 CHAPTER XVII Mrs. Jessup's drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glittering with delicate wax-candle-light, a few women in pale-colored, gauzy dresses, a few men sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow waist-coats, 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 surprise, but society was generally formal then. My chief recollection is of Mrs. Jessup saying pointedly and aloud, though with a smile playing under the corners of her good little mouth. Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come. Lady Caroline Brithwood will be delighted. She longs to make your acquaintance. After that everybody began to talk with extraordinary civility to Mr. Halifax. For John he soon took his place among them, with that modest self-possession which best becomes youth. These dangerous waters accordingly became smooth to him, as to a good swimmer, who knows his own strength, trusts it, and struggles not. Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late, I overheard the hostess say. I think I told you that Miss March. But here the door was flung open, and the missing guests announced. John and I were in the alcove of the window. I heard his breathing behind me, but I dared not look at or speak to him. In truth I was scarcely calmer than he. For though it must be clearly understood I was never in love with any woman, still the reflected glamour of those enterly 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 garments. She was a lady rather past her first youth, but very handsome still, who floated about, leaving a general impression of pseudo-Greek draperies, gleaming arms and shoulders, sparkling jewelry, and equally sparkling smiles. These smiles seemed to fall just as redundantly upon the family physician, whom by a rare favour, for so I suppose it must have been, she was honoring with a visit. As if worthy Dr. Jessup were the noblest in the land. He, poor man, was all bows and scrapes in pretty speeches, in the which came more than the usual amount of references to the time which had made his fortune, the day when Her Majesty Queen Charlotte had done him the honour to be graciously taken ill and passing through Nortonbury. Mrs. Jessup seemed to wear her honours as hostess to an Earl's daughter very calmly indeed. She performed the ordinary courtesies, and then went over to talk with Mr. Brithwood. In their conversation I saw in vain the name of Ursula. So it ended, the sickening expectation which I had read in the lad's face all day. He would not see her, perhaps it was best, yet my heart bled when I looked at him. But such thoughts could not be indulged in now, especially as Mrs. Jessup's quick eyes seemed often upon him, or me, with an expression that I could not make out at all, save that in such a good woman, whom Miss March loved so well, could lurk nothing evil or unkindly. So I tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One could not choose but look at her, this handsome lady Caroline, whom half Nortonbury adored, the other half pursed up their lips at the mention of, but these were of the number she declined to know. All that she did know, all that came within her influence, were irresistibly attracted. For to please seemed a part of her nature. She, nearly everyone present, stole gradually into the circle round her, men and women alike charmed by the fascination of her ripe beauty, her lively manner, her exquisite smile and laugh. I wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brithwood. She could not easily see him, even though her acute glance seemed to take in everything and everybody in the room. But on her entrance John had drawn back a little, and our half dozen of fellow guests, who had been conversing with him, crept shyly out of his way. As if, now the visible reality appeared, they were aghast at the great gulf that lay between John Halifax, the Tanner, and the Brithwoods of the myth. A few even looked a scans at our hostess, as though some terrible judgment must fall upon poor ignorant Mrs. Jessup, who had dared to amalgamate such opposite ranks. So it came to pass, that while everybody gathered round the Brithwoods, John and I stood alone, and half concealed by the window. Very soon I heard Lady Caroline's loud whisper. Mrs. Jessup, my good friend, one moment. Where is your jinn, ye who, loom-do-purple? I do not see him. Does he wear clouded shoes and woollen stockings? Has he a broad face, and turned up nose, like your pay-ee-zo-on-glay? Judge for yourself, my lady, he stands at your elbow. Mr. Halifax, let me present you to Lady Caroline Brithwood. If Lord Luxmore's fair daughter ever looked confounded in her life, she certainly did at this minute. Louis? Mon Dieu, Louis? And her shrug of amazement was stopped, her half-extended hand drawn back. No, it was quite impossible to patronize John Halifax. He bowed gravely. She made a gracious curtsy. They met on equal terms, a lady and gentleman. Soon her lively manner returned. She buckled on her spurs for a new conquest, and left the already vanquished gentilities of Nortonbury to amuse themselves as they best might. I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Halifax. I adore Le Purple, especially with a sly glance at her husband, who, with Tory Dr. Jessup, was vehemently exalting Mr. Pitt and abusing the first consul, Bonaparte. Le Purple, Francais. M'compoignez-vous? Madame Juvacampont. Her ladyship looked surprised. French was not very common among the honest trading class, or indeed any but the higher classes in England. But, John continued, I must dissent from Lady Caroline Brithwood, if she mingles the English people with Le Purple, Francais. They are a very different class of beings. Asaïra, saïra. She laughed, humming beneath her breath a few notes out of that terrible song. But you, no 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, mind you, truly you are made to be, en héros, 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. You must, you shall be, L'hum de Purple. 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 blaze in them out now, to gratify this woman's idle curiosity? Madame, he said gravely, I was introduced to you simply as John Halifax. It seems to me that, so long as I do no discredit to it, the name suffices to the world. Ah, I see, I see. But he, with his downcast eyes, did not detect the meaning smile that just flashed in hers, was changed into a tone of soft sympathy. You are right, rank is nothing, a cold glittering marble, with no soul under, give me the rich flesh-and-blood life of the people, liberty, fraternity, ego-lity. I would rather be a gammon in Paris streets than my brother William at Luxmore Hall. Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, the young man answering little. She only threw her shining arts abroad the moor. She seemed determined to please, and nature fitted her for it. Even if not born an earl's daughter, Lady Caroline would have been everywhere the magic center of any society wherein she chose to move. Not that her conversation was brilliant or deep, but she said the most frivolous things in a way that made them appear witty, and the grand art, to charm by appearing charmed, was hers in perfection. She seemed to flow altogether upon and among the pleasantnesses of life. Jane, either endured or inflicted, was to her an impossibility. Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and thus, after many years, it strikes me still. I look back upon what she appeared that evening, lovely, gay, attractive, in the zenith of her rich maturity, what her old age was the world's nose, or thinks it knows. But heaven may be more merciful, I cannot tell. Whatever is now said of her, I can only say, poor Lady Caroline. It must have indicated a grain of pure gold at the bottom of the gold-seeming dross, that from the first moment she saw him, she liked John Halifax. They talked a long time. She drew him out, as a well-bred woman always can draw out a young man of sense. He looked pleased. He conversed well. Had he forgotten? No. The restless wandering of his eyes at the slightest sound in the room told how impossible it was he should forget. Yet he comported himself bravely, and I was proud that Ursula's kindred should see him as he was. Lady Caroline, her ladyship turned, with a slightly bored expression, to her intrusive hostess. I fear we must give up all expectation of our young friend to-night. I told you so. Post-traveling is very uncertain, and the bath-roads are not good. Have you ever visited Bath, Mr. Halifax? But she assuredly long on the road, pursued Mrs. Jessup, rather anxiously. What attendance had she? Her own maid and our man laplace. Nay, don't be alarmed. Excellent and faithful, gouvernaught. I assure you, your fair ex-pupil is quite safe. The furrer about her has considerably abated, since the heiress enters at Bath, discovered the melancholy fact that Miss March. Pardon me, interrupted the other. We are among strangers. I assure you I am quite satisfied about my dear child. What a charming thing is, affectionate fidelity, observed her ladyship, turning once more to John, with the sweet, lazy dropping of the eyelids. The young man only bowed. They resumed their conversation. At least she did, talking voluble, satisfied with monosyllabic answers. It was now almost supper-time, held a glorious hour at Nortonbury 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 and her well-preserved beauty, and gallic, artificial grace. He and his coarse, bloated youth, coarser and worse than the sensualism of middle-age. Mr. Brithwood, let me introduce you to a new friend of mine. The squire bowed, rather awkwardly, proving the truth of what Nortonbury often whispered, that Richard Brithwood was more at home with grooms than gentlemen. He belongs to this your town. You must have heard of him, perhaps met him. I have more than had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brithwood, but he has doubtless forgotten it. By Jove, I have. What might your name be, sir? John Halifax. What? Halifax the tanner? The same. Phew! He began a low whistle, and turned on his heel. John changed colour a little. Lady Caroline laughed, a thoughtless, amused laugh. With a pleasant murmur of betta, ungly. Nevertheless she whispered to her husband, Mona me, you'll forget, I have introduced you to this gentleman. Gentlemen indeed! Poo! Rubbish! Lady Caroline! I'm busy talking. And so are we, most pleasantly. I only called you, as a matter of form, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax will, I hope, dine with us next Sunday. The devil he will. Richard, you hurt me! With a little scream, as she pushed his rough fingers from her arm, so soft and round and fair. Madame, you must be crazy, the young man is a tradesman, a tanner, not fit for my society. Precisely, I invite him for my own. But the whispers and responses were alike unheeded by their object. For at the doorway, entering with Mrs. Jessup, was a tall girl, and deep morning. We knew her, we both knew her. Our dreama-enderly, our nut-brown maid. John was near to the door. Their eyes met. She bowed. He returned it. He was very pale. For Miss March, her face and neck were all in a glow. Neither spoke, nor offered more than this passing acknowledgment, and she moved on. She came and sat down beside me, accidentally, I believe. But when she saw me, she held out her hand. We exchanged a word or two. Her manner was unaltered, but she spoke hurriedly, and her fingers had their old nervous twitch. She said this meeting was to her unexpected, but she was very glad to see me. So she sat, and I looked sideways at her drop-dyes, 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 Brithwods, who were holding a slight altercation, though more of looks than words. On heated them not. I was sure, though he had never looked directly towards us, that he had heard every syllable Miss March said to me. The squire called across the room, in a patronizing tone. My good fellow, that is, ahem, I say, young hellafax. Were you addressing me, Mr. Brithwood? I was. I want a quiet word or two, between ourselves. Certainly. They stood face to face. The one seemed uncomfortable. The other was his natural self. A little graver, perhaps, as if he felt what was coming, and prepared to meet it, knowing in whose presence he had to prove himself. What Richard Brithwood, with all his broad acres, could never be, a gentleman. Few could doubt the fact, who looked at the two young men, as all were looking now. On my soul it's awkward, I'll call at the tanyard and explain. I had rather you would explain here. Well then, though it's a confounded unpleasant thing to say, and I really wish I had not been brought into such a position. You'll not heed my wife's nonsense. I do not understand you. Come, it's no use running to cover in that way. Let's be open and plain. I mean no offence. You may be a very respectable young man, for all I know. Still rank is rank. Of course Dr. Jessup asks whom he likes to his house. And by George, I'm always civil to everybody. But really, in spite of my lady's likings, I can't well invite you to my table. Nor could I humiliate myself by accepting any such invitation. He said the words distinctly, so that the whole circle might have heard, and was turning away when Mr. Brithwood fired up, as an angry man does in a losing game. Humiliate yourself? What do you mean, sir? Wouldn't you be only too thankful to crawl into the houses of your bedders, anyhow, by hook or by crook? Ha, ha, I know you would. It's always the way with you common folk, you rioters, you revolutionists. By the Lord, I wish you were all hanged. The young blood rose fiercely in John's cheek, but he restrained himself. Sir, I am neither a rioter nor a revolutionist. But you are a tradesman. You used to drive Fletcher's cart of skins. I did. And are you not, I remember you now, the very lad, the Tanner's lad, that once pulled us ashore from the edger, 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 ye for it, too. Lord, what a jolly life I should have missed. You got no reward, though. You threw away the gaining I offered you. Come, I'll make it twenty guineas to-morrow. The insult was too much. Sir, you forget that whatever we may have been, to-night we meet as equals. Equals? As guests in the same house, most certainly for the time being, equals. Richard Brithwood stared, literally dumb with fury. The standards by were dumb, too, though such fracas were then not uncommon, even in drawing-rums, 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 Cairo. It irritated the husband beyond all bounds. Hold your tongue, my lady, what, because apprentice lad once saved my life, and you choose to patronize him as you do many another vagabond, with your curse of liberty and equality, am I to have him at my table, and treat him as a gentleman? By— Madame, never. He spoke savagely, and loud. John was silent. He had locked his hands together convulsively. It was easy to see that his blood was at boiling heat, and that did he once slip the leash of his passions. It would go hard with Richard Brithwood. The latter came up to him with clenched fist. Now, mark me, you, you vagabond. Ursula March crossed the room, and caught his arm, her eyes gleaming fire. Then, in my presence this gentleman shall be treated as a gentleman. He was kind to my father. Curse your father. John's right hand burst free. He clutched the savage by the shoulder. Be silent, you had better. Brithwood shook off the grasp, turned and struck him. That last fatal insult, which offered from man to man, in those days, could only be wiped out with blood. John staggered. For a moment he seemed as if he would have sprung on his adversary, and felled him to the ground. But he did it not. Someone whispered. He won't fight. He is a Quaker. No, he said, and stood erect, though he was ghastly pale, and his voice sounded horse and strange. But I am a Christian. I shall not return, blow for blow. It was a new doctrine, foreign to the practice, if familiar to the ear, of Christian Norton Buri. No one answered him, all stared at him. One or two sheared off from him with contemptuous smiles. Then Ursula March stretched out her friendly hand. John took it, and grew calm in a moment. There arose a murmur of, Mr. Brithwood is going. Let him go, Miss March cried, anger still glowing in her eyes. Not so. It is not right. I will speak to him. May I? John softly unclosed her detaining hand, and went up to Mr. Brithwood. Sir, there is no need for you to leave this house. I am leaving it. You and I shall not meet again if I can help it. His proud courtesy, his absolute dignity, and calmness, completely overwhelmed his blustering adversary, who gazed open-mouthed, while John made his adieu to the host and to those he knew. The woman gathered round him. A woman's instinct is usually true. Even Lady Caroline, amid a flutter of regrets, declared she did not believe there was a man in the universe who would have borne so charmingly such a degradation. At the word, Miss March fired up. Madame, she said, in her impetuous young voice, no insult offered to a man can ever degrade him. The only real degradation is when he degrades himself. John passing out at the doorway caught her words. As he quitted the room, no crowned victor ever wore a look more joyful, more proud. After a minute we followed him, the doctor's wife and I. But now the pride and joy had both faded. Mrs. Jessup, you see I am right, he murmured. I ought not to have come here. It is a hard world for such as I. I shall never conquer it. Never. Yes, you will, and Ursula stood by him, with crimson cheek, and eyes no longer flashing, but fearless still. Mrs. Jessup put her arm round the young girl. I also think you need not dread the world, Mr. Halifax, if you always act as you did tonight. Though I grieve that things should have happened thus, if only for the sake of this, my child. Have I done any harm? Oh, tell me, have I done any harm? No, cried Ursula, with the old impetuosity kindling anew in every feature of her noble face. You have but showed me what I shall remember all my life, that a Christian only can be a true gentleman. She understood him. He felt she did. Understood him as if a man be understood by one woman in the world. He and she too is strong, safe and happy. They grasped hands once more, and gazed unhesitatingly into each other's eyes. All human passion for the time being set aside, these two recognized in the other, one aim, one purpose, one faith, something higher than love, something better than happiness. It must have been a blessed moment for both. Miss Jessup did not interfere. She had herself known what true love was, if, as Gossip said, she had kept constant to a worthy doctor for thirty years. But still she was a prudent woman, not unused to the world. You must go now, she said, laying her hand gently on John's arm. I am going. But she, what will she do? Nevermind me, Jane will take care of me, said Ursula, winding her arms round her old governess, and leaning her cheek down on Mrs. Jessup's shoulder. We had never seen Miss Merch show fondness, that is caressing fondness, to anyone before. It revealed her in a new light, betraying the depths there were in her nature, infinite depths of softness and of love. John watched her for a minute, a long, wild, greedy minute. Then whispered hoarsely to me, I must go. We made a hasty adieu, and went out together into the night, the cold, bleak night, all blessed and storm. CHAPTER 18 Four weeks after then we went on in our usual way. Ursula Merch, living within a stone's throw of us. She had left her cousins, and come to reside with Dr. Jessup and his wife. It was a very hard trial for John. Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessup. We could not blame her. She held a precious charge, and Nortonbury was a horrible place for gossip. Already tail after tail had gone abroad about Miss Merch's ingratitude to her relations. Already tongue after tongue had repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of young Halifax and the squire. Had it been young Halifax and Miss Merch, I truly believe John could not have borne it. As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by chance, a momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in the street. I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether he mentioned it or not, knew by the wild, troubled look, which did not wear off for hours. I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain. For though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over the lad, as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a young man, was going from him. He was becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed. The 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? I said to him one evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual. I knew why, for Ursula and her friend had just passed her house, taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight. That were very ill-life-year. Not at all. There is not the least thing that matter with me. Do let me alone. Two minutes afterwards, he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken words. It was not thee that spoke, John, I said. No, you are right. It was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodges here. He touched his breast. The chamber he lives in is at times a burning hell. He spoke in a low tone of gray 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 began to lengthen. It's a lovely evening, he said. John, I looked him in the face. He could not palm off that kind of deceit upon me. You have heard something about her. I have, he groaned. She is leaving Nortonbury. Thank God! I muttered. John turned fiercely upon me, but only for a moment. Perhaps I, too, ought to say thank God. This could not have lasted long, or it would have made me what I pray his mercy to save me from, or to let me die. Oh, lad, if I could only die. He bent down over the windowsill, 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 apprentice, lad. Why, two several evenings, I have been insane enough to walk to Dr. Jessup's door, which I have never entered. And mark you well, they have never asked me to enter since that night. Every time, ere I knocked, my senses came back, and I went home, luckily having made myself neither a fool nor a knave. There was no answer to this, either. Alas, I knew as well as he did, that in the eye of the world's common sense, for a young man, not twenty-one, a tradesman's apprentice, to ask the hand of a young gentlewoman, uncertain if she loved him, was most utter folly. Also for a penniless youth to sue a lady with a fortune. Even though it was, the Brithwoods took care to publish the fact, smaller than was at first supposed. Would in the eye of the world's honour, be not very much unlike navery. There was no help, none. David, I ground, 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 as 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-me, to walk with me in my daily life, to comfort me, strengthen me, make me pure and good. I could be a good man if I had her for my wife. Now. He rose and walked rapidly up and down. His looks were becoming altogether wild. Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road, as I meet her almost every day. Sometimes she merely bends and smiles. Sometimes she holds out her little hand, and hopes I am quite well. And then they pass on, and I stand gaping and staring after them, like an idiot. There, look, there they are now. I, walking leisurely along the other side of the road, talking and smiling to one another, in their own merry, familiar way, were Mrs. Jessup and Miss March. They were not thinking of us, not the least. Only just ere they passed our house, Ursula turned slightly round and looked behind. A quiet maidenly look, with a 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. We're off, and, yes, lad, we'll have a merry night. Tomorrow I am away to Bristol, to set sail for America. He wrung my hands with a long, loud, half-mad laugh, and then dropped heavily on a chair. A few hours after, he was lying on my bed, struck down by the first real sickness he had ever known. It was, apparently, a low, agish fever, which had been much about Nortonbury since the famine of last year. At least so J.L. said, and she was a wise doctoress, and had cured many. He would have no one else to attend him, seemed terrified at the mere mention of Dr. Jessup. I opposed him not at first, for, while I knew, whatever the proximate cause of his sickness might be, its root was in that mental pain which no doctors could cure. So I trusted to the blessed quiet of a sickrum, often so healing to misery, to J.L.'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 Nortonbury 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 reached its crisis. He would be better soon. But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and still he lay there, never complaining, scarcely appearing to suffer, except from the wasting of the fever. Yet when I spoke of recovery, he turned his face unto the wall, weary of living. Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly speaking a word, I began to feel growing palpable the truth which day by day I had thrust behind me as some intangible, impossible dread. The air 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 enderly 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, quarrelless voice, that awful longing for rest. What if, despite all the physician's assurances, he might be sinking, sinking, my friend, my hope, my pride, all my comfort in this life, passing from it and from me into another, where, let me call never so wildly, he could not answer me any more, nor come back to me any more. Oh, God of mercy, if I were to be left in this world without my brother. I had many a time thought over the leaving him, going quietly away when it should please the giver of all breath to recall mine, falling asleep, encompassed and sustained by his love until the last, then a burden no longer, leaving him to work out a glorious life whose rich web should include and bring to beautiful perfection all the poor broken threads in mine. But now, if this should be all vain, if he should go from me, not I from him, I slid down to the ground, to my knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went up on high. How could I save him? There seemed but one way. I sprung at it, stayed not to think if it were right or wrong, 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 the doors. For weeks I had not crossed the threshold. I almost started to find that it was spring. Everything looked lovely in the coloured twilight. A blackbird was singing wildly in the abbey trees across the way. All things were fresh and glowing, laden with the hope of the advancing year. And there he lay on his sick bed, dying. All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan. No light, I cannot 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. Jessup, I saw down the long garden, bonded and shulled, busy among her gooseberry bushes, so we were safe. As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a soft dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, and driven some sweet, shy thought away. But she met me cordially, said she was glad to see me, that she had not seen either of us lately, and the knitting pins began to move quickly again. Those dainty fingers, that soft, tremulous smile, I could have hated her. No wonder you did not see us, Mrs. March, John has been very ill, is ill now, almost dying. I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to see them strike. They struck, they wounded, I could see her shiver. Ill, and no one ever told me? You, how could it affect you? To me now, and my savage words, for they were savage, broke down in a burst of misery. Nothing in this world to me is worth a straw in comparison with John. If he dies, I let loose the flood of my misery. I dashed it over her, that she might see it. Feel it, that it might enter all the fair and sightly chambers of her happy life, and make them desolate as mine. For was she not the cause? For give me, I was cruel to the Ursula, and thou were so good, so kind. She rose, came to me, and took my hand. Hers was very cold, and her voice trembled much. Be comforted, he is young, and God is very merciful. She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting and untwisting her fingers. There was in her looks a wild sorrow, a longing to escape from notice, but mine held her fast, mercilessly, as a snake holds a little bird. She sat cowering, almost like a bird, a poor, broken-winged, helpless little bird, whom the storm has overtaken. Rising she made an attempt to quit the rum. I will call Mrs. Jessup. She may be of use. She cannot stay. Further advice perhaps? Dr. Jessup, you must want help. None save that which will never come. His bodily sickness is conquered. It is his mind. Oh, Miss March, and I looked up at her, like a wretch begging for life. Do you not know of what my brother is dying? Dying. A long shudder passed over her from head to foot, but I relented not. Think, a life like his that might be made a blessing to all he loves, to all the world, is 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 anyone 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 anyone 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 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. I, ever since last year, you will respect it. You will, you shall respect it. She bent her head in acquiescence. That was all. She had not uttered a single syllable. Her silence almost drove me wild. What, not one word, not one ordinary message from a friend to a friend, one who is lying ill, too? Still silence. Better so, I cried, made desperate at last. Better, if it must be, that he should die and go to the God who made him. I made him, as you shall yet see, too noble a man to die for any woman's love. I left her, left her where she sat, and went my way. Of the hours that followed, the less I say the better. My mind was in a tumult of pain, in which right and wrong were strangely confused. I could not decide. I can scarcely decide now whether what I had done ought to have been done. I only know that I did it. Did it under an impulse so sudden and impenuous that it seemed to me like the guidance of Providence. All I could do afterwards was to trust the result where we say we trust all things, and yet are forever disquieting ourselves in vain. We have little faith. I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true marriage, of which there is probably one in every five thousand, of conjugal unions, is brought about by heaven and heaven only, and that all human influence is powerless either to make or to mar that happy end. Therefore to heaven I left this marriage, if such it was destined to be. And so after a season I calmed myself enough to dare entering that quiet sick chamber where no one ever entered but J.L. and me. The old woman met me at the door. Come in, Phineas, I do think there is a change. A change, that awful word, I staggered rather than walk to John's bedside. I, there was a change, but not that one, which made my blood run cold in my veins even to think of. Thank God ever more for his great mercies, not that change. John was sitting up in bed, new life shown in his eyes, in his whole aspect. Life and, no, not hope, but something far better, diviner. Phineas, how tired you look. It is time you were in bed. The old way of speaking, the old natural voice, as I had not heard it for weeks. I flung myself by the bedside. 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. Tomorrow, please, God, I mean to be quite well again. Amidst all my joy, I marveled over what could be the cause of so miraculous a change. You would smile if I told you, only a dream. No, I did not smile, for I believed in the ruler of all our spirits, sleeping or waking. A dream so curious that I have scarcely lost the impression of it yet. Do you know Phineas? She has been sitting by me, just where you sit now. She? Ursula. If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, which had never fallen from his lips before. It was always either Miss March, or the impersonal form used by all lovers to disguise the beloved name, Ursula, spoken as no man 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? Yeah, 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. But 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 women he loves. It is only a coward who dies for her. I listened, wonderstruck, 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 Enderly, and I was following her. Whether I reached her or not, I cannot tell. And whether I ever shall reach her, I cannot tell. But this I know, Phineas. I will do as she bade me. I will arise and walk. And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Next morning I found him up and dressed, looking like a specter indeed, but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father noticed it, when at dinner time, with Jail's help. Poor old Jail. How proud she was! John crawled downstairs. Why, the art picking up, lad, the ills be a man again in no time. I hope so, and a better man than ever I was before. Thee might be better, and thee might be worse, anyhow we couldn't do without thee, John. Hey, Phineas, who's been meddling with my spectacles? The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaper upside down. We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner. This afternoon my father stayed at home, a rare thing for him to do. Nay more, he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. John lay on an extemporary sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and the windowsill. I read to him, trying to keep his attention, and mine too, solely to the great plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts were wandering. All burst in. John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee. No, John, no need for that start, that rush of impetuous blood to thy poor, thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. No, it was only Mrs. Jessup. At sight of him, standing up, tall and gaunt, and pale, the good lady's eyes brimmed over. You have been very ill, my poor boy. Forgive me, but I am an old woman, you know. Lie down again. With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side. I had no idea. Why did you not let us know, the doctor and me? How long have you been ill? I am quite well now. I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow. Shall I not, Phineas? And he looked eagerly to me for the confirmation. I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it. Glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire, because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Said that she might one day find out, there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy. But you must be very careful, very careful of yourself, indeed. He will, Mrs. Jessup, or if not, he has many to take care of him, many to whom his life is most precious and most dear. I spoke, perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken, to that good old lady, but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me. I well believed that Mr. Fletcher, and I think Mr. Halifax hardly knows how much we all esteem him. And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. You must make haste and get well now. My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula, here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket, my dear child sends you this. It was a little note, unsealed. The superscription was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair handwriting. John Halifax. His fingers closed over it convulsively. I—she is very kind. The words died away. The hand which grasped, I, for more than a minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an aspen leaf. Yes, hers is a grateful nature, observed Mrs. Jessup, sedulously looking at and speaking to me. I would not wish her 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. I—all the world might have read those simple lines. My dear friend, I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like to come and see you, if you would allow me. Yours sincerely, Ursula March. This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years afterwards, yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocket-book. Well, what shall I say to my child? Say he half-rose, struggling to speak, ask her to come. He turned his head towards the window, and the sunshine glittered on two great drops, large as a child's tear. Mrs. Jessup 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 dose. But I think John hardly noticed him. Nor I, my poor old father. Yet we were all young once. Let youth enjoy its day. At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlor door, rosy with walking, a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by the law of God, and by her own heart. John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only clasped hands. He was not strong enough for disguises now. In his first look she might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers, but it dropped down, down as Ursula March's clear glance had never dropped before. And I knew how all would end. Jail'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 beant half as big as arne. My father awoke, rubbed his eyes, became aware of a lady's presence, rubbed them again, and sat staring. John led Ursula to the old man's chair. Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness, his voice faltered. 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 heart gazed lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth. If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Will thee sit down? Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace, that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in his own armchair. How well I remember her sitting there, and her black silk police, 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. Will 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, gentle-woman-like speech, different from any female voices here, he turned round suddenly, with a glance, half scared, half eager, as if she had been a ghost from the grave. But Mrs. Jessup engaged him in talk, and woman-hater as he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the doctor's little wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled themselves for a cozy chat, taking very little notice of us three. Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessup had brought us. A wise present, for all Nortonbury 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 sent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay looking at them, and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole life were absorbed into that one exquisite hour. For me, where I sat, I do not clearly know, nor probably did any one else. There, said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childish satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking. They are very beautiful, I heard John's voice answer, with the strange trembling 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 touching them both, and then as softly melting away. There is a new moon to-night, Miss March remarked, oppositely, and gravely. Is there, that I have been ill a whole month, for I remember noticing it through the trees the night when. He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a very unimportant conversation, as they were apparently holding, my involuntary listening could do no harm. You will be able to walk out soon, I hope, said Miss March again. Nortonbury is a pretty town. John asked, suddenly, are you going to leave it? Not yet. I do not know for certain. Perhaps not at all. I mean, she added hurriedly, that being independent, and having entirely separated from, and given up by, my cousins, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessup 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. Everyone 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 a sound to me, when I lay under the brow of the flat, in the dim twilight set underly. I intend, John said, as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Buri, 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, whichever and none, mingled strangely with its low, deep tenderness. In any case, I must quit England. I have reasons for doing so. What reasons? The question seemed to startle John. He did not reply at once. If you wish I will tell you, and order that, should I ever come back, or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough to be my friend will know I did not go away from mere youthful recklessness or love of change. He waited, apparently for some answer, but it came not, and he continued, I am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which while I stay here I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish to sink under it. I had rather, as you said, do my work in the world, as a man ought. No man has a right to say unto his maker, my burden is heavier than I can bear. Do you not think so? I do. Do you not think I am right in this meeting, and trying to conquer an inevitable ill? Is it inevitable? Hush, John answered wildly, don't reason with me. You cannot judge, you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay, I shall become unworthy of myself. Unworthy of? Forgive me, I have no right to talk thus. But you called me friend, and I would like you to think kindly of me always. Because, because, and his voice shook, broke down utterly, God love thee and take care of thee, wherever I may go. John, stay! It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But he heard it, felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his love for evermore. At once all was made clear between them, for whatever the world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, and she received as much as she gave. When J.L. brought in lights the room seemed to me, at first, all in a wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and mismarch 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. A. said my father, gazing at them from over his spectacles. John spoke brokenly. We have no parents, neither she nor I. Bless her, for she has promised to be my wife. And the old man blessed her with tears. End of CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIX 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, recording by Bridget Gage. John Halifax, gentlemen, by Dinah Craig CHAPTER XIX I hardly like taking the out on 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 myth, Ursula's legal guardian and trustee, the fact that she had promised him her hand, him, John Halifax, the tanner. He did it, nay, insisted upon doing it, the day after he came of age, and just one week after they had been betrothed, this nineteenth of June, one thousand eight hundred and one. We reached the iron gate of the myth house. John hesitated a minute, and then pulled the bell with a resolute hand. Do you remember the last time we stood here, John? I do well. But soon the happy smile faded from his lips, and left them pressed together in a firm, almost painful gravity. He was not only a lover, but a man. And no man could go to meet what he knew he must meet in this house, and on this errand, altogether unmoved. One might foresee a good deal, even in the knowing side-glance of the servant, whom he startled with his name, Mr. Halifax. Mr. Brithwood's busieser, 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 flagans and tankards, and the throssels hopping outside across the rainy lawn, at our full leisure, too, for the space of fifteen minutes. "'This will not do,' said John, quietly enough, though this time it was with a less steady hand that he pulled the bell. Did you tell your master I was here?' "'Yes, sir, and the grin with which the footman came in, somehow slid away from his mouth's corners. How soon may I have the honour of seeing him?' "'He says, sir, you must send up your business by me.' John paused, evidently subduing something within him, something unworthy of Ursula's lover, of Ursula's husband that was to be. Tell your master my business is solely with himself, and I must request to see him. It is important, say, or I would not thus intrude upon his time.' "'Very well, sir.' Air-lung, the man brought word that Mr. Brithwood would be at liberty, for five minutes only, in the justice-room. We were let out, crossing the courtyard once more, where, just riding out, I saw two ladies, one of whom kissed her hand gaily to John Halifax, to the magistrate's office. There, safely separated from his own noble mansion, Mr. Brithwood administered justice. In the outer room a stout young fellow, a poacher, probably, sat heavily ironed, solemn and fierce, and by the door a girl with a child in her arms, and God pity her, no ring on her finger, stood crying. Another ill-looking fellow, Maldon drunk, with a constable 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 Blank, had to judge and punish, according to his own sense of equity and his knowledge of his country's law. He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dictating so energetically to his clerk behind him, that we had both entered, and John had crossed the room, before he saw us, or seemed to see. Mr. Brithwood Oh, Mr. Halifax, good morning. John returned the salutation, which was evidently meant to show that the giver bore no grudge, that indeed it was impossible so dignified a personage as Richard Brithwood Esquire, in his public capacity, too, to 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 to the squire, haughtily. Then shall I speak with you elsewhere, but I must have the honor of an interview with you, and immediately. Under Mr. Brithwood was seized with some indefinite alarm. He himself best knew why, or whether John's manner irresistibly compelled him to civility, as the stronger always compels the weaker. I cannot tell, but he signed to the clerk to leave the room. And Jones sent back all the others to the lack-up house till to-morrow. Bless my life! It's near three o'clock. They can't expect to keep a gentleman's dinner waiting, these low fellows. I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside. At all events, we chose to take it so. Now, you, sir, perhaps you'll dispatch your business, the sooner the better. It will not take long. It's a mere matter of form, which nevertheless I felt at 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 Merch. She's nothing to me. I never wish to see her face again—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. Ah, yes, and how goes the tanning? Any offers in the horse-flesh-line? Always happy to meet you in the way of business. But what can you possibly have to do with me, or with any member of my family? John bit his lip, the squire's manner was extremely galling, more so perhaps, in its outside civility, than any gross 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 hot cheer. 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 horse laugh. Well, that is the best joke I ever did here. Pardon me, I am perfectly serious. Bah, how much money do you want, fellow? A pretty tale. You'll not get me to believe it. Ha, ha! She wouldn't be so mad. To be sure, women have their fancies, as we know, and you are a likely young fellow enough. But to marry you? John sprang up, his whole frame quivering with fury. Take care, sir. Take care how you insult my wife. He stood over the wretch, the cowardly shrinking wretch. He did not touch him, but he stood over him till, terrified out of his life. Richard Brithwood gasped out some apology. Sit down. Pray, sit down again. We will proceed in our business. John Halifax sat down. So, my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying. She will be some months hence. We were engaged a week ago, with the full knowledge and consent of Doctor and Mrs. Jessup, her nearest friends. And of yours? Asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sarcasm as his blunt wits could furnish him. I have no relatives. So I always understood, and that being the case, may I ask the meaning of the visit? Where are your lawyers? Your marriage settlements, hey? I say, young man, ha, ha, I should like to know what you can possibly want with me, Miss March's trustee. Nothing would ever. Miss March, as you are aware, is by her father's will left perfectly free in her choice of marriage, and she has chosen. But since, under certain circumstances, I wish to act with perfect openness. I came to tell you, as her cousin, and the executor of this will, that she is about to become my wife. And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance strengthened and calmed him. May I inquire into those certain circumstances? asked the other, still derisively. You know them already. Miss March has a fortune, and I have none. And though I wish that difference were on the other side, though it might, and did hinder me from seeking her, yet now she is saw and won. It shall not hinder my marrying her. Probably not, sneered Mr. Brithwood. John's passion was rising again. I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say what it chooses. We follow a higher law than the world, she and I. She knows me. She is not afraid to trust her whole life with me. Am I to be afraid to trust her? Am I to be such a coward as not dare to marry the woman I love, because the world might say I married her for her money? He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking full into Richard Brithwood's face. The squire sat dumbfounded 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 exactly how the matter stands. I will detain you no longer. I have nothing more to say. But I have, roared the squire, at length recovering himself, seeing his opponent had quitted the field. Stop a minute. John paused at the door. Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or any other vagabond she pleases. It's no business of mine. But her fortune is my business, and it's in my hands, too. Might's right, and possession's nine-tenths of the law. Now, one penny shall she get out of my fingers, as long as I can keep hold of it. John bowed, his hand still on the door. As you please, Mr. Brithwood, that was not the subject of our interview. Good morning. And we were away. Recrossing the iron gates, and out into the open road, John breathed freely. That's over. All is well. Do you think what he threatened is true? Can he do that? Very likely. Don't let us talk about that. And he walked on lightly, as if a load were taken off his mind, and body and soul leaped up to meet the glory of the summer sunshine, the freshness of the summer air. Oh, what a day is this! Under the rain, too. How she will enjoy it! And coming home through Nortonbury, we met her, walking with Mrs. Jessup. 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 today, her who had a right to know every one of his concerns now. Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid. Afraid, indeed. Not the least fear was in those clear eyes. Nothing but perfect content, perfect trust. John drew her arm through his. Come, we need not mind Nortonbury now, he said, smiling. So they, too, walked forward, talking, as we could see, earnestly, and rather seriously to one another, while Mrs. Jessup and I followed behind. Lest their dear hearts, said the old lady, as she set resting on the style of a bean-field. Well, we have all been young once. Not all, good Mrs. Jessup, thought I, not all. Yet surely it was most pleasant to see them, as it is to see all true lovers, young lovers, too, in the morning of their days. Pleasant to see written on every line of their happy faces the blessedness of nature's law of love. Love began in youth-time, sincere and pure, free from all sentimental shams or follies or shames. Love mutually plighted, the next strongest bond to that in which it will end, and is meant to end, God's holy ordinance of marriage. We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessup's. It was John's custom to go there almost every evening, though certainly he could not be said to go according. 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 sweetness must consist in their entire sacredness. At least I should think so. No coquettish exactions, no testing of either's power over the other, in those perilous small quirls which may be the renewal of passion, but are the death of true love. No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat at her work, and he made himself generally pleasant, calling in kindly to the Jessup's household ways. But whatever he was about, at Ursula's lightest movement, at the least sound of her voice, I could see him lift a quiet glance, as if always conscious of her presence, her who was the delight of his eyes. Tonight 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, thrilling interchange, full of trust and peace and joy. He had evidently told her all that had happened today, and she was satisfied. More perhaps than I was, for I knew how little John would have to live upon, besides what means his wife brought him. But that was their own affair, and I had no business to make public my doubts or fears. We all sat round the tea-table, talking gaily together, and then John left us, reluctantly enough, but he always made a point of going to the tanyard for an hour or two, in my father's stead every evening. Ursula let him out at the front door. This was her right, silently claimed, which nobody either gestured at or interfered with. When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a minute or two longer than was absolutely necessary, there was a wonderful brightness on her young face, though she listened with a degree of attention, most creditable in its gravity, to a long dissertation of Mrs. Jessops, on the best and cheapest way of making jam and pickles. You know, my dear, you ought to begin and learn all about such things now. Yes, said Miss March, with a little droop of the head. I assure you, turning to me, she comes every day into the kitchen. Never mind, my dear, one can say anything to Mr. Fletcher. And what lady need be ashamed of knowing how a dinner is cooked, and a household kept in order. Nay, she should rather be proud. I know John thinks so. At this answer of mine Ursula half smiled, but there was a color in her cheek, and a thoughtfulness in her eyes, deeper than any that our conversation warranted or occasioned. I was planning how to divert Mrs. Jessop from the subject, when it was broken at once by a sudden entrance, which startled us all like a flash of lightning. Stole away, stole away, as my husband would say. Here have I come in the dusk, all through the streets to Dr. Jessop's very door. How is she, where is she, ma petit? Caroline, ah, come forward, I haven't seen you for an age. And Lady Caroline kissed her on both cheeks in her lively French fashion, which Ursula received patiently, and returned. No, I will not be certain whether she returned it or not. Pardon, how do you do, Mrs. Jessop, my dear woman? What trouble I have had in coming. Are you not glad to see me, Ursula? Yes, very. In that sincere voice, which never either falsified or exaggerated a syllable, did you ever expect to see me again? No, certainly I did not, and I would almost rather not see you now, if—if Richard Brithwood did not approve of it? Bah, what notions you always had of marital supremacy. So, ma sherry, you are going to be married yourself, I hear. Yes. Why, how quietly you seem to take it. The news perfectly electrified me this morning. I always said that young man was un eros de romans—was un eros de romans. Maffois, this is the prettiest little episode I ever heard of. Just King Coffetua and the beggarmaid only reversed. How do you feel, my Queen Coffetua? 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 corps, maybe. Ah, I had several before I was twenty. Very pleasant, chivalrous, romantic, and all that, and such a brave young fellow, too. Alas, love is sweet at your age. With a little sigh. But marriage, my dear child, you are not surely promised to this youth. I am. How sharply you say it. Nay, don't be angry. I liked him greatly—a very pretty fellow. But then he belongs to the people. So do I. Lady child, you will not comprehend me. I mean the lower orders—the bourgeoisie. My husband says he is a tanner's apprentice boy. He was apprentice. He is now partner in Mr. Fletcher's tanyard. 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 left the lady, and in the dusk I fancied I saw her reach over to Pat Ursula's hand, in her careless, pretty way. Nay, I meant no harm. I am sure you did not, but we will change the subject. Not at all. I came to talk about it. I couldn't sleep till I had. Je t'en bien. Tu le sais, ma petite Ursula. Thank you, said Ursula gently. And I would like well to see you married. Truly, we women must marry, or be nothing at all. It as to marrying for love, as we used to think of, and as charming poets make believe. My dear, nowadays, nous savons changer to s'élo. Ursula replied nothing. I suppose my friend, the young bourgeois, is very much in love with you. With libuzu du votre cassette. Richard swears, but I know better. What of that? All men say they love one, but it will not last. It burns itself out. It will be over in a year, as we wives all know. Do we not, Mrs. Jessup? Ah, she has gone away. Probably they thought I was away, too. Or else they took no notice of me, and went talking on. Jane would not have agreed with you, Cousin Caroline. She loved her husband very dearly when she was a girl. They were poor, and he was afraid to marry, so he let her go. That was wrong, I think. How wise we are growing in these things now, laughed Lady Caroline. But come, I am not interested in old turtledoves. Say about yourself. I have nothing more to say. Nothing more? Monju, are you aware that Richard is furious, that he vows he will keep every sue he has of yours? Law or no law? For as long as ever he can? He declared so this morning. Did young Halifax tell you? Mr. Halifax has told me. Mr. Halifax, how proudly she says it. And are you still going to be married to him? Yes. What? A bourgeois, a tradesman, with no more money than those sort of people usually have, I believe. You, who have had all sorts of comforts, have always lived as a gentlewoman. Truly, though I adore a love marriage in theory, practically I think you are mad. Quite mad, my dear. Do you? And he too, verily, what men are, especially men in love, all selfish together. Caroline, isn't it selfish to drag a pretty creature down and make her a drudge, a slave, a mere poor man's wife? She is proud of being such, burst in the indignant young voice. Lady Caroline, you may say what you like to me. You were kind always, and I was fond of you. But you shall not say a word against Mr. Halifax. You do not know him. How could you? And you do? Ah, ma patite, 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 loverlike! How like a man! I guess it all. Half beseeches, half persuades. He does not, and the girl's voice was sharp with pain. I would not have told you, but I must for his sake. He asked me this afternoon if I was afraid of being poor, if I would like to wait and let him work hard alone till he could give me a home like that I was born to. He did, Caroline. And you answered? No, a thousand times no. He will have a hard battle to fight. Would I let him fight it alone, when I can help him, when he says I can? Ah, child, you that know nothing of poverty, how can you bear it? I will try. You that never ruled a house in your life. I can learn. Siella, tis wonderful, and this young man has no friends, no connections, no fortune, only himself. Only himself, said Ursula, with a proud contempt. Will you tell me, my dear, why you marry him? Because, and Ursula spoke in low tones, that seemed rung out of her almost against her will. Because I honour him, because I trust him, and young as I am, I have seen enough of the world to be thankful that there is in it one man whom I can trust, can honour entirely. Also, though I am often ashamed lest this be selfish, because when I was in trouble he helped me. When I was misjudged, he believed in me. When I was sad and desolate, he loved me. And I am proud of his love, I glory in it. No one shall take it from me. No one will, no one can, unless I cease to deserve it. Lady Caroline was silent. Despite her will, you might hear a sigh breaking from some deep corner of that light frivolous heart. Be on. Shak you a sanghu, but you have never stated one trifle, not unnecessary perhaps, though most married folk get on quite well without it. Honour, trust, pasha, my child, do you love Mr. Halifax? No answer. Nay, why be shy, in England they say, and among the people, no offence mopatit. One does sometimes happen to care for the man one marries. Tell me, for I must be gone. Do you love him? One word, whether or no. Just then the light coming in showed Ursula's face, beautiful with more than happiness, uplifted even with a religious thankfulness. As she said simply, John knows. Chapter 20 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. Recording by Bridget Gage. John Halifax, Gentlemen Chapter 20 In the late autumn John married Ursula March. He was twenty-one, and she eighteen. It was very young, too young perhaps, prudent folk might say. And yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on unions like this. A right and holy marriage, a true love marriage, be it early or late, is, must be, sanctified and happy. But those have the best chance of happiness, who, meeting on the very threshold of life, enter upon its duties together, with free, fresh hearts, easily molded, the one to the other, rich in all the riches of youth, acute to enjoy, brave and hopeful to endure. Such were these two. God bless them. They were married quite privately, neither having any near kindred. Besides, John held strongly the opinion that so solemn a festival as marriage is only desecrated by outward show. And so, one golden autumn morning, Ursula walked quietly up the abbey aisle in her plain white muslin gown, and she and John plaited their faithful vows, no one being present except the Jessups and I. Then they went away for a brief holiday, went away without either pomp or tears, entirely happy, husband and wife together. When I came home and said what had happened, my good father seemed little surprised. He had expressly desired not to be told anything of the wedding till all was over. He hated marriages. But since it is done, maybe tis as well, said he grimly. She seems a kindly young thing, wise even, for a woman. And pleasant, too, father. I but favour is deceitful and beauty vain, so the lad's gone, and he looked round, as if missing John, who had lived in our house ever since his illness. I thought as much when he bade me good night, and asked my leave to take a journey. So he's married and gone. Come, Phineas, sit thee down by the old father. I am glad thee wilt always remain a bachelor. We settled ourselves, my father and I, and while the old man smoked his meditative pipe, I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two lads had read by the fireside, the summer days when we had lounged on the garden wall. He was a married man now, the head of a household. Others had a right. The first, best, holiest right, to the love that used to be all mine. And though it was a marriage entirely happy and hopeful, though all that day and every day I rejoiced both with and for my brother, still it was rather sad to miss him from our house, to feel that his boyish days were quite over, that his boyish place would know him no more. But of course I had fully overcome, or at least suppressed, this feeling when John having brought his wife home, I went to see them in their own house. I had seen it once before. It was an old dwelling house, which my father bought with a 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 unbridle like a boat. I feared they would find it so, even though John had been busy there the last two months, in early mornings and late evenings, keeping a comical secrecy over the matter as if he were jealous that anyone 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 past, the house looked wonderfully bright and clean, the walls and doors newly painted and delicately stenciled. Master did all that himself, observed the proud little handmaid, Jenny, Gem Watkin, 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. I, his wife, he was a husband now. They looked so young, both of them, he kneeling, planting box-edging. She standing by him with her hand on his shoulder, the hand with the ring on it. He was laughing at something she had said. Thy very laugh of old, David. Neither heard me come till I stood close by. Phineas, welcome, welcome! He wrung my hand fervently. Many times, so did Ursula, blushing rosy red. They both called me brother, and both were as fond and warm as any brother and sister could be. A few minutes after, Ursula, Mrs. Halifax, as I said I ought to call her now, slipped away into the house, and John and I were left together. He glanced after his wife till she was out of sight, played with the spade, threw it down, placed his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hard in my face. He was trembling with deep emotion. Aren't thou happy, David? I led, almost afraid of my happiness. God make me worthy of it, and of her. He lifted his eyes upwards. There was in them a new look, sweet and solemn, a look which expressed the satisfied content of a life now rounded and completed by the 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 too shall become one flesh. And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half sadly for a moment the vague, fine line of division which was thus forever more drawn between him and me, of no fault on either side, and of which he himself was unaware. It was but the right and natural law of things, the difference between the married and unmarried, which only the latter feel, which perhaps the Divine One meant them to feel, that out of their great solitude of this world may grow a little inner Eden, where they may hear his voice, walking in the garden in the cool of the day. We went round John's garden. There was nothing Eden like about it, being somewhat of a waste still, divided between ancient cabbage beds, empty flower beds, and great old orchard trees, very thinly laden with fruit. We'll make them bear better next year, said John hopefully. We may have a very decent garden here in time. He looked round his little domain with the eye of a master, and put his arm, half proudly, half shyly, round his wife's shoulders. She had sidled up to him, ostentably bringing him a letter, though possibly only for an excuse, because in those sweet early days they naturally liked to be in each other's sight continually. It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meek matronliness had come over the high spirit of the nut-brown maid. May I read, she said, peeping over him. Of course you may, little one. A comical pet-name for him to give her, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering the time when John Halifex bowed to the stately and dignified young gentlewoman who stood at Mrs. Todd'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 unreading the letter, I saw the young wife flush and 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. She thinks nobody dared do anything ill to her husband, not even Richard Brithwood. He is a—Hush, dear, we will not talk about him, since for all his threats he can do us no harm, and poor man, he will never be half as happy as we. That was true, so Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was left to mold her harmlessly away in the rosemary-bush, and we all walked up and down the garden, talking over a thousand plans for making ends meet in that little household. To their young hopefulness, even poverty itself became a jest, and was met cheerfully, like an honest, hard-featured, hard-handed friend whose rough face was often kindly, and whose harsh grasp made one feel the strength of one's own. We mean, John said gaily, to be two living essays on the advantages of poverty. We are not going to be afraid of it, or ashamed of it. We don't care who knows it. We consider that our respectability lies solely in our two selves. But your neighbors? Our neighbors may think of us exactly what they like. Half the sting of poverty is gone when one keeps house for one's own comfort, and not for the comments of one's neighbors. I should think not, Ursula cried, tossing back her head in merry defiance. Besides, we are young, we have few wants, and we can easily reduce our wants to our havings. And no more gray silk gowns, said her husband, half fondly, half sadly. You will not be so rude as to say I shall not look equally well in a cotton one, and as for being 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 home. We investigated, and admired all, down to the very scullery. Then we adjourned to the sitting-room, the only one, and after tea, Ursula arranged her books, some on stained shelves, which she proudly informed me were of John's own making, and some on an old spinet, which he had picked up, and which he said was of no other use than to hold books, since she was not an accomplished young lady, and could neither sing nor play. But you don't dislike the spinet, Ursula, it caught my fancy. Do you know, I have a faint remembrance that once, on such a thing as this, my mother used to play. He spoke in a low voice. Ursula stole up to him, with a fond, odd look. You never told me anything about your mother. Dear, I had little to tell. Long ago you knew whom you were going to marry, John Halifax, who had no friends, no kindred, whose parents left him nothing but his name. And you cannot remember them? My father not at all, my mother very little. And have you nothing belonging to them? Only one thing. Should you like to see it? Very much. She still spoke slowly, and with slight hesitation. It was hard for him not to have known his parents, she added, when John had left the room. I should like to have known them, too. But still, when I know him—she smiled, tossed back the cornet of curls from her forehead, her proud, pure forehead, that would have worn a cornet of jewels more meekly than it now wore the unadorned 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 testament which he had showed me years before. Carefully, and with the same fond, reverent look as when he was a boy, he undid the case, made of silk, with ribbon strings, doubtless a woman's work. It must have been his mother's. His wife touched it, softly and tenderly. He showed her the fly-leaf. She looked over the inscription, and then repeated it aloud. Guy Halifax, gentlemen. I thought—I thought—her manner betrayed a please surprised. She would not have been a woman, especially a woman reared in pride of birth, not to have felt and testified, though like pleasure for a moment. You thought that I was only a laborer son, or nobody's? Well, does it signify? No, she cried, as clinging round his neck and throwing her head back. She looked at him, with all her heart in her eyes. No, it does not signify. Were your father the king on his throne, or the beggar in the streets, it would be all the same to me. You would still be yourself, my husband, my John Halifax. God bless thee, my own wife that he has given me, John murmured, through his close embrace. They had altogether forgotten anyone's presence, dear souls, so I kept them in that happy oblivion by slipping out to Jenny in the kitchen, and planning with her how we could at least spare Jem Watkins two days a week to help in the garden, under Mr. Halifax's orders. Only Jenny, smiled I, with a warning finger, no idling and chattering, young folk must work hard if they want to come to the happy ending of your master and mistress. The little maid grew the color of her swain's pet peonies, and promised obedience. Conscientious Jem, there was no fear of. All the rosy-cheeked damsels in Christendom would not have turned him aside from one iota of his duty to Mr. Halifax. Thus there was love in the parlor and love in the kitchen. But I verily believe the young married couple were served all the better for their kindness and sympathy to the humble pair of sweethearts and the rank below them. John walked home with me, a pleasure I had hardly expected, but which was insisted upon by both him and Ursula. For from the very first of her betrothal there had been a thorough brother and sisterly bond established between her and me. Her womanly generous nature would have scorned to do what, as I have heard, many young wives do, seek to make coldness between her husband and his old friends. No, secure in her riches, in her rightful possession of his whole heart, she took into hers everything that belonged to John, everyone he cared for, to be for ever held sacred and loved, being his, and therefore her own. Thus we were the very best of friends, my sister Ursula and me. John and I talked a little about her, of her rosy looks which she hoped would not fade in their town dwelling, and of good Mrs. Todd's wonderful delay 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 dial lay on a joy so new, that it was hardly to be breathed on, lest it might melt into air. Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage passed, he looked after it with a smile. Gray ponies, she is so fond of long-tailed gray ponies. Poor child, when shall I be able to give her a carriage? 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 the great water-wheel, you remember it, it might be worked by steam. What sort of steam? Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you forgotten my telling you how, last year, some scotch engineer tried to move boats by steam on the fourth and Clyde canal? Why should not the same power be turned to account in a cloth mill? I know it could. I have got the plan of the machinery in my head already. I made a drawing of it last night, and showed it to Ursula. She understood it directly. I smiled. And I do believe, by common patience and skill, a man might make his fortune with it at those underly cloth mills. Suppose you try, I said in half jest, and was surprised to see how seriously John took it. I wish I could try, if it were only practicable. Once or twice I have thought it might be. The mill belongs to Lord Luxmore. His steward works it. Now, if one could get to be a foreman or overseer, try. You can do anything you try. No, I must not think of it. She and I have agreed that I must not, said he, steadily. It's my weakness. My hobby, you know. But no hobbies now. Above all, I must not, for a mere fancy, give up the work that lies under my hands. What of the tanyard, Phineas? My father missed you, and grumbled after you a good deal. He looks anxious, I think. He vexes himself more than he needs about business. Don't let him. Keep him as much at home as you can. I'll manage the tanyard. You know, and he knows, too, that everything which can be done for us all, I shall do. I looked up, surprised at the extreme earnestness of his manner. Surely, John. Nay, there is nothing to be uneasy about. Nothing more than there has been for this year past. All trade is bad just now. Never fear, we'll weather the storm. I'm not afraid. Cheerfully as he spoke, I began to guess what he already must have known, that our fortunes were as a slowly leaking ship, of which the helm had slipped from my old father's feeble hand. But John had taken it. John stood firm at the wheel. Perhaps, with God's blessing, he might guide us safe to land. I had not time to say more, when with its pretty gray ponies, the curacle 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 Moenbu 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. I, even that brave man in whose honest life can be chronicled only this one sin of being bewitched by her. John caught the name. Perhaps, too, he recognized the face. It was only too public, alas. His own took a sternness, such as I had never before seen. And yet there was a trace of pity in it, too. You are quite well. Indeed, he looks so. Nus-pa, ma-shiru? John bore gravely the eyes of the two ladies fixed on him, and rather too plain admiration. Very gravely, too, he bowed. And what of our young bride, our treasure that we stole? Nay, it was quite fair. Quite fair. How is Ursula? I thank you, Mrs. Halifax, as well. Lady Caroline smiled, at the manner, courteous through all its coldness, which not ill became the young man. But she would not be repelled. I am delighted to have met you. Indeed, we must be friends. One's friends need not always be the same as one's husband's. Eh, Emma, you will be enchanted with our fair bride. We must both seize the first opportunity, and come as disguised princesses, to visit Mrs. Halifax. Again, let me thank you, Lady Caroline, but no buts. I am resolved. Mr. Brithwood will never find it out. And if he does, why he may. I like you both. I intend us to be excellent friends, whenever I chance to be at Nortonbury. Don't be proud and reject me. There's good people, the only good people I ever knew, who were not disagreeable. And leaning on her large, ermine muff, she looked right into John's face, with the winning sweetness, which nature, not courts, lent to those fair features, already beginning to fade, already trying to hide by art their painful, premature decay. John returned the look, half sorrowfully. It was so hard to give back harshness to kindliness. But a light laugh from the other lady caught his ear, and his hesitation, if hesitation he had felt, was over. No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see yourself that it cannot, living as we do, in the same 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 peak. As you will, I never trouble myself to court the friendship of any one. Le jour n'y vout, pas la chundelle. Do not mistake me, John said earnestly. Do not suppose I am ungrateful for your former kindness to my wife, but the difference between her and you, between your life and hers, is so extreme. Vremone, with another shrug and smile, rather a bitter one. Our two paths lie wide apart, and that my wife should ever enter yours, glancing from one to the other of those two faces, painted with false roses, lit by false smiles. No, Lady Caroline, he added firmly, it is impossible. She looked mortified for a moment, and then resumed her gaiety, which nothing could ever banish long. Hear him, Emma, so young and so unkindly. May new Varone, you will change your mind. Au revoir, mon beau-cousin. They drove off quickly, and were gone. John, what will Mrs. Halifax say? My innocent girl, thank God she is safe away from them all, safe in a poor man's honest breast. He spoke with much emotion. Yet Lady Caroline, did you see who sat beside her? That beautiful woman? Nor 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. End of chapter 20.