 
 ing about you, Miss Silver. My son hopes you will accept 
 this book from him, and from us all, with all kind birthday 
 wishes." 
 
 And rising, with a little more gravity than was her wont, 
 Mrs. Halifax touched the girl's forehead with her lips, and 
 gave her the present. 
 
 Miss Silver 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, " do take 
 the book. Do let us show how much we respect you, how 
 entirely we regard you as one of the family." 
 
 Guy turned a look of grateful pleasure to his father;
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 401 
 
 bat Miss Silver, coloring more than ever, still held 
 back. 
 
 " No, I cannot ; indeed, I cannot." 
 
 " Why can you not ? " 
 
 " For several reasons." 
 
 t " 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 give up his pleasure for me." 
 
 " It would not be giving it up 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 
 incensed, rose and settled himself in the far corner of the 
 room. 
 
 " Edwin is right," said the father in a tone which indi- 
 cated 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. 
 
 " 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 gov- 
 erness 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."
 
 i02 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Better starve than tell a falsehood," cried the mother, 
 i.idignantly. 
 
 "I told no falsehood. You never asked me of my 
 parentage." 
 
 " Nay," said John, interfering, " you must not speak in 
 that manner to Mrs. Halifax. Why did you renounce your 
 father's name ? " 
 
 " Because English people would have scouted my father's 
 daughter. You knew him, everybody knew him ; he was 
 D'Argent the Jacobin, D' Argent the Bonnet Rouge." 
 
 She threw out these words defiantly, and quitted the room. 
 
 "This is a dreadful discovery. Edwin, you have seen 
 most of her ; did you ever imagine " 
 
 " I knew it, Mother," said Edwin, without lifting his eyes 
 from his book, those keen eyes, noted for their penetra- 
 tion into everything and everybody. " After all, French or 
 English, it makes no difference." 
 
 " I should think not, indeed," cried Guy, angrily. 
 " Whatever her father is, if any one dared to think the 
 worse of her " 
 
 " Hush ! till another time," said the father, with a glance 
 at Maud, who with wide-open eyes, in which the tears were 
 just springing, Jiad been listening to all these revelations 
 about her governess. 
 
 But Maud's tears were soon stopped, as well as this pain- 
 ful 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 be- 
 gan to talk to Lord Ravenel, and Maud took her privileged 
 place on a footstool 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 ten- 
 derness inexpressible, there was something in Maud's 
 buoyant youth, just between childhood and girlhood, hav- 
 ing the charms of one and the immunities of the other, 
 which was especially attractive to this man, who at three- 
 and-thirty found life a weariness and a burden, at least 
 he said so.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 403 
 
 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 Edwin, both considerably excited, argued and contra- 
 dicted 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 this slight desagrement 
 very calmly. He stayed his customary time, smiling lan- 
 guidly as ever at the boys' controversies, or listening with 
 a half-pleased, half-melancholy laziness to Maud's gay prat- 
 tle, his eye following her about the room with the privi- 
 leged tenderness 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 Luxmore. 
 
 After his departure, we did not again close round the 
 fire. Maud vanished, the younger boys also. Guy settled 
 himself on his sofa, having first taken the pains to limp 
 across the room and fetch the " Flora," which Edwin had 
 carefully stowed away in the book-case. Then making 
 himself comfortable, as the pleasure-loving lad liked well 
 enough to do, he lay dreamily gazing at the titlepage, 
 where was written her name, and "From Guy Halifax, 
 with " 
 
 " What were 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 mov- 
 ing about the room, putting things in order before retiring. 
 John sat in his arm-chair, meditative. She asked him 
 what he was thinking about. 
 
 " About that man, Jacques D'Argent." 
 
 " You have heard of him, then ?" 
 
 " Few had not, twenty years ago. He was one of the most 
 ' blatant beasts ' of the "Reign of Terror, a fellow without 
 honesty, conscience, or even common decency." 
 
 "Arid that man's daughter we have had in our house 
 teaching our innocent child ! "
 
 104 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 Alarm and disgust were written on every feature of the 
 mother's face. It was scarcely surprising. Now that the 
 ferment which had convulsed society in our younger days 
 was settling down, though still we were far from that ulti- 
 mate calm which enables posterity to judge fully and fairly 
 such a remarkable historical crisis as the French Revolu- 
 tion, most English people looked back with horror on the 
 extreme opinions of that time. If Mrs. Halifax had a weak 
 point, it was her prejudice against anything French or Ja- 
 cobinical, partly from that tendency to moral conservatism 
 which in most persons, especially women, strengthens as 
 old age advances ; partly, I believe, from the terrible warn- 
 ing given by the fate of one of whom for years we had 
 never heard whose very name was either unknown to or 
 forgotten by our children. 
 
 "John, can't you speak? Don't you see the frightful 
 danger ? " 
 
 " Love, try and be calmer." 
 
 " How can I ? Remember remember Caroline." 
 
 " Nay, we are not talking of her, but of a girl whom we 
 know and have had good opportunity of knowing, a girl 
 who, whatever may have been her antecedents, has lived for 
 six months blamelessly in our house." 
 
 " Would to Heaven she had never entered it ! But it is 
 not too late. She may leave, she shall leave, immediately." 
 
 " Mother ! " burst out Guy. Never since she bore him 
 had his mother heard her name uttered in such a tone. 
 
 She stood petrified. 
 
 " Mother, you are unjust, heartless, cruel. She shall not 
 leave ; she shall not, I say ! " 
 
 " Guy, how dare you speak to your mother in that way ? " 
 
 " Yes, Father, I dare. I '11 dare anything, rather than " 
 
 " Stop ! Mind what you are saying, or you will repent it." 
 
 And Mr. Halifax, speaking in that low tone to which his 
 voice always fell in serious displeasure, laid a heavy hand 
 on the lad's shoulder. Father and son exchanged fiery 
 glances. The mother, terrified, rushed between them. 
 
 " Don't, John ! Don't be angry with him. He could 
 not help it, my poor boy ! " 
 
 At her piteous look Guy and his father both drew back
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 405 
 
 John put his arm around 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 unto whom she must show all justice and all kindness, 
 
 one whom I respect, esteem, whom I love." 
 " Love ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mother ! yes, Father ! I love her. I intend to 
 marry her." 
 
 Guy said this with an air of quiet determination very dif- 
 ferent from the usual impetuosity of his character. It was 
 easy to perceive that a great change had come over him ; 
 that in this passion, the silent growth of which no one had 
 suspected, he was most thoroughly in earnest. From the 
 boy he had suddenly started up into the man, and his 
 parents saw it. 
 
 They looked at him and then mournfully at one another. 
 The father was the first to speak. 
 
 " All this is very sudden. You should have told us of it 
 before." 
 
 " I did not know it myself till till very lately," the 
 youth answered, more softly, lowering his head and blushing. 
 
 " Is Miss Silver is the lady aware of it ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " That is well," said the father, after a pause. " In this 
 silence you have acted as an honorable lover should toward 
 her, as a dutiful son should act toward his parents." 
 
 Guy looked pleased. He stole his hand near his mother^, 
 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 ? 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
 
 406 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 foolish rhyme which the mother had laughingly said over 
 to inc this very morning, 
 
 " My son 's my son till he gets him a wife, 
 But my daughter "s iny 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 
 marvel that I, who have been young and now am old, see 
 as I saw that night not only the lover's but the parents' 
 side of the question. I felt overwhelmed with sadness, as 
 viewing the three, I counted up in all its bearings and con- 
 sequences, 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 pro- 
 jected one of yours. I knew your mother well, and she 
 knew me. Both of us had been tried, by trouble which 
 we shared together, by absence, by many and various cares. 
 We chose one another, not hastily or blindly, but with free 
 will and open eyes. No, Guy," he added, speaking earnestly 
 and softly, " mine was no sudden fancy, no frantic passion. 
 I honored your mother above all women ; I loved her a* 
 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 ut- 
 tering a sound. Suddenly, hearing a footstep and a light 
 knock at the door, she darted forward and locked it, crying 
 in a voice that one could hardly have recognized as hers,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 407 
 
 " No admittance ! Go away ! " 
 
 A note was pushed in under the door. Mrs. Halifax 
 picked it up, opened it, read it mechanically, and sat down 
 again, taking no notice even when Guy, catching sight of 
 the handwriting, eagerly seized the paper. 
 
 It was merely a line stating Miss Silver's wish to leave 
 Beechwood immediately, signed with her full name, her 
 right name, " Louise Euge'nie D'Argent." 
 
 A postscript added : " Your silence I shall take as per- 
 mission to depart, and shall be gone early to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! Gone to-morrow ! And she does not 
 even know that that I love her. Mother, you have ruined 
 my happiness. I will never forgive you never ! " 
 
 Never forgive his mother ! his mother who had borne 
 him, nursed him, reared him ; who had loved him with that 
 love, like none other in the world, the love of a woman 
 for her first-born son all these twenty-one years. 
 
 It was hard. I think the most passionate lover in rea- 
 sonable 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 weafr mcertain walk, she went up to Guy 
 and touched his arm. 
 
 u You must keep quiet or you will be ill. I cannot have 
 my son ill, not for any girl. Come sit down here beside 
 your mother." 
 
 She was obeyed. Looking into her eyes and seeing no 
 anger there, nothing but grief and love, the young man's 
 right spirit came into him again. 
 
 " Oh, 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,
 
 408 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 who had learned to love some one else dearer than his 
 mother. 
 
 After a while she said, " Father, shake hands with Guy. 
 Tell him that we forgive his being angry with us ; that 
 perhaps some day " 
 
 She stopped, uncertain as to the father's mind, or seeking 
 strength for her own. 
 
 " Some day," John continued, " Guy will find out that 
 we can have nothing in the world except our children's 
 good so dear to us as their happiness." 
 
 Guy looked up, beaming with hope and joy. " Oh, 
 Father ! Oh, Mother ! will you indeed " 
 
 " We will indeed say nothing," the father answered, 
 smiling ; " nothing until to-morrow. Then we will all three 
 talk the matter quietly over and see what can be done." 
 
 Of course, I knew to a certainty the conclusion the} 
 would come to. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 LATE that night, as I sat up pondering over all that had 
 happened, Mrs. H'alifax came into my room. 
 
 She looked round, asked me according to her wont if 
 there was anything I wanted before she retired for the 
 night, Ursula was as good to me as any sister, then 
 stood by my easy-chair. I would not meet her eyes, but I 
 saw her hands fluttering in their restless way. 
 
 I pointed to her accustomed chair. 
 
 " No, I can't sit down. I must say good-night ; " then, 
 coming at once to the point, " Phineas, you are always up 
 first in the morning. Will you John thinks it had bet- 
 ter be you will you give a message from us to Maud's 
 governess ? " 
 
 "Yes. What shall I say?" 
 
 " Merely that we request she will not leave until we have 
 seen her." 
 
 If Miss Silver had overheard the manner and tone of that 
 " request," I doubt if it would not have hastened rather than
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 409 
 
 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- 
 ceeding pain. Soon after, as meaning a faint apology, she 
 added, " I am so tired ; we are very late to-night." 
 
 u Yes ; it is almost morning. I thought you were both ' 
 va bed." 
 
 a No ; we have been sitting talking in Guy's room. His 
 father thought it would be better." 
 
 " And is all settled ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Having told me this and having, as it were, by such a 
 conclusion confessed it was right the question should be 
 thus " settled," Guy's mother seemed more herself. 
 
 " Yes," she repeated, " John thinks it ought to be ; at 
 least, that she should know Guy's the feeling with which 
 Guy regards her. If after the probation of a year it still 
 remains, and he is content to begin life on a small income, 
 we have given our consent to our son's marriage." 
 
 It struck me, yet not as a thing unnatural, how the 
 mother's mind entirely dwelt on the one party in this mat- 
 ter, " Guy's feelings," " our son's marriage," and so on. 
 The other side of the question, or the possibility of any 
 hindrance there, never seemed to enter her imagination. 
 Perhaps it would not even into mine, for I shared the family 
 faith in its best beloved Guy, but for Mrs. Halifax's so 
 entirely ignoring the notion that any consent except her 
 son's and his parents' was necessary to this marriage. 
 
 " It will not part him from us so very much, you see, 
 Phincas," she said, evidently trying to view the bright side ; 
 " and she has no relatives living, not one. For income, 
 Guy will have the entire profit of the Norton Bury mills ; 
 and they might begin, as we did, in the old Norton Bury 
 house, the dear old house." 
 
 The thought of her own young days seemed to come 
 soothingly and sweet, taking the sting out of her pain, 
 showing her how it was but right and justice that Na- 
 ture's holy law should be fulfilled ; that children, in their
 
 410 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 turn, s/iould love and marry and be happy, like their 
 parents. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, as I gently hinted this, " I know 
 you are right ; all is quite right and as it should be, though 
 it was a shock at first. No matter; John esteems her, 
 John likes her. For me, oh, I shall make a capital what 
 is it ? a capital mother-in-law, in time ! " 
 
 With that smile which was almost cheerful, she bade 
 me good-night, rather hastily, perhaps, as if she wished to 
 leave me while her cheerfulness lasted. Then 1 heard her 
 step along the passage, pausing once, most likely at Guy's 
 room door ; her own closed, and the house was in silence. 
 
 I rose early in the morning, not one whit too early, for 
 I met Miss Silver in the hall, bonneted and shawled, carry- 
 ing down with her own hands a portion of her chattels. 
 She evidently contemplated an immediate departure. It 
 was with the greatest difficulty that without betraying my 
 reasons, which of course was impossible, I could persuade 
 her to change her determination. 
 
 Poor girl ! last night's events had apparently shaken her 
 from that indifference which she seemed to think the best 
 armor of a helpless, proud governess against the world. 
 She would scarcely listen to a word. She was in extreme 
 agitation ; half a dozen times she insisted on leaving, and 
 then sat down again. 
 
 I had not given her credit for so much wholesome 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. Wil- 
 lingly I would have quieted her distress with some hopeful, 
 ambiguous word, but that would have been trenching as no 
 one ever ought to trench on the lover's sole right. So I 
 held my tongue, watching with an amused pleasure the color 
 hovering to and fro in that usually impassive face. At last, 
 at the opening of the study door we stood in the hall
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 411 
 
 still those blushes rose up to her forehead in one invol- 
 untary tide. 
 
 But it was only Edwin, who had lately taken to a habit 
 of getting up very early to study mathematics. He looked 
 surprised at seeing me with Miss Silver. 
 
 " What is that box ? She is not going ? " 
 
 "No; I have been entreating her not. Add your per- 
 suasions, Edwin." 
 
 For Edwin, with all his quietness, was a lad of much 
 wisdom, great influence, and no little penetration. I in- 
 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 wish it." 
 
 She made no more ado, but stayed. 
 
 I left her with Edwin, and took my usual morning walk 
 up and down the garden till breakfast-time. 
 
 A strange and painful breakfast it was, even though the 
 most important element in its painfulness, Guy, was hap- 
 pily absent. The rest of us kept up a fragmentary, awk- 
 ward conversation, every one round the table looking as 
 indeed one might have expected they would look, with one 
 exception. 
 
 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 par- 
 ents, as, unwitting both of his feelings and their inten- 
 tions 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, in- 
 deed, 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 no- 
 ticed. It completely altered the expression of her face, 
 made her look ten years younger, ten years happier, and 
 being happier ten times more amiable.
 
 412 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 '11 come ? Will you come 
 too, my dear ? " 
 
 " If you wish it," and with an air of unwonted obedience 
 she followed Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 Poor Guy ! Confused young lover ! Meeting for the first 
 time after his confession the acknowledged object of his 
 preference, I really felt sorry for him. And except that 
 women have generally twice as much self-control in such 
 cases as men, and Miss Silver proved it, I might even have 
 been sorry for her. But then her uncertainties would soon 
 be over. She h' ad not to make all her family being aware 
 she was then and there making it that terrible u offer of 
 marriage," which, I am given to understand, is even under 
 the most favorable circumstances as formidable as going 
 up to the cannon's mouth. 
 
 T 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, whis- 
 pering ; I think she kissed him ; then slowly, quietly, she 
 walked out of the study. J 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 41 3 
 
 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 '11 go and show them to Miss Silver." 
 
 " No," was the hasty answer. " Come back, Maud ; Miss 
 Silver is occupied." 
 
 Making some excuse, I sent the child away, for I saw that 
 even Maud's presence was intolerable to her mother, that 
 poor mother, whose suspense was growing into positive 
 agony ! 
 
 She waited, standing at the dining-room window, 
 listening, going in and out of the hall, for another ten 
 minutes. 
 
 " It is very strange, very strange, indeed. He promised 
 to come to tell me ; surely at least he ought to come and 
 tell me first, me, his mother " 
 
 She stopped at the word, oppressed by an anguish of 
 pain. 
 
 " Hark ! was that the study door ? " 
 
 " I think so ; one minute more, and you will be quite 
 certain." 
 
 Ay ! one minute more, and we were quite certain. The 
 young lover entered, his bitter tidings written on his 
 face. 
 
 " She has refused me, Mother ! I never shall be happy 
 more ! " 
 
 Poor Guy ! I slipped out of his sight and left the lad 
 alone with his mother. 
 
 Another hour passed of this strange, strange day. The 
 house seemed painfully quiet. Maud, disconsolate and 
 cross, had taken herself away to the beech wood with 
 Walter ; the father and Edwin were busy at the mills, and 
 had sent word that neither would return to dinner. I wan- 
 dered 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
 
 4i4 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 too lame to walk without assistance. I heard the poor lad'i 
 fretful tones and the soothing, cheerful voice that answered 
 them. " Verily," thought 1, " if, since he must fall in love, 
 Guy had only fixed his ideal standard of womanhood a little 
 nearer home, if he had only chosen for his wife a woman 
 a little more like his mother ! " But I suppose that would 
 have been expecting impossibilities. 
 
 Well, he had been refused ! our Guy, whom we all would 
 have imagined irresistible, our Guy, " whom to look on 
 was to love." Some harsh folk might say this might be a 
 good lesson for the lad, nay, for most lads ; but I deny it. 
 1 doubt if any young man, meeting at the outset of life a re- 
 jection like this, which either ignorance or heedlessness on 
 the woman's part has made totally unexpected, ever is the 
 better for it, perhaps, for many years, cruelly the worse ; 
 for, most women being quick-sighted about love, and most 
 men especially very young men blind enough in its 
 betrayal, any woman who wilfully allows an offer only to 
 refuse it lowers not only herself but her whole sex, for a 
 long, long time after, in the lover's eyes. At least, I think 
 o, as I was thinking, in the way old bachelors are prone 
 to moralize over such things, when, coming out of Guy's 
 room, I met Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 She crossed the passage hastily but noiselessly to the 
 small ante-room which Miss Silver had for her own private 
 study, out of which half a dozen stairs led to the chamber 
 where she and her pupil slept. The ante-room was open, 
 the bed-chamber door closed. 
 
 She is in there ? " 
 
 " I believe she is." 
 
 Guy's mother stood irresolute. Her knit brow and ner- 
 vous 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 iet 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 415 
 
 indecision. But she must be assured to the contrary ; my 
 boy's comfort must not be sacrificed. You understand 
 Phineas?" 
 
 Ay, perhaps better than she did herself, poor mother ! 
 
 Yet when, in answer to the hasty knock, I caught a glimpse 
 of Miss Silver opening the door, Miss Silver, with hair all 
 falling down dishevelled, and features swollen with crying, 
 1 went away completely at fault, as the standers-by seem I 
 doomed to be in all love affairs. I began to hope that this' 
 would settle itself somehow in all parties understanding 
 one another after the good old romantic fashion, and " living 
 very happy to the end of their lives." 
 
 I saw nothing more of any one until tea-time, when Mrs. 
 Halifax and the governess came in together. Something in 
 their manner struck me, one being subdued and gentle, 
 the other tender and kind. Both, however, were exceed- 
 ingly grave, nay, sad ; but it appeared to be that sadness 
 which is received as inevitable and is quite distinct from 
 either anger or resentment. 
 
 Neither Guy nor Edwin nor the father was present. 
 When John's voice, was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had 
 just risen to retire with Maud. 
 
 " Good-night, for I shall not come downstairs again," 
 she said hastily. 
 
 " Good-night," the mother answered in the same whisper, 
 rose, kissed her kindly, and let her go. 
 
 When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked re- 
 .narkably 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, and 
 then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed. 
 
 His father called him back. " Edwin, you will remember ? " 
 
 " I will, Father." 
 
 "Something is amiss with Edwin," said his mother, when 
 the two younger boys had closed the door behind them. 
 " What did you wish him to remember ? " 
 
 Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with that 
 peculiarly tender gaze which she knew well to be the fore- 
 warning of trouble, trouble he could not save her from,
 
 416 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 could only help her to bear. Ursula laid her head on hi8 
 shoulder with one deep sob of long-smothered pain. 
 
 " I suppose you know all. I thought you would soon 
 guess. Oh, John, our happy days are over ; our children 
 are children no more." 
 
 " But ours still, love, always will be ours." 
 
 " What of that when we can no longer make them happy ; 
 when they look for happiness to others, and not to us ? My 
 own poor boy ! To think that his mother can neither give 
 him comfort nor save him pain, any more." 
 
 She wept bitterly. 
 
 When she was somewhat soothed, John, making her sit 
 down by him but turning his face 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 told me so." 
 
 " And what did you say ?" 
 
 " What could I say ? I could not blame her ; I was even 
 sorry for her, she cried so bitterly, and begged me to 
 forgive her. I said I did, freely, and hoped she would be 
 happy." 
 
 " That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell 
 you who he this lover was ? " 
 
 " No. She said she could not until lie 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." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " 
 
 " John," startled by his manner, " you have some- 
 thing 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'a 
 loving he,r. He says so Edwin himself,"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 417 
 
 " 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 feel- 
 ings of life clash ; the bond of brotherly unity, in its 
 perfectness, is broken forever. 
 
 For some minutes we sat bewildered as it were, thinking 
 of the tale as if it had been told of some other family than 
 ours. Mechanically the mother raised her eyes. The first 
 object they chanced to meet was a rude water-color draw- 
 ing, kept, coarse daub as it was, because it was the only 
 reminder we had of what never could be recalled, one 
 red-cheeked child with a hoop staring at another red-cheeked 
 child with a nosegay, supposed to represent little Edwin 
 and little Guy. 
 
 " Guy taught Edwin to walk. Edwin made Guy learn 
 his letters. How fond they were of one another, those 
 two boys ! Now brother will be set against brother ! They 
 will never feel like brothers never again." 
 
 "Love" 
 
 " Don't, John ; don't speak to me just yet ! It is so ter- 
 rible to think of. Both my boys both my two noble boys 
 to be made miserable for that girl's sake. Oh, that she 
 had never darkened our doors ! Oh, that she had never 
 been born ! " 
 
 " Nay, you must not speak thus. Remember, Edwin 
 loves her ; she will be Edwin's wife." 
 
 " Never ! " cried the mother, desperately ; " I will not 
 allow it. Guy is the eldest. His brother has acted meanly, 
 so has she. No, John, I will not allow it." 
 
 " You will not allow what has already happened, what 
 Providence has permitted to happen ? Ursula, you forget, 
 they love one another." 
 
 This oue fact, this solemn uphoWing of the 
 
 27.
 
 418 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 right u,nd law of love, which law John believed in, they 
 both believed in, so sacredly and strongly, appeared to 
 force itself upon Mrs. Halifax's mind. Her passion subsided. 
 
 " I cannot judge clearly. You can always. Husband, 
 help me ! " 
 
 " Poor wife, poor mother!" he muttered, caressing her, 
 and in that caress himself all but giving way, " alas ! that 
 I should have brought thee into such a sea of trouble ! " 
 
 Perhaps he referred to the circumstance of his having 
 been the main cause of bringing Miss Silver into our house, 
 perhaps to his own blindness, or want of parental caution, 
 in throwing the young people continually together. How- 
 ever, John was not one to lament over things inevitable, or 
 by overweening blame of his own want of foresight to imply 
 a doubt of the foreseeing of Providence. 
 
 " Love," he said, " I fear we have been too anxious to 
 play deus ex machina with our children, forgetting in 
 whose Hands are marrying and giving in marriage, life's 
 crosses and life's crowns. Trouble has come when we looked 
 not for it. We can but try to see the right course, and see- 
 ing it, to act upon it." 
 
 Ursula assented, with a bursting heart, it seemed, but still 
 she assented, believing even, as in her young days, that her 
 husband's will was wisest, best. 
 
 He told her, in few words, all that Edwin had that day 
 confessed to his father ; how these two, being much together, 
 had become attached to one another, as young folks will, 
 couples whom no one would ever think suited each for each, 
 except Nature and the instinct of their own hearts. Ab- 
 sorbed in this love, which, Edwin solemnly declared, was 
 never openly confessed till this morning, they neither of 
 them ever thought of Guy. And thus things had befallen, 
 things which no earthly power could remove or obliter 
 ate, things in which, whatever way we looked, all seemed 
 darkness. We could but walk blindly on, a step at a time, 
 trusting to that faith of which all our lives past had borne 
 confirmation, the firm faith that evil itself is to the simple 
 and God-fearing but the disguised messenger of good. 
 
 Something like this John said, talking as his wife loved 
 to hear him talk, every quiet, low word dropping like
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 419 
 
 balm upon her grieved heart ; not trying to deceive her 
 into the notion that pain is not pain, but showing her how 
 best to bear it. At length she looked up, as if with God's 
 help and her husband's comforting she could bear it. 
 
 " Only one thing, Guy does not know. He need not 
 know just yet, not till he is stronger. Surely, Edwin will 
 not tell him?" 
 
 " No, he promised me he would not. Do not start so. 
 Indeed, there is no fear." 
 
 But that very assurance seemed to rouse it. She began 
 straining her ears to catch the least noise in the rooms 
 overhead, the boys' rooms. Guy and Walter shared one ; 
 Edwin had his to himself. 
 
 " They surely will not meet ; yet Guy sometimes likes 
 sitting over Edwin's fire. Hark, was not that the creaking 
 of Guy's room door ? " 
 
 " Love," - - detaining her. 
 
 " I know, John. I am not thinking of going. Guy might 
 suspect something. No, indeed, I am not afraid. They were 
 always fond of one another, my boys." 
 
 She sat down, violently forcing herself not to listen, not 
 to fear. But the truth was too strong for her. 
 
 " Hark ! I am sure they are talking. John, you said 
 Edwin promised ? " 
 
 " Faithfully promised." 
 
 "But if, by some accident, Guy found out the truth! 
 Hark ! they are talking very loud. That is a chair fallen. 
 Oh, John, don't keep me! My boys, my boys!" and she 
 ran upstairs in an agony. 
 
 What a sight for a mother's eyes ! Two brothers of 
 whom it had been our boast that from babyhood they had 
 never been known to lift a hand against each other now 
 struggling together like Cain and Abel ; and from the 
 fury in their faces, the quarrel might have had a similar 
 ending. 
 
 " Guy ! Edwin ! " but the mother might as well have 
 shrieked to the winds. 
 
 The father came and parted them. " Boys, are you gone 
 mad, fighting like brutes in this way? Shame, Guyl 
 Edwin, I trusted you."
 
 420 JO11N HALIFAX. 
 
 " I could not help it, Father. He had no right to steal 
 into nay room, no right to snatch her letter from me." 
 
 " It was her letter, then '.' " cried Guy, furiously. " She 
 writes to you ? You are 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, 421 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 JOHN and I sat over the study fire till long after 
 midnight. 
 
 Many an anxious watch I had kept with him, but none 
 sadder than this, because now, for the first time, our 
 house was divided against itself. A sorrow had entered it, 
 not from without, but from within, a sorrow which we could 
 not meet and bear as a family. Alas ! darker and darker 
 had the bitter truth forced itself upon us, that neither joy 
 nor affliction would ever find us as a family again. 
 
 I think all parents must feel cruelly a pang like this, 
 the first trouble in which they cannot help their children, 
 the first time when those children must learn to stand 
 alone, each for himself compelled to carry his own burden 
 and work out, well or ill, his individual life ; when the ut- 
 most 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 pinna- 
 cle 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 is one thing in the world that ruins a 
 lad, drives him to desperation, shuts the door of home upon 
 him and opens many another door, of which the entrance 
 is the very gate of hell, it is such a disappointment as this 
 which had happened to our Guy. 
 
 His father saw it all, saw it clearer, crueller, than even 
 his mother could see. Yet, when very late, almost at 
 dawn, she came in, with the tidings that Guy was himself 
 again now, sleeping as quietly as a child, her husband was 
 able to join in her deep thankfulness, and give her hope for 
 the days to come. 
 
 " But what is to be done with Guy ? "
 
 422 JOHN HALIiAX. 
 
 " God knows," John answered ; but his tone expressed 
 a meaning different from that generally conveyed in the 
 words, a meaning which the mother caught at once, and 
 rested on. 
 
 " Ay, you are right. He knows ! " and so they went 
 away together, almost content. 
 
 Next morning I woke late, the sunshine falling across my 
 bed and the sparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had luvn 
 dreaming with a curious pertinacy of the old days at Rose 
 Cottage, the days when John first fell in love with Ursula. 
 
 " Uncle Phineas," I heard myself called. 
 
 It was John's son who sat opposite, with wan, wild eyes 
 and a settled anguish on his mouth, that merry, handsome 
 mouth, very like his father's, 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 re- 
 fused eh ? " and braving it out, he began to whistle ; 
 but the lips fell, the frank brow grew knotted with pain. 
 The lad broke into a passion of misery. 
 
 The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived, 
 unwittingly, we believed, but still deceived. Many little 
 things he told me Guy's was a nature that at once spent 
 and soothed itself by talking of Miss Silver's extreme 
 gentleness and kindness 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,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 423 
 
 out of mockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to 
 fight 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- 
 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 would be safer. He must mind, or I will not 
 answer for myself. I was fond of Edwin, I was indeed ; 
 but now it seems sometimes as if I hated him." 
 
 " Guy ! " 
 
 " Oh, if it had been a stranger and not he ! If it had 
 been any one in the world except my brother ! " 
 
 And in that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again ; it 
 was such a tender heart, his mother's heart. 
 
 After a time he recovered himself and came down with 
 me to breakfast, as he had insisted upon doing ; met them 
 all, even Miss Silver and Edwin, who had placed himself 
 by her side with an air of right. These lovers, however 
 deeply grieved they looked, and to do them justice, it 
 \viis really so, needed not to be grieved over by any of us. 
 
 Nor looking at the father and mother would we have 
 dared to grieve over them. In the silent watches of the 
 night, heart to heart, husband and wife had taken counsel 
 together; together had carried their sorrows to the only 
 Lightener of burdens. It seemed that theirs was light- 
 ened, that even in this strange entanglement of fate they 
 were able to wait patiently, trusting unto the Almighty 
 Mercy not only themselves but the children he had given 
 them.
 
 424 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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, 
 jealousy, and disunion, to repeat after him the " Our 
 Father " of their childhood. 
 
 I believe every one of us remembered for years, with an 
 awe that was not altogether pain, this morning's chapter 
 and prayer. 
 
 When it was ended, worldly troubles closed round us 
 again. 
 
 Nothing seemed natural. We hung about in twos and 
 threes, uncertain what to do. Guy walked up and down 
 alone. His mother asked him if, seeing his foot was so 
 well, he would like to go down to the mills as usual, but he 
 declined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about " les- 
 sons " which Edwin jealously negatived immediately, and 
 proposed that she and Maud should take a drive somewhere. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax eagerly assented. " Lady Oldtovver has 
 been wanting them both for some time. You would like to 
 go, would you not, for a day or two ? " said she, addressing 
 the governess. 
 
 Guy caught at this. " Going away, are you ? When ? " 
 
 He put the question to Miss Silver direct, his eyes blazing 
 right into her own. She made some confused reply about 
 " leaving immediately." 
 
 " In the carriage, of course ? Shall I have the 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. 
 
 u Come along, Maud. You '11 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.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 425 
 
 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. 
 
 u Come here, Maud, my child. Guy, you should not be 
 unkind to your little sister. Try and command yourself, 
 my dear boy ! " 
 
 The words, though spoken gently, almost in a whisper, 
 were more than the lad's chafed spirit could brook. 
 
 " Father, you insult me. 1 will not bear it. 1 will quit 
 the room." 
 
 He went out, shutting the door passionately after him. 
 His mother rose up to follow him, then sat down again. 
 The eyes that she lifted to her husband were deprecating, 
 beseeching, heavy with a speechless pain. 
 
 For John, he said nothing, not though, as was plain to 
 see, this, the first angry or disrespectful word he had ever 
 received from any one of his children, struck him like an 
 arrow, for a moment stirred him even to wrath, holy 
 wrath, the just displeasure of a father who feels that the 
 least portion of his child's sin is the sin against him. Per- 
 haps this very feeling, distinct from and far beyond all 
 personal indignation, all sense of offended dignity, made 
 the anger strangely brief, so brief that, when the other 
 children, awed and startled, looked for some ebullition 
 of it, lo! it was all gone. In its stead was something 
 at which the children, more awed still, crept out of the 
 room. 
 
 Ursula even, alarmed, looked in his face as if for the first 
 time she could not comprehend her husband. 
 
 " John, you should forgive poor Guy ; he did not intend 
 any harm." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " And he is so very miserable. Never before did he fail 
 in his duty to you." 
 
 " But what if 1 have failed in mine to him ? What if 
 you used to say 1 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
 
 426 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 consola- 
 tion. 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 pro- 
 ject 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 
 already " broken," broken more than either absence, 
 marriage, or death itself could have effected. 
 
 One thing more we had to consider, a thing at once 
 natural and right in any family, namely, how to hide its 
 wounds from the chattering, scandalous world. And so, 
 when by a happy chance there came over that morning 
 our good friend, Lady Oldtower, and her carriage full of 
 daughters, Mrs. Halifax communicated, with a simple 
 dignity that quelled all comment or inquiry, the fact of 
 " my son Edwin's engagement," and accepted the invita- 
 tion for Maud and Miss Silver, which was willingly 
 repeated and pressed. 
 
 One thing I noticed, that in speaking either of or to the 
 
 firl who in a single day from merely the governess had 
 ecome 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 " Made- 
 moiselle d'Argent." 
 
 Before she left Beechwood, Edwin came in and hur- 
 riedly spoke to his mother. What he said was evidently 
 painful to both. 
 
 " I am not aware of it, Edwin. I had not the slightest 
 intention of offending her. Is she already made your 
 judge and referee as to the actions of your mother? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 427 
 
 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 I may bring her to you here ? " 
 
 " If you choose." 
 
 It was the first open recognition between the mother 
 and her son's betrothed. Their other meeting had been in 
 public, when with a sedulous dread both had behaved 
 exactly as usual, and no word or manner had betrayed 
 their altered relations. Now, when for the first time it was 
 needful for Miss Silver to be received as a daughter elect, 
 with all the natural sympathy due from one woman to 
 another under similar circumstances, all the warmth of 
 kindness due from a mother to her son's chosen wife, 
 the want, the mournful want, made itself felt. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying 
 vainly to regain self-control. 
 
 " If I could only love her ! If only she had made me 
 love her!" she muttered, over and over again. 
 
 I hoped from the bottom of my soul that Edwin had 
 not heard her, had not seen her involuntary recoil, as he 
 led to his mother his handsome girl that he seemed so 
 proud of, his happy, affianced wife. Happiness melts 
 some natures like spring and sunshine. Louise looked 
 up with swimming eyes. 
 
 " Oh, be kind to me ! Nobody was ever kind to me till 
 I came here ! " 
 
 The good heart gave way ; Mrs. Halifax opened her 
 arms. 
 
 " Be true to Edwin, love Edwin, and I shall love you ; 
 I am sure I shall." 
 
 Kissing her once or twice, the mother let fall a few 
 tears, then sat down, still keeping the girl's hand, and 
 busying herself with various little kindnesses about her. 
 
 "Are you sure you are well wrapped up? Edwin, see 
 that she has my fur cloak in the carriage. What cold 
 fingers ! Have some wine before you start, my dear."
 
 428 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 
 disguise of " right " that open vengeance was impossible. 
 But as Edwin hurried Louise away, the look that passed 
 between the two young men was enough to blot out hence- 
 forward 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 
 %f his comings and goings, his restless starts, his fits of
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 429 
 
 dark musing, when his face grew like the face of some 
 stranger, some one whom we would have shrunk from, 
 any one but our own merry Guy. 
 
 " Mother ! " the voice startled me, such irritable, in- 
 tolerable 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 1 had anything to do. Mother," kneeling 
 down by her with a piteous gaze, " Mother, you need not 
 Jook so wretched. I wouldn't harm Edwin, would not 
 take from him his happiness ; but to live in sight of it day 
 after day, hour after hour I can't do it. Do not ask me ; 
 let me get away." 
 
 " But where ? " 
 
 " Anywhere, as I said ; only let me go far away from them 
 where no possible news of them can reach me ; in some 
 place, oh, Mother darling ! where I can trouble no one and 
 make no one miserable." 
 
 The mother feebly shook her head : as if such a spot 
 could be found on earth while she lived ! 
 
 But she saw that Guy was right. To expect him to 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, a* death may be ; but to ." die daily ! " In youth,
 
 430 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 too, with all the passions vehement, the self-knowledge and 
 self-control small : no, Nature herself, hi that universal 
 desire to escape which comes with such a trial, hints at 
 the unnaturalness of the ordeal, in which, soon or late, 
 the weak become 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 immedi- 
 ately. I had thought, bound up in him as she was, accus- 
 tomed 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 reluc- 
 tance, some grieved entreaty : but no ! not even when, 
 gaining her consent, the boy looked up as if her allowing 
 him to quit her was the greatest kindness she had ever in 
 his life bestowed. 
 
 " And when shall I go ? " 
 
 " Whenever you choose." 
 
 " To-day ; perhaps I might get away to-day ? " 
 
 " You can if you wish, my dear boy." 
 
 But no sooner had she said it than the full force and 
 meaning of the renunciation seemed to burst upon her. 
 Her fingers, which had been smoothing Guy's hand as it 
 lay on her lap, tightly closed round it ; with the other 
 hand she put back his hair, gazing, gazing, as if it were 
 impossible to part with him. 
 
 " Guy, oh Guy, my heart is breaking ! Promise that 
 you will try to be yourself again ; that you will never be 
 anything other than my own good boy, if I agree to let 
 you go ? " 
 
 What he answered or what further passed between them 
 was not for me either to hear or to know. I left the room 
 immediately. 
 
 When, some time after John's hour for returning from 
 the mills, I also returned to the house, I found that every- 
 thing was settled for Guy's immediate departure. 
 
 There was some business in Spain something about 
 Andalusian wool which .his father made the ostensible
 
 JOHK HALIFAX. 431 
 
 reason for the journey. It would be enough to occupy him 
 and distract his mind, besides giving him constant neces- 
 sity 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 
 obstinate determination to depart alone. He refused his 
 mother's companionship to London, even his father's across 
 the country to the nearest point where one of those new 
 and dangerous things called railways tempted travellers to 
 their destruction. But Guy would go by it ; the maddest 
 and strangest way of locomotion pleased him best. So it 
 was settled he should go, as he pleaded, this very day. 
 
 A strange day it seemed ; long, and yet how short ! Mrs. 
 Halifax was incessantly busy. I caught sight of her now 
 and then, flitting from room to room, with Guy's books in 
 her hand, Guy's linen thrown across her arm. Some- 
 times she stood a few minutes by the window, doing a few 
 stitches of necessary work, which, when even Nurse Wat- 
 kins offered to do, Jenny, who had been a rosy lass when 
 Guy was born, she refused abruptly, and went stitch- 
 ing on. 
 
 There were no regular meals that day ; better not, per- 
 haps. I saw John come up to his wife as she stood sew- 
 ing and bring her a piece of bread and a glass of wine ; 
 but she could not touch either. 
 
 " Mother, try," whispered Guy, mournfully. " What will 
 become of me if I have made you ill ? " 
 
 " Oh, no fear, no fear ! " She smiled, took the wine and 
 swallowed it, broke off a bit of the bread, and went on 
 with her work. 
 
 The last hour or two passed so confusedly that I do not 
 well remember them. I can only call to mind seeing Guy 
 and his mother everywhere side by side, doing everything 
 together, as if grudging each instant remaining till the 
 final instant came. I have also a vivid impression of her 
 astonishing composure, of her calm voice when talking to 
 Guy about indefinite trifles ; or, though that was seldom, 
 to any other of us. It never faltered, never lost its rich,
 
 432 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 round cheerfulness of tone, as if she wished him to carry 
 it as such and no other the familiar mother's voice in. 
 his memory across the seas. 
 
 Once only it grew sharp, when Walter, who hovered 
 about disconsolately, knelt down to fasten his brother's 
 portmanteau. 
 
 " No ! Let go ! I can do everything myself." 
 
 And now the time was fast flying ; her boy must depart. 
 
 All the household collected in the hall to bid Mr. Guy 
 good-by, Mr. Guy, whom everybody was so fond of. 
 They believed which was all that any one, save our- 
 selves, ever believed or knew that sudden business had 
 called him away on a long and anxious journey. They 
 lingered about him respectfully with eager, honest bless- 
 ings, such as it was good the lad should have, good that 
 he should bear away with him from England and from 
 home. 
 
 Finally, Guy, his father, and his mother went into the 
 study by themselves. Soon even his father came out 
 and shut the door, that there should be not a single wit- 
 ness to the last few words between mother and son. 
 These being over, they both came into the hall together, 
 brave and calm, which calmness was maintained even to 
 the last good-by. 
 
 Thus we sent our Guy away, cheerfully and with bless- 
 ings, away into the wide, dangerous world ; alone, with 
 no guard or no restraint, except and in that except lay 
 the whole mystery of our cheerfulness the fear of God, 
 his father's counsels, and his mother's prayers. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Two years rolled over Beechwood, two uneventful years. 
 The hist of the children ceased to be a child ; and we pro. 
 pared for that great era in all household history, the first 
 marriage in the family. It was to be celebrated very qui- 
 etly, as Edwin and Louise both desired. Time had healed
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 433 
 
 over many a pang and taught many a soothing lesson; 
 still it could not be supposed that this marriage was with- 
 out its puinf ulness. 
 
 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 besides his 
 mother. Maud and Walter replied to him in long home 
 histories, and began to talk -without hesitation, nay, with 
 great pride and pleasure, of " my brother who is abroad." 
 
 The family wound seemed closing, the family peace about 
 to be restored. Maud even fancied Guy ought to come home 
 to " our wedding ; " but then she never had 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 appeare4 
 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 
 began 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 as fast as when he was young. And I returned 
 his smile, telling him we were evidently both growing old 
 men, and must soon set our faces to descend the hill of life 
 together. 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 referred to, for indeed they were absorbed and for- 
 gotten in the home troubles that came after. He had lived 
 down all slanders, as he said he would. Far and near trav- 
 elled the story of the day when Jessop's bank was so 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
 
 434 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 was to help the widow of one and send the others safe out 
 of the country at his own expense, not Government's. 
 None of these were notable or showy deeds. Scarcely one 
 of them got, even under the disguise of asterisks, into the 
 newspapers. The Norton Bury " Mercury " for its last 
 dying sting still complained (and very justly) that there 
 was not a gentleman in the county whose name so seldom 
 headed a charity subscription as that of John Halifax, 
 Esquire, of Beechwood. But the right made its way, as 
 soon or late the right always does. He believed his good 
 name was able to defend itself; and it did defend itself. 
 He had faith in the only victory worth having, the univer- 
 sal victory of truth ; and truth conquered at last. 
 
 To drive with him across the country he never carried 
 pistols now or to walk with him, as one day before Ed- 
 win's wedding we walked, a goodly tribe, through the famil- 
 iar streets of Norton Bury, was a perpetual pleasure to the 
 rest of the family. Eveiybody knew him, everybody 
 greeted him, everybody smiled as he passed, as though his 
 presence and his recognition were good things to have and 
 to win. His wife often laughed and said she doubted 
 whether even Mr. O'Connell of Derrynane, who was just 
 now making a commotion in Ireland, lighting the fire of 
 religious and political discord from one end to the other of 
 County Clare, she doubted if even Daniel O'Connell had 
 more popularity among his own people than John Halifax 
 had in the honest neighborhood where he had lived so long. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax was remarkably gay this morning. She had 
 letters from Guy, together with a lovely present, for which 
 he said he had ransacked all the magazinsdes modes in Paris 
 a white, embroidered China shawl. It had arrived this 
 morning, Lord Ravenel being the bearer. This was not the 
 first time by many that he had brought us news of our Guy, 
 and thereby made himself welcome at Beechwood, more 
 welcome than he might have been otherwise, for his manner 
 of life was so different from ours. Not that Lord Ravenel 
 could be accused of any likeness to his father ; but blood 
 is blood, and education and habits are not to be easily 
 overcome. The boys laughed at him for his aristocratic, 
 languid ways; Maud teased him for his mild cynicism and
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 435 
 
 the little interest he seemed to take in anything ; while the 
 mother herself was somewhat restless about his coming, 
 wondering what possible good his acquaintance could do to 
 us or ours to him, seeing we moved in totally different 
 spheres. But John himself was invariably kind, nay, ten- 
 der over him. We all guessed why. And perhaps, even 
 had not the young man had so many good points while his 
 faults were more negations- than positive ill qualities, we 
 likewise should have been tender over him for Muriel's sake. 
 
 He had arrived at Beechwood this morning, and falling 
 as usual into our family routine, had come with us to Nor 
 ton Bury. He looked up with more interest than usual in 
 his pensive eyes as he crossed the threshold of our old 
 house, and told Maud how he had come there many years 
 ago with his father. 
 
 " That was the first time I ever met your father," I 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 
 tidings 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 tem- 
 perament and under Guy's present circumstances was 
 thrown into the society which now surrounded the de- 
 bauched dotage of the too notorious Earl of Luxmore. 
 
 " My son did not mention it. He has been too much 
 occupied in business matters to write home frequently 
 since he reached Paris. However, his stay there is lim- 
 ited ; " 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."
 
 436 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Guy's mother bowed, but coldly. 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Halifax, you are aware that the earl's 
 tastes and mine differ widely, have always differed; but 
 he is an old man, and I am his only son. He likes to see 
 me sometimes, and I go, though I must confess I take 
 little pleasure in the circle he has around him." 
 
 " In which circle, as I understand, my son is constantly 
 included ? " 
 
 " Why not ? It is a very brilliant circle, the whole 
 court of Charles Dix can afford none more amusing. 
 For the rest, what matters ? One learns to take things as 
 they seem, without peering below the surface. One wearies 
 of impotent quixotism against unconquerable evils." 
 
 " That is not our creed at Beech wood," said Mrs. Halifax, 
 abruptly, as she ceased the conversation. But ever and 
 anon it seemed to recur to her mind, ay, through all the 
 mirth of the young people, all the graver pleasure which 
 the father took in the happiness of his son Edwin, his 
 good son, who had never given him a single care. He 
 declared this settling of Edwin had been to him almost as 
 good as the days when he himself used to come of evenings, 
 hammer in hand, to put up shelves in the house or nail the 
 currant-bushes against the wall, doing everything con amore 
 and with the utmost care, knowing it would come under 
 the quick, observant eyes of Ursula March. 
 
 " That is, of Ursula Halifax ; for I don't think I let her 
 see a single one of my wonderful doings until she was 
 Ursula Halifax. Do you remember, Phineas, when you 
 came to visit us the first time and found us gardening ? " 
 
 " And she had on a white gown and a straw hat with 
 blue ribbons. What a young thing she looked ! hardly any 
 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 read- 
 ings of poetry, a line or two from the sweet old English 
 song, 
 
 " And when with anger Time, transported, 
 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 You '11 in your girls again be courted, 
 And I '11 go wooing with my boys."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 43? 
 
 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 
 trouble. She let him spend a happy day, and even grew 
 happy herself in response to his care to make her so, by the 
 resolute putting away of all painful present thoughts and 
 calling back of sweet and soothing memories belonging to 
 this their old married home. John seemed determined 
 that, if possible, the marriage that was to be should be as 
 sacred and as hopeful as their own. 
 
 So full of it were we all, that not until the day after, when 
 Lord Ravenel had left us, longing, apparently, to be asked 
 to stay the wedding, but John did not ask him, I remem- 
 bered what he had said about Guy's association with Lord 
 Luxmore's set. It \vas recalled to me by the mother's 
 anxious face, as she gave me a foreign letter to post. 
 
 t; Post it yourself, will you, Phineas ? I would not have 
 it miscarry or be late in its arrival on any account." 
 
 No ; for 1 saw it was to her son at Paris. 
 
 " It will be the last letter I shall need to write," she 
 added, again lingering over it, to be certain that all was 
 correct, the address being somewhat illegible for that free 
 firm hand of hers. " My boy is coming home." 
 
 " Guy coming home ! To the marriage V" 
 
 " 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 prepa- 
 rations , 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. 
 
 k; ,He is the eldest son," he repeated more than once.
 
 438 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 when talking to me of his hope that Guy would now settle 
 permanently at Beechwood ; " after myself, the head of 
 the family." 
 
 After John ! It was almost ridiculous to peer so far into 
 the future as that. 
 
 Of all the happy faces I saw the day before the marriage 
 I think the happiest was Mrs. Halifax's, as I met her coming 
 out of Guy's room, which ever since he left had been locked 
 up, unoccupied. Now his mother threw open the door with 
 a cheerful air. 
 
 " You may go in if you like, Uncle Phineas. Does it not 
 look nice ? " 
 
 It did indeed, with the fresh white curtains, the bed laid 
 all in order, the book-shelves arranged, and even the fowling 
 piece and fishing-rods put in their right places. 
 
 The room looked very neat I said, with an amused doubt 
 as to how long it was likely 'to remain so. 
 
 " That is true indeed. How he used to throw his things 
 about ! A sad untidy boy ! " and his mother laughed ; 
 but I saw all her features were trembling with emotion. 
 
 " He will not be exactly a boy now. I wonder if we shall 
 find him much changed ? " 
 
 " Very likely. Brown, with a great beard ; he said 
 so in one of his letters. I shall hardly know my boy 
 again," - with a lighting up of the eye that furnished a flat 
 contradiction to the mother's statement. 
 
 " Here are some of Mrs. Tod's roses, I see." 
 
 " She made me take them. She said Master Guy al- 
 ways used to stop and pick a bunch as he rode past. She 
 hopes she will see him ride past on Saturday next. Guy 
 must pay her one of his very first visits, the good old 
 soul ! " 
 
 I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over 
 the country, to judge by the number of invitations I had 
 heard of. 
 
 " Yes, everybody wants to steal my boy ; everybody has 
 a welcome for him. How bright old Watkins has polished 
 that gun ! Sir Herbert says Guy must come over to the 
 shooting next week. He used to be exceedingly fond of 
 going to the manor-house."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 439 
 
 I smiled to see the innocent smile of this good mother, 
 who would have started at the bare accusation of match- 
 making. Yet I knew she was thinking of her great favorite, 
 pretty Grace Oldtower, who was Grace Oldtower still, and 
 had refused, gossip said, half the brilliant matches in the 
 county, to the amazement and strong disapprobation of all 
 her friends excepting Mrs. Halifax. 
 
 " Come away, Phineas ! " slightly sighing, as if her joy 
 weighed her down, or as if conscious that she was letting 
 fancy carry her too far into the unknown future. " His 
 room is quite ready now, whatever time the boy arrives. 
 Come away." 
 
 She shut and locked the door. To be opened when ? 
 
 Morning broke, and none could have desired a brighter 
 marriage morning ; sunshine out of doors, sunshine on all 
 the faces within, only family faces, for no other guests had 
 been invited, and we had kept the day as secret as we could. 
 There was nothing John disliked more than a show wedding. 
 Therefore it was with some surprise that while they were 
 all upstairs adorning themselves for church, Maud and I, 
 standing at the hall door, saw Lord Ravenel's travelling car 
 riage 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,. appar- 
 ently ; for, indeed, she was a sweet vision of youth, happiness, 
 and grace, in her pretty bridemaid'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 the 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,
 
 440 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 affectionate way. She had not yet relinquished her privilege 
 of being Lord Ravenel's "pet." When, hesitatingly, he 
 proposed returning to Luxmore, unwilling to intrude upon 
 the marriage, the little lady would not hear of it for a 
 moment. She took the unexpected guest to the study, left 
 him there with her father, explained to her mother all about 
 his arrival and his having missed seeing Guy, appearing 
 entirely delighted. 
 
 I came into the drawing-room and sat watching the sun 
 shining on marriage garments and marriage faces, all as 
 bright as bright could be, including the mother's. It had 
 clouded over for a few moments when the postman's ring 
 was heard ; but she said at once that it was most unlikely 
 Guy would write ; she had told him there was no need 
 to write. So she stood content, smoothing down the 
 soft folds of her beautiful shawl, which Guy had meant 
 her to wear to-day. This, together with his fond remem- 
 brance of her, seemed almost as comfortable as the visi- 
 ble presence of her boy, her boy, who was sure to come 
 to-morrow. 
 
 " John, is that you ? How softly you came in. And 
 Lord Ravenel ! He knows we are glad to see him. Shall 
 we make him one of our own family for the time being, and 
 take him with us to see Edwin married ? " 
 
 Lord Ravenel bowed. 
 
 " Maud tells us you have not seen Guy. I doubt if he 
 will be able to arrive to-day, but we fully expected him 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Lord Ravenel bowed again. Mrs. Halifax said something 
 about his speedy return to Luxmore. 
 
 "It was on business," John answered quickly, and 
 Ursula made no more inquiries. 
 
 She stood talking with Lord Ravenel, as I could see her 
 stand now, playing with the deep fringe of her shawl, the 
 sun glancing on that rich silk dress of her 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 441 
 
 By his tone and look, I knew in a moment that something 
 had happened. 
 
 " Yes, I '11 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 a-sitting for you." 
 
 " I will come in two minutes, my child." 
 
 Having said this in his own natural voice, he closed the 
 door again, as he 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 
 coming ? " 
 
 " In a moment, love," for her hand was on the door out- 
 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 ? " 
 
 " Yes. yes." 
 
 " Thank God ! " 
 
 But Guy's father was gone while I spoke. Heavy as the 
 news might be, this ill news which had struck me with 
 apprehension the moment I saw Lord Ravenel, it was 
 still endurable. I could not conjure up any grief so bitter 
 as the boy's dying. 
 
 Therefore with a quietness that came naturally under the
 
 442 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 strong compulsion of such a necessity as the present, 1 re 
 joined the rest, made my excuses, and answered all objec- 
 tions. I watched the marriage party leave the house. A 
 simple procession, the mother first, leaning on Edwin ; 
 then Maud, Walter, and Lord Ravenel ; John walked last, 
 with Louise upon his arm. Thus I saw them move up the 
 garden and through the beech wood to the little church on 
 the hill. 
 
 I then wrote the letter and sent it off. That done, I 
 went back into the study. Knowing nothing, able to 
 guess nothing, a dull patience came over me, the patience 
 with which we often wait for unknow T n, inevitable misfor- 
 tunes. Sometimes I almost forgot Guy in my startled 
 remembrance of his father's look as he called me away and 
 sat down, or rather dropped down, into his chair. Was it 
 illness ? yet he had not complained ; he hardly ever did 
 complain, 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 un- 
 steadiness or weakness. Besides, he was not one to keep 
 any but a necessary secret from those who loved him. He 
 could not be seriously ill or we should have known it. 
 
 Thus I pondered, until I heard the church bells ring out 
 merrily. The marriage was over. 
 
 I was just in time to meet them at the front gates, which 
 they entered our Edwin and his wife through a living 
 line of smiling faces, treading upon a carpet of strewn 
 flowers. Enderley would not be defrauded of its welcome. 
 All the village had escorted the young couple in triumph 
 home. I have a misty recollection of how happy everybody 
 looked, how the sun was shining and the bells ringing and 
 the people cheering, a mingled phantasmagoria of sights 
 and sounds in which I saw only one person distinctly ; John. 
 
 He waited while the young folk passed in, stood on the 
 hall steps, in a few words thanked his people and bade 
 them to the general rejoicing. They, uproarious, answered 
 in loud hurras ; and one energetic voice cried out, 
 
 " One cheer more for Master Guy ! " 
 
 Guy's mother turned delighted, her eyes shining with 
 proud tears.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 443 
 
 " John, thank them ; tell them that Guy will thank them 
 himself to-morrow." 
 
 The master thanked them ; but either he did not explain, 
 or their 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 bride- 
 groom, he said to me, 
 
 " Phineas, is it done ? " 
 
 " What is done ? " asked Ursula, suddenly passing. 
 
 " A letter I asked him to write for me this morning." 
 
 Now I had all my life been proud of John's face : that it 
 was a safe face to" trust in ; that it could not, or if it could, 
 it would not, boast that stony calm under which some men 
 are so proud of disguising themselves and their emotions 
 from those nearest and dearest to them. If he were sad, 
 we knew it ; if he were happy, we knew it too. It was his 
 principle that nothing but the strongest motive should make 
 a man stoop to even the smallest hypocrisy. 
 
 Therefore, hearing him thus speak to his wife, I was struck 
 with great alarm. Mrs. Halifax herself seemed uneasy. 
 
 " A business letter, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Partly on business. I will tell you all about it this 
 evening." 
 
 She looked 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 ! " 
 
 In John's truthfulness both of word and look, his wife 
 always trusted implicitly, as she would have trusted her 
 own soul ; I also. Then what had happened must be some- 
 thing in which no help availed ; something altogether past 
 and irremediable ; something which he rightly wished to 
 keep concealed, for a few hours at least, from his other 
 children, so as not to mar the happiness of this notable day, 
 of which there could be no second, the crowning day of 
 their lives, < this wedding-day of Edwin and Louis*.
 
 444 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 So he sat at the marriage-table ; he drank the marriage 
 health ; he kissed them both, and gave them a father's 
 marriage blessing. Finally, he sent them away, smiling 
 and sorrowful, as is the bounden duty of young married 
 couples to depart, Edwin pausing even on the carriage- 
 step to embrace his mother with especial tenderness and 
 whisper her to " give his love to Guy." 
 
 " It reminds one of Guy's leaving," said the mother, has- 
 tily brushing back the tears that would spring and roll 
 down her smiling face. She had never until this moment 
 reverted to' that miserable day. " John, do you think it 
 possible the boy can be at home to-night ? " 
 
 John answered emphatically but very softly, " No." 
 
 " Why not ? My letter would reach him in full time. 
 Lord Ravenel has been to Paris and back again since then. 
 But " turning full upon the young nobleman "I think 
 you said you had not seen Guy ? " 
 
 "No."" 
 
 " Did you hear anything of him ? " 
 
 "I Mrs. Halifax " 
 
 Exceedingly distressed, almost beyond his power of self- 
 restraint, the young man looked appealingly to John, who 
 replied for him, 
 
 "Lord Ravenel brought me a letter from Guy this 
 morning." 
 
 " A letter from Guy ! and you never told me. How very 
 strange ! " 
 
 Still, she seemed only to think it " strange." Some diffi- 
 culty or folly, perhaps, you could see by the sudden flush- 
 ing of her cheek and her quick, distrustful glance at Lord 
 Ravenel, what she imagined it was that the boy had con- 
 fessed to his father. With an instinct of concealment 
 the mother's instinct for the moment she asked no 
 questions. 
 
 We were all still standing at the hall door. Unresisting, 
 she suffered her husband to take her arm in his and bring 
 her into the study. 
 
 " Now the letter, please ! Children, go away ; I want to 
 speak to your father. The letter, John ! " 
 
 Her hand which she held out shook like an aspen leaf.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 445 
 
 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 under- 
 going great torture which must be undergone, and which no 
 human love can either prepare for or remove or alleviate. 
 
 The letter, which I saw afterward, was thus : 
 
 DEAR FATHER AXD MOTHER : 
 
 I have disgraced you all. I have been drunk in a gaming-house. 
 A man insulted me it was about my father : but you will hear, all 
 the world will hear presently. I struck him there was something in 
 my hand, and the man was hurt. 
 
 He may be dead by this time. I don't know. 
 
 I am away to America to-night I shall never come home any more. 
 God bless you all. 
 
 GUT HALIFAX. 
 
 P. S. I got Mother's letter to-day. Mother, I was not in my right 
 senses or I should not have done it. Mother darling I 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, noth- 
 ing but these five words. 
 
 Nature refused to bear it ; or rather, Nature mercifully 
 helped her in the only way the mother could bear it. When 
 John took his wife in his arms, she was insensible and re- 
 mained so, with but rare intervals, for hours. 
 
 This was the end of Edwin's wedding-day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 LORD RAVEXEL knew as well 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
 
 446 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Rayenel, begging him himself to take the letter and break 
 the news to us at Beechwood. 
 
 The man he struck was not one of Lord Luxmore's set, 
 though it was through some of his " noble " friends Guy 
 had fallen into his company. He was an Englishman, 
 lately succeeded to a baronetcy and estate : his name 
 how we started to hear it, though by Lord Ravenel and by 
 us for his sake, it was pronounced and listened to as if none 
 of us had ever heard it before Sir Gerard Vermilye. 
 
 As soon as Ursula recovered, Mr. Halifax and Lord 
 Ravenel went to Paris together. This was necessary not 
 only to meet justice but to track the boy, to whose desti- 
 nation we had no clew but the wide word, America. Guy's 
 mother hurried them away, his mother, who rose from 
 her bed, and moved about the house like a ghost, upstairs 
 and downstairs, everywhere, excepting in that room which 
 was now once more locked and of which the outer blind 
 was 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, dur- 
 ing which we, living shut up at Beechwood, knew that our 
 name John's stainless, honorable name was in every- 
 body's mouth, parroted abroad in every society, can- 
 vassed in every newspaper. We tried, Walter and I, to 
 stop them at first, dreading lest the mother might read in 
 some foul print or other scurrilous tales about her boy ; 
 or, as long remained doubtful, learn that he was pro- 
 claimed 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 Oldtower. 
 
 " Come often," I heard her say to this girl, whom she 
 was fond of, they had sat talking a whole morning, idly 
 and pensively, of little, ^hings around them, never once
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 447 
 
 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 even 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 present tangible blank was the house with 
 its head and master away. 
 
 Curiously enough, but from his domestic habits easily 
 accountable, he had scarcely ever been more than a few 
 days absent from home before. We missed him continually, 
 in his place at the head of the table ; in his chair by the 
 fire ; his quick ring at the hall bell, when he came up from 
 the mills, his step, his voice, his laugh. The life and soul 
 of the house seemed to have gone out of it from the hour 
 the father went away. 
 
 I think, in the wonderful workings of things, as we 
 know all things do work together for good, this fact was 
 good for Ursula. It taught her that, in losing Guy, she 
 had not lost all her blessings. It showed her what in the 
 passion of her mother-love she might have been tempted 
 to forget, many mothers do, that beyond all maternal 
 duty is the duty that a woman owes to her husband, be- 
 yond 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 decis- 
 ions and all little pleasures planned for her to the time 
 " when your father comes home," hope and comfort began 
 to dawn in the heart of the mourning mother. 
 
 And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back, 
 I saw Ursula tying up the small bundle of his letters, his 
 letters, of which in all her happy life she had had so few, 
 his wise, 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.
 
 **8 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Af! 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 very white 
 it had grown 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 had hoped for, John had already told 
 in his letters. When he came back, therefore, he was bur- 
 dened with no trouble undisclosed, greeted with no an- 
 guish of fear or bitter remembrance. As he sprang out of 
 the post-chaise, it was to find his wife standing at the door 
 and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome. No 
 blessing on earth could be like the blessing of the father's 
 return. 
 
 John looked pale, but not paler than might have been 
 expected ; grave too, but it was a soft seriousness alto- 
 gether free from the restlessness of keen anxiety. The 
 first shock of this heavy misfortune was over. He had 
 paid all his son's debts ; he had, as far as was possible, 
 saved his good name ; he had made a safe home for the lad 
 and heard of his safely reaching it, in the New World. 
 Nothing more was left but to cover over the inevitable 
 grief, and hope that time would blot out the intolerable 
 shame ; that, since Guy's hand was clear of blood, and, 
 since his recovery, Sir Gerard Vermilye had risen into a 
 positive hero of society, men's minds would gradually 
 lose the impression of a deed committed in heat of youth 
 and repented of with such bitter atonement. 
 
 So the father took his old place and looked round on the 
 remnant of his children, grave indeed, but not weighed 
 down by incurable suffering. Something, deeper even than 
 the hard time he had recently passed through, seemed to 
 have made his home more than ever dear to him. He sat 
 in his arm-chair, never weary of noticing everything pleas- 
 ant about him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked 
 and how delicious it was to be at home. And perpetually, 
 if any chance unlinked it, his hand would return to its 
 clasp of Ursula's ; the minute she left her place by his side, 
 his restless " Love, where are you going ? " would call her
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 449 
 
 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 bands, 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 expres- 
 sion of his love these nine-and-twenty years. I left them 
 standing eye to eye, heart to heart, as if nothing in this 
 world could ever part them. 
 
 Next morning was gay as any of our mornings used to 
 be, for before breakfast came Edwin and Louise ; and after 
 breakfast, the father and mother and I walked up and 
 down the garden for an hour, talking over the prospects of 
 the young couple. Then the post came ; but we had no 
 need to watch for it now. It only brought a letter- from 
 Lord Ravenel. 
 
 John read it, somewhat more seriously than he had been 
 used to read these letters, which the last year or so had 
 come often enough, the boys usually contemning 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 being 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 damped ; and when Maud, claiming ' the 
 letter as usual, spread abroad delightedly the news that 
 " her " Lord Ravenel was coming shortly, I imagined this 
 visit was not so welcome as usual to the parents. 
 
 Yet still, as many a time before, when Mr. Halifax closed 
 the letter, he sighed, looked sorrowful, saying only " Poor 
 Lord Ravenel ! " 
 
 " John," asked his wife, speaking in a whisper, for by 
 tacit consent all public allusion to his doings at Paris was 
 avoided in the family, " did you, by any chance, hear any- 
 thing of you know whom I mean ? " 
 
 Not one syllable." 
 
 29
 
 450 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " 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 car- 
 ried me back perhaps others besides me to the day at 
 Longfield when little Guy had devoted himself to his 
 " pretty fady ; " when we first heard that other name, 
 which by a curious conjuncture of circumstances had since 
 become so fatally familiar and which would henceforward 
 be like the sound of a death-bell in our family, Gerard 
 Vermilye. 
 
 On Lord RavenePs reappearance at Beech wood and he 
 seemed eager and glad to come I was tempted to wish 
 him away. He never crossed the threshold but his pres- 
 ence brought a shadow over the parents' looks, and no 
 wonder. The young people were gay and friendly as ever, 
 made him always welcome with us ; and he rode over daily 
 from desolate, long-uninhabited Luxmore, where in all its 
 desolation he appeared so fond of abiding. 
 
 He wanted to take Maud and Walter over there one day, 
 to see some magnificent pines that were being cut down in 
 a wholesale massacre, leaving the grand old hall as bare as 
 a workhouse front. But the father objected; he was clearly 
 determined that all the hospitalities between Luxmore and 
 Beechwood should be on the Beechwood side. 
 
 Lord Ravenel apparently perceived this. " Luxmore is 
 not Compiegne," he said to me, with his dreary smile, half 
 sad, half cynical. " Mr. Halifax might indulge me with 
 the society of his children." 
 
 And as he lay on the grass it was full summer now 
 watching Maud's white dress flit about under the trees, I 
 saw, or fancied I saw, something different to any former 
 expression that ever lighted up the soft, languid mien of 
 William, Lord Ravenel. 
 
 " How tall that child has grown lately. She is about 
 nineteen, I think?" 
 
 " Not seventeen till December." 
 
 " Ah ! so young ? Well, it is pleasant to be young, 
 dear little Maud!"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 451 
 
 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 he too felt indistinctly the cloud that had come 
 over our intercourse with him, a cloud which, consider- 
 ing late events, was scarcely unnatural ; for his leave- 
 taking, always a regret, seemed now as painful as his 
 ennuye indifference to all emotions, pleasant or otherwise, 
 could allow him to feel anything. He lingered, he hesi- 
 tated ; he repeated many times how glad he should be to 
 see Beechwood again ; how all the world was to him " flat, 
 stale, and unprofitable " except Beechwood. 
 
 John made no special answer except that frank smile, 
 not without a certain kindly satire, under which the young 
 nobleman's Byronic affectations generally melted away like 
 mists in the morning. He kindled up into warmth and 
 manliness. 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Halifax, thank you heartily, for aL 
 you and your household have been to me. I trust I shall 
 enjoy that friendship for many years ; and if in any way I 
 might offer mine, or my small influence in the world " 
 
 " It is not small," John returned earnestly. " I have 
 often told you so. I know no man who has wider opportu- 
 nities than you have." 
 
 " But 1 have let them slip forever." 
 
 " lS T o, not forever. You are young still ; you have half a 
 lifetime before you yet." 
 
 " 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 beginning life at 
 seven -and-thirty ? " 
 
 " Are you really seven-and-thirty ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, little Maud." 
 
 He patted her on the shoulder, shook her hand, gazed at 
 it the round, rosy, healthy, girlish hand with a melan- 
 choly tenderness, said "Good-by" to all generally, and 
 rode away. 
 
 It struck me then, though I hurried the thought past, it
 
 452 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 struck me afterward, and docs now with renewed surprise, . 
 how strange it was that the mother never noticed or took 
 into account certain possibilities that would have occurred j 
 naturally to any worldly mother. I can only explain it by J 
 remembering the uuworldliness of our lives at Beech wood, I 
 the heavy cares which had pressed upon us from without, 
 and that notable fact which our own family experience 
 ought to have told 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, mourn- j 
 fully blind. 
 
 When, the very next day, Lord Ravenel, not on horse- ] 
 back but in his luxurious coroneted carriage, drove up to J 
 Beechwood, every one in the house, except perhaps myself, 1 
 was inconceivably astonished. 
 
 He said that he had delayed his journey to Paris, but 
 gave no explanation of that delay. He joined, as usual, in 1 
 our midday dinner ; and after dinner, still as usual, took a 1 
 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, and yet not surprised, to hear Lord Ravenel 
 allude to the fact, a well-known fact in our family ; for I 
 think all fathers and mothers like to relate, and all children 
 to hear, the incidents of the parents' courting days. 
 
 " You did not know our father and mother then ? " said 
 Maud, catching our conversation, and flashing back her 
 innocent, merry face upon us. 
 
 " No, scarcely likely. Oh, yes, it might have been ; I 
 forget I am not a young man now. How old were Mr. and 
 Mrs. Halifax when they married ? " 
 
 " Twenty-one and eighteen ; only eighteen, a year 
 older than I;" and Maud, half ashamed of this candid 
 exclamation, ran away through the wood, proving and 
 somehow I was thankful she did her entire free-hearted- 
 ness, her bloom of childhood still. 
 
 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, but 
 one ought not to be sorry for having when questioned given
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 453 
 
 one's honest opinion, I told him I thought those happiest 
 who found their happiness early, but that 1 did not see why 
 happiness should be rejected because it was the will of 
 Providence that it should not be found till late. 
 
 " 1 wonder," he said, dreamily, " I wonder whether I 
 shall ever find it." 
 
 I asked him it was by an impulse irresistible why 
 he had never married. 
 
 " Because I never found any woman either to love or to 
 believe in ; worse," he added, bitterly, " I did not think 
 there lived the woman who could be believed in." 
 
 We had come out of the beech wood and were standing 
 by the low church-yard wall ; the sun glittered on the white 
 marble headstone on which was written, " Muriel Joy 
 Halifax." 
 
 Lord Ravenel leaned over the wall, his eyes fixed upon 
 that little grave. 
 
 " Do you know, I have thought sometimes that, had she 
 lived, I could have loved I might have married that 
 child." 
 
 Here Maud sprang toward us in her playful tyranny, 
 which she loved to exercise and he to submit to still, 
 insisting on knowing what Lord Ravenel was talking about. 
 
 " 1 was saying," he answered, taking both her hands 
 and looking down steadily into her unshrinking eyes, " I 
 was saying how dearly I loved your sister Muriel." 
 
 " 1 know that," and Maud became grave at once ; " 1 
 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 satisfied, unsuspicious as heretofore. 
 But 1 began to be seriously uneasy about her and Lord 
 Ravenel. 
 
 Of all kinds of love, there is one which common sense and 
 romance have 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 ; 1
 
 454 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 than pitiful ; mid 
 there are few things to me more touching, more full of sad 
 earnest, than to see an old man in love with a young girl. 
 
 Lord Ravenel's case would hardly come under this cate- 
 gory ; yet the difference between seventeen and thirty-seven 
 was sufficient to warrant a trembling uncertainty, an eager 
 cutting up of the skirts of that vanishing youth whose 
 preciousness he never seemed to have recognized till now. 
 It was with a half mournful interest that all day I watched 
 him follow the child about, gather her posies, help her to 
 water her flowers, and accommodate himself to all her 
 whims and fancies, of which, as the pet and the youngest, 
 Mistress Maud had her share. 
 
 When, at her usual hour of half past nine, the little lady 
 was warned away to bed, " to keep up her roses," he seemed 
 almost to resent 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? Surely you will come soon again? 
 You must, you shall ! " said Maud, decisively. 
 
 " I hope I may, I trust in Heaven I may ! " 
 
 He spoke low, holding her hand distantly and reverently, 
 not attempting to kiss it, as in all his former farewells he 
 had invariably done. 
 
 " Maud, remember me ! However or whenever I come 
 back, dearest child, be faithful and remember me ! " 
 
 Maud fled away with a sob of childish pain, half 
 anger, the mother thought, and faintly apologized for her 
 " naughtiness." 
 
 Lord Ravenel sat silent for a long, long time. 
 
 Just when we thought he was leaving, he said abruptly, 
 " Mr. Halifax, may I have five minutes' speech with you in 
 the study?" 
 
 The five minutes extended to half an hour. Mrs. Hali- 
 fax wondered what on earth they were talking about. I 
 held my peace. At last John came in alone. 
 
 "Is Lord Ravenel gone?"
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 455 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "What could he have wanted to say to you?" 
 
 John sat down by his wife, picked up the ball of her 
 knitting, rolled and unrolled it. She saw at once that 
 something had grieved and perplexed him exceedingly. 
 It shrunk back, that still sore heart, recoiled with a not 
 unnatural fear. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Lord Ravenel ? Impossible ! Ridiculous, absolutely 
 ridiculous ! She is only a child." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Lord Ravenel wishes to marry our little 
 Maud." 
 
 " Lord Ravenel wishes to marry our Maud ! " 
 
 Mrs. Halifax repeated this to herself more than once 
 before she was able to entertain it as a reality. When she 
 did, the first impression was altogether pain. 
 
 " Oh, John, 1 thought we had done with this sort of 
 thing ; I thought we should have been left in peace with 
 the rest of our children." 
 
 John smiled again, for, indeed, there was a comical 
 side to her view of the subject ; but its serious phase soon 
 returned, doubly so when, looking up, they both saw Lord 
 Ravenel standing before them. Firm his attitude was, 
 firmer than usual ; and it was with something of his fath- 
 er's stately air, mingled with a more chivalric and sincerer 
 grace, that he stooped forward and kissed the hand of 
 Maud's mother. 
 
 " Mr. Halifax has told you, I believe ? " 
 
 "He has." 
 
 " May I then, with all trust in you both, await my 
 answer ? " 
 
 He waited it, patiently enough, with no more than a 
 lover's natural share of doubt as to what it would be. 
 Besides, this was not the vital question of Maud's pref- 
 erence ; and, with all his natural humility, he might be 
 forgiven if, brought up in the world, he was conscious, and 
 perhaps indicated his consciousness, that it was not merely
 
 456 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 William Ravenel, but the only son and heir of the Earl of 
 Luxmore, who came a-wooing. 
 
 Not till after a long pause and even a whispered word 
 or two between the husband and wife, who knew each 
 other's minds so well, did the suitor again, with a more 
 formal air, ask for their answer. 
 
 " It is difficult to give. I find that my wife, like myself, 
 had no idea of such a thing. Its extreme suddenness " 
 
 " My intention has not been sudden. It is the growth of 
 many months, years, I might almost say." 
 
 " We are the more grieved." 
 
 " Grieved ? " 
 
 His extreme surprise startled Lord Ravenel from the 
 suitor into the lover ; he glanced from one to the other in 
 undisguised alarm. Maud's father hesitated; the mother 
 said something about the " great difference." 
 
 " Of age, do you mean ? I am aware of that," he an- 
 swered with some sadness. " But twenty years is not an 
 insuperable bar." 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Halifax, thoughtfully. 
 
 " And for any other disparity, in fortune or rank " 
 
 " I think, Lord Ravenel, that you know enough of my 
 husband's character and opinions to be assured how lightly 
 he would hold such disparity, if you mean that between the 
 son of the Earl of Luxmore and the daughter of John 
 Halifax." 
 
 The young nobleman colored, not without an ingenuous 
 shame at what he had been implying. " I am glad of it. 
 Let me assure you there will be no impediments on the side 
 of my family. The earl has long wished me to marry. Ho 
 knows well enough that I can marry whom I please and 
 shall marry for love only. Give me your leave to win your 
 little Maud." 
 
 A dead silence. 
 
 " Pardon me," Lord Ravenel said with some hauteur ; " I 
 cannot have clearly explained myself. Let me repeat, Mr. 
 Halifax, that I ask your permission to seek your daughter's 
 affection, and in due time, her hand." 
 
 " I would you had asked of me anything that it would bo 
 less impossible to give you."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 457 
 
 " Impossible ? Mrs. Halifax " He turned instinctivelj 
 to the woman, the mother. 
 
 Ursula's eyes were full of sad kindness the kindness 
 any mother must feel toward one who worthily woos her 
 daughter, but no more than this. 
 
 " 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 ; though, believe me, it is with 
 the deepest pain. Lord Ravenel, do you not yourself see 
 that our Maud " 
 
 " Wait one moment," he interrupted. " There is not, 
 there cannot be, any previous attachment ? " 
 
 The supposition almost made the parents smile. " Indeed, 
 no. Maud is little more than a child." 
 
 " You think her too young, then ? " was the eager answer. 
 " Be it so. I will wait, though my youth, too, is slipping 
 from me ; but 1 will wait two years, three any time 
 you choose to name." 
 
 John needed not to reply. The very sorrow of his 
 decision showed how inevitable and irrevocable it was. 
 
 Lord Ravenel 's pride rose against it. 
 
 " Pardon me, if 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 the Viscountess Ravenel, 
 and in course of time, Countess of Luxmore ? " 
 
 " 1 believe it would. Her mother and I would rather 
 see our little Maud lying beside her sister Muriel than see 
 her Countess of Luxmore." 
 
 These words, hard as they were, John uttered so softly, 
 with such infinite grief and pain, that they struck the young 
 man, not with anger, but with an indefinite awe, as if a 
 ghost from his youth his wasted youth had risen up 
 to point out their truth, and show that what seemed insult 
 or vengeance was only a bitter necessity. 
 
 All he did was to repeat, without haughtiness now, 
 " Your reasons ? " 
 
 " Ah, Lord Ravenel ! " John answered, sadly, " do yon
 
 458 JOHN HALIFAX 
 
 not see yourself that the (inference between us and you is 
 as 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 
 unworthy 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 virgin innocence of the tradesman's daughter what a 
 foul, tattered rag, fit to be torn down by any honest gust, 
 was that flaunting emblazonment, the so-called " honor " of 
 Luxmore. 
 
 " I understand. ' 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." 
 
 He rose, bowed, and was going away, when John caught 
 him by the hand. 
 
 " You mistake me. I hold no man accountable for any 
 errors, any shortcomings, except his own." 
 
 " I am to conclude, then, that it is to myself you refuse 
 your daughter ? " 
 
 It is." 
 
 Lord Ravenel once more bowed, with sarcastic emphasis. 
 
 " I must again entreat you not to mistake me," John 
 continued very earnestly. " I know nothing of you that 
 the world would condemn, much that it would even ad- 
 mire ; but your world is not our world nor your aims 
 our aims. If I gave you my little Maud, it would con- 
 fer on you no lasting happiness, and it would be thrust- 
 ing my child, my own flesh and blood, to the brink of 
 that whirlpool where, soon or late, every miserable life 
 must go down." 
 
 Lord Ravenel made no answer. His new-born energy,, 
 his pride, his loftiness, had slowly vanished ; dead, passive- 
 melancholy resumed its empire over him. Mr. Halifax, 
 regarded him with mournful compassion. 
 
 " Oh, that I had foreseen this ! I would have placed the 
 breadth of all England between you and my child."
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 459 
 
 Would you ? " 
 
 " Understand me ; not because you are unworthy of our 
 interest, our friendship ; both will be always yours. But 
 these are external ties which may exist through many dif- 
 ferences. In marriage there must be unity one aim, one 
 faith, one love or the marriage is imperfect, unholy, a 
 mere civil contract, and no more." 
 
 Lord Ravenel looked up amazed, and sat awhile ponder- 
 ing drearily. 
 
 " Yes, you may be right. Your Maud is not for me, nor 
 those like me. Between us and you is that 'great gulf 
 fixed ; ' what did the old fable say ? I forget. Che sard, 
 sard ! I am but as others ; 1 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 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 ; 
 worldly gifts, such as rank, riches, influence, many things 
 which others have to spend half their existence in earning ; 
 life in its best prime with much of youth yet remaining, 
 with grief suffered, 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,' not in the wide 
 world, not in the universe. What, shall we, whose brief 
 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 more excitement than was usual to 
 him, a sudden flush, or rather spasm, of color rose, and 
 then left him pallid to the very lips. He sat down hastily,
 
 160 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 in his almost constant attitude, with the left arm across 
 the breast. 
 
 " Lord Ravenel." He spoke feebly, as though speech 
 were painful. 
 
 The other looked up with something of the old look 
 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 
 faith, on Muriel's father. 
 
 " Lord Ravenef, 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. God for- 
 bid she should have a life like mine." 
 
 He sat silent, his clasped hands listlessly dropping, 
 looking into vacancy ; thoa with a sudden effort he rose. 
 
 " I must go now." 
 
 Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her, not 
 without emotion, for all her kindness. 
 
 " For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as 
 perhaps I may prove some day. If not, 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 the farewell, sad and indefinite beyond 
 most farewells, they were giving the parental welcome to a 
 new-found son. 
 
 " If, Mr. Halifax, the child should ask or wonder about 
 my absence, she is fond of me in her innocent way, 
 you know, if so, you will tell her what shall you tell 
 her ? " 
 
 " Nothing. It is best so." 
 
 " Ay, it is, it is." 
 
 He shook hands with us all, maintaining his compos- 
 ure to the last : then the carriage rolled away, and we 
 saw his face that pale, gentle, melancholy face no 
 more.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 461 
 
 It was years and years before any one beyond our 
 three selves knew what a near escape our little Maud had 
 had of becoming Viscountess Ravenel, future Countess of 
 Luxmore. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IT was not many weeks after this departure of Lord 
 Ravenel the pain of which was almost forgotten in the 
 comfort of Guy's first long home letter, which came about 
 this time that John one morning, suddenly dropping the 
 newspaper, said, 
 
 " Lord Luxmore is dead ! " 
 
 Yes, he had returned to his dust, the old, bad man, so 
 old that people had begun to think he would never die. He 
 was gone, the man who, if we had an enemy in the world, 
 had certainly proved himself that enemy. Something 
 peculiar is there in a decease like this, of one whom, living, 
 we have almost felt 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 on our mouths, dares us either to 
 think or utter hatred against that which is now what ? a 
 disembodied spirit, or a handful of miserable, corrupting 
 clay. 
 
 Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account ; 
 it was not ours to judge him. We never knew, 1 believe no 
 one except his son ever fully knew, the history of his death- 
 bed. 
 
 John sat in silence, the paper before him, long after we 
 had passed the news and discussed it, not without awe, all 
 round the breakfast-table. 
 
 Maud stole up hesitatingly and asked to see the 
 announcement. 
 
 " No, my child, I will read it aloud, if you choose." 
 
 I guessed why, when looking over him as he read, I saw 
 after the long list of titles owned by the new Earl of Lux
 
 462 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 more, one bitter line, how it must have cut to the heart of 
 him whom we first heard of as " poor William ! " 
 
 " Had likewise issue, Caroline, married in 17 , to 
 Richard Brithwood, Esquire, afterward divorced" 
 
 And by a curious coincidence, about twenty lines farther 
 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, not Lady Caroline. 
 
 This morning's intelligence brought the Luxmore family 
 so much to our thoughts, that driving out after breakfast, 
 John and I, as we sat together, recurred to the subject. 
 Nay, talking on in the solitude of our front seat for Mrs. 
 Halifax, Miss Halifax, and Mrs. Edwin Halifax, in the 
 carriage behind, were deep in some other subject we fell 
 upon another topic, which by tacit consent had been laid 
 aside, as in our household we held it good to lay aside any 
 inevitable regret. 
 
 " Poor little Maud ! how eager she was over the news 
 to-day. She little thinks how vitally it might have con- 
 cerned her." 
 
 " No," John answered thoughtfully ; then asked me with 
 some abruptness, " Why did you say ' poor little Maud ' ? " 
 
 I could not really tell ; it was a mere accident, the 
 involuntary indication of some crochets of mine which had 
 often come into my mind lately, crochets perhaps 
 peculiar to me, who never having known a certain posses- 
 sion, was rather prone to overrate its value. 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. 
 
 Perhaps, against my purpose, my answer implied this, 
 for John was a long time silent. Then he began to talk of 
 other matters, telling me of various improvements he was 
 planning and executing on his property and arnomg his 
 people. In all his plans and the carrying out of them, I 
 noticed one peculiarity, strong in him through life but 
 latterly grown stronger than ever, namely, that whatever
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 463 
 
 he fc<ind to do, he did immediately. Procrastination had 
 never been one of his sins ; now he seemed to have a 
 horror of putting anything off even for a single hour. 
 Nothing that could be done he laid aside until it was done ; 
 none of his business affairs were left in disorder, but each 
 day's work completed with the day ; and in the thousand-, 
 aud-one little things that were constantly arising from his 
 position as magistrate and landholder and his general interest 
 in the movements of the time, the same system was carried 
 on. 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 help it no application was ever unattended, 
 no duty left unfinished, no good unacknowledged, no evil 
 unremedied, or at least unforgiven. 
 
 " John,'' I said, as to-day this peculiarity of his struck 
 me more than usual, " thou art certainly one of the faithful 
 servants whom the Master, when he cometh, will find 
 watching." 
 
 " I hope so. It ought to be thus with all men, but 
 especially with me." 
 
 I imagined from his tone that he was thinking of his 
 responsibility as father, master, owner of large wealth. 
 How could I know ; how could I guess ? Oh, John ! oh, 
 my brother! 
 
 " Do you think she looks pale, Phineas ?" 
 
 " Who, your wife ? " 
 
 " No ; Maud, my little Maud." 
 
 It was but lately that he had called her " his " little 
 M;i ml, 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 closer to his heart, made her more his 
 companion, watched 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." 
 
 " 1 believe not, thank God ! " 
 
 " Surely," I said anxiously, " you have never repented 
 what you did ? "
 
 464 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " No, not once. It cost me so much that I know it waa 
 right to be done." 
 
 " But if things had been otherwise, if you had not been 
 so sure of Maud, " 
 
 I He paused a moment, 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, 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 
 parental prudence, despotic paternal rule, as if Ursula 
 March's lover and Maud's father were two distinct beings. 
 One finds it so often enough with men. 
 
 " John," I said, " could you have done it ; could you 
 have broken the child's heart ? " 
 
 "Yes, if it was to save her peace, perhaps her soul, I 
 could have broken my child's heart." 
 
 He spoke solemnly, with such infinite pain, as if this 
 were not the first time by many that he had pondered these 
 things. 
 
 " I wish, Phineas, to make clear to you, in case of of 
 any future misconceptions, my mind on this matter. One 
 right alone I hold superior to the right of love, duty. It 
 is a father's duty, at all risks, at all costs, to save his child 
 from anything which he believes would peril her duty, so 
 long as she is too young to understand fully how, beyond 
 the claim of any human being, father or lover, is God's 
 claim to herself and her soul. Anything which would 
 endanger that should be cut off, though it be the right 
 hand, the right eye. No, thank God, it will not be so 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, he must not be trusted with my little 
 Maud. I must take care of her so long as I live; after- 
 ward " 
 
 His smile faded or rather was transmuted into that grave 
 thoughtfulness which I had lately noticed in him, when 
 now he fell into one of his long silences. There was
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 465 
 
 nothing sad about it, rather a serenity that reminded me of 
 the sweet look of his boyhood which had vanished during 
 the manifold cares of his middle life. The mouth as I 
 saw it in profile, close and calm, almost inclined me to go 
 back to the fanciful follies of our youth and call him 
 " David." 
 
 We drove through Norton Bury and left Mrs. Edwin at 
 home, 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 the old home. 
 
 " Ay, just the same. Do you know, the mother was 
 saying to me this morning that when Guy comes back, all 
 the young folk are married, and you retire from business 
 and settle in the otium cum dignitate, the learned leisure 
 you used to plan, she would like to give up Beechwood. 
 She said she hoped you and she would end your days 
 together at little Longfield." 
 
 " Did she ? Yes, I know that has been always her 
 dream." 
 
 " Scarcely a dream, or one that is not unlikely to be 
 fulfilled. I like to fancy you both, two old people, sitting 
 on either side the fire, on the same side, if you like best, 
 very cheerful ; you will make such a merry old man, John, 
 with all your children round you and indefinite grand- 
 children, coming and going continually, or else you two 
 will sit alone together, just as in your early married days, 
 you and your old wife, the dearest and handsomest old lady 
 that ever was seen." 
 
 " Phineas, don't, don't." I was startled by the tone in 
 which he answered the lightness of mine. " I mean, don't 
 be planning out the future. It 's foolish ; it is almost 
 wrong. God's will is not as our will. 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, so sudden, so unprecedented, 
 that it absorbed all lesser matters. It came out before *" 
 had been in the house five minutes.
 
 466 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Have you heard this extraordinary report about the 
 Luxinore family ? " 
 
 I could see Maud turn with eager attention, fixing her 
 great eyes steadily on Lady Oldtower. 
 
 " About the earl's death ? Yes," said Maud's father, and 
 referred to some other point of conversation. In vain. 
 
 " No, but about the present earl. I never heard of such 
 a thing, never. In fact, if true, his conduct is something 
 which in its self-denial approaches absolute insanity. Is it 
 possible that, being so great a friend of your family, he has 
 not informed you of the circumstances ? " 
 
 These circumstances, with some patience, we extracted 
 from the voluble lady. 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 
 abroad to escape in some degree the clamorous haunt- 
 ing of the hundreds he had ruined : poor 1 radespeople, 
 who knew that their only chance of payment \vns in the 
 old man's lifetime, for the whole property was entailed on 
 the son. 
 
 Whether Lord Ravenel had been acquainted with this 
 state of things, or whether, being in ignorance of it, his 
 own mode of living had in degree followed his father's, 
 rumor did not say, nor indeed was it of much consequence 
 The fact of cutting off the entail becoming known imme- 
 diately after Lord Luxmore's death made all former con 
 jectures unnecessary. 
 
 Not a week before he died, the late earl and his son 
 chiefly, it was believed, on the latter's instigation had 
 cut off the entail, thereby making the whole property sala- 
 ble and available for the payment of creditors. Thus by 
 his own will, and, as some one had told somebody that 
 somebody else had heard Lord Ravenel say, "for the 
 honor of the family," the present earl had succeeded to 
 an empty title, and beggary. 
 
 " Or," Lady Oldtower added, " what to him 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 starving.
 
 Maud appeared suddenly before us.'
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 467 
 
 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 of us. 
 
 " 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 ; for me, I could not help 
 watching little Maud, noticing what strange passion, still, 
 however, perfectly childlike and unguarded in its demon- 
 stration, was shaking her innocent bosom, overflowing at 
 her eyes. But she sat still, and nobody observed her. 
 
 " Yes, he slept at my house, Lord Ravenel, the Earl of 
 Luxmore, I mean. Much good will his title do him. My 
 head clerk is better off than he. He has stripped himself 
 of every penny, except bless me, I forget. 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, as indeed was best. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND, You will have heard that my father is no 
 more." 
 
 [" He used always to say ' the earl,' " whispered Maud, as she looked 
 over my shoulder.] 
 
 " I write this merely to say, what I feel sure you will already have 
 believed, that anything which you may learn concerning his affairs I 
 was myself unaware of, except in a very slight degree, when I last vis- 
 ited Beechwood. 
 
 " Will you likewise helieve that in all I have done or intend doing, 
 your interests as my tenant, which I hope you will remain, have been 
 and shall be sedulously guarded ? 
 
 u 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 the right of 
 being his " pet " she generally did of all Lord RavenePs 
 letters. But now, without a word, she surrendered it to 
 her father. 
 
 " What does he mean, Mr. Jessop, about my interests as 
 his tenant?" 
 
 " Bless me, that poor young man has put everything as- 
 tray in my head. He wished me to explain to you that
 
 468 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 he has reserved one portion of the property intact, the 
 Enderley Mills. The rent you pay will, he says, be suffi- 
 cient income for him ; and then while your lease lasts, no 
 other landlord can injure you, very thoughtful of him, 
 very thoughtful indeed, Mr. Halifax." 
 
 John made no answer. 
 
 " I never saw a man so altered. He went over some 
 matters with me private charities, in which I had been 
 his agent, you know as grave, as business-like ; my clerk 
 himself could not have done it better. Afterward we sat 
 and talked, and I tried foolish enough, when the thing 
 was done to show him what a frantic act it was, both 
 toward himself and his heirs. But he could not see it. 
 He said it would harm nobody, for that he did not intend 
 ever to marry. Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " 
 
 " Is he with you still ? " John asked hi 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 did n't like 
 it, I can assure you." 
 
 And the old man, ostentatiously making a trumpet of 
 his yellow pocket-handkerchief and twitching his features 
 in all manner of shapes, seemed determined to put aside 
 the 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, but it was then tied the tongue of gos- 
 sip itself. It was so new, so unlike anything that had been 
 conceived possible, especially in a man like Lord Ravenel, 
 who had always borne the character of a harmless, idle, 
 misanthropic nonentity, that society was quite nonplussed 
 concerning it. Of the many loquacious visitors who came 
 that morning to pour upon Lady Oldtower all the curiosity 
 of Coltham, fashionable Coltham, famous for all the 
 scandal of haut ton, there was none who did not speak 
 of Lord Luxmore and his affairs with an uncomfortable, 
 wondering awe. Some thought he was going mad ; others, 
 raking up stories current of his early youth, that he had 
 turned Catholic again, and was about to enter a monastery
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 469 
 
 One or two honest hearts protested that he was a noble 
 iellow, and it was a pity he intended to be the last of the 
 Lux mores. 
 
 For ourselves, Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, Maud and me, we 
 never spoke to one another on the subject all the morning, 
 not until after luncheon, when John and I had someho\v 
 stolen out of the way of the visitors, and were walking to 
 and fro in the garden, the sunny fruit garden, ancient, 
 Dutch, and square, with its barricade of a high hedge, a 
 stone wall, and between it and the house a shining fence of 
 great laurel-trees. 
 
 Maud appeared suddenly before us from among these 
 laurels, breathless. 
 
 " 1 got away after you, Father. I I wanted to find 
 some strawberries, and I wanted to speak to you." 
 
 " Speak on, little lady." 
 
 He linked her arm in his, and she paced between us up 
 and down the broad walk, but without diverging to the 
 strawberry beds. She was very grave and paler than or- 
 dinary. 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 did so as simply and briefly as he could. 
 
 " I understand. Then, though he is Earl of Luxmore he 
 is quite poor, poorer than any of us, and he has made 
 himself poor in order to pay his own and his father's 
 debts, and keep other people from suffering from them? 
 Is it so?" 
 
 " Yes, my child." 
 
 " Is it not a very noble act, Father ? " 
 
 " Very noble." " 
 
 " I think so. The noblest act I ever heard of. I shou\d 
 like to tell him so. When is he coming to Beechwood ? " 
 
 Maud spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, in the impetu- 
 ous manner she inherited from her mother. Her question 
 not being immediately answered, she repeated it, still more 
 eajrorly. 
 
 " My dear, 1 do not know."
 
 470 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " How very strange ! I thought he would come at once, 
 to-night, probably." 
 
 I reminded her that he had left for Paris, bidding good* 
 by to Mr. Jessop. 
 
 "Why did he not come to us instead of Mr. Jessop? 
 Write and tell him so, Father. And you know you can 
 help so ! 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 that hung on his 
 arm so persuasively, and 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 she half-loosed 
 her arm. 
 
 Her father quietly put the little rebellious hand back 
 again to its place. He was evidently debating within him- 
 self whether he should tell her the truth, and how much. 
 Not that the debate was new, for he must have already 
 foreseen this possible, nay certain, conjuncture, especially 
 as all his dealings with his family had hitherto been with- 
 out any disguise. He held prevarication or wilful leading 
 astray to be almost as mean as falsehood. When any- 
 thing occurred that he could not tell his children, he 
 always said plainly, " I cannot tell you ; " and they asked 
 no more. 
 
 I wondered very much how be would deal with Maud. 
 
 She walked with him submissive, yet not satisfied, glanc- 
 ing 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 you used to do." 
 
 " More, if possible." 
 
 " Then write to him. Say we want to see him, I want 
 to see him. Ask him to come and stay a long while at 
 Beechwood." 
 
 " I cannot, Maud. It would be impossible for him to 
 come. I do not think he is likely to come to Beechwood 
 for some time." 
 
 " How long ? Six months ? A year, perhaps ? "
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 471 
 
 " It may be 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 by the arm and placed her, 
 sitting, upon the wall of a little stone bridge, which the 
 moat ran quietly under. Maud's tears dropped into it fast 
 and free. 
 
 This 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 
 father ? " 
 
 " I did not mean to be angry, only I was so startled, so 
 grieved. Tell me what has happened, please, Father." 
 
 " I will tell you, so far as I can. Lord Ravenel and my- 
 self had some conversation of a painful kind the last night 
 he was with us. After it we both concluded it would be 
 best he should not visit us again lor the present." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 She looked directly up into his eyes, and tlu> father looked 
 steadily down into hers, as he answered, 
 
 " Maud, you must not ask, for it would not be right in 
 me to tell you." 
 
 Maud sprang up, the rebellious spirit flashing out again. 
 " Not right to tell me, me, his pet, me, that cared for 
 him more than any of you did. I think it would be right, 
 Father." 
 
 " You must allow me to decide that, if you please, my 
 child." 
 
 " Does any one else know ? " 
 
 " Your mother and your Uncle Phineas, who were present 
 at the time. No one else ; and no one shall know." 
 
 John spoke with that slight trembling and blueness of 
 the lips which any mental pain usually produced in him. 
 He sat down by his daughter's side and took her hand. 
 
 " I thought this would grieve you, and 1 kept it from you 
 as long as I could. Now you must only be patient, and 
 like a good child trust your father."
 
 47:2 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed 
 and said she could not understand it. 
 
 Neither can I, oftentimes, iny poor little Maud ; there 
 are so many sad things in life that we have to take upon 
 trust and bear, and be patient with and never understand. 
 I suppose we shall, some day." 
 
 His eyes wandered upward to the wide-arched blue, 
 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, and everywhere. 
 
 Maud looked at her father, crept closer to him, into his 
 arms. 
 
 " I did not mean to be naughty. I will try not to mind 
 losing him. But I liked Lord Ravenel so much, and he was 
 so fond of me." 
 
 " Child," and her father himself could not help smil- 
 ing at her simplicity, " it is often easiest to lose those 
 one is fond of and who are fond of us, because in one 
 sense we never can lose them. Love, real love, never can 
 be parted." 
 
 I think he was hardly aware of what he was saying, at 
 least not in its relation to her, or he would not have said it ; 
 and he would surely have noticed, what I did, that the 
 word "love," which had not been mentioned before it 
 was always " liking," " fond of," " care for," or some such 
 roundabout, childish phrase, the word " love " made Maud 
 start, and dart from one to the other of us a glance of in- 
 quiry, which her father perceived not, but for my part 
 made me feel hot all over. 
 
 The little lady dropped her eyes. Her attitude, her 
 rosy color, and shy tremble about her mouth reminded 
 me vividly, painfully, of her mother, twenty-eight years 
 
 ago- 
 Alarmed. I tried to hasten the end of our conversation, 
 lest, voluntarily or involuntarily, it might result in the very 
 thing which, though it might not have altered John's deter- 
 mination, would almost have broken his heart. 
 
 So, begging them to " kiss and make friends," which 
 Maud did timidly and without attempting farther ques-
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 473 
 
 tions, I hurried the father and daughter into the house, 
 deferring for mature consideration whether or not I should 
 trouble John with any too anxious doubts of mine. 
 
 As we drove back through Norton Bury, I saw that while 
 Mr. Halifax and Lady Oldtower conversed, Maud sat oppo- 
 site, rather more silent than her wont ; but when the ladies 
 dismounted for shopping, she was again the lively, inde- 
 oendent Miss Halifax, 
 
 " Standing with reluctant feet 
 Where womanhood and childhood meet," 
 
 and assuming at once the prerogatives and immunities of 
 both. 
 
 Her little ladyship at last got tired of laces, and stood 
 with me at the shop door, amusing herself with comment- 
 ing on the passers-by. 
 
 They were not so plentiful as I remembered, though still 
 the old town wore its old face, kinder and fairer, it 
 seemed to me, 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 con- 
 tents. 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 there was turned out only one. 
 
 " What a queer-looking little woman ! Uncle Phineas, 
 people shouldn't dress so fine as that when they are so 
 old." 
 
 Maud's criticisms were scarcely unjust. The light-colored, 
 flimsy gown, shorter than even Coltham fashionables would 
 have esteemed decent, the Frenchified bonnet, the abun- 
 dance of flaunting curls, no wonder that the lady attracted 
 considerable notice in quiet Norton Bury. As she tripped 
 mincingly along in her silk stockings and light shoes, a 
 smothered jeer arose, 
 
 " People should not laugh at an old woman, however 
 conceited she may be," said Maud, indignantly. 
 
 " Is she old ? " 
 
 u Just look." 
 
 And surely when, as she turned from side to side, 1 
 caught her full face what a face it was ! withered, thin,
 
 474 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 sallow almost to deathlmess, with a bright rouge-spot on 
 each cheek, a broad smile on the ghastly mouth. 
 
 " Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas ? " 
 
 " Maybe. Do not look at her." For I thought this must 
 be the wreck of such a life as womanhood does sometimes 
 sink to, a life the mere knowledge of which had never yet 
 entered our Maud's pure world. 
 
 She glanced at me surprised, but went in. I stood at the 
 shop door watching the increasing crowd, and pitying, with 
 that pity mixed with shame that every honest man must 
 feel, the wretched object of their jeers. Half frightened, 
 yet keeping up that set smile, skipping daintily from side 
 to side of the pavement, darting at and peering into every 
 carriage that passed, miserable creature as she looked 
 there was a certain grace and ease in her movements, as if 
 she had fallen from some far higher estate. 
 
 At the moment the Mythe carriage, Mr. Brithwood in it, 
 dozing his daily drive away, with 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, more certainly, when assuming a tone 
 of command, she addressed the old coachman, 
 
 " Draw up, Peter ; you are very late. People, give way ! 
 Don't you see my carriage ? " 
 
 There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. 
 Brithwood opened his dull drunken eyes and stared about 
 him. 
 
 " Canaille ! " and the scream was more 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, gazed with horror and fear, as two sinners who had 
 been each other's undoing might meet in the poetic tor- 
 ments of Dante's " Inferno " or the tangible fire and 
 brimstone of many old, honest Christians' hell. One
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 475 
 
 single instant, and then Richard Brithwood made up his 
 mind. 
 
 " Coachman, drive on ! " 
 
 But the man he was an old man seemed to hesitate 
 at urging his horses right over " my lady." He even 
 looked down with a sort of compassion. I rcmembeiv.l 
 having heard say that she was always kind and aft'able to 
 her servants. 
 
 " Drive on, you fool ! Here," and he threw some coin 
 into the mob, " fetch the constable ; take the woman to 
 the watch-house ! " 
 
 And the carriage rolled on, leaving her there;, crouched 
 on the curb-stone, 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 state and glory as the young Squire's handsome wife. 
 - the charming Lady Caroline. 
 
 I was so absorbed in the sickening sight that I did not 
 perceive that John and Ursula, standing behind me, had 
 seen it likewise, evidently seen and understood it all. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " she whispered. 
 
 " What ought we to do ? " 
 
 Here Maud came running out to see what was amiss in 
 the street. 
 
 " Go in, child," said Mrs. Halifax. " Stay till I fetch you." 
 
 Lady Oldtower also advanced to the door ; but catching 
 some notion of what the disturbance was, shocked and 
 scandalized, went into the shop again. 
 
 John looked at his wife, but for once she did not or would 
 not understand his meaning ; she drew back uneasily. 
 
 " What must be done ? I mean, what do you want me 
 to do?" 
 
 " What only a woman can do, a woman like you, and 
 in your position." 
 
 " Yes, if it were only myself. But for Maud's sake. 
 People will talk so. It is hard to say how to act." 
 
 " Nay ; how did One act, how would He act now, if Ho 
 stood in the .street this day ? If we take care of aught of 
 His, will He not take care of_pur children ?"
 
 476 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Mrs. Halifax paused, thought a moment, hesitated, 
 yielded. 
 
 u John, you are right ; you are always right. I will do 
 anything you please." 
 
 And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, in face of 
 scores of window-gazers, all of whom knew them and a 
 irreat number of whom they also knew, Mr. Halifax and his 
 \vife walk up to where the miserable woman lay. 
 
 John touched her lightly on the shoulder ; she screamed 
 and cowered down. 
 
 " Are you the constable ? He said he would send the 
 constable." 
 
 " Hush ! do not be afraid, cousin cousin Caroline." 
 
 God knows how long it was since any woman had spoken 
 to her in that tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered 
 wits. She rose to her feet, smiling airily. 
 
 " Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the 
 pleasure of seeing you somewhere. Your name is " 
 
 " Ursula Halifax. Do you remember ? " speaking gently, 
 as she would have done to a child. 
 
 Lady Caroline bowed, a ghastly mockery of her former 
 grace. " Not exactly, but I dare say I shall presently ; au 
 revoir, madame ! " 
 
 She was going away, kissing her hand, that yellow, 
 wrinkled, old woman's hand ; but John stopped her. 
 
 " My wife wants you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to 
 come home with us." 
 
 " Plait-il? oh, yes, I understand. I shall be happy, 
 most happy." 
 
 John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference ; 
 Mrs. Halifax supported her on the other side. Without 
 more ado, they put her in the carriage and drove home, 
 leaving Maud in my charge, and leaving astounded Norton 
 Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX 477 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVin. 
 
 FOR nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house, 
 if that miserable existence of hers could be called living, 
 bedridden, fallen into second childhood, 
 
 "Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw," 
 
 oblivious to both past and present, recognizing none of us, 
 and taking no notice of anybody, except now and then of 
 Edwin's little daughter, baby Louise. 
 
 1 knew that all our neighbors talked us over, and made a 
 nine-days' wonder of the " very extraordinary conduct " of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Halifax ; that even good Lady Oldtower hesi- 
 tated 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 could not taint any 
 one now. But in process of time the gossip ceased of itself ; 
 and when, one summer day, a small, decent funeral moved 
 out of our garden gate to Enderley 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 
 repentance, grief, or gratitude, unless one could consider as 
 such a moment's lightening, which Maud declared she saw 
 in her just before death, Maud, who had been very kind 
 to her. She was certain that a few minutes before the last 
 minute she saw a gleam of sense in the filmy eyes, and 
 stooping down, had caught some feeble murmur about 
 "William, poor William'" 
 
 Maud did not tell me this ; she spoke of it to no one but 
 her mother, and to her very briefly ; as briefly and uncu- 
 riously as, some time before, she had listened to the story 
 of who Lady Caroline was, and some needful facts of tho 
 wretched life that was now ended, or perhaps born into
 
 478 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 some new sphere, to begin again its struggle after the high- 
 est beauty, the only perfect love. What are we that we 
 should place limits to the infinite mercy of the Lord and 
 Giver of Life, to whom all life returns ? 
 
 So 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 death, had 
 disappeared, whither no one knew except his solicitor, who 
 treated with the host of creditors, paying them, we under- 
 stood, to the utmost farthing, 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, never answered. Whether in 
 any of them he 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 the brother had long 
 since believed her dead, and the world likewise. 
 
 For that same world, one man, even a nobleman, is of 
 little account in its wide waste of waters. He sank, and 
 they closed over him. Whether he were drowned or saved 
 was of small moment. He was soon forgotten everywhere 
 except at Beechwood ; and sometimes it seemed as if he 
 were even forgotten there, save that in our family we found 
 it hard to learn the easy, convenient habit of forgetting. 
 
 Hard, though seven years had passed since we saw Guy's 
 merry face, yet it was missed still, the mother, as years 
 crept on, wearying, wearying for him, with a yearning that 
 could not be told. The father, who, as Edwin became 
 engrossed in his own affairs, and Walter remained boyish 
 and needing guidance as much as ever, 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 against his will, and came to meet the least 
 pain, the shadow of disgrace. And he was contented and 
 prosperous in the Western World, leading an active and 
 useful life, earning an honorable name. He had taken a 
 partner, he told us, and they were both thriving, perhaps 
 might make in a few years one of those rapid fortunes
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 479 
 
 which clever men of business do make in America, and did 
 especially at that time. 
 
 He was also eager and earnest upon other and higher 
 cares than mere business ; entered warmly into his father's 
 sympathy about many things that were now occupying 
 men's minds. A great number of comparative facts about 
 the poor little factory children in England and America 
 a mass of evidence used by Mr. Powell Buxton in his argu- 
 ments for the abolition of slavery originated in the im- 
 pulsive activity, now settled into mature, manly energy, of 
 Mr. Guy Halifax, of Boston, United States, "our Guy!" 
 
 " The lad is making a stir in the world," said his father 
 one day, when he had read his last letter. " I shall not 
 wonder if, when he comes home, a deputation from his 
 native Norton Bury were to appear, requesting him to 
 accept the honor of representing them in Parliament. He 
 would suit them at least, as regards the canvassing of the 
 ladies a great deal better than his old father, eh, love ? " 
 
 Mrs. Halifax smiled rather unwillingly, for her husband 
 referred to a subject which had cost her some pain at the 
 time. After the Reform Bill passed, many of our 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 enter 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 
 so wide. His letter, brief and simple, thanking his " good 
 neighbors," and wishing them " a younger and worthier " 
 member, might be found in some old file of the Norton 
 Bury " Herald " still. Even the Norton Bury " Mercury," 
 in reprinting it, commented on its touching honesty and 
 brevity, and concluding his political career was ended 
 with it, condescended to bestow on Mr. Halifax the usual 
 obituary line, 
 
 " We oould have better spared a better man,"
 
 480 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 To his family and even his wife, when she also reasoned 
 with him, knowing 1 that such a possibility had long been 
 his thought, nay, his desire, and perhaps herself taking a 
 natural pride in the idea of seeing M. P. M. P. of a new 
 and unbribed House of Commons after his well-beloved 
 name, to us and to her he gave no clearer reason for his 
 refusal than to the electors of Norton Bury. 
 
 " But you are not old, John," I argued with him one day ; 
 " you have to the full the mens sana in corpore sano. No 
 man can be more fitted than yourself to serve his country, 
 as you used to say it might be served after Reform was 
 gained." 
 
 He smiled, and jocularly thanked me for my good opinion. 
 
 " Nay, it seems to me almost your duty ; you once thought 
 so, too. Why have you changed your mind ? " 
 
 " I have not changed my mind, but circumstances have 
 changed my actions ; 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, even his son, to take John's place, to 
 stand in John's room it 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 glory and success. 
 She had very much altered of late years. At twenty, you 
 would have taken her for a woman mature ; sensible, active, 
 resolute, and wise ; sometimes thoughtful, or troubled with 
 tits of what in any less wholesome temperament would have 
 been melancholy ; but, as it was, her humors only peeped 
 out in some slight restlessness or irritability, easily soothed 
 by a few tender words from either parent, or a rush out to 
 Edwin's and a peaceful coming back to that happy home,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 481 
 
 whose happiness she knew that she, the only daughter, 
 made. 
 
 She more than once had unexceptional chances of quitting 
 it ; for Miss Halifax possessed plenty of attractions, both 
 outwardly and inwardly, to say nothing of her not incon- 
 siderable fortune. But she refused all offers, and to the 
 best of our knowledge was a free-hearted damsel still. 
 
 Her father and mother seemed rather glad of this than 
 otherwise. They would not have denied her any happiness 
 she wished for ; still it was evidently a relief to them that 
 she was slow in choosing it, slow in quitting their arms of 
 love to risk a love untried. Sometimes, such is the weakness 
 of parental humanity, I verily believe they looked forward 
 with complacency to the possibility of her remaining always 
 Miss Halifax. I remember one day, when Lady Oldtower 
 was suggesting, half jest, half earnest, " better any mar- 
 riage than no marriage at all," Maud's father replied 
 very seriously, 
 
 " Better no marriage than a marriage short of the best." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 '' I believe," he said smiling, " that somewhere in the 
 world every man has his true wife, every woman her true 
 husband. If my Maud's comes, he shall have her. If not, 
 I am well content to see her a happy old maid." 
 
 So after many storms there 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 safe secured the futures of ^all 
 the children and for ourselves a green old age " journeying 
 in long serenity away." 
 
 A time of heavenly calm, which as I look back upon 
 it grows heavenlicr still ! Soft summer days and autumn 
 afternoons, spent under the beech wood or on the Flat ; 
 quiet winter evenings all to ourselves, Maud and her 
 mother working, Walter drawing, the father sitting with 
 his back to the lamp, its light making a radiance over his 
 hrow and white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the 
 curls behind, restoring somewhat of its youthful color to 
 
 31
 
 482 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 his fading hair. Nay, the old youthful ring of his voice I 
 caught at times, when he found something funny in his 
 book, and read it out loud to us ; or, laying it down, sat 
 talking, as he liked to talk, about things speculative, philo- 
 sophical, or poetical, things let loose of 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, heavenly time, sunshiny summer, peaceful win- 
 ter, we marked neither as they passed ; but now I hold 
 both in a sacredness inexpressible, a foretaste of that Land 
 where there is neither summer nor winter, neither days 
 nor years. 
 
 The first break in our repose came early in the new year. 
 There had been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he 
 never once in all his wanderings had missed writing home 
 at Christmas time. When the usual monthly mail came 
 in and no word from him, a second month and yet nothing, 
 we began to wonder about his omission less openly, to cease 
 scolding him for his carelessness, though over and over 
 again we still eagerly brought up instances of the same, 
 u Guy used to be such a thoughtless boy about letters." 
 
 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 March mail, I saw that in addition 
 to the usual packet for Mr. Guy Halifax, his father, taking 
 another precautionary measure, had written in business 
 form to " Messrs. Guy Halifax and Co." He had always, 
 " like his carelessness ! " omitted to give the name of his 
 partner ; but we thought, addressed thus, in case of any 
 sudden journey or illness of Guy's, the partner, whoever he 
 was, v/ould be sure to write. 
 
 In May, nay, it was 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 483 
 
 back again, directed in a strange hand, to " John Halifax, 
 Esquire, Beechwood," with the annotation, " By Mr. Guy 
 Halifax's desire." 
 
 Among the rest though the sickened sight of them had 
 blinded even his mother at first, so that her eye did not 
 catch it was one that explained, most satisfactorily ex- 
 plained we said, the reason they were thus returned. It 
 was a few lines from Guy himself, saying that unexpected 
 good fortune had made him determine to come home at 
 once. If circumstances thwarted this plan, he would write 
 without fail ; if not, he should most likely sail by an 
 American merchantman, the " Stars and Stripes." 
 
 " Then he is coming home ! On his way home ! " 
 
 And his mother, as one shaking hand 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 him ? " 
 
 At thought of that happy sight, her bravery broke down. 
 She wept heartily and long. 
 
 John sat quiet, 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 thought of his son's return. 
 
 " The liners take only a month in sailing, but this is a 
 bark, most likely. Love, show me the date of the boy's 
 letter." 
 
 She looked for it herself. It was in January. 
 
 The sudden dropping from certainty to uncertainty, 
 the wild clutching at that which hardly seemed a real joy 
 until seen fading down in a mere hope, a chance, a possi- 
 bility 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 doorway, trying to hush their 
 laughing and whispering to them something about " Uncle 
 Guy." 
 
 John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread and show 
 that it was less than at first appeared. 
 
 " We see now how delays occur ; we ought not to be sur- 
 prised or uneasy at anything. He does not say when the
 
 484 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 ship sailed ; she may be on her voyage still. If he had but 
 given the name of her owners! But 1 can write to Lloyd's 
 and find out everything. Cheer up, Mother. Please God, 
 you shall have that wandering, heedless boy of yours back 
 after all." 
 
 He replaced the letters in their inclosure, held a general 
 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 the owner's property and Guy could claim them 
 with all their useless news on his arrival in England. This 
 was finally decided, and the mother with 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 
 followed, as they walked slowly up the hill to Beechwood. 
 
 But after that day Mrs. Halifax's strength decayed, not 
 suddenly, not perceptibly, not with any outward complaint, 
 except what she jested over as " the natural weakness of 
 old age ; " but there was 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 keep- 
 ing 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 im- 
 portance, 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 a hope. John told the hope first before 
 he ventured to speak of the missing ship, and even then had 
 to break the news gently, for the mother had grown frail 
 and weak, and <;ould not bear things as she used to do. 
 She clung as if they had been words of life or death to the 
 ship-owners' postscript " that they had no recollection of 
 'he name of Halifax ; there might have been such a gen
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 485 
 
 tleman on board ; they could not say. The ' Stars and 
 Stripes ' was a trading vessel, and had not good accommo 
 dation for passengers." 
 
 Then came week after week. I know not how they went 
 by ; one never does afterward. At the time they were 
 frightfully vivid, hour by hour. We rose each morning, 
 sure that some hope would come in the course of the dav ; 
 we went to bed at night heavily, as if there were no such 
 thing as hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that 
 was the worst consciousness of all, our life of suspense be- 
 came perfectly natural, and everything in and about the 
 house went on as usual, just as though we knew quite well, 
 as well as the Great Father Himself knew, where our poor 
 lad was, and what had become of him ; or rather, as if we 
 had settled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our 
 own lives alone would bring, that he had slipped out of life 
 altogether, and there was no such being as Guy Halifax 
 under this pitiless sun. 
 
 The mother's heart was breaking; she made no moan, 
 but we saw it in her face. One morning, it was the 
 morning after John's birthday, which we had made a feint 
 of keeping with Grace Oldtower, the two little grand- 
 children, Edwin, and Louise, she was absent at breakfast 
 and dinner , she had not slept well, and was tired of late. 
 Many days following it happened the same, with the same 
 faint excuse or with no excuse at all. How we missed 
 her about the house, ay, changed as she had been ; how her 
 husband wandered about, ghost-like, from room to room, 
 could not rest anywhere or do anything. Finally, he left 
 our company altogether, and during the hours that he was 
 at home rarely quitted for more than a few minutes the 
 quiet, dark bedchamber, 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 
 :ases, that when her physical health definitely gave way, 
 her mental health returned The heavy burden was 
 loosed ; 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 
 evening's John carried her down almost as easily as he
 
 480 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 used to carry little Muriel, she would rest content with 
 her hand in his, listening to his reading or quietly looking 
 at him, as though her lost son's face, which a few weeks 
 since she said haunted her continually, was forgotten in his 
 father's. Perhaps she thought the one she should soon see, 
 while the other 
 
 " Phineas," she said to me one day, when I was putting 
 a shawl over her feet or doing some other trifle that she 
 thanked me for, " Phineas, you will never leave John ? 
 Promise ! " 
 
 I promised. Then first I began seriously to think of 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 ? 
 
 The children never dreamed of this I saw, but they were 
 young. For her husband 
 
 I could not understand John, he so quick-sighted, he 
 who, meeting any sorrow, looked steadily up at the Hand 
 that smote him, knowing neither the coward's dread nor 
 the unbeliever's disguise of pain, surely he must see 
 what was impending. Yet he was as calm as if he saw it 
 not, calm as no man could be, contemplating the supreme 
 parting between two who nearly all their lives had been 
 not two but one flesh. 
 
 Yet I had once heard him say that only a great love 
 makes parting easy. Could it be that this great love of 
 his, which had clasped his wife so firmly and so long, fear- 
 lessly clasped her still in its own perfectness secure 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, dependency ; she let herself be 
 taken care of and ruled and guided, as if with him she 
 found helplessness restful and submission sweet. Many a 
 little outward fondness that when people have been long 
 married naturally drops into disuse, was revived again ; he 
 would bring her flowers out of the garden or new books 
 from the town, and many a time when no one noticed I 
 have seen him stoop and press his lips upon the faded 
 hand where the wedding-ring hung so loosely.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 487 
 
 Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself are 
 powerless in the presence of such a love as theirs. 
 
 It was already the middle of July 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 
 closed the doorway, or dropped them again with a 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 by ourselves 
 in the study, where we generally sat now. The father 
 spent all his evenings upstairs. We could hear his steps 
 overhead as he crossed the room or opened the window, 
 then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife's 
 bedside ; sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading 
 or talk, then long silence. 
 
 Maud and I sat in silence too. She had her own, 
 thoughts, I mine; perhaps they were often one and the 
 same; perhaps, for youth is youth after all, they may have 
 diverged widely. Hers were deep, absorbed thoughts at 
 any rate, travelling fast, fast as her needle travelled, 
 for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways 
 and her mother's work. 
 
 We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open, 
 and through the sultry summer night we could hear the 
 trickle of the stream and the rustle of the leaves in the 
 beech wood. We sat very still, waiting for nothing, expect- 
 ing nothing, in the dull patience which always fell on us 
 about this hour, the hour before bedtime, when nothing 
 more was to be looked for but how best to meet another 
 hopeless 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, a gentleman wanting to see Miss 
 Halifax."
 
 488 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Maud sprang up in her chair, then recollected herself. 
 " Any one you know, is it ? " 
 
 " No, miss." 
 
 " Show the gentleman in." 
 
 He stood already in the doorway, tall, brown, bearded. 
 Maud just glanced at him, then rose, bending stiffly, after 
 the manner of Miss Halifax of Beechwood. 
 
 " Will you be seated ? My father " 
 
 " Maud, don't you know me ? Where 's my mother ? 
 I'm Guy!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 GUY and his mother were together. She lay on a sofa 
 in her dressing-room, he sat on a stool beside her, so that 
 her arm could rest on his neck, and she could now and then 
 turn his face toward her and look at it oh, what a look ! 
 
 She had had him with her for two whole days, two days 
 to be set against eight years ! Yet the eight years seemed 
 already to have collapsed into a span of time, and the two 
 days to have risen up to a great mountain of happiness, 
 making a barrier complete against the woful past, as happi- 
 ness can do, thanks to the All-merciful for all his mercies ; 
 and 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 Guy this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, looking 
 thirty-five and more with our Guy, the boy that left us, 
 the boy that in all our lives we never should find again. 
 Nevertheless, we took this Guy at once to our hearts and 
 rejoiced in him, one and all, with inexpressible joy. 
 
 He was much altered, certainly; it was natural, nay,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 489 
 
 right, that he should be. He had suffered much, a great 
 deal more than he ever told us, at least till long after, 
 gone through poverty, labor, sickness, shipwreck. He had 
 written home by the " Stars and Stripes," sailed a fortnight 
 later, been cast away, picked up by an outward-bound ship, 
 and finally landed in England, he and his partner, as penni- 
 less as they left it. 
 
 " Your partner was an Englishman, then ? " said Maud, 
 who sat at the foot of the sofa, listening. " You have not 
 told us anything about him yet." 
 
 Guy half smiled. " I will by and by. It 's a long story. 
 Just now I don't want to think of anybody or anything 
 except my mother." 
 
 He turned, as he did twenty times a day, to press his 
 rough cheek upon her hand, and look up into her thin face, 
 his eyes overflowing with love. 
 
 " You must get well now, Mother. Promise ! " 
 
 Her smile promised, and even began the fulfilment of 
 the same. 
 
 " I think she looks stronger already ; does she, Maud ? 
 You know her looks better than I. I don't ever remember 
 her being ill. Oh, Mother, I will never go away 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." 
 
 " Nor you, Father," said Guy, with a reverent affection 
 that must have gladdened the mother's heart to the very 
 core. Giving up his place by her, Guy took Maud's, facing 
 them, and father and son began to talk of various matters 
 concerning the home and business arrangements and other 
 things in the world outside, taking counsel together, as 
 father and son ought to do. Those eight years of separa- 
 tion seemed to have brought them nearer together, nar- 
 rowed the difference between them, in age so small, far less 
 than between most fathers and sons. Never in all his life 
 had Guy been so deferent, so loving to his father. And 
 now with a peculiar trust and tenderness John turned to 
 his eldest son, the heir of his name, his successor at
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 Enderley Mills , for in order that Guy might at once take 
 his natural place and feel no longer a waif and stray upon 
 the Avorld, already the plan had been started that the firm 
 of Halifax and Sons should become Halifax Brothers. 
 Perhaps, in a few years' time, only the mother said 
 privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not wish that 
 part of the scheme to be mentioned to Guy just now, 
 perhaps one day it would be " Guy Halifax, Esquire, of 
 Beechwood," and " the old people " at happy little Long- 
 field. 
 
 As yet Guy had seen nobody but ourselves, and nobody 
 had seen Guy. Though his mother gave various good rea- 
 sons why he should not make a public appearance as a 
 " ship-wrecked mariner," costume and all, it was easy to 
 perceive that she looked forward not without apprehension 
 to some meetings which must necessarily soon take place 
 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 name of Edwin or 
 Louise. 
 
 They knew he was come home ; but how and where the 
 first momentous meeting should be, 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 plan- 
 ning together in what way could best be celebrated by our 
 school children, tenants, and work-people, an event which 
 we took a great interest in, though not greater than in this 
 year was taken by all classes throughout the kingdom, 
 the day fixed for the abolition of Negro Slavery in our 
 Colonies, the 1st of August, 1834. He sat in an attitude 
 that half reminded me of his boyish lounge, very content 
 and still ; though a stream of sunshine, pouring in upon 
 his head through the closed Venetian blind^ showed many 
 a 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 was a little tap at 
 the door, and a little voice outside,
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 491 
 
 " Please, me want to come in." 
 
 Maud jumped up to refuse admission, but Mr. Halifax 
 forbade, and himself went and opened the door. A little 
 child stood there, a little girl of three years old. 
 
 Guy rose up hastily, and sat down in his place again. 
 
 " Come in, little maid," said John ; " come in, and tell 
 us what you want." 
 
 " Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy." 
 
 Guy started, but still he kept his place. 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 or take her. 
 
 " Are you Uncle Guy? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why don't you kiss me ? Everybody kisses me," said 
 everybody's pet, neither frightened nor shy. 
 
 " 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 re- 
 peated line for line, but softened, spiritualized, as, years 
 after its burial, some ghost of a man's youth 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, stooped down, and 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 ever quite 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. 
 
 " 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 ? "
 
 492 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 " Here, Guy, old fellow. Welcome home." 
 
 The two brothers shook hands warmly. Edwin was not 
 given to demonstration ; but I saw how his features 
 twitched, and how he busied himself over the knots in his 
 little girl's pinafore for a minute or more. When he spoke 
 again, it was as if nothing had happened, and Guy had 
 never been away. 
 
 For the mother, she lay with her arms folded, looking 
 from one to the other mutely, or closing her eyes, with a 
 faint stirring of the lips, seemed only thus to dare gaze in 
 the face of her exceeding joy. 
 
 Soon Edwin and Louise left us for an hour or two, and 
 Guy went on telling about his life in America and his 
 partner who had come home with him, and, like him, had 
 lost his all. 
 
 " Harder for him than 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. Bring the gentleman 
 here ; or shall I write and ask him ? Maud, fetch me your 
 mother's desk. Now, then, Guy, you are a very forgetful 
 fellow still. You have never yet told us your friend's 
 name." 
 
 Guy looked steadily at his father in his own straight- 
 forward way, hesitated, then seemed to make 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 your- 
 self once, but he has wisely dropped his title. Since he 
 came over to me in America, he has been only Mr. William 
 Ravenel." 
 
 This discovery so natural when one comes to think of 
 it, but so incredible at first astounded us all. But Maud 
 well it was that the little Louise in her lap hid and con- 
 trolled in some measure the violent agitation of poor 
 Auntie Maud ! 
 
 Ay, Maud loved him- Perhaps she had guessed the
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 493 
 
 trnth about his departure, and love creates love oftentimes. 
 Then his brave renunciation of rank, fortune, even of her- 
 self women glory in a moral hero. His absence too, 
 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 " 
 
 "No, no; my son. It is very strange; all things just 
 now seem so strange. Maud, my child," and he roused 
 himself out of one of those silences into which he was fall- 
 ing, " 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, she 
 clasping it close in the sweet motherliness which had come 
 to her so early, I thought I thought 
 
 " Maud ! " said John, catching her hand as she passed 
 him by, " Maud is not afraid of her father?" 
 
 " No," in some uncertainty ; then, with a passionate 
 decision, as if ashamed of herself " No ! " 
 
 She leaned over his chair-back and kissed him, then went 
 out. 
 
 "Now, Guy." 
 
 Guy told, in his own frank way, all the history of him- 
 self and William Ravenel. Some little the latter had in- 
 formed him when he came to America, determined to throw 
 his lot for good or ill, to sink or swim, with Maud's brother; 
 more Guy had slowly guessed ; at last in the open boat, 
 on the Atlantic, with Death, the great revealer of all things, 
 staring them in the face the two young men had forced 
 out each other's secret. It made them better than friends 
 brothers.. 
 
 This was Guy's story, told with a certain spice of determi- 
 nation, too, as if, let his father's will be what it might, 
 his own, that 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,
 
 494 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 and ended his tale even as lie had begun, with, " Father, if 
 you only knew " 
 
 " My knowing and my judging seem of little worth, 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 re- 
 tracting, as it costs most men so much to retract, a decision 
 given, however justly at ihe time, but which fate has after- 
 wards, pronounced unjust smote his son to the heart's 
 core. 
 
 " Father, your judgment was just ; William says it was. 
 Whatever he has become, it was you who have made him 
 such. He would not have had things otherwise for 
 worlds." 
 
 " He is right," said Mrs. Halifax, sitting upright, and 
 speaking out bravely, womanly. " Love is worth nothing 
 that will not bear trial, a fiery trial, if needs be. And 
 this is only what I have heard John say many and many 
 a time, what he said that very night, that for love or 
 repentance or amendment there are no such words as i too 
 late.' ' : 
 
 John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped on his 
 right hand, the other pressed against his bosom, his fav- 
 orite attitude. Once or twice, with a deep-drawn, heavy 
 breath, he sighed. 
 
 Guy's eagerness could not rest. " Father, I told him I 
 would either write or see him to-day." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " At Norton Bury. Nothing would induce him to come 
 here, unless certain that you desired it." 
 
 " I do desire it." 
 
 Guy was delighted. " Shall I write, then ?" 
 
 " I will write myself." 
 
 But John's hand shook, visibly, painfully ; instead of the 
 free, bold writing, it left only blots upon the. page He 
 leaned back in his chair. 
 
 " I am getting an old man, I see. Guy, it was 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
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 495 
 
 to please her, he said. Then he rose, and said he would 
 drive over himself to Norton Bury for our old friend. 
 
 " Not now. Let me write, Father. To-morrow will do 
 just as well." 
 
 " No, to-day." 
 
 He took leave of his wife he never by any chance 
 quitted her for an hour without that special tender leave- 
 taking and went away. 
 
 Guy was, he vouched, " as happy as a king." His old 
 liveliness came faintly back ; he declared he had acted like 
 a great diplomatist, or like the gods themselves, whom 
 some unexacting, humble youth calls upon to 
 
 "Annihilate both time and space, 
 And make two lovers happy! " 
 
 " And I 'm sure I shall be happy too in seeing it ; and 
 we '11 take William into partnership, that was a whim 
 of his, Mother, to say ' Guy ' and ' William,' just like broth- 
 ers. Heigho ! I 'm very glad. Are you ? " 
 
 The mother smiled. 
 
 " You '11 soon have nobody left but me. Never mind. I 
 shall 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 Ravenel he was henceforward never anything 
 to us but William came home with Mr. Halifax. First 
 the mother saw him ; then I heard the father go to the 
 pretty maiden's chamber, where Maud had shut herself up 
 all day poor child ! and fetch her down. Lastly, I 
 watched the two, Mr. Ravenel and Miss Halifax, walk 
 quietly down the garden and into the beech wood, where 
 the leaves were whispering and the stock-doves cooing, 
 and where, I suppose, they told and listened to the old tale, 
 old as Adam, yet 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. Not lost, even the family love, which had lasted
 
 496 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 tli rough so much, now to be knitted up once more in a 
 bond never to be broken, though some might be separated 
 world-wide. 
 
 And now that we came quietly to examine one another 
 Jand fall into one another's old ways, there did not seeni 
 so much even of outward change. The table looked al- 
 most the same. Everybody took instinctively their old 
 places, except that the mother lay on her sofa and Maud 
 presided. 
 
 It did one's heart good to look at Maud as she busied 
 herself about, premature mistress of the household ; per- 
 haps with a natural feeling liking to show some one pres- 
 ent how mature and sedate she was, riot so very young, 
 after all. You could see she felt deeply how much he 
 loved her, how her love was to him youth and hope, 
 strength and peace. The responsibility, sweet as it was, 
 made her womanly, made her grave. She would be to him 
 at once wife and child, plaything and comforter, sustainer 
 and sustained. Ay, love levels all things. They were not 
 ill-matched in spite of those twenty years. 
 
 And so I left them, and went and sat with John and 
 Ursula, we, the generation passing away, or ready to 
 pass, in Heaven's good time, to make room for these. 
 We talked very little ; our hearts were too full. Early, 
 before anybody thought of moving, John carried his wife 
 upstairs again, saying that, well as she looked, she must 
 be compelled to economize both her good looks and her 
 happiness. 
 
 When he came down again, he stood talking to Mr. 
 Ravenel. While he talked, I thought he looked wearied, 
 pallid, even to exhaustion : a minute or two afterward he 
 quietly left the room. 
 
 I followed him, and found him leaning against the 
 chimney-piece in his study. 
 
 " Who 's that ? " He spoke feebly ; he looked ghastly. 
 
 I called him by his name. 
 
 " Come in. Fetch no one. Shut the door." 
 
 The words were hoarse and abrupt, but I obeyed. 
 
 " Phineas," he said, again holding out a hand, as if he 
 thought he had hurt me, " don't mind, I shall be better
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 497 
 
 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 worth- 
 less at such a price. I know now what it must have been : 
 1 know now what he must have endured. 
 
 He held me fast, half unconscious as he was, lest I 
 should call for help ; and when a step was heard in the 
 passage, as once before, the day Edwin was married, 
 how on a sudden I remembered all ! he tottered forward 
 and locked, double-locked the door. 
 
 After a few minutes the worst suffering abated, and he 
 sat down again in his chair. I got some water ; he drank, 
 and let me bathe his face with it, his face, gray and 
 deathlike, John's face. 
 
 But I am telling the bare facts, nothing more. 
 
 A few heavy sighs, gasped as it were for life, and he was 
 himself again. 
 
 " Thank God, it is over now ! Phineas, you must try 
 and forget. I wish you had not come to the door." 
 
 He said this, not in any tone that could wound me, but 
 tenderly, as if he were sorry for me. 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " There is no need to be alarmed, no more than that day 
 
 you remember ? in this room. I had it once before 
 then : a few times since. It is horrible pain while it lasts, 
 you see ; I can hardly bear it. But it goes away again, as 
 you also see. It would be a pity to tell my wife, or any- 
 body ; in fact, I had rather not. You understand." 
 
 He spoke thus quietly and explanatorily, 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, 
 
 a sharp attack ; but it comes rarely, and I am well again 
 directly. Now let us forget it." 
 
 But I could not ; nor, I thought, could he. He took up 
 a book and sat quiet ; but oftentimes I caught his eyes on 
 my face, with a peculiar expressible earnestness, as if he
 
 408 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 would fain test my strength, fain find out how much i 
 loved him, and loving how much 1 could bear. 
 
 " You are not reading; you are thinking what about?" 
 
 He paused a little, as if undetermined in his mind, 
 then said, " About your father. Do you remember 
 him?" 
 
 1 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 win- 
 should we talk of it now ? " 
 
 " Why not ? I have often thought what a happy death 
 it was ; painless, instantaneous, without any wasting sick' 
 ness 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 cannot tell. John," for again something 
 in his look and manner struck me, " why do you say this 
 to me?" 
 
 " I scarcely know ; yes, I do know." 
 
 " Tell me, then." 
 
 He looked at me across the table steadily, eye to eye, as 
 if he would fain impart to my spirit the calmness that waa 
 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 man- 
 ner 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 ! " 
 
 " Don't tremble ; 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 bonr 
 the truth ? You know it makes no real difference. I shall 
 not die an hour sooner for knowing." 
 
 " Knowing what ? " He explained quickly, as was best. 
 
 " Dr. K told me I was determined to be told
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 499 
 
 that I had what I suspected. He said I might live many 
 years, even to old age ; and I might die suddenly, at any 
 moment, just as your father died." 
 
 He said this very gently and quietly, more quietly than I 
 am writing it 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 him- 
 self or his brother, need be afraid of dying ? 
 
 " Phineas ! " and this time there was some faint re- 
 proach in the tone ; " no one knows this but you. I see 
 I was right to hesitate. I almost wish I had not told 
 you." 
 
 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 suffer- 
 ing 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 alone. 
 
 " 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 very terrible to me at times, the thought 
 of my wife. Perhaps I ought to have told her. Often I 
 resolved I would, but I could not ; and latterly I have 
 believed, almost hoped, perhaps she would not need to be 
 told at all." 
 
 " Would you rather, then, that she " 
 
 John calmly took up the word I shrank from saying. 
 " Yes ; I would rather, of the two, that she went away 
 first. She would suffer less, and it would be for such a 
 little while." 
 
 He spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an im- 
 pending journey. To him the great change, the last terror 
 of humanity, was a thought, solemn indeed but long fa- 
 miliar, altogether without fear. And as we sat there, some- 
 thing of his spirit passed into mine ; I felt how narrow is
 
 500 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 the span between the mortal and the life immortal ; how, 
 in truth, both are one with God. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " that is what I mean. To me there was 
 always something impious in the ' preparing for death ' 
 that people talk about ; as if we were not continually, in 
 the flesh or out of it, naked and open before the Father's 
 sight ; as if, come when He will, the Master should not find 
 all of us watching. Do you remember saying so 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, as things are now, some one 
 ought to be told. It is a great comfort to me to tell you, 
 a great comfort, Phineas. Always remember that." 
 
 " I have remembered it." 
 
 " Now one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You 
 see, though I may have years of life, I hope I shall, many 
 busy years, I am never sure of a day, and I have to take 
 many precautions. At home I shall be quite safe now.' 1 
 He smiled again with evident relief. " And I rarely go 
 anywhere without having one of my boys with me. Still, 
 for fear look here." 
 
 He showed me his pocket-book ; on a card bearing his 
 name and address, was written, large, in his own legible 
 hand, "Home, and tell my wife carefully." 
 
 I returned it. As I did so, there dropped out the 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. 
 
 " 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 hark ! how those 
 children are laughing!" 
 
 For the moment a shadow crossed the father's face. 
 
 " How happy they are ! How happy it makes one to see 
 it ! 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 with
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 501 
 
 a quiet life, a life without care, he might, humanly speaking, 
 attain even to old age. 
 
 " Ay, your father did. Who knows ? We may both be 
 old men yet, Phineas." 
 
 And as he rose, he looked so strong in body and mind, 
 so full of health and cheer, scarcely even on the verge 
 of that old age of which he spoke, and 1 was older 
 than he. 
 
 " Now, will you come with me to say good-night to the 
 children?" 
 
 At first I thought I could not ; then I could. After the 
 rest had merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time 
 in the empty 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 1st of August, 1834. 
 
 Many may remember that day, what a soft, gray, sum- 
 mer morning it was, and how it broke out into brightness ; 
 how everywhere bells were ringing, club fraternities walk- 
 ing with bands and banners, school-children having feasts, 
 and work-people holidays ; how in town and country there 
 was spread abroad a general sense of benevolent rejoicing, 
 because honest old England had lifted up her generous 
 voice, nay, had paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, 
 and in all her colonies the negro was free ! 
 
 Many may still find in some forgotten drawer the medal, 
 bought by thousands and tens of thousands of all classes, 
 in copper, silver, or gold; distributed in charity-schools, 
 and given by old people to their grandchildren. I saw 
 Mrs. Halifax tying one with a piece of blue ribbon round
 
 502 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 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 drop- 
 ping ; something, 1 overheard John say to his wife, as he 
 could fancy, in spirit, the freeman Paul would stand in the 
 Roman prison, when he said to those that loved him, 
 " 1 have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. 
 1 have kept the faith." 
 
 Now, with my quickened ears, I often heard John talking 
 quietly to his wife in this wise. 
 
 He was by her side the whole forenoon, wheeling her 
 about in her garden chair , taking her to see her school- 
 children in their glory on our lawn, to hear the shouts 
 rising up from the people at the mill -yard below. For all 
 Enderley, following the master's example, took an interest, 
 hearty even among hearty, hard-working England, in the 
 Emancipation of the Slaves. 
 
 We had our own young people round us, and the day was 
 a glorious day, they declared, one and all. 
 
 John was happy, too, infinitely happy. After dinner, he 
 carried his wife, who remained very feeble, to her chair 
 under the weeping ash, where she should smell the late hay 
 in the meadow and hear the ripple of the stream in the 
 beech wood, faint, for it was almost dried up now, but 
 pleasant still. Her husband sat on the grass, making her 
 laugh with his quaint sayings, admiring her in her new bon- 
 net and in the lovely white shawl Guy's shawl which 
 Mr. Guy himself had really no time for admiring. He had 
 gone off to the school tea-drinking, escorting his sister and 
 sister-in-law and another lady, whose eyes brightened with 
 most " sisterly joy " whenever she glanced at her old " play~ 
 fellow," whose " sister " she nevertheless was not nor was 
 ever likely to be ; and I had my doubts whether our Guy, 
 in his secret heart, was not particularly thankful for that 
 circumstance. 
 
 " Ah, Mother," said the father, smiling, " you '11 see how 
 it will end. All our young birds w r ill soon be flown ; there 
 will be nobody left but you and me." 
 
 " Never mind, John," and stooping over him, she gave 
 him one of those quiet, soft kisses, precious now she was an
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 503 
 
 old woman, as they were in the days of her bloom ; " never 
 mind. Once there was only two, now there will be we 
 two again. We shall be very happy. We only want one 
 another." 
 
 " Only one another, my darling." 
 
 This last word, and the manner of his saying it, I can 
 hear, if I listen to silence, clear as if yet I heard its sound. 
 This last sight of them sitting under the ash-tree, the sun 
 making still whiter Ursula's white shawl, brightening the 
 marriage-ring on her bare hand, and throwing, instead of 
 silver, some of the boyish gold color in the edges of John's 
 curls, this picture I see with my shut eyes, vivid as 
 yesterday. 
 
 I sat some time in my room, and 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 go 
 down. So, almost every evening, we used to spend an hour 
 or more pacing up and down, or sitting in that little hollow 
 under the brow of the Flat, where, as from the topmost 
 seat of a natural amphitheatre, one could see Rose Cottage 
 and the old well-head where the cattle drank, our own green 
 garden gate, the dark mass of the beech wood, and far away 
 beyond that, Nunnely Hill, where the sun went down. 
 
 There, having walked somewhat less than usual, for the 
 evening was warm and it had been a very fatiguing day, 
 John and I sat down together. We talked a little ram- 
 blingly, chiefly of Longfield ; how I was to have my old 
 room again, and how a new nursery was to be planned for 
 the grandchildren. 
 
 " We can't get out of the way of children, I see clearly," 
 he said laughing. " We shall have Longfield just as full 
 as ever it was, all summer time. But in winter we '11 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 'm intending giving at 
 Norton Bury these ten years ; and we'll rub up our Latin, 
 and dip into the modern poetry, great rubbish, I fear,! 
 Nobody like our old friend, WU1 of Avon, or even your 
 namesake, worthy Phineas Fletcher,"
 
 504 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 I reminded him of the " shepherd's life and fate," which 
 he liked so much, and used to say was the perfection 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 sort of happiness 1 would 
 have chosen. I think most lives, if we were content to 
 leave their thread in wiser Hands than ours, would so 
 weave themselves out till, as the whole, looked back upon, 
 they would seem as bright a web as mine." 
 
 He sat talking thus, resting his chin on his hands, his 
 eyes, calm and sweet, looking out westward, where the sun 
 was about an hour from the horizon. 
 
 " Do you remember how we used to lie on the grass in 
 your father's garden, and how we never could catch the 
 sunset except in fragments between the abbey trees ? I 
 wonder if they keep the yew hedge clipped as round as ever." 
 
 I told him Edwin had said to-day that some strange 
 people were going to make an mn of the old house and 
 turn our lawn into a bowling-green. 
 
 " What a shame ! I wish I could prevent it. And yet 
 perhaps not," he added after a silence. " Phineas, I think 
 we ought to recognize 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 would n't 
 allow there could be " any children like Mrs. Halifax's 
 children." 
 
 There was Edwin, deep in converse with his brother Guy ; 
 while beside them, prettier and younger-looking than ever, 
 Grace Olcjtower was making a posy for little Louise.
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 505 
 
 Farther down the slope, walking slowly, side by side, evi- 
 dently seeing nobody but one another, were two more figures. 
 
 " 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 toward the sunset. When brightening as it descended, 
 the sun shone level upon the place where we were sitting, I 
 saw John pull his broad straw hat over his face and com- 
 pose 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, and sat 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. Ravenel were coming up the slope. I 
 beckoned them to come softly, not to disturb the father. 
 They and I sat in perfect silence, facing the west. The sun 
 journeyed down to his setting, 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, knowing we should see his glorious face 
 again to-morrow. 
 
 " How cold it is grown," said Maud. " I think we ought 
 to wake my father." 
 
 She went up to him, put her hand upon his that were 
 folded so peacefully together, looked startled, alarmed 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 I put the child aside. It was I who moved the hat from 
 John's face the face. While he was sleeping, God 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 Ursula. 
 
 She was at last, as we thought, quiet on her bed, lying 
 death-like almost but calm. It was ten o'clock at night 
 I left her with all her children watching round her.
 
 506 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 I went out up to Rose Cottage, to sit an hour by myself, 
 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 mysrlf 
 with those words. I could almost hear John saying them, 
 standing near, with his hand on my shoulder, John him- 
 self, quite distinct from that which lay so still before me, 
 beautiful as nothing but death can be, younger much than 
 he had looked this very morning, younger by twenty years. 
 
 Farewell, John ! Farewell, my more than brother ! It 
 is but for a little while. 
 
 As 1 sat, thinking how peaceful the hands lay, clasped 
 together still, how sweet the mouth looked, 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 ; how she had managed to 
 steal out from among them all, 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. 
 
 " It is very like him ; don't you think so, Phineas ? " 
 The voice was low and soft, but unbroken. " 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 half an hour that she and I remained thus, 
 without a word. 
 
 " I think I hear some one at the door. Brother, will you 
 call in the children?" 
 
 So Guy 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 and look at your 
 father." 
 
 They all gathered round her, weeping; but she spoke 
 without a single tear. 
 
 " I was a girl, younger than any of you, when first I met
 
 JOHN HALIFAX. 507 
 
 your father. Next month we shall have been married 
 thirty-three years, thirty-three years ! " 
 
 Her eyes grew dreamy, as if looking back all that while ; 
 her fingers moved backward and forward mechanically over 
 her wedding-ring. 
 
 " Children, we were so happy, you cannot tell. He was 
 so good, and he loved me so, and his love strengthened 
 me and made me good ; that was why I loved him. We 
 were more precious each to each than anything on earth 
 except His services who gave us to one another." 
 
 The voice dropped all but inaudible ; but she roused her- 
 self and made it clear and firm, like the mother's natural 
 voice. 
 
 " Guy, Edwin, all of you, 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. Chil- 
 dren, you will never do anything that need make you 
 ashamed to meet your father ? " 
 
 As they hung round her, she kissed her three sons and 
 her daughter, one by one ; then her mind being perhaps led 
 astray by the little room she was in, looking feebly round 
 for one more, remembered, smiled 
 
 " How glad her Father will be, his own little Muriel." 
 
 " Mother ! Mother darling ! come home," said Guy, 
 almost in a sob. 
 
 His mother stooped over him, gave him one kiss more, 
 her favorite of all her children and repeated the old phrase : 
 
 " Presently, presently, my son. Now, children, go away all 
 of you ; I want to be 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 to him years before, the day they were be- 
 trothed, just a low, low murmur, like a tired child creep- 
 ing to fond arms. " Come. John, John I " 
 
 We closed the door. We all sat on the stairs outside ; it 
 might have been minutes, it might have been hours. 
 Within or without none spoke, or nothing stirred. 
 
 At last Guy softly went in. 
 
 She was s'till on her chair at the bedside, but leaning 
 over, half sitting, half lying. Her arm was round her bus-
 
 508 JOHN HALIFAX. 
 
 band's neck ; her face, pressing inward to the pillow, was 
 nestled close to his hair. They might have been asleep, 
 both of them. 
 
 " Mother, Mother ! " but she did not answer. 
 
 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.

 
 J 
 
 A 000 148 718 o