 39. Guy and his mother were together. She lay on a sofa in her dressing room. He sat on a stool beside her so that her arm could rest on his neck, and she could now and then turn his face towards her and look at it. Oh, what a look! She had had him with her for two whole days, two days to be set against eight years. Yet the eight years seemed already to have collapsed into a span of time, and the two days to have risen up a great mountain of happiness, making a barrier complete against the woeful past, as happiness can do. 40. Thanks to the all-merciful for his mercies, most especially for that mercy, true as his truth to the experience of all pure hearts, that one bright brief season of joy can outray, most especially for that mercy, true as is to the experience of all pure hearts, that one bright brief season of joy can outray, in reality and even 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 seized the endeavor to reconcile this, our Guy, this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, looking thirty-five and more, with Guy, the boy that left us, the boy that in all our lives we never should find again. Nevertheless we took him, just as he was, to our hearts, rejoicing in him, one in all with inexpressible joy. He was much alerted, certainly, it was natural, may write, that he should be. He had suffered much a great deal more than he ever told us, at least, not until long after, had gone through poverty, labor, sickness, shipwreck. He had written home by the stars and stripes. Sailed a fortnight later by another vessel, then cast away, picked up by an outward bow and ship, and finally landed in England. He and his partner, as puny-less as they left it. Was your partner an Englishman, then? said Maud, who sat at the foot of the sofa, listening. He have not told us anything about him yet. Guy hath smiled. I will buy and buy, 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 a thin face, his eyes overflowing with love. You must get well now, mother, promise. Her smile promised, and even began the fulfillment of the same. I think she looks stronger already, does she, Maud? You know, her looks better than I. I don't ever remember being ill in old times. O mother, will I never leave you again? Never. No, my boy. No, Guy, no. John came in and stood watching them both contentedly. No, my son, you must never leave your mother. I will not leave either of you, father, said Guy, with a reverent affection that must have gladdened the mother's heart to the very core. Resigning his place by her, Guy took Maud's, facing them, and father and son began to talk of various matters, concerning their home and business arrangements, taking counsel together, as father and son ought to do. These eight years of separation seemed to have bought them, nearer together, the difference between them, in age far less than between most fathers and sons, had narrowed into a meeting point. Never in all his life had Guy been so different, so loving to his father, and with a peculiar trust and tenderness, John's heart turned to his eldest son, the heir of his name. His accessory at Enderlea mills, for in order that Guy might at once take his natural place, and feel no longer a waif, and stray upon the world, already a plan had been started, that the firm of Halifax, and sons, should become Halifax brothers. Perhaps, ere very long, only the mother said privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not wish this part of the scheme to be mentioned to Guy just now. Perhaps ere, long it would be Guy Halifax, a square of Beechwood, and the old people at Happy Little Longfield. As yet Guy had seen nobody but ourselves, and nobody had seen Guy, though his mother gave various good reasons why he should not make his public appearance as a shipwrecked mariner, costume and all. Yet it was easy to perceive that she looked forward, not without apprehension, to some meetings, which must necessarily soon occur. But to which Guy made not the smallest allusion, he had asked. Curiously, and generally after, all my brothers and sisters had been answered in the same tone, but neither he nor we had had, as yet mentioned, the names of Edwind or Louise. They knew he was come home, but how and where the first momentous meeting should take place we left entirely at a 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 his father and he were planning together in what way could best be celebrated by our school children, tenants, and work people in Edwind, 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 nager slavery. In our colonies, the first of August, 1834, he sat in an attitude that reminded me of his boyish lounging ways, the picture of contents through a stream of sunshine pouring in upon his head, through the closed venetian blind, showed many a deep line of care on his forehead, and more than one silver thread among his brown hair. In a pause, during which no one exactly liked to ask what we were all thinking about, there came a little tap at the door, and a little voice outside. Please, me want to come in. Mao jumped up to refuse admission, but Mr. Halifax forbade her, and himself went and opened the door. A little child stood there, a little girl of three years old. Apparently, guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily and sat down in his place again. Come in, little maid, said the father, come in and tell us what you want. Me want to see Granny and Uncle Guy. Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took her grandchild in her feeble arms and kissed her, saying softly, there, that is Uncle Guy, go and speak to him. And then touching his sneeze, Guy felt the tiny fearless hand he turned round and looked at the little thing reluctantly inquisitively. Still he did not speak to or touch her. Are you Uncle Guy? Yes, why don't you kiss me? Everybody kisses me, said everybody's pet, neither frightened nor shy, never dreaming of a repulse. Nor did she find it, her little fingers were suffered to cling round the tightly closed hand. What is your name, my dear? Louise, Mama's little Louise. Guy put back the curls and gazed long and wistfully into the childish face, where the inherited beauty was repeated line for line, but softened, spiritualized as years after its burial, some ghost of a man's old sorrows may rise up and meet him, the very spirit of peace shining out of its celestial eyes. Little Louise, you are very like, he stopped and bending down, kissed her in that kiss, vanished forever the last shadow of his boyhood's love. Not that he forgot it, God forbid that any good man should ever either forget or be ashamed of his first love. But it and all its pain fled far away, back into the sacred eternities of dreamland. When looking up at last, he saw a large fair matronole lady sitting by his mother's sofa. Guy neither started nor turned pale. It was another and not his lost Louise. He rose and offered her its hand. You see, your little daughter has made friends with me already. She's very like you, only she has Edwin's hair. Where is my brother Edwin? Here, old fellow, welcome home. The two brothers met warmly, nay, affectionately. Edwin was not given to demonstration. But I saw how his features twitched and how he busied himself over the knots in his little girl's pineafor 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 mutually, or closing her eyes with a faint stirring of the lips like prayer. It seemed as if she dared only thus to meet her exceeding joy. Soon Edwin and Louise left us for an hour or two, and Guy went on with the history of his life in America, and his partner, who had come home with him, and like himself, had lost his all. Harder for him than for me. He is older than I am. He knew nothing whatever of business when he offered himself as my clerk. Since then, he had worked like a slave. In a fever, I had he nursed me. He has been, to me, these three years the best, truest friend. He is the noblest fellow, father, if you only knew. Well, my son, let me know him. Invite the gentleman to Beechwood, or shall I write and ask him? Mowed 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 looks steadily at his father. In his own straightforward way, hesitated, then apparently made up his mind. I did not tell you because he wished me not. Not tell you understood him as well as I do. You knew him yourself once, but he has wisely dropped his title. Since he came over to me in America, he has been only Mr. Williams' ravenel. This discovery, natural enough, when one began to think over it, but incredible at first, astounded us all, for Mowed well was at that, the little Louise seated in her lap, hidden controlled in some measure the violent agitation of poor auntie Mowed. A Mowed loved him. Perhaps she had guessed the secret cause of his departure, and love creates love oftentimes. Then his brave renunciation of rank, fortune, even of herself, woman glory in a moral hero, one who has strength to lose even love, and beareth loss for the sake of duty or of honor. His absence too might have done much, absence which smothers into decay, a rootless, fancy, but often nourishes the least seed of a true affection into full, flowering love. I, Mowed, loved him. How or why or when, at first no one could tell. Perhaps not even herself, but so it was, and her parents saw it. Both were deeply moved, her brother likewise. Father, he whispered, have I done wrong? I did not know. How could I guess? No, no, my son. It is very strange. All things just now seem so strange. Mowed, my child. And John rose himself out of a long silence into which he was falling. Go and take Louise to her mother. The girl rose, eager to get away. As she crossed the room, the little creature clinging around her neck and she, clasping it close, in the sweet motherlinus of character which had come to her so early. I thought I hoped. Mowed, said John, catching her hand as she passed him by. Mowed is not afraid of her father. No, in troubled uncertainty, then with a passionate decision, as if ashamed of herself. No, she leaned over his chair back and kissed him, then went out. Now, Guy. Guy told, in his own frank way, all the history of himself, and William Ravenel, how the letter had come to America, determined to throw his lot for good or ill, to sink or swim with Mowed's brother chiefly as Guy had slowly discovered, because he was Mowed's brother, at last in the open boat on the Atlantic, with death the great revealer of all things. Staring them in the face, the whole secret came out. It made them better than friends, brothers. This was Guy's story, told with a certain spice of determination too, as if let his father's will be what it might, his own, which had now also settled into the strong family will, was resolute on his friend's behalf, yet when he saw how grave, and he said, the father sat, he became humble again, and ended his tale even as he had begun. With the entreaty, father, if you only knew, my knowing and my judging seemed to have been of little value, my son be it so, there is one wiser than I, one in whose hands are the issues of all things. The sort of contrition, with which he spoke, thus retracting, as it costs most men so much to retract, a decision given however justly at the time, but which fate has afterwards pronounced unjust, affected his son deeply. Father, your decision was right, William says it was. He says also, that it could not have been otherwise, that whatever he has become since, he owes it all to you, and so what passed that day, though he loves her still, will never love anyone else, yet he declares his loss of her, has proved his salvation. He is right, said Mrs. Halifax, love is worth nothing that will not stand trial, a fiery trial, if needs be. And as I have heard John say, many and many a time, as he said that very night, in this world there is not, ought not to be any such words as too late. John made no answer. He sat, his chin propped at his right hand. The other pressed against his bosom, his favorite attitude. Once or twice, with a deep drawn, painful breath, he sighed. Guy's eagerness could not rest. Father, I told him I would either write to or see him today. Where is he? At Norton Burie, nothing could induce him to come here, unless certain that you desired it. I do desire it. Guy started up with great joy. Shall I write then? I will write myself. But John's head shook so much that instead of his customary free, bold writing, he left only blots upon the page. He leant back on his chair and said faithfully, I am getting an old man I see. Guy, it was high time you came home. Mrs. Halifax thought he was tired and made a place for his head on her pillow, where he rested some minutes, just to please her, he said. Then he rose and declared he would himself drive over to Norton Burie for our old friend. Nay, let me write, Father, tomorrow will do just as well. The father shook his head. Know it must be today. Beating goodbye to his wife, he never by any chance quitted her for an hour without a special tender, leaf-taking. John went away. Guy was, he avouched as happy as a king. His old liveliness returned. He declared that in this matter, which had long weighed heavily on his mind, he had acted like a great diplomatist, or like the gods themselves, whom some unexacting, humble youth calls upon to annihilate both time and space and make two lovers happy. And I'm sure I shall be happy, too, in seeing them. They shall be married immediately, and we'll take William into partnership that was a whim of his mother. We call one another Guy and William, just like brothers. I hope, I'm very glad, are not you, the mother smiled. You will soon have nobody left but me, no matter. I shall have you all to myself, and be at once a spoiled child and an uncommonly merry old bachelor. Again, the old mother smiled without reply. She, too, doubtless thought herself a great diplomatist. William Revno, he was henceforward never anything to us but William, came home with Mr. Halifax. First the mother saw him. Then I heard the father go to the maiden bower, where Maud had shut herself up all day, poor child, and fetched his daughter down. Lastly, I watched the two, Mr. Revno and Mrs. Halifax, walk together down the garden and into the beech wood, where the leaves were whispering and the stout doves cooling. 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. Around the family table, Guy, Edwin, Walter, Maud, Luis, and William Revno all changed, yet not one lost. A true love feast it was. A renewed celebration of the family bond, which had lasted through so much sorrow, now knitted up once more, never to be broken. When we came quietly to examine one another and fall into another's old ways, there was less than one might have expected, even of outward change. The table appeared the same. All looked instinctively, their old places, except that the mother lay on her sofa, and Maud presided at the urn. It did one's heart good to look at Maud, as she busied herself about, in a capacity as vice-reign of the household, perhaps, with a natural feeling, liking to show someone present how mature and sedate she was, not so very young after all. You could see she felt deeply how much he loved her, how her love was to him like the restoring of his youth, the responsibility, sweet as it was, made her womanly, made her grave. She would be to him at once, wife and child, plaything and comforter, sustainer and sustained. I 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 Ursula, we the generation passing away or ready to pass, in heaven's good time, to make room for these. We talked but little, our hearts were too full. Early before anybody thought of moving, John carried his wife 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 for some time when Mr. Ravenel, while he talked, I thought, he looked worried, pallid, even to exhaustion, a minute or two afterwards. He silently left the room. I followed him and found him leaning against the chimney piece in his study. Who's that? He spoke feebly. He looked ghastly. I called him by his name. Come in, fetch no one, shut the door. The words were hoarse and abrupt, but I obeyed. Finneas, he said, again holding out a hand, as if he thought he had grieved me. Don't mind, I shall be better presently. I know quite well what it is. Ah, my God, my God, sharp, horrible pain such as human nature shrinks from, such as makes poor mortal flesh cry out on its agony to his maker. As if, for the time being, life itself were worthless at such a price, I know now what it must have been. I know now what he must have endured. He held me fast, half unconscious as he was, lest I should summon help, and when a step was heard in the passage, as one before, the day Edwin was married, how, on a sudden, I remember it 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 death-like, John's face. But I'm telling the bear facts nothing more. A few heavy-sized gasp as it were for life, and he was himself again. Thank God it is over now, Phineas. You must try and forget all you have seen. I wish you had not come to the door. He said this, not in any tone, that could wound me. But tenderly, as if he were very sorry for me. What is it? There is no need for alarm, no more than that day. You recollect, in this room. I had an attack once before, then, a few times since. It is horrible pain while it lasts. You see, I can hardly bear it. But it goes away again, as you also see. It would be a pity to tell my wife or anybody, in fact, I had rather not. You understand? He spoke thus in a matter-of-fact way. As if he thought the explanation would satisfy me and prevent my asking further, he was mistaken. John, what is it? What is it? Why, something like that I had then. But it comes rarely, and all I am well again directly. I had much rather not talk about it. Pray forget it. But I could not, nor I thought I could he. He took up a book and sat still, though oftentimes I caught his eyes, fixed on my face with a peculiar earnestness, as if he would feintest my strength. Phine, find out how much I loved him, and loving, how much I could bear. You are not reading, John. You are thinking, what about? He paused a little, as if undetermined, whether or not to tell me. Then said, about your father, do you remember him? I looked surprised at the question. I mean, do you remember how he died? Somehow, though, God knows. Not at that, dear, and sacred remembrance. I shuddered. Yes, but why should we talk of it now? Why not? I have often thought what a happy death it was, painless, instantaneous, without any wasting sickness beforehand, his sudden passing from life, present to life eternal. Phineas, your father's, was the happiest death I ever knew. It may be, I am not sure. John, for again, something in his look and manner struck me. Why do you say this to me? I scarcely know. Yes, I do know. Tell me, then. He looked at me across the table, steadily, eye to eye, as if he would feign in part to my spirit the calmness that was in his own. I believe, Phineas, that when I die, my death will be not unlike your father's. Something came wildly to my lips about impossibly the utter impossibility of any man's thus settling the manner of his death or the time. I know that. I know that I may live ten or twenty years and die of another disease after all. Disease? Nay, it is nothing to be afraid of. You see, I am not afraid. I have guessed it for many years. I have known it for a certainty ever since I was in Paris. Were you ill in Paris? You never said so. No, because Phineas, do you think you could bear the truth? You know it makes no real difference. I shall not die an hour sooner for being aware of it. Aware of what? Say quickly. Dr. Kaye told me, and I was determined to be told that I had the disease I suspected. Beyond medical power to cure, it is not immediately fatal. He said I might live many years, even to old age, and I might die, suddenly, at any moment, just as if father died. He said this gently and quietly, more quietly than I am writing the words down now. And I listened, I listened. Phineas, I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder, the hand which had led me like a brother's all my life. Phineas, we have known one another for these forty years. It is our love, our faith, so small that either of us, for himself, or his brother, need to be afraid of death. Phineas, and the second time you spoke there, was some faint reproach in the tone. No one knows this but you. I see I was right to hesitate. I almost wish I had not told you at all. Then I rose. At my urgent request, he explained to me, fully and clearly, the whole truth. It was at most truths are less terrible than holy known. It had involved little suffering as yet, paraxins, being few and rare. They had always occurred. When he was alone, or when feeling them coming on, he would go away and bear them in solitude. I have always been able to do so until tonight. She has not the least idea, my wife, I mean. His voice failed. It has been terrible to me at times. The thought of my wife, perhaps I ought to have told her. Often I resolved I would, and then changed my mind. Laterally, since she has been ill, I have believed, almost hoped, that she would not need to be told at all. Would you rather than that she, John calmly, took up the word I shrink from uttering, Yes, I would rather of the two, that she went away first. She would suffer less, and it would be much a short parting. He spoke as one would speak of a new abode. In a pending journey, to him, the great change, the last terror of humanity, was a thought, solemn indeed, but long familiar, and all together without fear. And, as we sat there, something of his spirit passed into mine. I felt how narrow is the span between the life mortal and the life immortal, how in truth both are one with God. I, he said, that is exactly what I mean. To me, there is always something impious in preparing for death that people talk about, as if we were not continually, whether in the flesh or out of it, living in the Father's presence, as if, come when he will, the Master should not find all of us watching. Do you remember saying so to me one day? Ah, that day, does it pain you, my talking thus? Because if so, we will seize. No, go on. That is right. I thought, this attack, having been somewhat worse than my last, someone ought to be told. It has been a comfort to me, to tell you, a great comfort, Phineas. I always remember that. I have remembered it. Now, one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You see, though I may have years of life, I hope I shall, many busy years. I am never sure of a day, and I have to take many precautions. At home, I shall be quite safe now. He smiled again with evident relief, and rarely I go anywhere without having one of my boys with me. Still, for fear, look here. He showed me his pocketbook, on a card, bearing his name and address, was written in his own legible hand. Home and tell my wife carefully. I returned the book. As I did so, there dropped out a little note. All yellow unfaded, his wife's only love letter, signed, Your sincerely, Ursula March. John picked it up, looked at it, and put it back in its place. Poor darling, poor darling, he sighed, and was silent for a while. I am very glad Guy has come home. Very glad that my little Maud is so happily settled. Hark, how those children are laughing. For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the father's face, the father to whom all the delights of home had been so dear. But it soon vanished. How merry they are, how strangely things have come about for us and ours. As Ursula was saying tonight, at this moment we have not a single care. I grasped at that, for Dr. Kay had declared that if John had a quiet life, a life without many anxieties, he might, humanly speaking, attain a good age. I, your father, did. Who knows? We may both be old men yet, Phineas. And as he rose, he looked strong in body and mind, full of health and cheer, scarcely even on the verge of that old age, of which he spoke, and I was older than he. Now will you come with me to say good night to the children? At first I thought I could not, then I could. After the rest, had merely 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. End of Chapter 39, Recording by Chris Caron. Chapter 40 of John Halifax Gentlemen This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. John Halifax Gentlemen by Diana Craig Chapter 40 Friday the 1st of August 1834 Many may remember that day, what a soft gray summer morning it was, and how it broke out into brightness, how everywhere bells were ringing, club fraternities walking with bands and banners, schoolchildren having feasts and work people holidays, how in town and country they were spread abroad a general sense of benevolent rejoicing. Because Honest Old England had lifted up her generous voice, Naye had paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, and in all her colonies the Negro was free. Many may still find in some forgotten draw, the medal bought by thousands and tens of thousands of all classes in copper, silver or gold, distributed in charity schools, and given by old people to their grandchildren. I saw Mrs Halifax tying one with a piece of blue ribbon round Little Louise's neck in remembrance of this day. The pretty medal with a slave standing upright stretching out to heaven free hands, from which the fetters are dropping, as I overheard John say to his wife, he could fancy the freeman Paul would stand in the Broman prison, when he answered to those that loved him, I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Now with my quickened ears I often hear John talking quietly to his wife on this wise. He remained by her side the whole forenoon, wheeling her about in her garden chair, taking her to see her school children in their glory on our lawn, to hear the shouts rising up from the people at the milliard below. For all enderly, following the master's example, took an interest, hardy even among hard-working England in the emancipation of the slaves. We had our own young people round us, and the day was a glorious day that declared one and all. John was happy too, infinitely happy. After dinner he carried his wife to her chair beside the weeping ash, where she could smell the late hay in the meadow and hear the ripple of the stream in the beachwood, faint for it was almost dried up now, but pleasant still. Her husband sat on the grass, making her laugh with his quaint sayings, admiring her in her new bonnet, and then the lovely white shawl, Guy Shaw, which Mr Guy himself had really no time for admiring. He had gone off to the school tea drinking, escorting his sister and sister-in-law and another lady whose eyes brightened with most sisterly joy whenever she glanced at her old playfellow. Guy's sister, she nevertheless was not, nor ever likely to be, and I questioned whether, in his secret heart, he had not begun already to feel particularly thankful for that circumstance. Ah, Mother, cried the father, smiling, you'll soon see how it will end. All our young birds will soon be flown. There will be nobody left but you and me. Never mind, John, and stooping over him, she gave him one of her quiet, soft kisses. Precious now, she was an old woman, as they had been in the days of her bloom. Never mind. Once there are only our two selves, now there will be only our two selves again. We shall be very happy. We only need one another. Only one another, my darling. This last word and the manner of his saying it, I can hear if I listen in silence. Clear as if I yet heard it sound, this last sight of them sitting under the ashtray, the sun making still white at Ursula's white shawl, brightening the marriage ring on her bare hand, and throwing instead of silver some of their boyish gold color into the edges of John's curls. This picture I see with my shut eyes, vivid as yesterday. I sat for some time in my room. Then John came to fetch me for our customary walk along his favorite terrace on the flat. He rarely liked to miss it. He said that the day hardly seemed complete or perfect, unless one had seen the sunset. Thus almost every evening we used to spend an hour or more pacing up and down, or sitting in that little hollow under the brow of the flat, where, as from the topmost seat of a natural amphitheater, one could see Rose Cottage and the old wellhead where the cattle drank, our own green garden gate, the dark mess of the beachwood, and far away beyond that Nunnerly Hill where the sun went down. There, having walked somewhat less than usual, for the evening was warm and it had been a fatiguing day, John and I sat down together. We talked a little, rambling, 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 Everett was, all summertime. But in winter we'll be quiet and sit by the chimney corner and plunge into my dusty desert of books. Hey Phineas, you shall help me to make notes for those lectures I have intended giving at Norton Burie that is ten years past. And we'll rub out our old Latin and dip into modern poetry, great rubbish I fear, nothing like our old friend Will of Avon, or even of your namesake worthy Phineas Fletcher. I reminded him of the shepherd's life and fate which he had always liked so much, and used to say was his ideal of peaceful happiness. Well, and I think so still, keep true to the dreams of thy youth, said the old German. I have not been false to mine. I have had a happy life, thank God. Hey, and what few men can say, it has been the very sort of happiness I myself would have chosen. I think most lives, if we're faithfully doing our little best, day by day, we were content to leave their thread in wiser hands than ours, with thus we're themself out. Until, look back upon as a whole, they would seem as bright a web as mine. He sat talking thus, resting his chin on his hands, his eyes calm and sweet, looking out westward, where the sun was about an hour from the horizon. Do you remember how we used to lie on the grass in your father's garden, and how we never could catch the sunset, except in fragments between the abbey trees? I wonder if they keep the you-hedged clipped as round as ever. I told him Edwin had said today that some strange tenants were going to make an inn of the old house, and turn the lawn into a bowling-green. What a shame, I wish I could prevent it, and yet, perhaps not, he added after a silence, what we're not rather to recognise and submit to the universal law of change, how each in his place is fulfilling his day and passing away, just as that sun is passing. Only we know not whether he passes, or whether we go we know, and the way we know the same yesterday, today, and forever. Almost before he had done speaking, God granted in the kingdom I may hear that voice, not a turn olden, I would not wish it altered even there. A whole troop of our young people came out of Mrs. Todd's cottage, and nodded to us from below. There was Mrs. Edwin, standing talking to the good old soul, who admired her baby boy very much, but wouldn't allow there could be any children like Mrs. Hallifax's children. There was Edwin, deep in converse with his brother- guy, while beside them, prettier and younger looking than ever, Grace Oldtow was making a posey for little Louise. Further down the slope, walking slowly side by side, evidently seeing nobody but one another, or another couple. I think sometimes John that those two, William and Maude, will be the trapeze of all the children. He smiled, looked after them for a minute, and then laid himself quietly down on his back along the slope, his eyes still directed toward the sunset. When, brightening as it descended, the sun shone level upon the place where we were sitting, I saw John pull his board-straw hat over his face, and compose himself with both hands clasped upon his breast in the attitude of sleep. I knew he was very tired, so I spoke no more, but threw my cloak over him. He looked up, thanked me silently with his old familiar smile. One day, one day I shall know him by that smile. I sat half an hour or more watching the sun, which sunk steadily, slowly, round and red without a single clown, beautiful as I had never before seen it, so clear that one could note the very instant its discs touched the horizon's grain. Lord and Mr. Ravenel were coming up the slope. I beckoned them to come softly, not to disturb the father. They and I sat in silence, facing the west. The sun journeyed down to his setting, lower, lower. There was a crescent, a line, a dim sparkle of light. Then he was gone. And still we sat, grave but not sad, looking into the brightness he had left behind, believing, yea, knowing we should see his glorious face again tomorrow. How cold it has grown, said Maud. I think we should wake my father. She went up to him, laid her hand upon his, that were folded together over the cloak, drew back startled, alarmed. Father! I put the child aside. It was I who moved the hat away from John's face, thee face, for John himself was far, far away. Gone from us under him whose faithful servant he was. While he was sleeping thus, the master had called him. His two sons carried him down the slope. They laid him in the upper room in Mrs. Todd's cottage. Then I went home to tell his wife. She was at last composed, as we thought, lying on her bed, deathlike almost, but calm. It was ten o'clock at night. I left her with all her children watching round her. I went out up to Rose Cottage, to sit an hour by myself alone, looking at him whom I should never see again for, as he had said, a little while. A little while, a little while, I comforted myself with those words. I fancied I could almost hear John saying them, standing near me with his hand on my shoulder. John himself, quite distinct from that which lay so still before me, beautiful as nothing but death can be, younger much than he had looked this very morning, younger by twenty years. Farewell, John, farewell, my modern brother. It is but for a little while. As I sat, thinking how peacefully the hands lay clasped together still, how sweet was the expression of the close mouth, and what a strange, shadowy likeness the whole face born to Muriel's little face, whom I had seen resting in the same deep rest on the same pillow. Someone touched me. It was Mrs. Hallifax. How she came, I do not know, nor how she had managed to steal out from among her children, nor how she, who had not walked for weeks, had found a way up hither in the dark all alone. Nor what strength almost more than mortal helped her to stand there, as she did stand, upright and calm, gazing, gazing as I had done. It is very like him, don't you think so, Phineas? The voice was low and soft, unbroken by any song. He once told me, in case of this, he would rather I did not come and look at him. But I can, you see. I gave her my place, and she sat down by the bed. It might have been ten minutes or more than she and I remained thus, without exchanging a word. I think I hear someone at the door, brother. Will you call in the children? Guy almost overcome, knelt down beside his mother, and besought her to let him take her home. Presently, presently my son, you are very good to me, but your father, children, come 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 your father. Next month we shall have been married thirty-three years, thirty-three years. Her eyes grew dreamy, as if fancy had let her back owe that space of time. Her fingers moved to and fro mechanically over her wedding ring. Children, we were so happy, you cannot tell. He was so good, he loved me so. Better than that, he made me good. That was why I loved him. Well, what his love was to me from the first strength, hope, peace, comfort and help in trouble, sweetness in prosperity. How my life became happy and complete, how I grew worthier to myself because he had taken me for his own. And what he was, children, no one but me ever knew all his goodness. No one but himself ever knew how dearly I loved your father. We were more precious each to each than anything on earth, except his service who gave us to one another. Her voice dropped all but inaudible, but she roused herself and made it once more clear and firm, the mother's natural voice. Guy, Edwin, all of you must never forget your father. You must do as he wishes and live as he lived in all ways. You must love him and love one another. Children, you will never do anything that need make you ashamed to meet your father. As they hung round as she kissed them all, her three sons and her daughter one by one. Then her mind being perhaps led astray by the rumourines, looks feebly round for one more, child, remembered smile. How glad her father will be to have her again, his own little Muriel. Mother, mother darling, come home, whispered Guy, almost in a song. His mother strooped over him, gave him one kiss more, him her favourite of all her children, and repeated the old phrase, presently, presently, now go away all of you. I want to be left for a little, alone with my husband. As we went out, I saw her turn towards the bed. John, John, the same tone, almost the same words which she had crept up to him years before, the day they were betrothed. Just a low, low murmur, like a tired child, creeping to find protecting arms. John, John, we closed the door, we all sat on the stairs outside, it might have been for minutes, it might have been for hours. Within or without, no one spoke, nothing stirred. At last Guy softly went in. She was still in the same place by the bedside, but half lying on the bed, as I had seen her turn when I was shutting the door. Her arm was round her husband's neck, her face pressed inward to the pillow, was nestled close to his hair. They might have been asleep, both of them. One of her children called her, but she neither answered nor stirred. Guy lifted her up very tenderly, his mother, who had no stay left but him, his mother, a widow. No, thank God, she was not a widow now. End of Chapter 40 End of John Halifax's Gentleman by Diana Craig