 CHAPTER 12 The next day, John drove away earlier, even then was his want, I thought. He stayed but a little while, talking with me. While Mrs. Todd was bustling over our breakfast, he asked her, in a grave and unconcerned manner, how Mr. March was this morning, which was the only allusion he made to the previous night's occurrences. I had a long quiet day alone in the beechwood, close below our cottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to a thread with the summer weather, but singing still. It talked to me like a living thing. When I came home in the evening, Mrs. March stood in front of the cottage with, strange to say, her father. But I had heard that his paroxysms were often of brief continuance, and that, like most confirmed valedudinarians, when real danger stared him in the face, he put it from him and was glad to be well. Seeing me coming, Mrs. March whispered to him. He turned upon me a listless gaze from over his fur collar and bowed languidly, without rising from his easy chair. Yes, it was Mr. March, the very Mr. March we had met. I knew him, changed though he was, but he did not know me in the least, as, indeed, was not likely. His daughter came a step or two to meet me. You are better, I see, Mr. Fletcher. Andrew Lee is a most healthy place, as I tried to persuade my father. This is Mr. Fletcher, sir, the gentleman who was so obliging as to write to S. Blank last night for me. Allow me to thank him myself. I began to disclaim and Mrs. March to explain, but we must both have been slightly incoherent, for I think the poor gentleman was never quite clear as to who it was that went for Dr. Brown. However, that mattered little, as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more by a natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of service rendered. I am a very great invalid, sir. My dear, will you explain to the gentleman? And he leaned his head back, rearly. My father has never recovered his ten years residence in the West Indies. Residence? Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was governor of. Oh, yes, the climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher, but since he has been in England, five years only, he has been very much better. I hope he will be quite well in time. Mr. March took his head rearly. Poor man, the world of existence to him seemed to have melted lazily down into a mere nebula of which the forlorn nucleus was himself. What a life for any young creature, even his own daughter, to be bound to continually. I could not help remarking the strong contrast between them. He, with his shallow, delicately shaped features, the thin mouth and long straight nose of that form I have heard called the melancholy nose, which usually indicates a feeble, pensive and hippocondriac temperament, while his daughter, but I have described her already. Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, father, she said, so gently that I could feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity, and took gratefully a seat she gave me beside that of Mr. March. She seemed inclined to talk to me, and her manner was perfectly easy, friendly and kind. We spoke of commonplace subjects near a tanned and of the West Indian island, which its late governor was apparently by no means inclined to forget. I asked Ms. March whether she had liked it. I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind in Wales, poor mama's country. Were you ever in Wales? I like it so. Indeed, I feel as if I belonged all together to the mountains. And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the free mountain spirit, a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply outlined, but that would soften with time, and was better and wholesomer than any tame green level of soft perfection. At least one inclined to think so, looking at her. I liked Ms. March very much, and was glad of it. In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he hung crustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and asked if she could lend me any books to read. I must find the days long and dull without my friend. I assented with thanks, and shortly afterwards she brought me an armful of literature, enough to have caused any young damsel to have been dubbed a blue in those matter of fact days. I have no time to study much myself, said she in answer to my questions, but I like those who do. Now, good evening, for I must run. You and your friends can have any books of ours, you must not think, and she turned back to tell me this, that because my father said little, he and I are not deeply grateful for the kindness Mr. Halifax showed us last night. It was a pleasure to John, it always is, to do a kind office for anyone. I well believed that, Mr. Fletcher, and she left me. When John came home, I informed him of what had passed. He listened, though he made no comment whatever. But all the evening, he sat turning over Miss March's books, and reading either aloud or to himself, fragments out of one, which I had expected he would have scouted in as much as it was modern, not classical poetry. In fact, a collection of lyrical ballads brought out that year by a young man named Mr. William Wordsworth, and some anonymous friend, conjointly. I had opened it and found there in great nonsense, but John had better luck. He hid upon a short poem called Love by the Anonymous Friend, which he read, and I listened to, almost as if it had been Shakespeare. It was about a girl named Genevieve, a little simple story. Everybody knows it now, but it was like a strange, low, mystic music, luring the very heart out of one's bosom to us young visionaries then. I wonder if Miss March knew the harm she did, and the mischiefs that has been done among young people in all ages, since Caxton's days, by the lending books, especially books of poetry. The next day, John was in a curious mood, dreamy, lazy, mild. He sat pouring indoors, instead of roaming abroad. In truth, was a changed lad. I told him so, and laid it all to the blame of the anonymous friend, who held him in such fascinated thrall, that he only looked up once all the morning, which was when Mr. and Miss March went by. In the afternoon he submitted, lamb-like, to be led down to the beachwood, that the wonderful talking stream might hold forth to him as it did to me. But it could not. Ah, no, it could not. Our lives, though so close, were yet as distinct as the musical living water, and the motionless grey rock beside which it ran. The one swept joyfully on to its appointed course, the other was what heaven made it, abode where heaven placed it, and likewise fulfilled its end. Coming back out of the little wood, I took John a new way I had discovered through the prettiest undulating meadow, half-field, half-orchard, where trees loaded with ripening cider apples and green crabs made a variety among the natural foresters. Under one of these, as we climbed the slope, for field, beachwood, and common formed a gradual ascent, we saw a vacant table laid. A pretty piece of rusticity, domestic Arcadia on a small scale, said John, I should like to invite myself to tea with them. Who can they be? Probably visitors, resident country folks, like their meals best under a decent roof tree, I should not wonder if this were not one of Mr. March's vagaries. Don't say vagaries, he's an old man. Don't be reproachful, I shall say not against him. Indeed, I have no opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the house. Sure enough, they were, with March helping her father across the uneven bit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely at that gate we all four met. Tis useless to escape them, whispered I to John. I do not wish. Why should I? he answered, and held the gate open for the father and daughter to go through. She looked up in a clandestine smiling. I thought that smile and his, courteous but far less frank, response to it, would have been all the greeting. But no, Mr. March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened up. He stopped. Mr. Halifax, I believe. John Burd. They stood a moment looking at one another, the tall stalwart young man so graceful and free in bearing, and the old man, languid, sickly, prematurely broken down. Sir, said the elder, and in his fixed gaze, I fancied I detected something more than curiosity, something of the lingering pensiveness with which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John as if the lad reminded him of someone he knew. Sir, I have to thank you. Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are better today. Mr. March assented, but John's countenance apparently interested him so much that he forgot his usual complainings. My daughter tells me you are our neighbours. I am happy to have such friendly ones. My dear, in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, I think your poor brother Walter would have grown up extremely like Mr. Halifax. We are going to take tea under the trees there, my daughter's suggestion. She is so fond of rurality. Will you give us a pleasure of your company? You and... Here, I must confess, the second invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's, your friend. Of course we assented. I considerably amused and not elplaced to see how naturally it fell out that when John appeared in the scene, I, Phineas, subsided into the secondary character of John's friend. Very soon, so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure out of the Arabian Knights, we found ourselves established under the apple tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into red chestnut colour the hair of the nut-brown maid. As she sat, bare-headed, pouring into small white china cups a dainty luxury, tea. She had on, not the grey-brown, but a white one, worked in delicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky white roses that grew in such clusters about her parlor window, nestled, almost as if they were still growing, nerf hair made in bosom. She apologized for little jacks having stolen them from our domains for her, lucky jack, and received some brief and rather incoherent answer from John about being quite welcome. He sat opposite her, I, by her side, she had placed me there. It struck me as strange that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind to me than to him. Also I noted that while she chatted gaily with me, John almost entirely confined his talk to her father. But the young lady listened, ay, undoubtedly she listened, to every word that was said. I did not wonder at it, when his tongue was once unloosed, few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not that he was one of your showy conversationalists, language was with him neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for thought. The garb always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his ideas were clothed. His conversation was never verisome, since he only spoke when he had something to say, and having said it in the most concise and appropriate manner, that suggested itself at the time, he was silent, and silence is a great and rare virtue at twenty years of age. We talked a good deal about Wales. John had been there more than once in his journeyings, and this fact seemed to warm Miss March's manner, rather shy and reserved, though it was, at least to him. She told us many an innocent tale of her life there, of her childish days, and of her dear old governess, whose name, I remember, was Cardigan. She seemed to have grown up solely under that lady's charge. It was not difficult to guess, though I forget whether she distinctly told us so, that poor Mama had died so early as to become a mere name to her orphan daughter. She evidently owed everything she was to this good governess. My dear, at last said Mr. March, rather testily, you make rather too much of our excellent Jane Cardigan. She is going to be married, and she will not care for you now. Hush, Papa, that is a secret at present. Pray, Mr. Halifax, do you know Nortonberry? The abruptness of the question startled John, so that he only answered in a hurried affirmative. Indeed, Mr. March left him no time for further explanation. I hate the place. My late wife's cousins, the Brithwards of the Mithe, with whom I have had, ahem, strong political differences, lived there, and I was once nearly drowned in the severance close by. Papa, don't speak of that, please, said Miss March hurriedly. So hurriedly that I am sure she did not notice what would otherwise have been plain enough. John's sudden and violent color. But the flush died down again. He never spoke a word. And, of course, acting on his evident desire, neither did I. For my part, continued the young lady, I have no dislike to Nortonberry. Indeed, I rather admired the place if I remember right. You have been there? Though it was a simplest question, John's sudden look at her and the soft inflection of his voice struck me as peculiar. Once, when I was about twelve years old, but we will talk of something Papa likes better. I am sure Papa enjoys this lovely evening. Hark! How the doves are cooing in the beechwood. I asked her if she had ever been in the beechwood. No, she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries, the fern glades, the wood-bind tangles, and the stream, that, if you listened attentively, you could hear faintly gurgling, even where we sat. I did not know there was a stream so near. I have generally taken my walks across a flat, said Miss March, smiling, and then blushing it, having done so, though it was a faintest blush imaginable. Neither of us made any reply. Mr. March settled himself to laziness and his armchair. The conversation fell to the three younger persons, I may say the two, for I also seceded, and left John, master of the field. It was enough for me to sit listening to him and Miss March, as they gradually became more friendly. A circumstance natural enough, under the influence of that simple, solitary place, where all the pretenses of etiquette seemed naturally to drop away, leaving nothing but the forms dictated and preserved by true manliness and true womanliness. How young both looked, how happy, in their frank, free youth, with the sun rays slanting down upon them, making a glory round either head. And, as glory often does, dazzling painfully. Will you change seats with me, Miss March? The sun will not reach your eyes here. She declined, refusing to punish anyone for her convenience. It would not be punishment, said John, so gravely that one did not recognize it for a pretty speech till it had passed and went on with their conversation. In the course of it, he managed so carefully, and at the same time so carelessly, to interpose his broad hat between the sun and her, that the fiery old king went down in splendor before she noticed that she had been thus guarded and sheltered. Though she did not speak, why should she, of such a little thing? Yet it was one of those little things which often touch a woman more than any words. Miss March Rose, I should greatly like to hear your stream and its wonderful singing. John Halifax had been telling how it held forth to me during my long, lonely days. I wonder what it would say to me. Can we hear it from the bottom of this field? Not clearly. We had better go into the wood, for I knew John would like that, though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal by a single word. Miss March was more single-minded or else had no reason for being the contrary. She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness. Papa, you wouldn't miss me. I shall not be away five minutes. Then, Mr. Fletcher, will you go with me? And I will stay beside Mr. March, so that he will not be left alone," said John, reseating himself. What did the lad do that for? Why did he sit watching us so intently as I led Miss March down the meadow and into the wood? It passed my comprehension. The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in perfect simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesitation. Even as the women I have known have treated me all my life, showing me that sisterly trust and sisterly kindness which I have compensated in a measure for the solitary fate which it pleased heaven to lay upon me, which in any case conscience would have forced me to lay upon myself that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister. Yet I watched her with pleasure, this young girl, as she tripped on before me, noticing everything, enjoying everything. She talked to me a good deal too about myself in her kindly way, asking what I did all day, and if I were not rather dull sometimes in this solitary country lodging. I'm dull occasionally myself, or should be, if I had time to think about it, this hard to be an only child. I told her I had never found it so. But then you have your friend. Has Mr. Halifax any brother is her sister's? None, no relatives living. Ah, a compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a woodbine spray and began twisting it with those never quite fingers of hers. You and he seem to be great friends. John is a brother, friend, everything in the world to me. Is he? He must be very good. Indeed, he looks so, observed Miss March thoughtfully, and I believe at least I have often heard that good men are rare. I had no time to enter into that momentous question, when the origin of it himself appeared, breaking through the bushes to join us. He apologized for so doing, saying Mr. March had sent him. You surely do not mean that you come upon compulsion, what an ill compliment to this lovely wood, and the eyes of the nut-brown maid were a little mischievous. John looked pretty naturally grave, as he said, I trust you do not object to my coming. She smiled so merrily that a slight hotness evaporated like mist before the sunbeams. I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bushes, for I heard my own name. What terrible revelations has this friend of mine been making to you, Miss March? He spoke gaily, but I fancied he looked uneasy. The young lady only laughed. I have a great mind not to tell you, Mr. Halifax. Not when I ask you. He spoke so seriously that she could choose but reply. Mr. Fletcher was telling me three simple facts. First, that you were an orphan without relatives. Second, that you were his dearest friend. Third, well, I never compromised truth, that you were good. And you? The first I was ignorant of. The second I had already guessed. The third, he gazed at her intently. The third I had likewise, not doubted. John made some hurried acknowledgement. He looked greatly pleased. Nay, more than pleased, happy. He walked forward, by Miss March's side, taking his natural place in the conversation, while I as naturally as willingly fell behind. But I heard all they said and joined in it now and then. Thus sometimes spoke into, and sometimes left silent, watching their two figures and idly noting their comparative heights. Her head came just above John's shoulder. I followed these young people through the quiet wood. Let me say a word about that wood, dear and familiar, as it was. It's like I have never since seen. So small, that in its darkest depths, you might catch the sunshine lighting up the branches of its outside trees. A young wood, too, composed wholly of smooth-barked beaches and sturdy scotch furs, growing up side by side, the Adam and Eve in this forest, Eden. No old folk were there, no gnarled and withered foresters. Every tree rose up, upright in its youth, and perfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking undergrowth of vegetation. Nothing but mosses, woodbine, and ferns. And between the bolts of the trees, you could trace vista after vista as between the slender pillars of a cathedral isle. John pointed at all this to Miss March, especially noticing the peculiar character of the two species of trees, the maculine and feminine, fur and beech. She smiled at the fancy, and much graceful badenage went on between them. I had never before seen John in this company of women, and I marveled to perceive the refinement of his language, and the poetic ideas it closed. I forgot the truth. Of whose saying was it, that once in his life every man becomes a poet? They stood by the little reveal-it, and he showed her how the water came from the spring above. The old wellhead, where the cattle drank, how it took its course merrily through the woods, to let the bottom of the valley below it grew into a wide stream. Small beginnings make great endings, observed Miss March, sententiously. John answered her with the happiest smile. He dipped his hollowed palm into the water and drank. She did the same. Then, in her free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a cup out of a broad leaf, which by the greatest ingenuity she managed to make contain about two teaspoonsfuls of water for the space of half a minute, and held it to my mouth. I am like Rebecca at the well. Drink, Eliza. She cried gaily. John looked on. I am very thirsty too, said he in a low voice. The young girl hesitated a moment, then filled an offer to him the Arcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper and more subtle draft than that innocent water. Both became somewhat grave, and stood, one on either side the stream, looking down upon it and letting its bubbling murmur have all the talk. What it said, I know not. I only know that it did not, could not, say to those two what it said to me. When we took leave of our acquaintances, Mr. March was extremely courteous, and declared our society would always be a pleasure to himself and his daughter. He always says so formally, my daughter, I observed, breaking the silence in which they had left us. I wonder what her Christian name is. I believe it is Ursula. How did you find that out? It is written in one of her books. Ursula, I repeated, wondering where I had heard it before. A pretty name. A very pretty name. When John fell into this echo mood, I always found it best to fall into tasternity. CHAPTER XIII Next day the rainbow down incessantly, swiping blindingly across the earth as a frilly, sine-zweep, excepted andally. The weather had apparently broken up, even thus early in the autumn, for that day and several days following, we had nothing but wind-raining storm. The sky was as dusk as Miss March's grey gown, broken sometimes in the evening by a rift of misty gold gleaming over Nannily Hill, as if to show us what September sunset might have been. John went every day to Nortonbury that week. His mind seemed restless. He was doubly kind and attentive to me, but every night I heard him walk out in all the storm to walk upon the coming. I longed to follow him, but it was best not. On the Saturday morning coming to breakfast, I heard him ask Mrs. Todd how Mr. March was. We knew the invalid had been ill in all the week, nor had we seen him or his daughter once. Mrs. Todd shook head ominously. He is very bad sir, better than ever I do think. She sits with him best part of every night. I imagine so. I have seen her light burning. Lord Mr. Halifax, you don't be walking a broad of nights on the flat? It's terrible bad for your health, cried the honest soul, who never disguised the fact that Mr. Halifax was a favorite of all her lodges, safe and except Miss March. Thank you for considering my health, he replied smiling. Only tell me, Mrs. Todd, can anything be done? Can we do anything for the poor gentleman? Nothing, sir. Thank you all the same. If you should go worse, let me go to Dr. Brown. I shall be home all day. I'll tell Mrs. March of your kindness, sir, said Mrs. Todd, as with the troubled countenance she disappeared. Were you not going to Nortonbury to date, John? I was, but as it is a matter of no moment, I have changed my mind. You have been left so much alone lately. Nay, I'll not disguise the truth. I had another reason. May I know it? Of course you may. It is about your fellow lodgers. Dr. Brown, I met him on the road this morning, told me that her father cannot live more than a few days, perhaps a few hours, and she doesn't know it. He leaned on the mental piece. I could see he was very much affected. So was I. Her relatives? Should it ought to be sent for? She has none. Dr. Brown said she once told him so. None nearer than the press-hoods of the myth. And we know what the press-hoods are. A young gentleman and his young wife, proverbially the gayest, proudest, most lighthearted of all our country families. Nay, Phineas, I will not have you trouble yourself. After all, they are mere strangers. Mere strangers. Come sit down to breakfast. But you could not eat. You could not talk for ordinary things. Every minute he fell into abstractions. It lengths his head suddenly. Phineas, I do think it's Wicket, Don Redwicket, for a doctor to be afraid of telling a patient he is going to die. More Wicket, perhaps, to keep the friends in ignorance until the last stunning blow falls. She ought to be told. She must be told. She may have many things to say to her poor father. And God help her. For such a stroke she ought to be prepared. It might kill her else. He rose up and walked about to Rome. The seal once taken from his reserve he expressed himself to me freely, as he had used to do. Perhaps because at this time his feelings required no disguise. The dreams which might have peopled the beautiful scented wood necessarily faded in an atmosphere like this, filled with the solemn gloom of impending death. At last he paused in his hurried walk, quieted, perhaps, by what he might have read in my ever-following eyes. I know you are as grieved as I am, Phineas. But what can we do? Let us forget that they are strangers, and act as one Christian ought to an other. Do you not think she ought to be told? Most decidedly they might get further advice. That would be vain. Dr. Brown says it's a hopeless case, has been for so long, but you would not believe it. Nor have I started told. He clings to life desperately. How horrible for her. You think most of her. I do, he said firmly. He is reaping what he sowed, poor man. God knows I pity him, but she is as good as an angel of heaven. It was evident that, somehow or other, John had learned a great deal about the father and daughter. However, now was not the time to question him. For at this moment through the open doors, we heard faint moans that pierced the whole house, and too surely came from the sick, possibly the dying man. Mrs. Todd had been seeing Dr. Brown through his horse, nor entered the pallor, pale with swollen eyes. Oh, Mr. Halifax, the kind soul-buster crying afresh. John may test it down and give her a glass of wine. I have been with them since four this morning, and it makes me weakly like, she said, the poor Mr. March. I didn't like him very much alive, but I do feel so sorry now he's a dying. Then he was dying. Does his daughter know, I asked? No, no, I don't dare tell her. Nobody dare. Does she not guess it? Not a bit. Poor young body. She's never seen anybody so. She fancies him no worse than he has been, and has got over it. She wouldn't think else. She'd be a good daughter to him, that she be. They all said silent, and then John said in a low voice, Mrs. Todd, she ought to be told, and you would be the best person to tell her, but the soft-hearted landlady recalled from the task. If Mr. Todd were at home now, he either is so full of wisdom learning the Greek. I think that John hastily interrupted him, that the woman would be the best. But if you object, then Dr. Brown will not be here till tomorrow, and there's no one else to perform such a trying duty, it seems, that is, I believe. Here his rather former switch failed. He ended it abruptly. If you like, I will tell her myself. Mrs. Todd overwhelmed him with his thankfulness. How shall I meet her then? If it were done by chance, it would be best. I'll manage it somehow. The house is very quiet. I've sent all the children away, except the baby. The baby will comfort her for dear, afterwards. And then again, drying her honest eyes, Mrs. Todd ran out of the room. We could do nothing at all that morning. The impending sorrow might have been our own, instead of that of people whose three weeks ago were perfect strangers. We sat and talked, less perhaps of them individually, but of the dark angel whom face to face I at least had never yet met, who even now stood at the door of our little habitation, making its various inmates feel as one family, in the presence of the great lavalier of all things. Hour by hour of that long day, the rain fell down, purring, purring, shutting us up as if it were from the world without, and obliterating every thought, safe of what was happening under our one roof. That awful change just taking place in the upper room, in the other half of the house, when the monks descended, and when Mrs. Todd came out from time to time, hiring one fully to inform Mr. Halifax, our things went on. It was nearly dusk before she told us Mr. March was asleep, that his daughter had at least been persuaded to go downstairs, and was standing drinking a cup of tea by the kitchen fire. You must go now, sir, she'll not stop five minutes. Please go. I will, he answered. But you turned frightfully pale. Phineas, don't let her see your spouse, stay without the door, if there were anybody to tell her this but me. Do you hesitate? No, no. And he went out, I did not follow him, but there had afterwards both from himself and Mrs. Todd were transpired. She was standing so absorbed that she did not notice his entrance. She looked years older and sadder than the young girl who had stood by the streamside less than a week ago. When she turned and spoke to John, it was with the men who also changed. No hesitation, no shyness. Trouble had put aside both. Thank you. My father is indeed seriously ill. I am in great trouble, you see. Though Mrs. Todd is very, very kind. Don't cry so good Mrs. Todd. I can't cry, I dare not. If I once began, I should never stop. Then how could I hurt my poor father? There now there. She laid her hand with her soft, flattering motions on the good woman's shoulder and looked up at John. He said afterwards the door's dry, tearless eyes smothered him to the heart. Why does she sob so, Mr. Halifax? Papa will be better tomorrow, I am sure. I hope so, he answered, dwelling on the word. I should always hope to the very last. The last was a quick subtle glance, and then we can only trust. Something about the mere word struck her. She examined him closely for a minute. You mean? Yes, I understand what you mean, but you are mistaken. The doctor would have told me if, if, she shivered, and left the sentence unfinished. Dr. Brown was afraid. We were all afraid, Pocky Mrs. Todd sobbing. Only Mr. Halifax, he said. Miss March turned abruptly to John. That woeful gaze of hers could be answered by no words. I believe he took her hand, but I cannot tell. One thing I can tell, for she said it to me herself afterwards, that he seemed to look down upon her like a strong, pitiful, comforting angel, a messenger sent by God. Then she broke away and flew up the stairs, drunk him in again to me and sat down. He did not speak for many minutes. After an interval, I no longer how long, we heard Mrs. Todd calling loudly for Mr. Halifax. We both ran through the empty kitchen to the foot of the stairs, that led to Mr. March's room. Mr. March's room, unless he owned nothing now, on this fleeting perishable earth of ours. He had gone from it. The spirit still inquiredly away in sleep. He belonged now to the world everlasting. Peace be to him. Whatever his life had been, he was her father. Mrs. Todd sat half way down the staircase, holding Miss March across her knees. The poor creature was insensible, and nearly so. She, we learned, had been composed under the terrible discovery made when she returned to his room. When all the restorative means failed, the fact of death became certain. She had herself closed her father's eyes and kissed him, then tried to walk from the room, but at the third step she dropped quietly down. There she lay, physical weakness conquering the strong heart. She lay, overcome at last. There was no more to bear. Had there been, I think she would have been able to have born it still. John took her in his arms. I know not if he took her, or Mrs. Todd gave her to him, but there she was. He carried her across the kitchen, into her own little pallor, and laid her down on the sofa. Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Todd kept everybody out. She is waking now. She did indeed open her eyes, with the long sight, and closed him again. Then with an effort she set up right, and looked at us all around. Oh, my dear, my dear, Mrs. Todd, clasping her, and sobbing over her like a child. Cry, do cry. I can't, she said, and lay down again. We stood out, watching the poor pale face, and every line of which was written stunned motionless, impassive grief. For John, two minutes of such a gaze is this, might an immense heart do the work of years. She must be roused, he said at last. She must cry. Mrs. Todd, take her upstairs. Let her look at her father. The word affected what he desired, what almost her life demanded. She clung around Mrs. Todd's neck, in torrents of weeping. Now Phineas, let us go away. And he went, walking almost like one blindfold, straight out of the house, I following him. End of Chapter 13, Recording by Ellie, January 2010 Chapter 14 of John Halifax Gentlemen This is a LibriVox recording. Only LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ellie, John Halifax Gentlemen, by Diner Gregg. Chapter 14 I am quite certain, Mrs. Todd, that it would be much better for her, and if she consents, it shall be so, said John decisively. This river consorting the morning after the death, on a plan which he and I had already settled between ourselves, namely, that we should leave our portion of the cottage entirely at mismatch disposal, while we inhabited hers. Save the clocked and silent chamber, for in there was no complain, no suffering now. Either John's decision or Mrs. Todd's reasoning was successful. We received a message to the affected mismatch, but not refuse our kindness. So we vacated, and all that long sunday we sat in the parlour lately our neighbours, heard the rain come down in the church bell's ring, the wind blowing autumn gales and shaking all the windows, even that of the home overhead. It sounded awful there. We were very glad our poor young orphan was away. On the Monday morning, we heard going upstairs the heavy footsteps, that everyone at some time or other had shuddered at, then the hammering. Mrs. Todd came in and told us that no one, even his daughter, could be allowed to look at what had been poor Mr. Marge any more. All with him was ended. The funeral is to be soon, and wonder what she will do then. Poor thing! John made no answer. Is she left well provided for, do you think? It is impossible to say. His answers were tossing brief enough, but they could not help talking about the poor young creature, and wondering if she had any relative or friend to come to her in this sad time. She said, do you remember when she was crying, that she had not a friend in the wide world? And this fact, which she expressed with a sort of triumph, seemed to have fought the greatest possible comfort to John. But all our speculations were set at the rest by her request, brought this moment to Mrs. Todd. That Mr. Halifax will go with her to speak to Mrs. Marge. I, only I, said John's starting. Only you, sir. She wants somebody to speak about the funeral. And I said, there be Mr. Halifax, Mrs. Marge, the kindest gentleman. And she said, if it wouldn't trouble him to come. Tell her I'm coming. When after some time he returned, he was very serious. Wait a minute, Phineas, and you shall hear. I feel confused, Radha. It is so strange her trusting me thus. I wish I could help her more. Then he told me all that had passed. How he and Mrs. Todd had jointly arranged the hasty funeral. How brave and composed she had been. The poor child, all alone. Has she indeed no one to help her? No one. She might send for Mr. Brisswood. But he was not friendly with her father. She said she had rather asked this kindness of me, because her father had liked me, and so they resembled the Walter who died. Poor Mr. Marge, perhaps he is his Walter now. But John, can you do all that is necessary for her? You are very young. She does not seem to feel dead. She treats me as if a very man of Fatty. Do I look so old and grave, Phineas? Sometimes, in the part of the funeral? It will be very simple. She is determined to go herself. She wishes to have no one besides Mr. Todd, you and me. Where is he to be buried? In the little church yet close by, which you and I have looked at many a time. Ah, Phineas, we did not think her soon, we should be laying our dead there. Not our dead, thank God. But the next minute I understood, our dead. The involuntary admission of that soul-feeling, which makes one, a wildest range, I say to, a think of an other. All thine are mine, and mine are thine, henceforward and forever. The watch John assisted by the fire. His thoughtful pro informs it lips contradicting the usefulness of his looks. Few is where his ears he had learned much in them. He was a hard man, ready and able to design and carry out the man's work in the world. And in his old aspect was such grieve purity, such honest trust that no wonder, young as the both were, and as little as she knew him, this poor orphan should not have feared to trust him entirely. There is nothing that binds hard to heart, of lovers or friends, so quickly and so safely, as to trust him betrusted in time of trouble. Did she tell you any more, John? Anything of his circumstances? No, but from something Mrs. Toddlet followed fear, and he vainly tried to disguise his extreme satisfaction, that she will be left with little or nothing. Poor Miss March. Why call her poor? She is not the woman who pitied, but to be honoured. You would have thought so had you seen her this morning, so gentle, so wise, so brave, thin-years, and I could see his lips tremble. That was the kind of woman Solomon meant when he said, her price was above rubies. I think so, too. I doubt not that when she married Ursula March would be a crown to her husband. My words, or the half-sided accompany them, I could not help it, seemed to startle John, but he made no remark, nor did he recur to the subject again that day. Two days after, our little company followed the coffin out of the woodland porch, where we had last said goodbye to poor Mr. March, across the few yards of common to the church yet, scarcely larger than the cottage garden were, at long intervals, the few elderly dead were laid. A small procession, the daughter first, supported by good Mrs. Todd, the John Halifax and I. So we buried him, the stranger who, at this time in henceforth, seemed even as John had expressed it, our dead, our own. We followed the orphan home. She had walked firmly and stood by the grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her face. But when we came back to the rose-cotted store, she gave a quick, startled glance up at the familiar window. We saw Mrs. Todd take her and resisting into her motherly arms, then we knew how it would be. Come away, said John in a smothered voice, and we came away. All the day we sat in our parlour, Mr. March's parlour that had been, where, through no longer dark encasement, the unwanted sun put in. We tried to settle to our ordinary ways, and feel as if this were like all other days, our old sunshiney days at Enderley. But it would not do. Some imperceptible but great change had taken place. It seemed a year since the Sunday afternoon, and we were drinking tea so merrily under the apple tree in the field. We heard no more from Mrs. March that day. The next we received a message of thanks for our kindness. She had given way at last, Mrs. Todd said, and kept her chamber, not seriously ill, but in spirit sorely broken down. For three days more, when, even to meet John returning from Northenbury, I could see that his first glance as he rode up between the chestnut trees was to the window of the room that had been mine. I always told him without his asking whatever Mrs. Todd had told me about her state. He used to listen, generally in silence, and then, speaking of something else, he hardly ever mentioned Miss March's name. On the first morning I happened to ask him if he had told my father what had occurred here. No, I looked surprised. Did you wish me to tell him? I will, if you like, Phineas. Oh no, he takes little interest in strangers. Soon after, as he lingered about the parlour, John said, probably I may be late tonight. After business hour I want to have a little talk with your father. He stood irresolutely by the fire, and knew by his countenance that there was something on his mind. David, are you late? Will you not tell me first what you want to say to my father? I can't stay now, tonight perhaps, but what is there to be told? Nothing. Anything that concerns you can never be to me quite nothing. I noted, he said affectionately, and went out of the room. When he came in he looked much more cheerful. So, switching his riding whip off to the old habit, and called upon me to admire his favourite brown mirror. I do, and I master likewise. John, when you are on horseback, you look like a young knight of the Middle Ages. Maybe some of the old Norman blood was in Guy Halifax's gentleman. It was a dangerous illusion. He changed colours so rapidly and violently, that they saw that I'd angered him. No, that would not matter. Cannot, cannot, never shall. I am what God made me, and what, with his blessing, I will make myself. He said no more, and very soon afterwards he rode away. But not before, as every day I had noticed, the twistful wandering clans up at the darkened window of the room, where sat in the loon, safe for kindly Mrs. Todd, the young orphan lay. In the evening, just before bedtime, he said to me with a rather sad smile. Finneers, you wanted to know what it was that I wished to speak about to your father? Hey, do tell me. It is hardly worth telling, only to ask him how he set up in business for himself. He was, I believe, a little older than I am now. Just twenty-one. And I shall be twenty-one next June. Are you thinking of setting up for yourself? A likely matter, and he laughed rather bitterly. I thought, when every trade requires capital, and the only trade I sorely understand, a very large one. No, no Finneers. You will not see me setting up a rival ten yard next year, my capital is nil. Accept use, haste, courage, honor, honesty, and a few other such trifles. None of which I can coin into money, however, and your father has expressly told me that without money a tenor can do nothing. Unless it was his own case, he was taken into some partnership, where his services were so valuable as to be received instead of capital. True, my father earned little at first, scarcely more than you earn now, but he managed truly respectable, and in course of time to marry. I avoided looking at John as I said the last word. He made no answer, but in a little time he came and leaned over my chair. Finneers, your vice-counselor, a brother born for adversity, I have been vexing myself a good deal about my future, but now I will take heart, perhaps someday neither you nor anyone else will be ashamed of me. No one could, even now, sing as you really are. Is John Halifax, that is the tenor's apprentice boy, or lad? There the gold sticks. Here I forget everything unpleasant. I am my own free-natured self, but the minute I get back to Nortonbury, however it is a wrong, evicted feeling, it must be kept down. Let us talk of something else. Of mismatch, she has been greatly better all day. She? No, not her tonight, he said hardly. Pa, I could almost fancy the odor of these hides on my hand still. Give me a candle. He went upstairs and only came down a few minutes before bedtime. Next morning was Sunday. After the bears had done ringing, we saw a black-willed figure pass our window. Poor girl, going to church alone, we followed, taking care that she should not see us, either during the service or afterwards. We did not see anything more of her that day. On Monday a message came, saying that mismatch would be glad to speak to both of us. Of course we went. She was sitting quite alone in our old parlour, where a grave and pail were perfectly composed. A little more womanly looking in the dignity of a great grave, which, girl as she was, and young men as we were, seemed to be to her shield transcending all worldly properties. As she rose we shook hands, in a silence only broken by the rustle of a black dress. Not one of us thought surely the most evil-minded gossip could not have dared to sink. That there was anything strange in her receiving us here. It began to talk of common things, not deathing. She seemed to have thought through the worst of her travel, and to have put it back into those deep quiet chambers where all griefs go, never forgotten, never removed, but sealed up in silence as it should be. Perhaps too far let us not expect more from nature than nature can'ts. The wide, wide difference in character temperament and sympathies between mismatch and her father unconsciously made his loss a hard loss. Total and irremediable, that one of mere habit and instinctive feeling which, the first shock over, was the insensible heal. Besides, she was young, young in life, in hope, in body, in soul, and use, though her griefs passionately cannot ever grieve. A sign of her choice to see that mismatch was in some degree herself again, at least so much of her old self as was right natural and good for her to be. She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him was easy and natural, as to her friend who deserved and possessed her warm gratitude. His was more constraining. Gradually, however, this was her way. There was something in her witch, piercing all disguises, went at once to the heart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the touchstone of truth. He asked, no, I believe I asked her, how long she intended staying at Enderly. I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin, Richard Precious, was left my guardian. This was my father. This was to have been altered, I believe. I wish it had been. You know, Norton Boring, Mr. Halifax? I live there. Indeed, with some surprise. Then you are probably acquainted with my cousin and his wife? No, but I have seen them. John gave his answers without lifting his eyes. Will you tell me candidly? For I know nothing of her, and it is rather important that I should learn. What sort of person is Lady Caroline? This frank question put directly and guarded by the battery of those innocent girlish eyes, was a very hard question to be answered. For Norton Burry said many ill-natured things of our young squire's wife, whom we married in Naples, from the house of the well-known Lady Hamilton. She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Revenel, the early Luxembourg's daughter. Yes, yes, but that does not signify. I know nothing of Lord Luxembourg. I want to know what she is herself. John hesitated and answered, as he could with truth. She is said to be very charitable to the poor, pleasant and kind-hearted. But if I may venture to hint as much, not exactly the friend whom I think Miss Marge would choose, or to whom she would like to be indebted for anything but courtesy. That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to anyone. Only if she were a good woman, Lady Caroline would have been a great comfort and a useful advisor to one who is casually eating, and I believe in Eris. In Eris, the colour flashed in a torrent over John's whole face. They left him pale. I, pardon me, I thought it was otherwise. Allow me to express my pleasure. It does not add to mine, she said half-sighing. Jane Cardigan always told me riches brought me any cares. Poor Jane. I wish I could go back to her, but that is impossible. A silence here in the wind, which it was necessary someone should break. So much good can be done with a large fortune, I said. Yes, I know not if mine is very large indeed. I never understood many matters, but have merely believed what I was told. However, be my fortune much a little, I will try to use it well. I am sure you will. John said nothing but his eyes said indeed, yet lit with a proud tenderness. Rested upon her, she spoke, soon after he rose up to take leave. Do not go yet. I want to ask about Nortonbury. I had no idea you lived there in Mr. Fletcher too. I replied in the affirmative. In what part of town? On the Coltham Road, near the Abbey. Ah, those Abbey chimes. How I used to listen to them, night after night, when the pain kept me awake. What pain, asked John suddenly, alive to any suffering of hers. Miss March smiled almost like her old smile. Oh, I had nearly forgotten it. Though it was very bad at the time. Only the deck had my wrist rather dangerously on a bright knife, in the struggle with my nerves. When was that, eagerly inquired John. For me, I said nothing, already guessed all. Unless the tide of fate was running strong against my poor David. What could I do but stand aside and watch? When was it? Let me see. Five, six years ago, but indeed, it is nothing. Not exactly nothing, do tell me. And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as one could count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yet time's remorseless hand still keeps on pouring, pouring. Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses. I was very naughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread, they wanted to give away to a poor lad. Who stood opposite, and then Ellie, in the rain, was it not so? How could you know? But he looked so hungry, I was so sorry for him. Were you, in a tone almost inhottable? I have often sought of him sins, when a chance to look at this mark. Let me look at it. May I? Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering just above the rest a deep discoloured seam. He gazed at it, his features all quivering, then without the word, either of a ture or apology, he quitted the room. End of chapter 14, recording by Ellie, January 2010 Chapter 15 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 15 I was left with Miss Marchalone. She sat looking at the door where John had disappeared, an extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certain embarrassment. What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any way? Indeed, no. Why did he go away? But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put, involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it. While, at the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises, or pre-verifications, which are always foolish and perilous, and very frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to whom one dared to offer the like. Therefore, I said to her plainly, I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer telling you himself. As he pleases, returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her frank manner. But it soon vanished, and she began talking to me, in her usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods, and about Nortonbury. I answered them freely, my only reservation being, that I took care not to give any information concerning ourselves. Soon afterwards, as John did not return, I took leave of her, and went to our own parlor. He was not there. He had left word with Little Jack, who met him on the common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return till dinnertime. Dinnertime came, but I had to dine alone. It was the first time I ever knew him to break even such a trivial promise. My heart misgave me, I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search of him, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlor. Better, when he did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth, and me. Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years, better than anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? Fate had taken the scepter out of my hands. I was utterly powerless. I could neither give him comfort, nor save him pain any more. What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has felt likewise. Many a parent over a child. Many a sister over a brother. Many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Let those who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot. Let those who win hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt the new bond cruelly in the face of the old. Having said this, which being the truth, it struck me as right to say, I will no more allude to the subject. In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach and four, resplundant in liveries, stopped at the door. I knew it well, and so did all, nor in burry. It was empty, but Lady Caroline's own maid, so I heard afterwards, sat in the rumble. And Lady Caroline's own black-eyed Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concluded was for Miss March. I was glad that John was not at home, glad that the coach, with all its fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before John came in. He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, looking at my four poplar trees, as they pointed skywards, like long fingers, stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. At first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen shining ever so far. What a bright blaze! Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope. Tea? Yes, that's far better. I have had such a long walk, and am so tired. The words were cheerful, so was the tone. Too cheerful! Oh, by far! The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend's heart, like the piping of soldiers, as they go away back from a newly filled grave. Where have you been, John? All over Nunnally Hill. I must take you there. Such expansive views! As Mrs. Todd informed me, quoting some local ballad, which she said was written by an uncle of hers. There you may spy twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye. Remarkable fact, isn't it? Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly talking. It was enough to make one weep. After tea I insisted on his taking my armchair, saying that after such a walk on that raw day he must be very cold. Not the least, quite the contrary. Feel my hand. It was burning. But I am tired, thoroughly tired. He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weariness of body and soul that was written on his face. Why did you go out alone? John, you know that you have always me. He looked up smiling. But the momentary brightness passed. Alas! I was not enough to make him happy now. We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time, but the gates of his heart were close locked. It seemed as if he dared not open them. Lest the flood should burst forth and overwhelm us. At nine o'clock Mrs. Todd came in with supper. She had always something or other to say, especially since the late events had drawn the whole household of rose-cottage so closely together. Now she was brimful of news. She had been all that evening packing up for poor dear Miss March. Though why she should call her poor, truly she didn't know. Who would have thought Mr. March had such grand relations? Had we seen Lady Caroline Brithwood's coach that came that day? Such a beautiful coach it was. Some time purpose for Miss March. Only she wouldn't go. But now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She is leaving tomorrow. When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Todd, as usual, to fasten the heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the bolt, motionless, till the good woman was gone. Then he staggered to the mantelpiece and leaned on it with both his elbows, his hands covering his face. But there was no disguise now, no attempt to make it. A young man's first love, not first fancy, but first love, in all its passion, desperation and pain, had come to him. As it comes to all, I saw him writhing under it, saw, and could not help him. The next few silent minutes were very bitter to us both. Then I said gently, David, well, I thought things were so. Yes. Suppose you were to talk to me a little, it might do you good. Another time, let me go out, out into the air, I'm choking. Snatching up his hat, he rushed from me. I did not dare to follow. After waiting some time, and listening till all was quiet in the house, I could bear the suspense no longer, and went out. I thought I should find him on the flat, probably in his favorite walk, his terrace, as he called it, where he had first seen, and must have seen many a day after, that girlish figure tripping lightly along through the morning sunshine and morning dew. I had a sort of instinct that he would be there now, so I climbed up the shortest way, often losing my footing, for it was a pitch-dark night, and the common looked as wide and black, and still as a midnight sea. John was not there. Indeed, if he had been, I could scarcely have seen him. I could see nothing but the void expanse of the flat, or, looking down, the broad river of mist that rolled through the valley, on the other side of which twinkled a few cottage lights, like unearthly beacons from the farthest shore of an impassable flood. Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Todd say that, on account of its pits and quarries, the common was extremely dangerous after dark, except to those who know it well. In a horrible dread I called out John's name, but nothing answered. I went unblindly, desperately shouting as I went. At length, in one of the Roman Fosses, I stumbled and fell. Someone came, darting with great leaps through the mist, and lifted me up. Oh, David, David! Phineas, is that you? You have come out this bitter night. Why did you? His tenderness over me, even then, made me break down. I forgot my manhood, or else it slipped from me unawares. In the old Bible language, I fell on his neck and wept. Afterwards I was not sorry for this, because I think my weakness gave him strength. I think, amidst the whirl of passion that wracked him, it was good for him to feel that the one crowning cup of life is not inevitably life's sole sustainance, that it was something to have a friend and brother who loved him with a love, like Jonathan's, passing the love of woman. I have been very wrong, he kept repeating, and a broken voice, but I was not myself. I am better now. Come, let us go home. He put his arm round me to keep me warm, and brought me safely into the house. He even sat down by the fire to talk with me. Whatever struggle there had been, I saw it was over. He looked his own self, only so very, very pale, and spoke in his natural voice. I, even when mentioning her, which he was the first to do. She goes to-morrow, you are sure, Phineas? I believe so. Shall you see her again? If she desires it. Shall you say anything to her? Nothing. If for a little while, not knowing or not thinking of all the truth, I felt I had strength to remove all impediments. I now see that even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse, a nave. I will be neither. I will be a man. I replied not. How could one answer such words? Calmly uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his heart. Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly this morning? She did. I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself. I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth. Save one thing. She need never know that. I guessed by his broken voice what the one thing was, which he counted as nothing, but which, I think, any true woman would have counted worth everything, the priceless gift of a good man's love—love that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a lifetime, and she was not to know it. I felt sorry. I even sorry for Ursula March. Do you not think I am right, Phineas? Perhaps I cannot say you were the best judge. It is right, said he, firmly. There can be no possible hope for me. Nothing remains but silence. I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young man, only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love could be absolutely hopeless, especially to a young man like John Halifax. But as things now stood, I deemed it best to leave him altogether to himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through his will, would happen. For me to interfere, either way, would be at once idle and perilous. May, in some sense, exceedingly wrong. So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence. John broke it, talking to himself as if he had forgotten I was by. To think it was she who did it, that first kindness to a poor friendless boy. I never forgot it, never. It did me more good than I can tell. And that scar on her poor arm, her dear little tender arm, how this morning I would have given all the world to— He broke off instinctively, as it were, with a sort of feeling every good man has, that the sacred passion, the inmost tenderness of his love, should be kept wholly between himself and the woman he has chosen. I knew that too, knew that in his heart had grown up a secret, a necessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship, closer than the closest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps I hardly know why, I sighed. John turned round. Phineas, you must not think. Because of this, which you will understand for yourself, I hope one day. You must not think I could ever think less, or feel less, about my brother. He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands warmly and silently. Thus was healed my last lingering pain. I was thenceforth entirely satisfied. I think we parted that night, as we had never parted before. Feeling that the trial of our friendship, the great trial, perhaps, of any friendship, had come and passed, safely, that whatever new ties might gather round each, our two hearts would cleave together until death. The next morning, as I have seen many a morning rise at Underly, misty and gray, but oh, so heavenly fair, with a pearl network of dewy gossamer underfoot, and overhead countless thistle-downs flying about, like fairy chariots hurrying out of sight of the sun, which had only mounted high enough above the flat to touch the horizon of hill's opposite, and the tops of my four poplars, leaving rose cottage and the valley below it, all in morning shadow. John called me to go with him on the common. His voice sounded so cheerful outside my door, that it was with a glad heart I rose and went. He chose his old walk, his terrace. No chance now of meeting the light figure come tripping along the level hill. All that dream was now over. He did not speak of it, nor I. He seemed contented, or at least thoroughly calmed down, except that the sweet composure of his mean had settled into the harder gravity of manhood. The crisis and climax had been gone through. He never could be a boy again. We came to that part of John's terrace, which overhung the churchyard. Both of us glanced instinctively down to the heap of loose red earth, the as-yet nameless grave. Someone stood by it, the only one who was likely to be there. Even had I not recognized her, John's manner would have told me who it was. A deadly paleness overspread his face. Its quietness was gone. Every feature trembled. It almost broke my heart to see how deeply this love had struck its roots down to the very core of his, twisting them with every fiber of his being. A love which, though it had sprung up so early, and come to maturity so fast, might yet be the curse of his whole existence. Save that no love conceived virtuously for a good woman, be it ever so hopeless, can be rightly considered as a curse. Shall we go away, I whispered, a long walk to the other side of the flat. She will have left Rose Cottage soon. When? Before noon I heard. Come, David. He suffered me to put my arm in his, and draw him away for a step or two. Then turned. I can't, Phineas. I can't. I must look at her again, only for one minute, one little minute. But he stayed. We were standing where she could not see us, till she had slowly left the grave. We heard the click of the churchyard gate, where she went afterward we could not discern. John moved away. I asked him if we should take our walk now. But he did not seem to hear me, so I let him follow his own way. Perhaps it might be for good. Who could tell? He descended from the flat, and came quickly round the corner of the Cottage. Miss March stood there, trying to find one fresh Rose among the fast withering clusters about what had been our former window, and now was hers. She saw us, acknowledged us, but hurriedly, and not without some momentary signs of agitation. The Roses are all gone, she said, rather sadly. Perhaps higher up, I can reach one. Shall I try? I marveled to see that John's manner as he addressed her, was just like his manner always was with her. Thank you, that will do. I wanted to take some away with me. I am leaving Rose Cottage to-day, Mr. Halifax. So I have heard. He did not say, sorry to hear. I wondered, did the omission strike her? But no, she evidently regarded us both as mere acquaintances. Inevitably, perhaps even tenderly, bound up with this time, and as such, claiming a more than ordinary place in her regard and remembrance. No man with common sense or a common feeling could for a moment dare to misinterpret the emotion she showed. Re-entering the house, she asked us if we would come in with her. She had a few things to say to us. And then she again referred gratefully to our kindness. We all went once more, for the last time, into the little parlor. Yes, I am going away, said she mournfully. We hope all good will go with you, always and everywhere. Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. It was strange the grave tone our intercourse now invariably assumed. We might have been three old people who had long fought with and endured the crosses of the world, instead of two young men and a young woman, and the very dawn of life. Circumstances have fixed my plan since I saw you yesterday. I am going to reside for a time with my cousins, the Brithwoods. It seems best for me. Lady Caroline is very kind, and I am so lonely. She said this not in any complaint, but as if accepting the fact, and making up her mind to endure it. A little more fragmentary conversation passed, chiefly between herself and me. John uttered scarcely a word. He sat by the window, half shading his face with his hand. Under that covert, the gaze which incessantly followed, and dwelt on her face—oh, had she seen it? The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had intended, concerning his position in the world? Had she guessed or learned anything? Or were we to her simply Mr. Halifax and Mr. Fletcher, two gentlemen of Nortonbury? It appeared so. This is not a very long goodbye I trust, said she to me, with something more than courtesy. I shall remain at the Mith House some weeks, I believe. How long do you purpose staying at Enderley? I was uncertain. But your home is in Nortonbury. I hope, I trust, you will allow my cousin to express in his own house his thanks and mine, for your great kindness during my trouble. Neither of us answered. Miss March looks surprised, hurt. Nay displeased. Then her eye, resting on John, lost its haughtiness, and became humble and sweet. Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do know you. Will you tell me, candidly, as I know you will, whether there is anything in Mr. Brithwood which you think unworthy of your acquaintance? He would think me unworthy of his, was the low, firm answer. Miss March smiled incredulously, because you are not very rich. What can that signify? It is enough for me that my friends are gentlemen. Mr. Brithwood and many others would not allow my claim to that title. Astonished, nay, somewhat more than astonished, the young gentlewoman drew back a little. I do not quite understand you. Let me explain, then, and her involuntary gesture, seeming to have brought back all honest dignity and manly pride, he faced her, once more himself. It is right, Miss March, that you should know who and what I am, to whom you are giving the honour of your kindness. Perhaps you ought to have known before. But here, underly, we seemed to be equals, friends. I have indeed felt it so. Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you, what you never asked, and I was only too ready to forget, that we are not equals, that is, society would not regard us as such, and I doubt if even you yourself would wish us to be friends. Why not? Because you are a gentlewoman, and I am a tradesman. The news was evidently a shock to her. It could not but be, reared as she had been. She said, the eyelashes dropping over her flushed cheeks, perfectly silent. John's voice grew firmer, prouder, no hesitation now. My calling is, as you will soon hear, at Nortonbury, that of a tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher, Phineas's father. Mr. Fletcher. She looked up at me, a mingled look of kindness and pain. I, Phineas, is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He is rich, he has been well educated. I have had to educate myself. I came to Nortonbury six years ago, a beggar boy. No, not quite that, for I never begged. I either worked or starved. The earnestness, the passion of his tone, made Miss March lift her eyes, but they fell again. Yes, Phineas found me in an alley starving. We stood in the rain, opposite the mayor's house. A little girl, you know her, Miss March, came to the door, and threw out to me a bit of bread. Now indeed she started. You, was that you? It was I. John paused, and his whole manner changed into softness, as he resumed. I never forgot that little girl. Many a time, when I was inclined to do wrong, she kept me right, the remembrance of her sweet face and her kindness. That face was pressed down against the sofa where she sat. I think Miss March was all but weeping. John continued, I am glad to have met her again, glad to have been able to do her some small good, and return for the infinite good she once did me. I shall bid her farewell now, at once and all together. A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face asked him, Why? Because, John answered, the world says we are not equals, and it would neither be for Miss March's honour, nor mine, did I try to force upon it the truth, which I may prove openly one day, that we are equals. Miss March looked up at him. It were hard to say with what expression, of pleasure, or pride, or simple astonishment, perhaps a mingling of all. Then her eyelids fell. She silently offered her hand, first to me, and then to John. Whether she meant it as friendliness, or as a mere ceremony of adieu, I cannot tell. John took it as the latter and rose. His hand was on the door, but he could not go. Miss March, he said, perhaps I may never see you again, at least, never as now. Let me look once more at that wrist which was hurt. Her left arm was hanging over the sofa, the scar being visible enough. John took the hand, and held it firmly. Poor little hand, blessed little hand, may God bless her ever more. Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been, a kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be. Surely she must have felt it, known it. A moment afterward he was gone. That day Miss March departed, and we remained at Enderley alone. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 It was wintertime. All the summer days at Enderley were gone, like a dream when one awakeeth. Of her who had been the beautiful center of the dream, we had never heard nor spoken since. John and I were walking together along the road towards the myth. We could just see the frosty sunset reflected on the windows of the myth house, now closed for months, the family being away. The meadows alongside, where the Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a popular skating ground, and the road was alive with lookers on of every class. All Nortonbury seemed abroad, and half Nortonbury exchanged salutations with my companion, till I was amused to notice how large John's acquaintance had grown. Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, as prim and knee as an old maid, and as bright looking as a happy matron. I saw at once who it was, Mrs. Jessup, our good doctor's new wife, and old love, whom he had lately brought home to the great amazement and curiosity of Nortonbury. She seems to like you very much, I said, as after cordial greeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on. They were both very kind to me in London last month, as I think I told you. I—it was one of the few things he had mentioned about that same London journey, for he had grown into a painful habit of silence now. Yet I dreaded to break it, lest any wounds rankling beneath might thereby be caused to smart once more, and our love to one another was too faithful for a little reserve to have power to influence it in any way. We came once more upon the old lady watching the skaters. She again spoke to John, and looked at me with her keen, kind, blue eyes. I think I know who your friend is, though you do not introduce him. John hastily performed that ceremony. Tom and I have funny to hear her call our old bachelor doctor, Tom. We're wondering what had become of you, Mr. Halifax. Are you stronger than you were in London? Was he ill in London, Madame? No, indeed, Phineas, or only enough to win for me, Dr. and Mrs. Jessup's great kindness. Which you have never come to thank us for—never crossed our door-sills since we returned home. Does not your conscience sting you for your ingratitude? He colored deeply. Indeed, Mrs. Jessup, it was not ingratitude. I know it. I believe it, she answered, with much kindness. Tell me what it was. He hesitated. You ought to believe the warm interest we both take in you. Tell me the plain truth. I will. It is that your kindness to me in London was no reason for my intruding on you at Nortonbury. It might not be agreeable for you and Dr. Jessup to have my acquaintance here. I am a tradesman. The little old lady's eyes brightened into something beyond mere kindness as she looked at him. Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that plain truth. Truth is always best. Now, for mine, I had heard you were a tradesman. I found out for myself that you were a gentleman. I do not think the two facts incompatible, nor does my husband. We shall be happy to see you at our house, at all times and under all circumstances. She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in silence. But it was long since I had seen him look more pleased. Well, then, suppose you come this evening, both of you. We assented, and on her further invitation John and I and the little old lady walked on together. I could not help watching Mrs. Jessup with some amusement. Nortonbury said she had been a poor governess all her days, but that hard life had left no shadow on the cheerful sunset of her existence now. It was a frank, bright, happy face, in spite of its wrinkles and its somewhat harsh Welsh features. And it was pleasant to hear her talk, even though she talked a good deal, and in a decidedly Welsh accent. Sometimes a tone or two reminded me slightly of. I—it was easy to guess why John evidently liked the old lady. I know this road well, Mr. Halifax, once I spent a summer here, with an old pupil, now grown up. I am going today to inquire about her at the mithouse. The Brithwoods came home yesterday. I was afraid to look at John, even to me the news was startling, how I blessed Mrs. Jessup's innocent garrulousness. I hope they will remain here some time. I have a special interest in their stay. Not on Lady Caroline's account, though. She patronises me very kindly, but I doubt if she ever forgets—what Tom says I am rather too proud of remembering—that I was the poor governess, Jane Cartigan. Jane Cartigan, I exclaimed. What, Mr. Fletcher? You know my name? And really, now I think of it. I believe I have heard yours. Not from Tom, either. It couldn't possibly be. Yes, it certainly was. How strange! Did you ever hear tell of a Miss Ursula March? The live crimson rushed madly over John's face. Mrs. Jessup sought. She could not but see it. At first she looked astounded, then exceedingly grave. I replied that we had had the honour of meeting Miss March last summer at Enderley. Yes, the old lady continued, somewhat formally. Now I recollect, Miss March told me of the circumstance of two gentlemen there who were very kind to her when her father died—a Mr. Fletcher and his friend. Was that Mr. Halifax? It was, I answered, for John was speechless. Alas, I saw at once that all my hopes for him—all the design of my long silence on this subject—had been in vain. No, he had not forgotten her. It was not in his nature to forget. Mrs. Jessup went on, still addressing herself to me. I am sure I ought, on behalf of my dear pupil, to offer you both my warmest thanks. Hers was a most trying position. She never told me of it till afterwards, poor child. I am thankful her trouble was softened to her by finding that strangers—was it only my fancy that detected a slight stress on the word? Mere strangers could be at once so thoughtful and so kind. No one could be otherwise to Miss March. Is she well? Has she recovered from her trial? I hope so. Happily, few sorrows, few feelings of any kind take last and hold a 18. She is a noble girl. She did her duty, and it was no light one, to him who is gone. Now her life begins anew. It is sure to be prosperous. I trust it may be very happy. Now I must bid you both good-bye. She stopped at the gates of the myth-house. Great iron gates, a barrier as proud and impassable as that which in these times, the rich, shut against the poor, the aristocrat against the plebeian. John, glancing once up at them, hurriedly moved on. Stay, you will come and see us, Mr. Halifax. Promise? If you wish it. And promise, too, that under all circumstances you will tell me, as you did this morning, the plain truth. Yes, I see you will. Goodbye. The iron gates closed upon her, and against us. We took our silent way up to the myth to our favorite style. There we leaned, still in silence, for many minutes. The wind is keen, Phineas, you must be cold. Now I could speak to him, could ask him to tell me of his pain. It is so long since you have told me anything. It might do you good. Nothing can do me good, nothing but bearing it. My God, what have I not borne? Five whole months to be dying of thirst, and not a drop of water to cool my tongue. He bared his head, and throat to the cutting wind. His chest heaved, his eyes seemed in a flame. God forgive me, but I sometimes think I would give myself body and soul to the devil, for one glimpse of her face, one touch of her little hand. I made no answer. What answer could be made to such words as these? I waited, all I could do, till the proxism had gone by. Then I hinted, as indeed seemed not unlikely, that he might see her soon. Yes, a great way off, like that cloud up there. But I want her near, close, in my home, at my heart. Phineas, he gasped, talked to me, about something else, anything. Don't let me think, or I shall go clean mad. And indeed, he looked so. I was terrified, so quiet as I had always seen him when we met, so steadily as he had pursued his daily duties, and with all this underneath, this torment, conflict, despair, of a young man's love. It must come out. Better it should. And you have gone on working all this while? I was obliged, nothing but work kept me in my senses. Besides, and he left hoarsely. I was safest in the tanyard. The thought of her could not come there. I was glad of it. I tried to be solely and altogether what I am. A printus lad, a mere clown. Nay, that was wrong. Was it? Well, at last it struck me so. I thought I would be a gentleman again, just for a pretense, you know. A dream. A bit of the old dream back again. So I went to London. And met the Jessups there. Yes, though I did not know she was Jane Cartigan. But I liked her. I liked my life with them. It was like breathing a higher air, the same air that— Oh Phineas, it was horrible to come back to my life here, to that accursed tanyard. I said nothing. You see now, and that hard laugh smote me to the heart again. You see, Phineas, how wicked I am growing. You will have to cut my acquaintance presently. Tell me the rest. I mean, the rest of your life in London, I said, after a pause. Did you ever hear of her? Of course not, though I knew she was there. I saw it in the court-circular. Fancy a lady, whose name was in the court-circular, being inquired after by a tanner's lad. But I wanted to look at her. Any beggar might do that, you know. So I watched in streets and parks, by theatre doors at night and by church doors on Sunday mornings. Yet I never saw her once. Only think, not once for five whole months. John, how could you tell me you were happy? I don't know. Perhaps because of my pride. Perhaps because— Ah, don't look so wretched. Why did you let me say all this? You are too good for such as I. Of course, I took no heed of idle words like these. I let him stand there, leaning against the style. Now and then grasping it with his nervous, muscular hands, as if he would tear it down. Then I said quietly, What do you intend to do? Do? Nothing. What can I do? Though sometimes a score of wild plans rationed my mind, such as to run away to the indies, like that young warren Hastings we were talking of. Come back twenty years hence in the bob, and— Marry her. Marry her. I repeated mournfully. Aye, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she and I were to me and stand together, equal man and woman, I could make her love me. I feel I could. Instead of crawling after her thus, I would go boldly in at those very gates. Do you think she is there? He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of her being so near. Oh, it's hard, hard. I could despise myself. Why cannot I trust my manhood, my honest manhood that I was born with? Go straight to her and tell her that I love her, that God meant her for me, and me for her, true husband and true wife. Phineas marked my words, and while this his manner was, it had a certain force, which sounded almost like prophecy. If ever Ursula march marries, she will be my wife, my wife. I could only murmur. Heaven grant it. But we shall never marry, neither one nor the other of us. We shall go on apart and alone till the next world. Perhaps she will come to me then. I may have her in my heart there. John looked upward. There was in the west a broad red frosty cloud, and just beyond it, nay, all but resting on it, the new moon, a little wintry soft new moon, a sight that might well have hushed the maddest storm of passion, it hushed his. He stood, still looking up, for many minutes, then his eyes closed, the lashes all wet. We'll never speak of this again, Phineas. I'll not grieve thee any more. I'll try and be a better brother to thee for the future. Come along. He drew my arm in his, and we went home. Passing the tanyard, John proposed that we should call for my father. My poor father, now daily growing more sour and old, and daily leaning more and more upon John, who never ceased to respect, and make everyone else respect, his master. Though still ostentably apprentice, he had now the business almost entirely in his hands. It was pleasant to see how my father brightened up at his coming. How readily, when he turned homeward, he leaned upon John's strong arm, now the support of both him and me. Thus we walked through Nortonbury streets, where everybody knew us, and indeed, as it seemed to me this morning, nearly everybody greeted us, at least one of us. But my father walked along soberly and sternly, frowning at almost every salutation John Halifax received. The art making far too many friends, John, I warn thee. Not friends, only friendly acquaintance, was the gentle answer. He was well used to turn away, daily, and hourly, Abel Fletcher's wrath. But it was roused beyond control, when Dr. Jessup's neat little carriage, and neatest of little wives, stopped at the curb stone, and summoned John. I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us tomorrow, instead of this evening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to see you. Me? Yes, you, smiled the old lady. You, John Halifax, the hero of the people, who quelled the bread riots, and gave evidence thereupon to Mr. Pitt in London. Nay, why didn't you tell me the wonderful story? Her ladyship is full of it. She will torment me till she sees you. I know her ways. For my sake, you must come. Waiting no refusal, Mrs. Jessup drove on. What's that? said my father sharply. John, where are they going? I knew this was the first warning gun of a battle which broke out afresh, every time John appeared, and any lively or garb than his favorite gray, or was suspected of more worldly associates than our quiet selves. He always took my father's attacks patiently, this time peculiarly so. He made no answer, but passed his hand once or twice over his brow, as if he could not see clearly. Abel Fletcher repeated the question. Yes, that was Mrs. Jessup, sir. I know, grumbled my father, the doctor is a fool in his old age. Who did she want thee to meet? She? Oh, Lady Caroline you mean. Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John. Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, released his arm from John's, and eyed him, from top to toe. Thee, a woman of quality, wanting to see thee, young man, the art a hypocrite. Sir, I knew it, I foresaw how thy fine ways would end, going to London, crawling at the heels of grandfolk, despising thy honest trade, trying to make thyself a pure gentleman. I hope I am a gentleman. Words could not describe my father's horrified astonishment. Oh, lad, he cried, poor, misguided lad, the Lord have mercy upon thee. John smiled, his mind evidently full of other things. Abel Fletcher's anger grew. And thee wants to hang on to the tale of other gentleman, such as Richard Brithwood Forsooth, a fox hunting, drinking, dicing fool. I was shocked, I had not believed him so bad as that. The young squire, Miss March's cousin. Or pursued my father, waxing hotter and hotter. Or a lady, such as his wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an Ahab father, brought up in the impious atrocities of France, and the debaucheries of Naples, where, though she keeps it close here, she abode with that vile woman whom they call Lady Hamilton. John started. Well, he might, for even to our quiet town had come, all this winter, foul newspaper tales about Nelson and Lady Hamilton. Take care, he said, in much agitation. Any taint upon a woman's fame harms not her alone, but all connected with her. For God sakes her, whether it be true or not, do not whisper in Nortonbury that Lady Caroline Brithwood is a friend of Lady Hamilton. Pasha, what is either woman to us? And my father climbed the steps to his own door, John following. Nay, young gentleman, my poor house is hardly good enough for such as thee. John turned, cruelly galled, but recovered himself. You are unjust to me, Abel Fletcher, and you yourself will think so soon. May I come in? My father made no answer, and I brought John in, as usual. In truth, we had both more to think of than Abel Fletcher's temporary displeasure. This strange chance. What might it imply? To what might it not lead? But no, if I judged Mrs. Jessica right, and either implied, nor would lead to, what I saw John's fancy had at once sprang toward, and reveled in, madly. A lover's fancy, a lover's hope. Even I could see what will of the wisps they were. But the doctor's good wife, Ursula Merch's wise governess, would never lure a young man with such phantoms as these. I felt sure, certain, that if we met the Brithwoods, we should meet no one else. Certain, even when, as we sat at our dish of tea, there came in two little dainty notes. The first invitations to worldly festivity that had ever tempted our Quaker household, and which J.L. flung out of her fingers as if they had been coals from Gehenna. Notes bidding us to a little supper at Dr. Jessups, with Mr. and Lady Caroline Brithwood of the Mithouse. Gift them to your father, Phineus. And John vainly tried to hide the flash of his eye, the smiles that came and went, like summer lightning. Tomorrow, you see, it is tomorrow. Poor lad, he had forgotten every worldly thing in the hope of that tomorrow. My father's sharp voice roused him. Phineus, the ilt, stay at home. Tell the woman I say so. And John, father? John may go to ruin if he chooses. He is his own master. I have always been, and the answer came less in pride than sadness. I might have gone to ruin years ago, but for the mercy of heaven in your kindness. Do not let us be at warfare now. All they own fault, lad, why cannot thee keep in thy own rank, respect thyself, be an honest tradesman, as I have been. And as I trust always to be, but that is only my calling, not me. I, John Halifax, am just the same, whether in the ten-yard or Dr. Jessup's drawing-room. The one position cannot degrade, nor the other elevate me. I should not respect myself if I believed otherwise. A. My father absolutely dropped his pipe in amazement. Then, thee thinkest thyself already quite a gentleman. As I told you before, sir, I hope I am. Fit to associate with the finest folks in the land? If they desire it, and I choose it, certainly. Now, Abel Fletcher, like all honest men, like to honesty, and something in John's bold spirit, and free, bright eye, seem to day to strike him more than ordinarily. Lad, lad, the art young, but it won't last. No, it won't last. He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe. It had been curling and brave wreaths to the very ceiling two minutes before, and sat musing. But about to-morrow persisted, John, after watching him some little time. I could go, I could have gone, without either your knowledge or permission, but I had rather deal openly with you. You know I always do. You have been the kindest master, the truest friend to me. I hope as long as I live, rarely to oppose, and never to deceive you. His manner, earnest, yet most respectful, his candid looks, under which slurked and evident anxiety and pain might have mollified a harder man than Abel Fletcher. John, why does they want to go among these grand folk? Not because they are grand folk, I have other reasons, strong reasons. Be honest, tell me thy strong reasons. Here was a straight. Why does the blush young man, is it ought the art ashamed of? Ashamed, no. Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, or to anyone else, dishonor? Dishonor, and the bright eye, shot an indignant gleam. Then tell the truth. I will, I wish first to find out for myself whether Lady Caroline Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who is young, innocent, good. Has she such in one? One knee knows. Yes, man or woman, woman. My father turned, and looked John full in the eyes. Sterness that look was, I traced in it a strange compassion. Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's life, woman. To my amazement, John replied not assillable. He seemed even as if he had forgotten himself and his own secret. Thus, for what and I knew not, voluntarily betrayed, so absorbed was he in contemplating the old man. And truly, in all my life, I had never seen such a convulsion pass over my father's face. It was like as if someone had touched and revived the torment of a long kitten, but never to be healed wound. Not till years after did I understand the full meaning of John's gaze, or why he was so patient with my father. The torment passed, ended in violent anger. Out with it. Who is deluding me? Is it a matter of wedlock or only? Stop, John cried, his face all on fire. The lady. It is a lady. Now I see why thee would feign be a gentleman. Oh, father, how can you? So thee knowest it too. I see it in thy face. Wouldst thee be led away by him a second time? But thee shall not. I'll put thee under lock and key before thee shall ruin thyself and disgrace thy father. This was hard to bear, but I believe it was John's teaching that one ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy parent. And it was John himself who now grasped my hand and whispered patience. John, who knew what I myself, as I have said, did not learn for years, concerning my father's former history. Sir, you mistake. Phineas has nothing whatever to do with this matter. He is altogether blameless. So am I too, if you heard all. Tell me all, honor is bold, shame only is silent. I feel no shame, and honest love is no disgrace to any man, and my confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it nor returns it. As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and sat down. His face was in shadow, but the fire shone on his hands, tightly locked together, motionless as stone. My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of former days came and knocked at the old man's heart. We all three sat silent for a long time. Then my father said, Who is she? I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly station. Ah! a fierce exclamation. But thee which not humble thyself, Rune thy peace for life, Thee which not marry her. I would, if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honorable means I can rise to her level, So as to be able to win her love, Marry her I will. That brave I will, it seemed to carry its own fulfillment. Its indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder. Nay, with a sort of awe. Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee, He said kindly. Mace thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad, I will keep thy counsel. I knew you would. The subject ceased. My father's manner indicated that he wished it to cease. He raedlet his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly. Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green mound beside that other mound, and the friends burying ground in St. Mary's Lane, I learned what all Nortonbury, except myself, had long known. That my poor mother, the young thoughtless creature, whose married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a gentle woman.