 Chapter 36 of John Halifax Gentleman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. John Halifax Gentleman by Dina Craig, Chapter 36. Lord Ravnell knew, as all perested by this time, the whole story, though as he truly said he had not seen Guy, the lad was hurried off immediately for fear of justice. But he had written from shipboard to Lord Ravnell, begging him himself to take the letter and break the news to us at Beechwood. The man he had struck was not one of Lord Luxemore's set, though it was though some of his noble friends Guy had fallen into his company. He was an Englishman, lately succeeded to a Bartonsi, an estate, his name, how we started to hear it. Though by Lord Ravnell and by us, for his sake, it was both pronounced and listened to, as if none of us had ever heard it before, Sir Gerard Vermelai. As soon as Ursula recovered, Mr. Halifax and Lord Ravnell went to Paris together. This was necessary, not only to meet justice, but to track the boy, to whose destination we had no clue but the wide world, America. Guy's mother hurried them away, his mother who rose from her bed and moved about the house like a ghost, upstairs and downstairs everywhere, accepting in that room, which was now once more locked and the outer blind drawn down, as if death himself had taken possession there. Alas, we heard now that there may be sorrows bitterer even than death. Mr. Halifax went away, then followed a long season of torpid gloom, days or weeks, I hardly remember, during which we, living shut up at Beechwood, knew that our name, John's stainless honorable name, was in everybody's mouth. Peroted abroad in every society, carvest in every newspaper, we tried, Walter and I, to stop them at first. Dreading last the mother might read in some foul print or other scurrilous tales about her boy, or as long remained doubtful, learn that he was proclaimed through France and England as a homicide and assassin, but concealments were idle. She would read everything, hear everything, meet everything, even those neighbors who out of curiosity or sympathy called at Beechwood. Not many times though, they said they could not understand Mrs. Halifax, so after a while they all left her alone, except good little grace old tower. Come often, I heard her say, to this girl whom she was fond of, they had sat, talking a whole morning, idly and pensively, of little things around them, never once referring to things outside. Come often, though the house is dull, does it not feel strange with Mr. Halifax away? I, this was the change, stranger at first, than what had befallen Guy, for that long seemed a thing we could not realize. Like a story told of some other family than ours, the present tangible blank was the house with its head and master away. Curiously enough, but from his domestic habits easily accountable, he had scarcely ever been more than a few days absent from home before. We missed him continually in his place at the head of the table, in his chair by the fire, his quick ring at the hall bell. When he came up from the mills, his step, his voice, his laugh, the life and soul of the house seemed to have gone out of it from the hour the father went away. I think in the wonderful workings of things, as we know all things to do, work, together for good. This fact was good for Ursula. It taught her that in losing Guy. She had not lost all her blessings. It showed her what in the passion of her mother, love she might have been tempted to forget. Many mothers do. That beyond all maternal duty is the duty that a woman owes to her husband. Beyond all loves is the love that was hers before any of them were born. So gradually, as every day John's letters came, and she used to watch them and seize them as if they had been love letters. As every day she seemed to miss him more and count more upon his return, referring all decisions and all little pleasures planned for her to the time when your father comes home, hope and comfort began to dawn in the heart of the mourning mother. And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back, I saw Ursula trying up the small bundle of his letters, his letters of which, in all her happy life, she had had so few, his tender, comforting, comfortable letters. I hope I shall never need to have any more, she said, half smiling, the faint smile which began to dawn in her poor face, as if she must accustomed it to look bright again in time for her husband's coming. And when the day arrived, she put all the house in trim order, dressed herself in her prettiest gown, sat patient while Maude brushed and curled her hair, how white it had turned of late, and then waited with a flush on her cheek, like that of a young girl waiting for her lover for the sound of carriage wheels. All that had to be told about Guy, and it was better news than any one of us had hoped for, John had already told in his letters, when we came back, therefore he was birtered, with no trouble, undisclosed, greeted with no anguish of fear or bitter remembrance. As he sprang out of the post-chase, it was to find his wife standing at the door, and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome. No blessing on earth could be like the blessing of the father's return. John looked pale, but not paler than might have been expected. Grave, too. But it was a soft seriousness altogether free from the restlessness of keen anxiety. The first shock of this heavy misfortune was over. He had paid all his son's debts. He had as far as was possible saved his good name. He had made a safe home for the lad, and heard of his safely reaching it. In the New World, nothing more was left but to cover over the inevitable grief, and hope that crime would blot out the intolerable shame, that since Guy's hand was clear of blood, and since his recovery, Sir Gerard Vermile had risen into a positive hero of society, men's minds would gradually lose the impression of a deed committed in heat of youth, and repented of with such bitter atonement. So the father took his old place, and looked round on the remnant of his children. Grave indeed, but not weighed down by a curable suffering. Something deeper even than the hard time he has recently passed through, seemed to have made his home more than ever dear to him. He sat in his armchair, never weary of noticing everything pleasant about him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked, and how delicious it was to be at home. And perpetually, if any chance unlinked it, his hand would return to the clasp of Ursula's, the minute she left her place by his side. His restless, love where are you going, would call her back again. And once when the children were out of the room and I, sitting in the dark quarter, was probably thought absent likewise. I saw John take his wife's face behind his two hands, and look in it, the fondest, most lingering saddest look, then fond of her tightly to his breast. I must never be away from her again, mine for as long as I live, mine, my wife, my Ursula. She took it all naturally. As she had taken every expression of his love, these nine and twenty years, I left them, standing eye to eye, heart to heart, as if nothing in this world could ever part them. Next morning was as gay as any of our mornings used to be. For before breakfast came Edwin and Louise, and after breakfast, the father and mother and I walked up and down the garden for an hour, taking over the prospects of the young couple. Then the post came, but we had no need to watch it for now. It only brought a letter from Lord Ravenel. John read it somewhat more seriously than he had used to read these letters, which for the last year or so had come often enough. The boys usually quizzing and mistress-mod vehemently defending the delicate, small handwriting, the exquisite paper, the cornered seal, and the frank in the corner. John liked to have them, and his wife also. She being not indifferent to the fact, confirmed by many other facts, that if there was one man in the world whom Lord Ravenel honored and admired, it was John Halifax of Beechwood. But this time her pleasure was apparently damped, and when mod claiming the letter as usual spread, John asked his wife, speaking in a whisper for by tact, consent, all public allusion to his doings at Paris was avoided in the family. Did you by any chance hear anything of, you know, who I mean? Not one syllable, you inquired, he assented. I knew you would. She must be almost an old woman now, or perhaps she is dead, poor Caroline. It was the first time for years, and years that his name had been breathed in our household. Involuntarily it carried me back, perhaps others besides me, to the day at Longfield when little guy had defoded himself to his pretty lady. When we first heard that other name, which by a curious conjecture of circumstances, had since become so fatally familiar, and which would be hence-forward be like the sound of a death bell in our family, Gerard Vermile. On Lord Ravenel's reappearance at Beechwood, and he seemed eager and glad to come, I was tempted to wish him away, he never crossed the threshold, but his presence brought a shadow over the parent's looks, and no wonder the young people were gay and friendly as ever, made him always welcome with us. And he rode over daily from Desolate, long uninhabited Luxmore, where, in all its desolation, he appeared so fond of abiding. He wanted to take Maud and Walter over there one day, to see some magnificent furs that were being cut down in a wholesale massacre, leaving the grand old hall as bare as a workhouse front. But the father objected, he was clearly determined that all the hospitality between Luxmore and Beechwood should be on the Beechwood side. Lord Ravenel apparently perceived this, Luxmore is not compeach. He said to me, with his dreary smile, half sad, half cynical, Mr. Halifax might indulge me with the society of his children, and as he lay on the grass, it was full summer now, watching Maud's white dress, flit under the trees, I saw, or fancied I saw, something different to any former expression, that had ever lightened up the soft-linguid mien of William Lord Ravenel. How tall that child has grown lately, she is about nineteen, I think, not seventeen till December. Ah, so young? Well, it is pleasant to be young, dear little Maud. He turned on one side, hiding the sun from his eyes, with those delicate-ringed hands, which many a time our boys had left at, saying they were, mere ladies' hands, fit for no work at all. Perhaps Lord Ravenel felt the cloud that had come over our inner course with him, a cloud which, considering late events, was scarcely unnatural for when evening came, his leave taking always a regret, seemed now as painful as his blaze in difference to all emotions, pleasant or unpleasant could allow. He lingered, he hesitated, he repeated many times, how glad he should be to see Beachwood again. How all the world was to him, flat, stale, and unprofitable, except Beachwood. John made no special answer except that frank smile, not without certain kindly satire, under which the young noblemen's bironic affectations generally melted away like mists in the morning. He kindled up into warmth and manliness. I thank you, Mr. Halifax. I thank you heartily for all you and your household have been to me. I trust I shall enjoy your friendship for many years, and if in any way I might offer mine or any small influence in the world. Your influence is not small, John returned earnestly. I have often told you so. I know no man who has wider opportunities than you have, but I have let them slip forever. No, not forever. You are young still, you have half a lifetime before you, have I? And for the moment one would hardly have recognized the swallow, spiritless face, that with all the delicacy of boyhood still, at times looked so exceedingly old. No, no, Mr. Halifax, who ever heard of a man beginning life at seven and thirty. Are you really seven and thirty, asked Mod? Yes, yes, my girl. It is so very old. He patted her on the shoulder, took her hand, gazed at it. The round rosy girlish hand, with the melancholy tenderness, then bade good-bye to us all, generally, and wrote off. It struck me then, though I hurried the thought away, it struck me that the mother never noticed or took into account certain possibilities that would have occurred naturally to any worldly mother. I can only explain it by remembering the unworldliness of our lives. At Beechwood, the heavy cares which now pressed upon us from without, and the notable fact within our own family experience ought to have taught us, yet did not. That, in cases like this, often those whom one would have expected to be most quick-sighted are the most strangely irretrievably mournfully blind. When, the very next day, Lord Ravenel, not on horseback, but in his rarely used luxurious corn-odded carriage, drove up to Beechwood, everyone in the house except myself was inconceivably astonished to see him back again. He said that he had delayed his journey to Paris, and gave no explanation of that delay. He joined as usual in our midday dinner, and after dinner, still as usual, took a walk with me and Mod. It happened to be, though, the Beechwood, almost the identical path that I remember taking, years and years ago, with John and Ursula. I was surprised to hear Lord Ravenel allude to the fact, a well-known fact, in our family, for I think all fathers and mothers like to relate, and all children, to hear, the slightest incidents of the parents' courting days. You did not know, father and mother, when they were young, said Mod, catching our conversation and flashing back her innocent, merry face upon us? No, scarcely likely. And he smiled. Oh, yes, it might have been. I forgot. I am not a young man now. How old were Mr. and Mrs. Halifax when they married? Father was twenty-one, and mother was eighteen, only a year older than I. And Mod, half ashamed of his suggestive remark, ran away. Her gay candor proved to me, perhaps to others besides me. The girl's entire free-heartedness, the frank innocence of childhood, was still hers. Lord Ravenel looked after her and sighed, It is good to marry early, do you not think so, Mr. Fletcher? I told him, I was rather sorry after I had said it. If one ought to be sorry for having, when questioned, given one's honest opinion, I told him that I thought those happiest, who found their happiest early, but that I did not see why happiness should be rejected because it was the will of Providence, that it should not be found till late. I wonder, he said, dreamily, I wonder whether I shall ever find it. I asked him, it was by an impulse irresistible, why he had never married because I had never found any woman either to love or to believe in. Worse, he added bitterly, I did not think there lived the woman who could be believed in. We had come out of the Beechwood, and we were standing by the low churchyard wall. The sun glittered on the white marble headstone on which was inscribed Meryl Joy Halifax. Lord Ravenel leaned over the wall, his eyes fixed upon that little grave. After a while he said, sign, do you know I have thought sometimes that had she lived I could have loved I might have married that child. Here Maud sprang towards us in her playful tyranny which she loved to exercise and he to submit to. She insisted on knowing what Lord Ravenel was talking about. I was saying, he answered, taking both her hands and looking down into her bright unshrinking eyes. I was saying how dearly I loved your sister Meryl. I know that, and Maud became grave at once. I know you care for me because I am like my sister Meryl. If it were so, would you be sorry or glad, glad and proud too. But you said, or you were going to say something more, what was it? He hesitated long, then answered, I will tell you another time. Maud went angry, rather cross and dissatisfied. But evidently suspecting nothing, for me I began to be seriously uneasy about her and Lord Ravenel. Of all kinds of love, there is one which uncommon sense and romance have often combined to hold obnoxious, improbable or ridiculous, but which has always seemed to me the most real and pathetic form that the passion ever takes. I mean, love in spite of great disparity of age, even when this is on the woman's side, I could imagine circumstances that would make it far less ludicrous and pitful, and there are few things to be more than touching, more full of sad earnest, than to see an old man in love with a young girl. Lord Ravenel's case would hardly come under this category, yet the difference between 17 and 37 was sufficient to warn in him a trembling uncertainty and eager catching at the skirts of that vanishing youth whose preciousness he never seemed to have recognized till now. It was with a mournful interest that all day I watched him follow the child about, gather her poises, help her to water her flowers, and accommodate herself to those whims and fancies of which, as the pet and the youngest mistress Maud had her full share. When at her usual hour of half past nine the little lady was summoned away to bed to keep up her roses, he looked half resentful of the mother's interference. Maud is not a child now, and this may be my last night. He stopped sensitively at the involuntary foreboding, Your last night, nonsense, you will come back soon again. You must, you shall, said Maud decisively. I hope I may, I trust in heaven I may. He spoke low, holding her hand, distantly and reverently, not attempting to kiss it. As in all his formal farewells, he had invariably done, Maud remember me, however, or whenever I come back, dearest child, be faithful and remember me. Maud fled away with a sob of childish pain, partly after the mother thought, and slightly apologized to his guest for her daughter's naughtiness. Lord Revanel sat silent for a long, long time. Just when we thought he purposed leaving, he said, Abruptly, Mr. Halifax, may I have five minutes' speech with you in the study? The five minutes extended to half an hour. Mrs. Halifax wondered what on earth they were talking about. I held my peace. At last the father came in alone. John, is Lord Revanel gone? Not yet. What could he have wanted to say to you? John sat down by his wife. Picked up the ball of her knitting, rolled and unrolled it. She saw at once that something had creeped and perplexed him exceedingly. Her heart shrunk back, that still sore heart, recoiled with a not unnatural fear. O husband, is it any new misfortune? No love, cheering her with a smile. Nothing that fathers and mothers in general would consider as such. He has asked me for our mod. What for was the mother's first exceedingly simple question? And then she guessed its answer. Impossible, ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. She is only a child. Nevertheless, Lord Revanel wishes to marry our little mod. Lord Revanel wishes to marry our mod. Mrs. Halifax repeated this to herself more than once before she was able to entertain it as a reality. When she did, the first impression it made upon her mind was altogether pain. Oh, John, I hope we had done with these sort of things. I thought we should have been left in peace with the rest of our children. John smiled again, for indeed there was a cynical sigh to her view of the subject. What a serious phase. Soon returned, doubtfully so. When looking up, they both saw Lord Revanel standing before them. Firm his attitude was, firmer than usual, and it was with something of his father's stately air, mingled with a more childlike and sincere grace, that he stooped forward and kissed the hand of the mod's mother. Mr. Halifax has told you all, I believe. He has. May I then, with entire trust in you both, await my answer? He waited it. Patiently enough, with little apparent doubt as to what it would be, besides it was only the prior question of parental consent, not the vital point of mod's preference. And, with all his natural humility, Lord Revanel might be forgiven if, brought up in the long world, he was aware of his position. Therein, nor quite unconscious, that it was not merely William Revanel, but the only son and heir of the Earl of Luxembourg, who came a-wooing. Not till after a long pause, and even a whispered word or two between the husband and wife, who knew each other's minds so well that no more consultation was needed, did the suitor again with a more formal air ask for an answer. It is difficult to give, I find that my wife, like myself, had no idea of your feelings, the extreme suddenness. Pardon me, my intention has not been sudden. It is the growth of many months, years, I might almost say. We are more grieved. Grieved, Lord Revanel's extreme surprise startled him, from the mere suitor into the lover. He glanced from one to the other in undisguised alarm. John hesitated. The mother said something about the great difference between them. In age, do you mean? I am aware of that. He answered with some sadness, but twenty years is not insuperable bar in marriage. Noah said Mrs. Halifax thoughtfully, and for any other disparity, in fortune or rank, I think, Lord Revanel, and the mother spoke with her dignified, heir. Do you know enough of my husband's character and opinions to be assured how lightly he would hold such a disparity, if you allude to that supposed to exist between the son of the Earl of Luxembourg and the daughter of John Halifax? The young nobleman collared, as if with ingenuous shame at what he had been implying. I am glad of it. Let me assure you, there will be no impediments on the side of my family. The Earl has long wished one to marry. He knows well enough that I can marry whom I please, and shall marry for love only. Give me your leave to win your little mod, a dead silence. Again, pardon me? Lord Revanel said with some heterure. I cannot have clearly explained myself. Let me repeat, Mr. Halifax, that I ask your permission to win your daughter's affection, and in due time, her hand. I would, that you had asked of me, anything that it would be less impossible to give you. Impossible? What do you mean? Mrs. Halifax, he turned instinctively to the woman, the mother. Ursula's eyes were full of a sad kindness, the kindness any mother must feel towards one who worthily woos her daughter, but she replied distinctly, I feel with my husband that such a marriage would be impossible. Lord Revanel grew scarlet, sat down, rose again, and stood facing them, pale and haughty. If I may ask your reasons? Since you ask certainly, John replied, Though believe me, I give them with the deepest pain, Lord Revanel. Do you not yourself see that our mod? Wait one moment, he interrupted. There is not. There cannot be any previous attachment. The supposition made the parents smile. Indeed, nothing of the kind she is a mere child. You think her too, young for marriage, then? Was the eager answer. Be it so, I will wait. Though my youth, alas, is slipping from me. But I will wait two years, three, any time you choose to name. John needed not to reply. The very sorrow of his decision showed how inevitable and irrecoverable it was. Lord Revanel's pride rose against it. I fear in this mind-novel position I am somewhat slow of comprehension. Would it be so great a misfortune to your daughter if I made her this countless Revanel, and in course of time countless of Luxmore? I believe it would. Her mother and I would rather see our little mod lying beside her sister, Murrell, and see her countess of Luxmore. These words, hard as they were, John uttered so softly and with such infinite grief and pain that they struck the young man, not with anger, but with indefinite awe, as if a ghost from his youth, his wasted youth, had risen up to point out that truth and show him that what seemed insult or vengeance was only a bitter necessity. All he did was to repeat in a subdued manner. Your reasons? Ah, Lord Revanel, John answered sadly. Do you not see yourself that the distance between us and you is wide as the poles? Not in worldly things, but in things far and deeper, personal things, which strike at the root of love, home, nay honor. Lord Revanel started, would you happily imply that anything in my past life, aimless and useless, as it may have been, is unworthy of my honor, the honor of our house? Saying this he stopped, recoiled, as if suddenly made aware by the very words himself had uttered, what contrasted with the unsolid dignity of the tradesmen's life. The spotless innocence of the tradesmen's daughter. What a foul-tattered rag fit to be torn, dawned by an honest gust, was that flaunting emblazement, the so-called honor of Luxmore. I understand you now, the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, as your Bible says, your Bible, that I had half begun to believe in. Be it so, Mr. Halifax, I will detain you no longer. John intercepted the young man's departure. No, you do not understand me. I hold no man accountable for my errors, any shortcomings except his own. I am to conclude, then, that it is to myself you refuse your daughter. It is, Lord Revanel, once more bowed, with sarcastic emphasis. I entreat you not to mistake me, John continued, most earnestly. I know nothing of you that the world would condemn. Much that it would even admire, but your world is not our world, nor your aims are aims. If I gave you my little mod, it would confer on you no lasting happiness, and it would be trusting my child, my own flesh and blood, to the brink of that whirlpool there. Sooner or late, every miserable life must go down. Lord Revanel made no answer. His newborn energy, his pride, his sarcasm, has successively vanished. Dead, passive, melancholy resumed its empire over him. Mr. Halifax regarded him with more full compassion. Oh, that I had foreseen this. I would have placed the breath of all England between you and my child. Would you understand me? Not because you do not possess our warm interests, our friendship. Both will always be yours. But these are external ties, which may exist through many differences in marriage. There must be perfect unity, one aim, one faith, one love, or the marriage is incomplete, unholy, a mere civil contract and no more. Lord Revanel looked up amazed at this doctrine, then sat a while pondering drearily. Yes, you may be right, at last he said. Your mod is not for use, nor those like me. Between us and you is that great golf fixed. What did the old fable say? I forget. Just Sarah, Sarah. I am but as others. I am but what I was born to be. Do you recognize that what you were born to be? Not only a nobleman, but a gentleman. Not only a gentleman, but a man. A man made in the image of God. How can you, how dare you? Give the lie to your creator. What has he given me? What have I to thank him for? First, manhood. The manhood is sun-distained, not to wear. Worldly gifts such as rank, riches, influence. Things which others have to spend half an existence in earning. Life in its best prime. With much of youth yet remaining. With grief endured. Wisdom learned. Experience won. Wood to heaven. That any poor word of mine I could make you feel all that you are. All that you might be. A gleam bright as a boy's hope. Wild as a boy's daring. Flashed from those listless eyes. Then faded. You mean Mr. Halifax, what I might have been? Now it is too late. No such word as too late. In the wide world. Nay, not in the universe. What shall we, whose atom of time, Is but a fragment, out of an ever-present eternity? Shall we, so long as we live, Or even at our life's ending? Dare to cry out to the external one. Is it too late? As John spoke, in much more excitement Than was usual to him. A sudden flush, or rather spasm, Of color flushed his face. Then faded away, leaving him pallid To the very lips. He sat down hastily in his frequent attitude With the left arm passed across his breast. Lord Ravenel, his voice was faint. As though speech was painful to him, The other looked up, the old look Of reverent attention. Which I remembered in the boy lord Who came to see us at Norton Brewery. In the young Asomo, Whose enthusiastic hero worship had fixed itself With an almost unreasoning trust On Murrell's father. Lord Ravenel, forgive anything I have said That may have hurt you. It would grieve me inexpressibly If we did not part as friends. Part, for a time, we must. I dare not risk further either Your happiness or my child's. No, not hers, guard it. I blame you not, the lovely innocent child. God forbid she should ever have a life like mine. He sat silent, his clasped hands Less asleep dropping. His continence dreamy, yet it seemed to me Less hopelessly sad. Then with a sudden effort he rose. I must go now. Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her. With much emotion for all her kindness. For your husband, I owe him more than kindness. As perhaps I may prove someday, If not, try to believe the best of me you can. Goodbye. They both said goodbye and bade God bless him. With scarcely less tenderness Than if things had ended as he desired. And instead of this farewell, Sad and indefinite beyond most farewells, They were giving the parental welcome To a newly chosen son. Are if finally quitting us, Lord Raven I'll turn back to speak to John once more, Hesitantly and morefully. If she, if the child, Should ask her wonder about my absence, She likes me in her innocent way, You know. You will tell her. What shall you tell her? Nothing, it is best shot. Aye, it is, it is. He shook hands with us, all three, Without saying anything else. Then the carriage rolled away, And we saw his face. That pale, gentle, melancholy face, no more. It was years and years before anyone beyond ourselves Knew what a nearscape our little mod had had Of becoming this Countess Ravenel, Future Countess of Luxmore. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 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 Michelle Harris. John Halifax Gentlemen By Dinah Harris John Halifax Gentlemen John Halifax Gentlemen John Halifax Gentlemen John Halifax Gentlemen John Halifax Gentlemen John Halifax Gentlemen By Dinah Craig Chapter 37 It was not many weeks after this departure Of Lord Ravenel's, The pain of which was almost forgotten In the comfort of Guy's first long home letter, Which came about this time, That John, one morning, Suddenly dropping his newspaper, Exclaimed, Lord Luxmore is dead. Yes, he had returned to his dust, This old bad man, So old that people had begun To think he would never die. He was gone, The man who, If we owned an enemy in the world, Had certainly proved himself that enemy. Something peculiar is there In a decease like this, Of one whom, Living, We have almost felt ourselves justified In condemning, Avoiding, perhaps hating. Until death, Stepping in between, Removes him to another tribunal Than this petty justice of ours, And laying a solemn finger on our mouths, Forbids us either to think Or utter a word of hatred Against that which is now, What? A disembodied spirit, A handful of corrupting clay. Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account. It was not ours to judge him. We never knew, I believe no one except his son Ever fully knew, The history of his deathbed. John sat in silence, The paper before him, Long after we had passed the news And discussed it, Not without awe, All round the breakfast table. Maude stole up, Hesitatingly, And asked to see the announcement No, my child, But you shall hear it read aloud If you choose. I guess the reason of his refusal When, looking over him as he read, I saw, after the long list of titles Owned by the new Earl of Luxmore, One bitter line, How it must have cut to the heart Of him whom we first heard of As poor William. Had likewise issue Caroline, Married in 1700 blank, To Richard Brithwood Esquire, Afterwards divorced. And by a curious coincidence, About twenty lines further down, I read among the fashionable marriages At the British Embassy, Paris, Sir Gerard Vermilia Bart, To the youthful and beautiful daughter of, I forget who, I only saw that the name was not her name, Of whom the youthful and beautiful bride Had most likely never heard. He had not married Lady Caroline. This morning's intelligence brought The Luxmore family so much to our thoughts That, driving out after breakfast, John and I involuntarily recurred to the subject. Nay, talking on, In the solitude of our front seat, For Mrs. Halifax, Miss Halifax, And Mrs. Edwin Halifax, In the carriage behind, Were deep in some other subject, We fell upon a topic which, By tacit consent, had been laid aside, As in our household we held it good To lay aside any inevitable regret. Poor Maude, how eager she was To hear the news today. She little thinks how vitally It might have concerned her. No, John answered thoughtfully, Then asked me with some abruptness, Why did you say poor Maude? I really could not tell. It was a mere accident, The unwitting indication of some crotchets of mine, Which had often come into my mind lately. Crotchets, perhaps peculiar to one who, Never having known a certain possession, Found himself rather prone to overrate its value. But it sometimes struck me as hard, Considering how little, honest, And sincere love there is in the world, That Maude should never have known Of Lord Ravenel's. Possibly, against my will, My answer implied something of this, For John was a long time silent. Then he began to talk of various matters, Telling me of many improvements He was planning and executing On his property and among his people. In all his plans, And in the carrying out of them, I noticed one peculiarity, Strong in him throughout his life, But latterly grown stronger than ever, Namely, that whatever he found to do, He did immediately. Procrastination had never been one of his faults. Now, he seemed to have a horror Of putting anything off, Even for a single hour. Nothing that could be done Did he lay aside until it was done. His business affairs were kept In perfect order, Each day's work being completed With the day. And in the thousand and one little things That were constantly arising From his position as magistrate And landowner, And his general interest In the movements of the time, The same system was invariably pursued. In his relations with the world outside, As in his own little valley, He seemed determined to Work while it was day. If he could possibly avoid it, No application was ever unattended to, No duty left unfinished, No good unacknowledged, No evil unremited, Or at least unforgiven. John, I said, as today this peculiarity Of his struck me more than usual, Thou art certainly one of the faithful servants Whom the master, when he cometh, Will find watching. I hope so. It ought to be thus with all men, But especially with me. I imagined from his tone That he was thinking of his responsibility As father, master, owner, And his responsibility as father, And his responsibility as father, And the owner of large wealth. How could I know? How could I guess, beyond this? Do you think she looks pale, finneous? He asked suddenly. Who, your wife? No, Maude, my little Maude. It was but lately that he called her His little Maude, Since with that extreme tenacity Of attachment which was a part Of his nature, Refusing to put any one love In another love's place, His second daughter had never been To him like the first. Now, however, I had noticed That he took Maude nearer to his heart, Made her more often his companion, Watching her with a sedulous tenderness. It was easy to guess why. She may have looked a little paler Of late, a little more thoughtful, But I am sure she is not unhappy. I believe not. Thank God. Surely, I said anxiously, You have never repented what you did About Lord Ravenel? No, not once. It cost me so much That I know it was right to be done. But if things had been otherwise, If you had not been so sure of Maude's feelings, He started painfully, then answered, I think I should have done it still. I was silent. The paramount right, The high prerogative of love, Which he held as strongly as I did, Seemed attacked in its liberty divine. For the moment, it was as if he too Had, in his middle age, Gone over to the cold-blooded ranks Of harsh parental prudence, Despotic paternal rule, As if Ursula March's lover And Maude's father Were two distinct beings. One finds it so often enough with men. John, I said, Could you have done it? Could you have broken the child's heart? Yes, if it was to save her peace, Perhaps her soul, I could have broken my child's heart. He spoke solemnly With an accent of inexpressible pain, As if this were not the first time By many that he had pondered Over such a possibility. I wish, Phineas, to make clear to you, In case of any future misconceptions, My mind on this matter. One right alone, I hold superior to the right of love, Duty. It is a father's duty, At all risks, at all costs, To save his child from anything Which he believes would peril her duty, So long as he is a father's duty, And he believes would peril her duty, So long as she is too young To understand fully How beyond the claim of any human being, Be it father or lover, Is God's claim to herself And her immortal soul. Anything which would endanger That should be cut off, Though it be the right hand, The right eye. But, thank God, It was not thus with my little Maude. Nor with him, either. He bore his disappointment well. Nobly. It may make a true nobleman of him yet, But, being what he is, And for as long as he remains so, He must not be trusted with my little Maude. I must take care of her while I live. Afterwards, His smile faded, Or rather was transmuted Into that grave thoughtfulness Which I had lately noticed in him, When, as now, he fell into one of his long silences. There was nothing sad about it, Rather a serenity, Which reminded me of that sweet look Of his boyhood, Which had vanished during the manifold cares Of his middle life. The expression of the mouth, As I saw it in profile, Close and calm, Almost inclined me to go back To the fanciful follies of our youth, And call him David. We drove through Nortonbury, And left Mrs. Edwin there. Then on, along the familiar road, Towards the manor house, Passed the white gate within sight Of little Longfield. It looks just the same. The tenant takes good care of it. And John's eyes turn fondly To his old home. A. Just the same. Do you know your wife was saying To me this morning That when Guy comes back, When all the young folk are married And you retire from business And settle into the O-T-U-M-C-M-D-I-G-N-I-T-A-T-E, The learned leisure you used to plan, She would like to give up Beechwood. She said, She hopes you and she Will end your days together At Little Longfield. Did she? Yes, I know that has been Always her dream. Or one that is not unlikely To be fulfilled. I like to fancy you both Two old people, Sitting on either side the fire Or on the same side if you like it best. Very cheerful. You will make such a merry old man, John, With all your children round you And indefinite grandchildren About the house continually. Or else you two will sit alone Together, Just as in your early married days, The most enhansomest old lady That ever was seen. Phineas, don't, don't. I was startled by the tone In which he answered the lightness Of mine. I mean, don't be planning Out the future. It is foolish. It is almost wrong. God's will is not as our will And he knows best. I would have spoken, But just then we reached the Manor House gate In a pitiful circle of the old towers. There were all in the excitement Of a wonderful piece of gossip, Gossip so strange, Sudden and unprecedented That it absorbed all lesser matters. It burst out before we had been In the house five minutes. Have you heard this extraordinary Report about the Luxmore family? I could see Ma turn With eager attention, Fixing her eyes wistfully About the Earl's death. Yes, we saw it in the newspaper. And John passed on to some other Point of conversation In vain. This news relates to the present Earl. I never heard of such a thing. Never. In fact, if true, his conduct Is something which in its self-denial Approaches absolute insanity. Is it possible that being So great a friend of your family Is it possible? These circumstances, With some patience, We extracted from the Valuable lady old tower. She had learnt them, I forget how, But news never wants a tongue To carry it. It seemed that on the Earl's death It was discovered What had already been long suspected That his liabilities, Like his extravagances, Were enormous. In order to live abroad To escape, in some degree, The clamorous haunting Of the hundreds he had ruined. Poor tradespeople Who knew that their only chance Of payment was during The old man's lifetime, For his whole property Was entailed on the sun. Whether Lord Ravenel Had ever been acquainted With the state of things Or whether, being in ignorance Of it, his own style of living Rumor did not say, Nor indeed was it of much consequence. The fact subsequently becoming known Immediately after Lord Luxmore's death Made all former conjectures unnecessary. Not a week before he died, The late Earl and his son, Chiefly it was believed On the latter's instigation, Had cut off the entail, Thereby making the whole property Sailable and available For the payment of creditors. Thus, by his own act, And, as someone had told somebody That somebody else had heard Lord Ravenel say, For the honor of the family, The present Earl had succeeded To an empty title and beggary. Or, Lady Oldtower added, What to a man of rank Will be the same as beggary, A paltry two hundred a year or so, Which he has reserved, they say, Just to keep him from destitution. Ah, here comes Mr. Jessup. I thought he would. He can tell us all about it. Old Mr. Jessup was as much excited As anyone present. Hey, it's all true. Only too true, Mr. Halifax. He was at my house last night. Last night? I do not think anybody caught The child's exclamation but me. I could not help watching little Maude, Noticing what strong emotion, Still perfectly childlike And unguarded in its demonstration, Was shaking her innocent bosom And overflowing at her eyes. However, as she sat still in the corner, Nobody observed her. Yes, he slept at my house, Lord Ravenel, The Earl of Luxmore, I mean. Much good will his title do him. My head clerk is better off than he. He has stripped himself of every penny, Except, bless me, I forgot. Mr. Halifax, he gave me a letter for you. John walked to the window to read it, But having read it, Passed it openly round the circle, As indeed was best. My dear friend, You will have heard that my father Is no more. He used always to say, The Earl, whispered Maude, As she looked over my shoulder. I write this merely to say, What I feel sure you will already Have believed, That anything which you may learn Concerning his affairs, I was myself unaware of, Except in a very slight degree When I last visited Beachwood. Will you likewise believe That in all I have done Doing, Your interests as my tenant, Which I hope you will remain, Have been and shall be Sedulously guarded? My grateful remembrance to all Your household, Faithfully yours and theirs, Luxmore. Give me back the letter, Maude, my child. She had been taking possession Of it as in right of being His pet, But now, Without a word of objection, She surrendered it to her father. What does he mean, Mr. Jessup, About my interests as his tenant? Bless me, I am so grieved about the matter That everything goes astray in my head. He wished me to explain to you That he has reserved one portion Of the Luxmore property intact. Enderly mills. The rent you pay will, He says, Even while your lease lasts, No other landlord can injure you. Very thoughtful of him. Very thoughtful indeed, Mr. Halifax. John made no answer. I never saw a man so altered. He went over some matters with me, Private charities, In which I have been his agent, You know, grave, clear-headed, business-like. My clerk himself could not have done better. Afterwards we sat and talked, And I tried foolishly enough When the thing was done, To show him what a frantic act it was, Both towards himself and his heirs. But he could not see it. He said cutting off the end-tail Would harm nobody, For that he did not intend ever to marry. Poor fellow. Is he with you still? John asked in a low tone. No, he left this morning for Paris. His father is to be buried there. Afterwards he said his movements Were quite uncertain. He bade me goodbye. I didn't like it. I can assure you. And the old man, Blowing his nose with his Yellow pocket handkerchief, And twitching his features Into all manner of shapes, Seemed determined to put aside The melancholy subject, And dilated on the earl And his affairs no more. Nor did anyone. Something in this young Man's been not without a parallel Among our aristocracy Silenced the tongue of gossip itself. The deed was so new, So unlike anything That had been conceived possible, Especially in a man like Lord Ravenel, Who had always borne the character Of a harmless, idle, Misanthropic non-entity That society was really Non-plus concerning it. Of the many loquacious visitors Who came that morning To the lady old tower, All the curiosity of coltum, Fashionable coltum, Famous for all the scandal of Oat-tongue. There was none who did not speak Of Lord Luxmore in his affairs With an uncomfortable, Wondering awe. Some suggested he was going mad. Others, raking up stories Current of his early youth, Thought he had turned Catholic Again, and was about to enter A monastery. The monks protested That he was a noble fellow, And it was a pity he had determined To be the last of the Luxmores. For ourselves, Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, Maude and I, We never spoke to one another On the subject all the morning. Not until after luncheon When John and I had somehow Stolen out of the way of the visitors And were walking to and fro in the garden. The sunny fruit garden, Ancient, dutch, and square, With its barricade of a high hedge, A stone wall, And between it and the house A shining fence of great laurel trees. Maude appeared suddenly before us From among these laurels, breathless. I got away after you, father. I wanted to find some strawberries And I wanted to speak to you. Speak on, little lady. He linked her arm in his, And she paced between us Up and down the broad walk, But without diverging to the strawberry beds. She was grave and paler than ordinary. Her father asked if she were tired. No, but my headaches, Those Colton people do talk so. Father, I want you to explain to me For I can't well understand All this that they have been saying About Lord Ravenel. John explained, as simply and briefly, As he could. I understand, then, though he is Earl of Luxmore, he is quite poor, Poorer than any of us, And he has made himself poor In order to pay his own And his father's debts And keep other people from suffering From any fault of his. Is it so? Yes, my child. Is it not a very good thing My child? Is it not a very noble act, father? Very noble. I think it is the noblest act I ever heard of. I should like to tell him so. When is he coming to Beechwood? Maude spoke quickly, With flushed cheeks In the impetuous manner She inherited from her mother. Her question not being immediately Answered, she repeated it Still more eagerly. I do not know. How very strange. I thought he would come at once Tonight, probably. I reminded her That Lord Ravenel had left for Paris Bidding goodbye to Mr. Jessup. He ought to have come to us Instead of to Mr. Jessup Write and tell him so, father Tell him how glad we shall be To see him. And perhaps you can help him, You who help everybody. My friend Did he? Ah, now, do right, father, dear. I am sure you will. John looked down on the little maid Who hung on his arm so persuasively Then looked sorrowfully away. My child, I cannot. What, not right to him When he is poor and in trouble? That is not like you, father. And Maude half-loosed her arm. Her father quietly put the little Rebellious hand back again to its place. He was evidently debating within himself Whether he should tell her the whole truth Or how much of it. Not that the debate was new, For he must already have foreseen This possible, nay, certain conjuncture. Especially as all his dealings With his family had hitherto Been open as daylight. He held that to prevaricate, Or willfully to give the impression Of a falsehood, Is almost as mean as a direct lie. When anything occurred That he could not tell his children, He always said plainly, I cannot tell you, And they asked no more. I wondered exceedingly How he would deal with Maude. She walked with him, Submissive yet not satisfied, Glancing at him from time to time, Waiting for him to speak. At last she could wait no longer. I am sure there is something wrong. You do not care for Lord Ravenel As much as you used to do. More, if possible. Then write to him. Say we want to see him. I want to see him. Ask him to come and stay A long while at Beechwood. I cannot, Maude. It would be impossible for him to come. I do not think he is likely To visit Beechwood for some time. How long? Six months? A year, perhaps? It may be several years. Then I was right. Something has happened. You are not friends with him any longer. And he is poor, in trouble. Oh father! She snatched her hand away John took her gently by the arm And made her sit down upon the wall Of a little stone bridge Under which the moat slipped With a quiet murmur. Maude's tears dropped into it Fast and free. That very outburst, Brief and thundery as a child's passion Gave consolation both to her father And me, when it lessened John spoke. Now, as my little Maude Ceased to be angry with her father, I did not mean to be angry, Only I was so startled, So grieved. Tell me what has happened, Please, father? I will tell you, So far as I can. Lord Ravenel and myself Had some conversation Of a very painful kind The last night he was with us. After it, we both considered it advisable He should not visit us again Why not? Had you quarreled? Or if you had, I thought my father was always the first To forgive everybody. No, Maude, we had not quarreled. Then what was it? My child, you must not ask, For indeed I cannot tell you. Maude sprang up, The rebellious spirit flashing out again. Not tell me, me, his pet, Me that cared for him I think you ought to tell me, father. You must allow me to decide that, If you please. After this answer, Maude paused and said humbly, Does anyone else know? Your mother, And your uncle Phineas, Who happened to be present at the time, No one else, And no one else shall know. John spoke with that slight quivering And blueness of the lips, Which any mental excitement, Usually produced in him. He sat down by his daughter's side And took her hand. I knew this would grieve you, And I kept it from you as long as I could. Now you must only be patient, And like a good child, Trust your father. Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed and said, She could not understand it. Neither can I, oftentimes, My poor little Maude. There are so many sad things in life That we have to take upon trust And bear, And be patient with, Yet never understand. I suppose we shall someday. His eyes wandered upward To the wide arched blue sky, Which in its calm beauty Makes us fancy that paradise is there. His eyes wandered upward To the wide arched blue sky, Which in its calm beauty Makes us fancy that paradise is there. Even though we know that The kingdom of heaven is within us, And that the kingdom of spirits May be around us and about us everywhere. Maude looked at her father And crept closer to him, Into his arms. I did not mean to be naughty. I will try not to mind losing him. But I liked Lord Ravenel so much, And he was so fond of me. Child, And her father himself Could not help smiling At the simplicity of her speech. It is often easiest to lose Those we are fond of And who are fond of us, Because in one sense We never can really lose them. Nothing in this world, Nor I believe in any other, Can part those who truly And faithfully love. I think he was hardly aware How much he was implying, At least not in its relation to her, Else he would not have said it. And he would surely have noticed, As I did, that the word love, Which had not been mentioned before, It was liking, fond of, Care for, or some such round-about childish phrase. The word love made Maude start. She darted from one to the other of us, A keen glance of inquiry, And then turned the color of a July rose. Her attitude, her blushes, The shy tremble about her mouth, Reminded me vividly, too vividly, Of her mother twenty-eight years ago. Alarmed, I tried to hasten The end of our conversation, Lest, voluntarily or involuntarily, It might produce the very results Which, though they might not have altered John's determination, Would almost have broken his heart. So, begging her to kiss and make friends, Which Maude did, timidly, And without attempting further questions, I hurried the father and daughter Into the house. Deferring, for mature consideration, The question whether or not I should trouble John With any too anxious doubts of mine Concerning her. As we drove back through Nortonbury, I saw that while her mother And Lady Old Tower conversed, Maude sat opposite, Rather more silent than her want, But when the ladies dismounted For shopping, she was again The lively, independent Miss Halifax, Standing with reluctant feet, Where womanhood and childhood meet, And assuming at once The prerogatives and immunities Her girlish ladyship at last Got tired of silks and ribbons And stood with me at the shop door, Amusing herself with commenting On the passers-by. These were not so plentiful As I once remembered, Though still the old town Wore its old face, Appearing fairer than ever, As I myself grew older. The same coltum coach Stopped at the lamb inn, And the same group of idle loungers Took an interest in its disembodging Of its contents, But railways had done an ill turn To the coach and to poor Nortonbury, Where there used to be six Inside passengers, Today was turned out only one. What a queer-looking little woman! Uncle Phineas, People shouldn't dress so fine As that when they are old. Maude's criticism was Very unjust. The light-colored, flimsy gown, Shorter than even coltum fashionables Would have esteemed decent. The fluttering bonnet, The abundance of flaunting curls, No wonder that the stranger Attracted considerable notice In quiet Nortonbury. As she tripped mincingly along In her silk stockings And light shoes, A smothered jeer arose. People should not laugh At the conceited she may be, Said Maude indignantly. Is she old? Just look. And surely when, As she turned from side to side, I caught her full face. What a face it was! Withered, thin, Sallow almost to deathliness With a bright, rouge spot On each cheek, A broad smile on the ghastly mouth. Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas? Possibly. Do not look at her. For I was sure this must be the wreck Of such a life as womanhood Does sometimes sink to. A life the mere knowledge Of which had never yet entered Our Maude's pure world. She seemed surprised But obeyed me and went in. I stood at the shop door Watching the increasing crowd And pitying with that pity Mixed with shame That every honest man must feel Towards a degraded woman, The wretched object of their jeers. Half-frightened, She still kept up that set smile, Skipping daintily from side to side Of the pavement, Darting ad and peering Into every carriage that passed. Miserable creature as she looked, There was a certain grace And ease in her movements, As if she had fallen From some far higher estate. At that moment the myth carriage With Mr. Brithwood in it, Dozing his daily drive away, His gouty foot propped up before him, Slowly lumbered up the street. The woman made a dart at it, But was held back. I always hated your Norton Barry! Call my carriage! I will go home! Through its coarse discordance Its insane rage, I thought I knew the voice, Especially when, Assuming a tone of command, She addressed the old coachman. Draw up, Peter! You are very late! People, give way! Don't you see my carriage? There was a roar of laughter, So loud that even Mr. Brithwood Opened his dull, drunken eyes And stared about him. Canale! The scream was more of terror Than anger, She almost flung herself Under the horse's heads In her eagerness to escape From the mob. Let me go! My carriage is waiting! I am Lady Caroline Brithwood! The squire heard her. For a single instant They gazed at one another. Besotted husband, Dishonored divorced wife, Gazed with horror and fear As two sinners Who had been each other's Of Dante's inferno Or the tangible fire and brimstone Of many a blind but honest Christian's hell. One single instant And then Richard Brithwood Made up his mind. Coachman, drive on! But the man, He was an old man, Seemed to hesitate at urging His horses right over my lady. He even looked down on her With a sort of compassion. He remembered having heard say That she was always kind and affable To her servants. Drive on, you fool! Here! And Mr. Brithwood threw some coin Amongst the mob. Fetch the constable, some of you! Take the woman to the watch-house. And the carriage rolled on, Leaving her there, Crouched on the curb-stone, Gazing after it with something Between a laugh and a moan. Nobody touched her. Perhaps some had heard of her. A few might even have seen her, Driving through Nortonberry In her pristine state, As the young squire's handsome wife, The charming Lady Caroline. I was so absorbed in the sickening sight That I did not perceive How John and Ursula, Standing behind me, Had seen it likewise, Evidently seen and understood All. What is to be done? She whispered to him. What ought we to do? Here, mod came running out To see what was amiss in the street. Go in, child! Said Mrs. Halifax sharply. Stay till I fetch you. Lady Oldtower also advanced to the door, But catching some notion Of what the disturbance was, Shocked and scandalized, Retired into the shop again. John looked earnestly at his wife, But for once she did not Or would not understand his meaning. She drew back uneasily. What must be done? I mean, what do you want me to do? What only a woman can do, A woman like you, And in your position? Yes, if it were only myself, But think of the household. Think of mod. So, it is hard to know how to act. Nay, how did one act? How would he act now, If he stood in the street this day? If we take care of odd of his, Will he not take care of us and our children? Mrs. Halifax paused, Thought a moment, hesitated, yielded. John, you are right. You are always right. I will do anything you please. And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, In face of scores of window-gazers, All of whom knew them, And a great number of whom they also knew, Mr. Halifax and his wife Walk up to where the miserable woman lay. John touched her lightly on the shoulder. She screamed and cowered down. Are you the constable? He said he would send the constable. Hush, do not be afraid. Cousin, Cousin Caroline. God knows how long it was Since any woman had spoken to her in that tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered wits. She rose to her feet, smiling airily. Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure Of seeing you somewhere. Your name is... Ursula Halifax. Do you remember? She was speaking gently As she would have done to a child. Lady Caroline bowed, A ghastly mockery of her former Spritely grace. Not exactly, but I dare say I shall presently. Au revoir, madame. She was going away, Kissing her hand, That yellow, wrinkled old woman's hand, But John stopped her. My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wants you to come home with us. Play eel? Oh yes, I understand. I shall be happy, most happy. John offered her his arm With an air of grave deference. Mrs. Halifax supported her On the other side. Without more ado, They put her in the carriage And drove home, Leaving Maud in my charge And leaving astounded Norton Berry To think and say exactly what it pleased. End of Chapter 37, Recording by Michelle Harris. Chapter 38 of John Halifax, Gentleman. 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 Michelle Harris. John Halifax, Gentleman, By Dinah Craig. Chapter 38. For nearly three years, Lady Caroline lived in our house. If that miserable existence of hers Could be called living, Bedridden, fallen into second childhood. Pleased with a rattle, Tickled with a straw. Oblivious to both past and present, Recognizing none of us And taking no notice of anybody, Except now and then Of Edwin's little daughter, Baby Louise. We knew that all our neighbors talked us over, Making far more than a nine days wonder Of the very extraordinary conduct Of Mr. and Mrs. Halifax. That even good Lady Old Tower Hesitated a little before she suffered Her tribe of fair daughters To visit under the same roof Where lay, quite out of the way, That poor wreck of womanhood Which would hardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time The gossip ceased of itself. And when, one summer day, A small, decent funeral Moved out of our garden gate To Enderly Churchyard, All the comment was, Oh, is she dead? What a relief it must be. How very kind of Mr. and Mrs. Halifax. Yes, she was dead And had made no sign Either of repentance, Grief, or gratitude. Unless one could consider Women's lightning before death Which Maude declared she saw in her. Maude, who had tended her With a devotedness Which neither father nor mother forbade. Believing that a woman Cannot too soon learn Womanhood's best mission. Usefulness, tenderness, and charity. Mrs. Halifax was certain That a few minutes before the last minute She saw a gleam of sense In the filmy eyes And stooping down Had caught some feeble murmur About William, poor William. She did not tell me this She spoke of it to no one But her mother, and to her briefly. So the wretched life Once beautiful and loveful Was now ended Or perhaps born in some new sphere To begin again its struggle After the highest beauty The only perfect love. What are we To the mercy of the Lord And giver of life Unto whom all life returns. We buried her and left her Poor Lady Caroline. No one interfered with us And we appealed to no one. In truth there was no one Unto whom we could appeal. Lord Luxmore, immediately After his father's funeral Had disappeared with her No one knew except his solicitor Who treated with And entirely satisfied The host of creditors And into whose hands The sole debtor, John Halifax Paid his yearly rent. Therewith he wrote several Times to Lord Luxmore But the letters were simply Acknowledged through the lawyer Never answered. Whether in any of them John alluded to Lady Caroline I do not know But I rather think not Of her afflicted pain. No doubt her brother Had long since believed her dead As we in the world had done. In that same world One man, even a nobleman Is of little account. Lord Ravenel sank In its wide waste of waters And they closed over him. Whether he were drowned Or saved was of small Moment to anyone. He was soon forgotten Everywhere except at Beachwood And sometimes it seemed As if he were even forgotten there Save that in our family We found it hard to learn This easy, convenient habit To forget. Hard, though seven years Had passed since we saw Guy's merry face To avoid missing it keenly still The mother, as her years crept on Oftentimes weiried for him With a yearning that could The father, as Edwin became engrossed In his own affairs And Walter's undecided temperament Kept him a boy long after boyhood Often seemed to look round vaguely For an eldest son's young strength To lean upon Often said anxiously I wish Guy were at home Yet still there was no hint Of his coming Better he never came at all Than came against his will To meet the least pain The shadow of disgrace And he was contented And prosperous in the western world Leading an active and useful life Earning an honorable name He had taken a partner He told us There was real friendship between them And they were doing well Perhaps might make In a few years One of those rapid fortunes Which clever men of business Do make in America He was also eager and earnest Upon other and higher cares Than mere business Entered warmly into his father's sympathy About many political measures Now occupying men's minds A great number of comparative facts Concerning the factory children In England and America A mass of evidence used By Mr. Fowle Buxton In his arguments for the abolition Of slavery And many other things Originated in the impulsive activity Now settled into mature manly energy Of Mr. Guy Halifax Of Boston U.S. Our Guy The lad is making a stir In the world Said his father one day When we had read his last letter I shall not wonder If when he comes home A deputation from his native Nortonberry were to appear Requesting him to accept The honor of representing them In Parliament He would suit them At least as regards the canvassing And the ladies A great deal better than his old father A love Mrs. Halifax smiled Rather unwillingly For her husband referred To a subject which had cost Her some pain at the time After the reform bill passed Who had long desired that One of John's high character Practical knowledge And influence in the town Should be its MP And were aware that his soul Objection to entering the house Was the said question of reform Urged him very earnestly To stand for Nortonberry To everybody's surprise And none more than our own He refused Publicly he assigned no reason For this except his conviction That he could not discharge As he ought And as he would once have done Duties which he held so sacred And indispensable His letter, brief and simple Thanking his good neighbors And wishing them A younger and worthier member Might be found in some old file Of the Nortonberry Herald still Even the Nortonberry Mercury In reprinting it Commented on its touching Honesty and brevity And concluding his political Career was ended with it Condescended to bestow on Mr. Halifax The usual obituary line We could have better spared A better man When his family And even his wife reasoned With him The inter-parliament had long been His thought, nay, his desire And perhaps herself taking a natural Pride in the idea of seeing MP MP of a new and unbrived House of Commons After his well-beloved name To us and to her he gave No clearer motive for his refusal Than to the electors of Nortonberry But you are not old, John I argued with him one day You possess to the full Men's sana in corpore sano No man can be more fitted Than yourself to serve his country As you used to say it might be served And you yourself might serve it After reform was gained He smiled and jocularly thanked me For my good opinion Nay, such service is almost your duty You yourself once thought so too Why have you changed your mind? I have not changed my mind But circumstances have changed my actions As for duty, duty begins at home Believe me, I have thought well over the subject Brother, we will not refer to it again I saw that something in the matter Pained him and obeyed his wish Even when, a few days after Perhaps as some compensation For the mother's disappointment He gave this hint of guys taking his place And entering Parliament in his room For anyone, nay his own son To take John's place To stand in John's room Was not a pleasant thought Even in jest We let it pass by unanswered And John himself did not recur to it Thus time went on, placidly enough The father and mother Changed into grandfather and grandmother And little mod into anti-mod She bore her new honors And fulfilled her new duties With great delight and success She had altered much of late years At twenty was as old as many A woman of thirty In all the advantages of age She was sensible, active Resolute and wise Sometimes thoughtful Or troubled with fits of what In any less wholesome temperament Would have been melancholy But as it was Her humors only betrayed themselves In some slight restlessness Or irritability Easily soothed by a few tender words Or a rush out to Edwin's And a peaceful coming back To that happy home Whose principal happiness She knew that she, the only daughter, She more than once had Unexceptionable chances of quitting it For Miss Halifax possessed Plenty of attractions Both outwardly and inwardly To say nothing of her Not inconsiderable fortune But she refused all offers And to the best of our knowledge Was a free-hearted damsel still Her father and mother Seemed rather glad of this Than otherwise They would not have denied her Any happiness she wished for Still, it was evidently A relief to them That she was slow in choosing it Slow in quitting their arms of love To risk a love untried Sometimes such is the weakness Of parental humanity I verily believe They looked forward with complacency To the possibility of her Remaining always Miss Halifax I remember one day When Lady Oldtower was suggesting Half jest, half earnest Better any marriage Than no marriage at all Maud's father replied Very seriously Better no marriage Than any marriage That is less than the best How do you mean? I believe, he said, smiling, That somewhere in the world Every man has his right wife Every woman her right husband If my Maud's come He shall have her If not, I shall be well content To see her a happy old maid Thus after many storms Came this lull in our lives A season of busy yet monotonous calm I have heard say That peace itself, to be perfect Aught to be monotonous We had enough of it To satisfy our daily need We looked forward to more of it In time to come When guys should be at home When we should see Safely secured The futures of all the children And for ourselves A green old age Journeying in long serenity away A time of heavenly calm Which as I look back upon it Grows heavenlier still Soft summer days And autumn afternoons Spent under the beech wood Or on the flat Quiet winter evenings All to ourselves Maud and her mother working Walter drawing The father sitting with his back To the lamp Its light making a radiance Over his brow and white bald crown And as it thrilled Through the curls behind Restoring somewhat of the youthful color To his fading hair Nay, the old youthful ring of his voice I caught at times When he found something funny In his book and read it out loud to us Or laying it down Sat talking as he liked to talk About things speculative, Philosophical, or poetical Things which he had necessarily Let slip in the hurry and press Of his business life In the birthing and heat of the day But which now, As the cool shadows of evening Were drawing on Assumed a beauty and a nearness And were again caught up by him Precious as the dreams of his youth Happy, happy time Sunshine summer Peaceful winter We marked neither as they passed But now we hold both In a sacredness inexpressible A foretaste of that land Where there is neither summer nor winter Neither days nor years The first break in our repose Came early in the new year There had been no Christmas letter From Guy, and he never once In all his wanderings Had missed riding home at Christmastime When the usual monthly mail came in And no word from him A second month And yet nothing We began to wonder about his omission Less openly To cease scolding him for his carelessness Though over and over again We still eagerly brought up instances Of the latter Guy is such a thoughtless boy About his correspondence Gradually as his mother's cheek Grew paler And his father more anxious eyed More compulsorily cheerful We gave up discussing publicly The many excellent reasons Why no letters should come from Guy We had written, as usual, by every mail By the last, by the March mail I saw that in addition to the usual packet For Mr. Guy Halifax, his father Taking another precautionary measure Had written in business form To Monsieur's Guy Halifax & Company Guy had always, just like his carelessness Omitted to give the name Of his partner But addressed thus In case of any sudden journey Or illness of Guy's The partner, whoever he was Would be sure to write In May, nay it was on May day I remember, for we were down In the mill meadows with Louise And her little ones going amaying There came in the American mail It brought a large packet All our letters of this year Were sent back again Directed in a strange hand To John Halifax Esquire Beachwood With the annotation By Mr. Guy Halifax's desire Among the rest, though the sickening Side of them had blinded Even his mother at first So that her eye did not catch it Was one that explained Most satisfactorily explained We said, the reason They were thus returned It was a few lines from Guy himself Stating that unexpected good fortune Had made him determined To come home at once If circumstances thwarted this intention He would write without fail Otherwise he should most likely Sail by an American merchant man The stars and stripes Then he is coming home On his way home And the mother With one shaking hand She held fast the letter With the other studied herself By the rail of John's desk I guess now why he had ordered All the letters to be brought first To his counting house When do you think we shall see Guy? At thought of that happy sight Her bravery broke down She wept heartily and long John sat still Leaning over the front of his desk And his sigh, deep and glad One could tell what a load Was lifted off the father's heart At the prospect of his son's return The liners are only a month in sailing But this is a bark most likely Which takes longer time Love, show me the date Of the boy's letter She looked for it herself It was in January The sudden fall From certainty to uncertainty The wild clutch at that Which hardly seemed a real joy Until seen fading down To a mere hope, a chance, a possibility Who has not known all this? I remember how we all stood Mute and panic struck In the dark little counting house I remember seeing Louise With her children in the doorway Trying to hush their laughing And whispering to them Something about poor Uncle Guy John was the first to grasp The unspoken dread And show that it was less Than at first appeared We ought to have had this letter Two months ago This shows how often delays occur We ought not to be surprised Or uneasy at anything Guy does not say When the ship was to sail She may be on her voyage still If he had but given the name Of her owners But I can write to Lloyds And find out everything Cheer up, mother Please, God, you shall have That wandering, heedless boy Of yours back before long He replaced the letters In their enclosure Held a general consultation Into which he threw a passing Gleam of faint gaiety Had a right to burn them Or whether having passed Through the post office There were not the writers But the owner's property And Guy could claim them With all their useless news On his arrival in England This was finally decided And the mother, with faint smile Declared that nobody should touch them She would put them under lock and key Till Guy came home Then she took her husband's arm And the rest of us followed them As they walked slowly up the hill To Beechwood But after that day Mrs. Halifax's strength decayed Not suddenly, scarcely perceptibly Not with any outward complaint Except what she gested over as The natural weakness of old age But there was an evident change Week by week her long walks shortened She gave up her village school To me And though she went about the house Still insisted on keeping the keys Gradually, just for the sake of practice The domestic surveillance fell Into the hands of Maude An answer arrived from Lloyd's The stars and stripes Was an American vessel Probably of small tonnage And importance Was the underwriters knew nothing of it More delay, more suspense The summer days came But not Guy No news of him Not a word, not a line His father wrote to America Pursuing inquiries in all directions At last some tangible clue Was caught The stars and stripes had sailed Had been spoken with About the windward aisles And never heard of afterwards Still there was a hope John told the hope first Before he ventured to speak Of the missing ship And even then had to break The news gently For the mother had grown frail And weak And could not bear things As she used to do She clung as if they had been Words of life or death But they had no recollection Of the name of Halifax There might have been Such a gentleman on board They could not say But it was not probable For the stars and stripes Was a trading vessel And had not good accommodation For passengers Then came week after week I know not how they went by One never does afterwards At the time they were Frightfully vivid As they rose each morning Sure that some hope would come In the course of the day We went to bed at night Heavily as if there were No such thing as hope in the world Gradually, and I think That was the worst consciousness Of all, our life of suspense Became perfectly natural And everything in and about The house went on as usual Just as though we knew quite well What the Almighty Father Alone knew Where our poor lad was And what had become of him Or rather as if we had settled In the certainty Which perhaps the end Of our own lives alone Would bring us That he had slipped out of life altogether And there was no such being As Guy Halifax Under this pitiless sun The mother's heart was breaking She made no moan But we saw it in her face And it was the morning After John's birthday Which we had made a faint of keeping With Grace Oldtower The two little grandchildren Edwin and Louise She was absent at breakfast and dinner She had not slept well And was too tired to rise Many days following It happened the same With the same faint excuse Or with no excuse at all How we missed her about the house A. changed as she had been How her husband wandered about Ghostlike from room to room Could not rest anywhere Or do anything Finally he left our company altogether And during the hours That he was at home Rarely quitted for more than a few minutes The quiet bed chamber Where every time his foot entered it The poor pale face Looked up and smiled A. smiled For I noticed, as many another May have done in similar cases That when her physical health Definitely gave way Her mental health returned The heavy birthing was lighter She grew more cheerful More patient Seemed to submit herself To the almighty will Whatever it might be As she lay on her sofa in the study Where one or two evenings John carried her down Almost as easily as He used to carry little Muriel His wife would rest content With her hand in his Listening to his reading Or quietly looking at him As though her lost son's face Which a few weeks since She said haunted her continually Were now forgotten In his father's Perhaps she thought the one She should soon see While the other Was in the house She whispered one day When I was putting a shawl Over her feet Or doing some other trifle That she thanked me for Phineas If anything happens to me You will comfort John Then first I began seriously To contemplate a possibility Hitherto as impossible And undreamed of Is that the moon should Drop out of the height of heaven Her children never suspected this I saw, but they were young For her husband I could not understand John He, so quick-sighted He, who meeting any sorrow Looked steadily up at the hand That smote him Knowing neither the coward's Dread nor the unbeliever's Disguise of pain Surely he must see What was impending Calm as if he saw it not Calm as no man could be Contemplating the supreme parting Between two who nearly all their lives Had been not two but one flesh Yet I had once heard him say That a great love And only that Makes parting easy Could it be that this love of his Which had clasped his wife So firmly, faithfully, and long Fearlessly clasped her still By its own perfectness Assured of its immortality But all the while His human love clung about her Showing itself in a thousand forms Of watchful tenderness And hers clung to him Closely, dependently She let herself be taken care of Ruled and guided As if with him She found helplessness restful And submission sweet Many a little outward fondness That when people have been long married Naturally drops into disuse Was revived again He would bring her flowers Out of the garden Or new books from the town And many a time When no one noticed I have seen him stoop And press his lips upon the faded hand Where the wedding ring Hung so loosely His own for so many years His own till the dust claimed it That well-beloved hand A. He was right Loss, affliction, death itself Are powerless in the presence Of such a love as theirs It was already the middle of July From January to July Six months Our neighbors without And there were many who felt for us And asked now Is there any news of Mr. Guy? Even pretty Grace Oldtower Pretty still but youthful no longer Only lifted her eyes inquiringly As she crossed our doorway And dropped them again With a hopeless sigh She had loved us all Faithfully and well For a great many years One night when Miss Oldtower Had just gone home after staying For a day Maude and I sat in the study By ourselves Where we generally sat now The father spent all his evenings Upstairs We could hear his step overhead As he crossed the room Or opened the window Then drew his chair back To its constant place By his wife's bedside Sometimes there was a faint murmur Of reading or talk Then long silence And silence too She had her own thoughts I mine Perhaps they were often one And the same Perhaps, for youth is youth After all, they may have diverged Widely Hers were deep, absorbed thoughts At any rate Traveling fast Fast as her needle traveled For she had imperceptibly Fallen into her mother's ways And her mother's work But the windows were wide open And through the sultry summer night We could hear the trickle of the stream And the rustle of the leaves In the beech wood We sat very still Waiting for nothing Expecting nothing In the dull patience Which always fell upon us About this hour The hour before bedtime When nothing more was to be looked for But how best to meet another dreary day Maude, was that the click Of the front gate swinging? No, I told Walter to lock it Before he went to bed Last night it disturbed my mother Again, silence So deep that the maids Opening the door made us both start Miss Halifax, there's a gentleman Wanting to see Miss Halifax Maude sprung up in her chair Breathless Anyone you know, is it? No, Miss Show the gentleman in He stood already in the doorway Tall, brown, bearded Maude just glanced at him Then rose, bending stiffly After the manner of Miss Halifax Of beech wood Will you be seated, my father? Maude, don't you know me? Where's my mother? I am Guy End of Chapter 38 Being by Michelle Harris