 CHAPTER XXI The winter and spring passed calmly by. I had much ill health, and could go out very little. But they came constantly to me, John and Ursula, especially the latter. During this illness, when I learned to watch longingly for her kind face, and listen for her cheerful voice talking pleasantly and sisterly beside my chair, she taught me to give up Mrs. Halifax and call her Ursula. It was only by slow degrees I did so, truly, for she was not one of those gentle creatures whom, married or single, one calls instinctively by their Christian names. Her manner in girlhood was not exactly either meek or gentle, except towards him, the only one who ever ruled her, and to whom she was, through life, the meekest and tenderest of women. To everyone else she comported herself, at least in youth, with a dignity and decision, a certain stand-offishness, so that, as I said, it was not quite easy to speak to or think of her as Ursula. Afterwards, when seen in the light of a new character, for which heaven destined and especially fitted her, and in which she appeared altogether beautiful, I began to give her another name, but it will come by and by. In the long mid-summer days, when our house was very quiet and rather dreary, I got into the habit of creeping over to John's home and sitting for hours under the apple trees in his garden. It was now different from the wilderness he found it. The old trees were pruned and tended, and young ones planted. Mrs. Halifax called it proudly our orchard, though the top of the tallest sapling could be reached with her hand. Then, in addition to the indigenous cabbages, came along rows of white-blossomed peas, big-headed cauliflower, and all vegetables easy of cultivation. My father sent contributions from his celebrated gooseberry bushes and his wall fruit, the pride of Nortonberry. Mrs. Jessup stocked the borders from her great parters of sweet-scented common flowers, so that, while din as it was, and in the midst of a town likewise, it was growing into a very tolerable garden. Just the kind of garden that I love, half-trim, half-wild, fruits, flowers, and vegetables living in comfortable equality and fraternity, none being too choice to be harmed by their neighbors, none esteemed too mean to be restricted in their natural perfusion. Oh, dear old-fashioned garden, full of sweet Williams and white Nancy's, and Larkspur and London Pride, and yard-wide beds of snowy fax-afrage, and tall pale evening prim roses, and hollyhocks six or seven feet high, many tinted from yellow to darkest ruby color. While for cents, large-blushing cabbage roses, pinks and ghillie-flowers, with here and there a great bush of southern wood, or rosemary, or a border of time, or a sweet-riar hedge, a pleasant garden where all colors and perfumes were blended together. I even astray dandelion that stood boldly up in his yellow waistcoat, like a young country bumpkin who feels himself a decent lad in his way, or a plant of wild majorum that had somehow got in and kept meekly in a corner of the bed, trying to turn into a respectable cultivated herb. Dear old garden, such as one rarely sees nowadays, I would give the finest modern pleasure-ground for the like of thee. This was what John's garden became. Its every inch and every flower still live in more memories than mine, and will for a generation yet. But I am speaking of it when it was young, like its gardeners. These were Mrs. Halifax and her husband, Jem and Jenny. The master could not do much. He had long, long hours in his business. But I used to watch Ursula morning after morning, superintending her domain with her faithful attendant, Jem. Jem adored his misses. Or else, when it was hot noon, I used to lie in their cool parlor and listen to her voice and step about the house, teaching Jenny or learning from her, for the young gentlewoman had so much to learn and was not ashamed of it either. She laughed at her own mistakes and tried again, and never was idle or dull for a minute. She did a great deal in the house herself. Often she would sit chatting with me, having on her lap a coarse-brown pan shelling peas, slicing beans, picking gooseberries. Her fingers, Miss March's fair fingers, looked fairer for the contrast with their unaccustomed work. Or else, in the summer evenings, she would be at the window sewing, always sewing, but so placed that with one glance she could see down the street where John was coming. Far, far off she always saw him, and at the sight her whole face would change and brighten, like a meadow when the sun comes out. Then she ran to open the door, and I could hear his lobe, my darling, and a long, long pause in the hall. They were very, very happy in those early days, those quiet days of poverty, when they visited nobody and nobody visited them, when their whole world was bound by the dark old house and garden, with its four high walls. One July night, I remember, John and I were walking up and down the paths by starlight. It was very hot weather, inclining one to stay without doors half the night. Ursula had been with us a good while, strolling about on her husband's arm. Then he had sent her into rest, and we two remained out together. How soft they were, those faint, misty summer stars! What a mysterious, perfumey haze they let fall over us! A haze through which, all around, seemed melting away in delicious intangible sweetness, in which the very sky above our heads, the shining, world-be-sprinkled sky, was a thing felt rather than seen. How strange all seems, how unreal, said John in a low voice, when he had walked the length of the garden in silence. Phineas, how very strange it seems! What seems? What? Oh, everything! He hesitated a minute. No, not everything, but something which to me seems now to fill and be mixed up with all I do or think or feel. Something you do not know, but to-night Ursula said I might tell you. Nevertheless, he was several minutes before he told me. This pear-tree is full of fruit, is it not? How thick they hang, and yet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and I were standing here trying to count the blossoms. He stopped, touching a branch with his hand. His voice sank, so I could hardly hear it. Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare, we shall, if with God's blessing all goes well, we shall have a little child? I wrung his hand in silence. You cannot imagine how strange it feels. A child, hers and mine, little feet to go pattering about our house. A little voice to say, think, that by Christmas time I shall be a father. He sat down on the garden bench and did not speak for a long time. I wonder, he said at last, if when I was born my father was as young as I am, whether he felt as I do now. You cannot think what an awful joy it is to be looking forward to a child, a little soul of God's giving, to be made fit for his eternity. How shall we do it? We that are both so ignorant, so young, she will only be just nineteen when, please God, her baby is born. Sometimes of an evening we sit for hours on this bench, she and I, talking of what we ought to do, and how we ought to rear the little thing until we fall into silence, odd at the blessing that is coming to us. God will help you both and make you wise. We trust he will, and then we are not afraid. A little while longer I sat by John's side, catching the dim outline of his face, half uplifted, looking towards those myriad worlds, which we are taught to believe and do believe are not more precious in the Almighty's sight than one living human soul. But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the thoughts which, in the holy hush of that summer night, had risen out of the deep of his heart, and though after this time they never again formed themselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope or joy or fear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by me. In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little one came. It was a girl. I think they had wished for a son, but they forgot all about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby, at least all the women kind said so, from Mrs. Jessup down to J.L., who left our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs. Halifax's, exhibiting to Albie Holder's, the mass of white draperies, with the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehemently declared was the very image of its father. For that young father, but I, what can I say? How should I tell of the joy of a man over his first born? I did not see John till a day afterwards, when he came into our house, calm, happy smiling. But J.L. told me that when she first placed his baby in his arms, he had wept like a child. The little maiden grew with the snow drops. Winter might have dropped her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, and pure-looking was she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young baby before, but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seemed to have a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy from the time her weak old fingers, with their tiny pink nails, a ludicrous picture of her father's hand in little, made me smile as they closed over mine. She was named Muriel, after the rather peculiar name of John's mother. Her own mother would have it so, only wishing out of her full heart, happy one, that there should be a slight alteration made in the second name. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy, Muriel Joy Halifax. That name, beautiful, sacred, and never to be forgotten among us, I write it now with tears. In December 1804 she was born, our Muriel, and on February 9th, alas, I have need to remember the date. She formally received her name. We all dined at John's house, Dr. and Mrs. Jessup, my father and I. It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but his own for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked and untreated, he only shook his head. But just when we were all sitting down to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, and her lips dimpling with a housewifely delight, that everything was so nice and neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure, and there in the doorway stood my father. His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth shaven face, withered but of a pale brown still. The stainless white kerchief, supporting his large chin, his quakers had in one hand his stick in the other, looking in at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his mouth. Thus he stood, thus I see thee, O my dear old father. The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough. He only said, I thank thee, John, I thank thee, Ursula, and took his place beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his mind and come. Simple as the dinner was, simple as befitted those who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries, though there were no ornaments save the center-nose-gay of Larustinus and white Christmas roses, I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a nobler feast. Afterwards we drew merrily around the fire, or watched outside the window the thickly falling snow. It has not snowed these two months, said John, never since the day our little girl was born. And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid upstairs sent up a cry, that unmistakable child's cry which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household. My father gave a start. He had never seen or expressed a wish to see John's daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the little helpless wail. Ursula rose and stole away. Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expression, then began to say something about going back to the tanyard. Do not, pray, do not leave us, John entreated. Ursula wants to show you our little lady. My father put out his hands in deprecation, or as if desiring to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still came faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coup of pleasure like a wood dove in its nest. Every mother knows the sound. And then Mrs. Halifax entered, holding in her arms her little winter flower, her baby daughter. Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her, closed his eyes against both, and looked no more. Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the general admiration of her treasure. She might welcome in a snowstorm, said Mrs. Jessup, taking the child. She is just like snow, so soft and white. And as soundless, she hardly ever cries. She just lies in this way half the day over, cooing quietly with her eyes shut. There she has caught your dress fast. Now was there ever a two-months-old baby so quick at noticing things? And she does it all with her fingers. She touches everything. Ah, take care, doctor! The mother added reproachfully at a loud slam of the door, which made the baby tremble all over. I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds, said John, as he began talking to it and soothing it. How strange it was to see him! And yet it seemed quite natural already. I think even now she knows the difference between her mother's voice and mine, and any sudden noise always startles her in this way. She must have astonishingly quick hearing, said the doctor, slightly annoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of something else, showed Muriel's eyelashes very long for such a baby, and discounted on the color of her eyes that fruitful and never-ending theme of mothers and friends. I think they are like her father's, yes, certainly like her father's. But we have not many opportunities for judging, for she is such a lazy young damsel, she hardly ever opens them. We should often fancy her asleep, but for that little soft coup. And then she will wake up all of a sudden. There now, do you see her? Come to the window, my beauty, and show Dr. Jessup your Bonnie brown eyes. They were Bonnie eyes, lovely in shape and color, delicately fringed. But there was something strange in their expression, or rather in their want of it. Many babies have a round vacant stare, but this was no stare, only a wide, full look, a look of quiet blankness, an unseeing look. It caught Dr. Jessup's notice. I saw his era vexed dignity change into a certain anxiety. Well, who's are they like? Her father's or mine. His, I hope, it will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we'll excuse all compliments. I can't exactly tell. I could judge better by candlelight. We'll have candles. No, no, had we not better put it off altogether till another day, I'll call in to-morrow and look at her eyes. His manner was hesitating and troubled. John noticed it. Love, give her to me. Go and get us lights, will you? When she was gone, John took his baby to the window, gazed long and intently into her little face, then at Dr. Jessup. Do you think, no, it's not possible, that there can be anything the matter with the child's eyes? Ursula coming in heard the last words. What was that you said about baby's eyes? No one answered her. All were gathered in a group at the window. The child, being held on her father's lap, while Dr. Jessup was trying to open the small white lids, kept so continually closed. At last the baby uttered a little cry of pain. The mother darted forward and clasped it almost savagely to her breast. I will not have my baby hurt. There is nothing wrong with her sweet eyes. Go away, you shall not touch her, John. Love, she melted at that low, fond word, leaning against his shoulder, trying to control her tears. It shocked me so. The bear thought of such a thing. Oh, husband, don't let her be looked at again. Only once again, my darling, it is best. Then we shall be quite satisfied. Beneus, give me the candle. The words, caressing and by a strong constraint made Kalman soothing, were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, but let him take Muriel, little unconscious, cooing dove. Lulled by her father's voice, she once more opened her eyes wide. Dr. Jessup passed the candle before them many times, once so close that it almost touched her face. But the full, quiet eyes never blenched nor closed. He set the light down. Doctor, whispered the father in a wild appeal against, I it was against certainty. He snatched the candle and tried the experiment himself. She does not see at all. Can she be blind? Born blind. Yes, those pretty baby eyes were dark, quite dark. There was nothing painful or unnatural in their look, save perhaps the blankness of gaze which I have before noticed. Outwardly, their organization was perfect, but in the fine inner mechanism was something wrong, something wanting. She never had seen, never would see in this world. Blind, the word was uttered softly, hardly above a breath, yet the mother heard it. She pushed everyone aside and took the child herself. Herself, with a desperate incredulity, she looked into those eyes which never could look back either her agony or her love, poor mother. John, John, oh John! The name rising into a cry as if he could surely help her. He came and took her in his arms, took both wife and babe. She laid her head on his shoulder in bitter weeping. Oh John, it is so hard, our pretty one, our own little child. John did not speak, but only held her to him, close and fast. When she was a little calmer, he whispered to her the comfort, the sole comfort even her husband could give her through whose will it was that this affliction came. And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to her, poor Pat, said Mrs. Jessup as she wiped her friendly eyes. She will not miss what she never knew. She may be a happy little child. Look how she lies and smiles. But the mother could not take that consolation yet. She walked to and fro and stood rocking her baby, mute indeed, but with tears falling in showers. Gradually her anguish wept itself away, or was smothered down lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on her breast. Someone came behind her and placed her in the armchair gently. It was my father. He sat down by her, taking her hand. Grieved not, Ursula, I had a little brother who was blind. He was the happiest creature I ever knew. My father sighed. We all marveled to see the wonderful softness, even tenderness, which had come into him. Give me thy child for a minute. Ursula layed it across his knees. He put his hand solemnly on the baby breast. God bless this little one. I and she shall be blessed. Thede's words, spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic benediction of the parting patriarchs of old, struck us all. We looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon her, as if the mysterious touch, which had scaled up her eyes forever, had left on her a sanctity, like as of one who had been touched by the finger of God. Now children, I must go home, said my father. They did not detain us. It was indeed best that the poor young parents should be left alone. Will you come again soon? Begged Ursula, tenderly clasping the hand, which he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured, God bless thee. Perhaps we never know. Be a good wife to thy husband, my girl. And John, never be thou harsh to her, nor too hard upon her little failings. She is but young, but young. He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of another than Ursula. As we walked down the street, he spoke to me only once or twice, and then of things which startled me by their strangeness, things which had happened a long time ago, sayings and doings of mine in my childhood, which I had not the least idea he had either known of or remembered. When we got indoors, I asked if I should come and sit with him until his bedtime. No, no, thee looks tired, and I have a business letter to write. Better go to thy bed as usual. I bade him good night, and was going when he called me back. How old are thee, Phineas, 24 or five? 25, father. Hey, so much? He put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me kindly, even tenderly. The art but weakly still, but thee must pick up and live to be as old a man as thy father. Good night, God be with thee, my son. I left him, I was happy, once I had never expected my old father and I would have got on together so well or loved one another so dearly. In the middle of the night, J.L. came into my room and sat down on my bed's foot, looking at me. I had been dreaming strangely about my own childish days and about my father and mother when we were young. What J.L. told me by slow degrees and as tenderly as when she was my nurse years ago seemed at first so unreal as to be like a part of the dream. At 10 o'clock when she locked up the house she had come as usual to the parlor door to tell my father it was bedtime. He did not answer, being sitting with his back to the door, apparently busy writing, so she went away. Half an hour afterwards she came again. He sat there still, he had not moved. One hand supported his head, the other the fingers stiffly holding the pen lay on the table. He seemed intently gazing on what he had written, it ran thus. Good friend, tomorrow I shall be. But there the hand had stopped, forever. Oh dear father, on that tomorrow thou wert with God. End of chapter 21. Chapter 22 of John Hallifax, gentlemen. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by David Barnes. John Hallifax, gentlemen, by Diana Craig. Chapter 22. It was the year 1812. I had lived for 10 years as a brother in my adopted brother's house, wither he had brought me on the day of my father's funeral and treating that I should never leave it again. For, as was shortly afterwards made clear, fate, say, providence, was now inevitably releasing him from a bond from which, so long as my poor father lived, John would never have released himself. It was discovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merely nominal, that of necessity for the support of our two families, the tanyard must be sold and the business confined entirely to the flour mill. At this crisis, as if the change of all things broke her stout old heart, which never could bend to any new ways, jail died. We laid her at my father's and mother's feet, poor old jail, and that graveyard in St. Mary's Lane now covered over all who loved me, all who were of my youth day, my very own. So thought I, or might have thought, but that John and Ursula then demanded with one voice, Brother, come home. I resisted long, for it is one of my decided opinions that married people ought to have no one be the tie ever so close and dear living permanently with them to break the sacred duality, no, let me say, the unity of their home. I wish to try and work for my living if that were possible. If not, that out of the wreck of my father's trade might be found enough to keep me in some poor way. But John Halifax would not hear of that, and Ursula, she was sitting sowing while the little one lay on her lap, cooing softly with shut eyes. Ursula took my hand to play with murals. The baby's fingers closed over mine. See there, Phineas, she wants you too. So I stayed. Perhaps it was on this account that better than all his other children, better than anything on earth except himself, I loved John's eldest daughter, little blind Muriel. He had several children now. The dark old house and the square town garden were alive with their voices from morning till night. First, and loudest always, was Guy, born the year after Muriel. He was very like his mother and her darling. After him came two more, Edwin and Walter, but Muriel still remained as sister, the only sister either given or desired. If I could find a name to describe that child, it would be not the one her happy mother gave her at her birth, but one more sacred, more tender. She was better than joy. She was an embodied peace. Her motions were slow and tranquil, her voice soft, every expression of her little face extraordinarily serene, with a creeping about the house, with a footfall silent as snow or sitting among us, either knitting busily at her father's knee or listening to his talk and the children's play. Everywhere and always Muriel was the same. No one ever saw her angry, restless or sad. The soft, dark calm in which she lived seemed never broken by the troubles of this, our troublesome world. She was, as I have said, from her very babyhood, a living peace, and such she was to us all during those 10 struggling years when our household had much to contend with, much to endure. If at night her father came home jaded and worn, sickened to the soul by the hard battle he had to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Muriel would come softly and creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. If busying herself about doing faithfully her portion too, that the husband, when he came in of evenings, might find all cheerful, and never know how heavy had been the household cares during the day, if at times Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone, at sight of Muriel it softened at once. No one could speak any but soft and sweet words when the blind child was by. Yet I think either parent would have looked amazed had anyone pitted them for having a blind child. The loss, a loss only to them and not to her, the darling, became familiar and ceased to wound. The blessedness was ever new. I, and she shall be blessed, had said my dear father. So she was. From her, or for her, her parents never had to endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of infancy and childhood, of which the three others had their natural share, always passed her by, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel. The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our family. Scarlet fever went through the house, safely but leaving much care behind. When at last they all came round and we were able to gather our pale little flock to a garden feast under the big old pear-tree, it was with the trembling thankfulness of those who have gone through great perils, hardly dared to be recognized as such till they were over. I thank God it is over, said John, as he put his arm round his wife and looked in her worn face, where still her own smile lingered, her bright, brave smile, that nothing could ever drive away. And now we must try and make a little holiday for you. Nonsense! I'm as well as possible. Did not Dr. Jessup tell me this morning I was looking younger than ever? I, a mother of a family, thirty years old, pray, Uncle Phineas, do I look my age? I could not say that she did not, especially now, but she wore it so gracefully, so carelessly that I saw, I and truly her husband saw, a sacred beauty about her jaded cheek, more lovely and lovable than all the bloom of her youth. Happy woman, who was not afraid of growing old. Love, John usually called her love, putting at the beginning of a sentence as if it had been her natural Christian name, which, as in all infant households, had been gradually dropped or merged into the universal title of mother. My name for her was always emphatically the mother, the truest type of motherhood I ever knew. Love, her husband began again, after a long look in her face. Ah, John, Thine was altered too, but himself was the last thing he thought of. Say what you like, I know what we'll do, for the children's sake. Ah, that's her weak point, see, Phineas, she's yielding now. We'll go for three months to Longfield. Now Longfield was the utopia of our family, old and young. A very simple family we must have been for this Longfield was only a small farmhouse, about six miles off, where once we had been to tea, and wherever since we had longed to live. For pretty as our own domain had grown, it was still in the middle of a town, and the children, like all naturally reared children, craved after the freedom of the country, after cornfields, hayfields, nuttings, blackberryings, delights hitherto known only at rare intervals when their father could spare a whole long day, and be at once the son and the shield of the happy little band. Parking children, father says we shall go for three whole months to live at Longfield. The three boys set up a shout of ecstasy. I'll swim boats down the stream, and catch and ride every one of the horses, hurrah, shouted Guy. And I'll see after the ducks and chickens, and watch all the threshing and winnowing, said Edwin, the practical and grave. And I'll get a equal am to play with me, lisped Walter, still the baby, or considered such and petted accordingly. But what does my little daughter say, said the father, turning, as he always turned, at the slightest touch of those soft blind fingers, creeping along his coat sleeve. What will Muriel do at Longfield? Muriel will sit all day and hear the birds sing. So she shall my blessing. He often called her his blessing, which in truth she was. To see her now leaning her cheek against his, the small, soft face, almost a miniature of his own, the hair, a paler shade of the same bright color, curling in the same elastic rings. They looked less like ordinary father and daughter than like a man and his good angel, the visible embodiment of the best half of his soul. So she was ever to him, this child of his youth, his firstborn and his dearest. The Longfield plan, once being started, father and mother and I began to consult together as to ways and means, what should be given up and what increased of our absolute luxuries in order that the children might this summer, possibly every summer, have the glory of living in the country. Of these domestic consultations there was never any dread, for they were always held in public. There were no secrets in our house. Father and mother, though sometimes holding different opinions, had but one thought, one aim, the family good. Thus, even in our lowest estate, there had been no bitterness in our poverty. We met it, looked it in the face, often even laughed at it, for it bound us all together, hand in hand. It taught us endurance, self-dependence, and best of all lessons, self-renunciation. I think one's whole afterlife is made easier and more blessed by having known what it was to be very poor when one was young. Our fortunes were rising now and any little pleasure did not take near so much contrivance. We found we could manage the Longfield visit, I and a horse for John to ride to and fro, without any worse sacrifice than that of leaving Jenny, now Mrs. Jem Watkins, but how Cook still, in the house at Nortonbury, and doing with one servant instead of two. Also, though this was not publicly known till afterwards, by the mothers renouncing a long-promised silk dress, the only one since her marriage, in which she had determined to astonish John by choosing the same colour as that identical grey gown he had seen hanging up in the kitchen at Enderley. But one would give up anything, she said, that the children might have such a treat and that father might have rides backwards and forwards through green lanes all summer. Oh, how I wish we could always live in the country. Do you? And John looked, much as he had looked at long-tailed grey ponies in his bridegroom days, longing to give her everything she desired. Well, perhaps we may manage it some time. When our ship comes in, namely, that money which Richard Brithwood will not pay, and John Halifax will not go to law to make him, nay, Father dear, I am not going to quarrel with any one of your crotchets. She spoke with fond pride, as she did always, even when arguing against the two quick-sotic carrying out of the said crotchets. Perhaps, as the reward of forbearance, the money will come some day when we least expect it. Then John shall have his heart's desire and start the cloth mills at Enderley. John smiled, half sadly. Every man has a hobby. This was his, and had been for fifteen years, not merely the making of fortune, since he still firmly believed it could be made, but the position of useful power, the wide range of influence, the infinite opportunities of doing good. No, love, I shall never be patriarch of the valley, as Phineas used to call it. The U-Hedge is too thick for me, eh, Phineas? No, cried Ursula. We had told her this little incident of our boyhood. You have got half through it already. Everybody in Nortonbury knows and respects you. I'm sure, Phineas, you might have heard a pinfall at the meeting last night when he spoke against hanging the Luddites, and such a shout as rose when he ended. Oh, how proud I was! Of the shout, love? Nonsense, but of the cause of it. Proud to see my husband defending the poor and the oppressed, proud to see him honoured and looked up to, more and more every year, till, till it may come at last to the prophecy in your birthday verse, her husband is known in the gates, he sitteth among the elders of the land. Mrs. Halifax laughed at me for reminding her of this, but allowed that she would not dislike its being fulfilled. And it will be, too. He is already known in the gates, known far and near. Think how many of our neighbours come to John to settle their differences instead of going to law, and how many poachers has he not persuaded out of their dishonest illegal, corrected John, well, their illegal ways and made decent respectable men of them. Then see how he is consulted and his opinion followed by rich folk as well as poor folk all around the neighbourhood. I'm sure John is as popular and has as much influence as many a member of Parliament. John smiled with an amused twitch about his mouth, but he said nothing. He rarely did say anything about himself, not even in his own household. The glory of his life was its unconsciousness. Like our own silent seven, however broad and grand its course might be, that course seemed the natural channel into which it flowed. There's Muriel, said the father, listening. Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard all over the house the sweet sound of Muriel's voice, as someone had called the old harpsichord. When almost a baby she would feel her way to it, and find out first harmonies then tunes with that quickness and delicacy of ear peculiar to the blind. How well she plays! I wish I could buy her one of those new instruments they call piano fortes. I was looking into the mechanism of one the other day. She would like an organ better. You should have seen her face in the Abbey Church this morning. Hark! she has stopped playing. Guy, run and bring your sister here, said the father, ever yearning after his daughter. Guy came back with a wonderful story of two gentlemen in the parlour, one of whom had patted his head. Such a grand gentleman, a great deal grander than father. That was true, as regarded the bright ranquins, the blue coat with gold buttons, and the showiest of cambrick kerchiefs, swathing him up to the very chin. To this grand personage, John bowed formally, but his wife flushed up in surprised recognition. It is so long since I had the happiness of meeting Miss March that I conclude Mrs. Halifax has forgotten me. No, Lord Luxmore, allow me to introduce my husband. And, I fancied, some of Miss March's old hauteur, returned to the mother's softened, and motherly mean, pride, but not for herself or in herself now, for truly, as the two men stood together, though Lord Luxmore had been handsome in his youth, and was universally said to have as fine manners as the Prince Regent himself, any woman might well have held her head loftily, introducing John Halifax as my husband. Of the two, the nobleman was least at his ease, for the welcome of both Mr. and Mrs. Halifax, though courteous, was decidedly cold. They did not seem to feel, and if rumour spoke true, I doubt, if any honest, virtuous middle-class fathers and mothers would have felt, that their house was greatly honoured or sanctified by the presence of the Earl of Luxmore. But the nobleman was, as I have said, wonderfully fine mannered. He broke the ice at once. Mr. Halifax, I have long wished to know you. Mrs. Halifax, my daughter, encouraged me to pay this impromptu visit. Here ensued, polite inquiries after Lady Caroline Brithwood. We learned that she had just returned from abroad, and was entertaining at the Mithe House, her father and brother. And pardon, I was forgetting my son, Lord Ravenel. The youth thus presented merely bowed. He was about eighteen or so, tall and square, with thin features and large, soft eyes. He soon retreated to the garden door, where he stood, watching the boys play, and shyly attempting to make friends with Muriel. I believe Ravenel has seen you years ago, Mrs. Halifax. His sister made a great pet of him as a child. He has just completed his education at the College of St. Homer, was it not, William? The Catholic College of St. Homer, repeated the boy. Tut, what matters, said the father sharply. Mr. Halifax, do not imagine we are a Catholic family still. I hope the next Earl of Luxmore will be able to take his oath and his seat, whether or no we get emancipation. By the way, you uphold the bill? John assented, expressing his conviction, then unhappily a rare one, that everyone's conscience is free, and that all men of blameless life ought to be protected by, and allowed to serve, the state, whatever be their religious opinions. Mr. Halifax, I entirely agree with you. A wise man esteems all faiths alike worthless. Excuse me, my lord. That was the very last thing I meant to say. I hold every man's faith so sacred that no other man has a right to interfere with it, or to question it. The matter lies solely between himself and his maker. Exactly. What facility of expression your husband has, Mrs. Halifax. He must be, indeed I have heard, he is, a first-rate public speaker. The wife smiled, wife-like, but John said, horribly, I have no pretension or ambition of the kind. I merely now and then try to put plain truths, or what I believe to be such, before the people, in a form they are able to understand. Aye, that is it. My dear sir, the people have no more brains than the head of my cane. His royal highness's gift, Mrs. Halifax, they must be led or driven like a flock of sheep. We, a lordly we, are their proper shepherds, but then we want a middle-class, at least, an occasional voice from it. A shepherd's dog, to give tongue, said John dryly, in short, a public orator. In the house, or out of it? Both! And the earl tapped his foot with that royal cane, smiling, yes, I see you apprehend me, but before we commence that somewhat delicate subject, there was another on which I desired my agent, Mr. Brown, to obtain your valuable opinion. You mean, when yesterday he offered me by your lordship's express desire, the lease, lately fallen in, of your cloth mills at Enderley? Now John had not told us that. Why, his manner too plainly showed. And all will be arranged, I trust. Brown says that you have long wished to take the mills. I shall be most happy to have you for a tenant. My lord, as I told your agent, it is impossible. We will say no more about it. John crossed over to his wife with a cheerful air. She sat looking grave and sad. Lord Luxmore had the reputation of being a keen-witted diplomatic personage. Undoubtedly he had, or could assume, that winning charm of manner which had descended in perfection to his daughter. Both qualities it pleased him to exercise now. He rose, addressing with kindly frankness the husband and wife. If I may ask, being a most sincere well-wisher of yours and a sort of connection of Mrs. Halifax's too, why is it impossible? I have no wish to disguise the reason. It is because I have no capital. Lord Luxmore looked surprised. Surely, excuse me, but I had the honour of being well acquainted with the late Mr. March. Surely your wife's fortune, Ursula rose in her old, impetuous way. His wife's fortune! John, let me say it, I will, I must. Of his wife's fortune, Lord Luxmore, he has never received one farthing. Richard Berthwood keeps it back, and my husband would work day and night for me and our children rather than go to law. Oh, on principle, I suppose. I have heard of such opinions, said the Earl, with the slightest perceptible sneer. And you agree with him? I do, heartily. I would rather we live poor all our days than he should wear his life out, trouble his spirit, perhaps even soil his conscience by squabbling with a bad man over money matters. It was good to see Ursula, as she spoke, good to see the look that husband and his wife exchanged. Husband and wife, different in many points, yet so blessedly, so safely, won. Then John said, in his quiet way, love, perhaps another subject than our own affairs, would be more interesting to Lord Luxmore. Not at all, not at all. And the Earl was evidently puzzled and annoyed. Such extraordinary conduct, he muttered, so very unwise. If the matter were known caught up by those newspapers, I must really have a little conversation with Brithwood. The conversation paused, and John changed it entirely by making some remarks on the present minister, Mr. Percival. I liked his last speech much. He seems a clear-headed honest man for all his dogged opposition to the bill. He will never oppose it more. And nay, I think he will, my lord, to the death. Hm, that may be, and yet his lordship smiled. And, Mr. Halifax, I have just had news by a carrier pigeon, and my birds fly well. Most important news for us and our party. Yesterday, in the lobby of the House of Commons, Mr. Percival was shot. We all started. An hour ago, we had been reading his speech. Mr. Percival, shot! Ah, John, cried the mother, her eyes full of tears, his poor wife, his fatherless children. And for many minutes they stood, hearing the lamentable history, and looking at their little ones at play in the garden, thinking, as many an English father and mother did that day, of the stately house in London, where the widow and orphans bewailed their dead. He might or might not be a great statesman, but he was undoubtedly a good man. Many still remember the shock of his untimely death, and how, whether or not they liked him living, all the honest hearts of England mourned for Mr. Percival. Possibly that number did not include the Earl of Luxembourg. Requeerscat in Pache, I shall propose the canonisation of poor Bellingham. For now Percival is dead, there will be an immediate election, and on that election depends Catholic emancipation. Mr. Halifax, turning quickly round to him, you would be of great use to us in Parliament. Should I? Will you? I like plain speaking. Will you enter it? Enter Parliament. John Halifax in Parliament. His wife and I were both astounded by the suddenness of the possibility, which, however, John himself seemed to receive as no novel idea. Lord Luxembourg continued, I assure you nothing is more easy. I can bring you in at once for a borough near here, my family borough, which you wish to be held by some convenient person till Lord Ravenel comes of age, so Mr. Brown informed me yesterday. Lord Luxembourg slightly frowned. Such transactions, as common then in the service of the country as they still are in the service of the church, were yet generally glossed over, as if a certain discredit attached to them. The young Lord seemed to feel it, but sound of his name he turned round to listen and turned back again, blushing scarlet. Not so the earl his father. Brown is, may I offer you a pinch, Mr. Halifax, what, not the Prince Regent's own mixture, is indeed a worthy fellow, but too hasty in his conclusions. As it happens, my son is yet undecided between the church, that is the priesthood, and politics, but to our conversation, Mrs. Halifax, may I not enlist you on our side? We could easily remove all difficulties, such as qualification, et cetera. Would you not like to see your husband member for the old and honorable borough of Kingswell? Kingswell. It was a tumble down village where John held and managed for me the sole remnant of landed property which my poor father had left me. Kingswell. Why, there are not a dozen houses in the place. The fewer the better, my dear madam. The election would cost me scarcely any trouble, and the country be vastly the gainer by your husband's talents and probity. Of course, he will give up the, I forget what his business is now, and live independent. He is made to shine as a politician. It will be both happiness and honor to myself to have in some way contributed to that end. Mr. Halifax, you will accept my borough? Not on any consideration your lordship could offer me. Lord Luxmore scarcely credited his ears. My dear sir, you are the most extraordinary. May I again inquire your reasons? I have several. One will suffice. Though I wish to gain influence, power, perhaps. Still, the last thing I should desire would be political influence. You might possibly escape that unwelcome possession, return the earl. Half the commons is made up of harmless dummies who vote as we bid them. A character, my lord, for which I am decidedly unfitted, until political conscience ceases to be a thing of traffic, until the people are allowed honestly to choose their own honest representatives, I must decline being of that number. Shall we dismiss the subject? With pleasure, sir. And courtesy being met by courtesy, the question so momentous was passed over and merged into trivialities. Perhaps the earl, who, as his pleasures pawled, was understood to be fixing his keen wits upon the pet profligacy of old age, politics, saw clearly enough that in these chaotic days of contending parties, when the maddened outcry of the people was just being heard and listened to, it might be as well not to make an enemy of this young man, who, with a few more, stood as it were midway in the gulf, now slowly beginning to narrow, between the commonality and the aristocracy. He stayed some time longer and then bowed himself away with a gracious condescension worthy of the Prince of Wales himself, carrying with him the shy, gentle Lord Ravenel, who had spoken scarcely six words the whole time. When he was gone, the father and mother seemed both relieved. Truly, John, he's gained little by his visit, and I hope it may be long before we see an earl in our quiet house again. Coming to dinner, my children. But his lordship had left an uncomfortable impression behind him. It lasted even until that quiet hour, often the quietest and happiest of our day, when, the children being all in bed, we elders closed in around the fire. Ursula and I sat there, longer alone than usual. John is late tonight, she said more than once, and I could see her start listening to every foot under the window, every touch at the doorbell, not stirring though. She knew his foot and his ring quite well always. There he is, we both said at once, much relieved, and John came in. Brightness always came in with him. Whatever cares he had without, and they were heavy enough, God knows, they always seemed to slip off the moment he entered his own door. And whatever slight cares we had at home, we put them aside, as they could not but be put aside, nay forgotten, at the sight of him. Well, Uncle Phineas, children all right, my darling? A fire, I'm glad of it. Truly tonight is as cold as November. John, if you have a weakness, it is for fire. You're a regular salamander. He laughed, warming his hands at the blaze. Yes, I would rather be hungry than cold any day. Love, our one extravagance, is certainly cold. A grand fire this, I do like it so. She called him foolish, but smoothed down with a quiet kiss the forehead he lifted up to her, as she stood beside him, looking as if she would any day have converted the whole house into fuel for his own private and particular benefit. Little ones all in bed, of course. Indeed, they would have lain awake half the night those naughty boys talking of Longfield. You never saw children so delighted. Are they? I thought the tone was rather sad, and that the father sat listening with less interest than usual to the pleasant little household chronicle, always wonderful and always new, which it was his custom to ask for and have, night after night when he came home, saying it was to him after his day's toil, like a babbling of green fields. Soon it stopped. John, dear, you're very tired. Rather, have you been very busy all day? Very busy. I understood, almost as well as his wife did, what those brief answers indicated. So, stealing away to the table, where guys blurred copybook and Edwin's astonishing edition sums were greatly in need of Uncle Phineas, I left the fireside corner to those two. Soon John settled himself in my easy chair, and then one saw how very weary he was, weary in body and soul alike, weary as we seldom beheld him. It went to my heart to watch the listless stretch of his large, strong frame, the sharp lines about his mouth, lines which ought not to have come there in his two and thirty years, and his eyes, they hardly looked like John's eyes, as they gazed in a sort of dull quietude, too anxious to be dreamy, into the red coals, and nowhere else. At last he roused himself and took up his wife's work. More little coats, love your always sowing. Mothers must, you know, and I think never did boys outgrow their things like our boys. It is pleasant, too, if only clothes did not wear out so fast. Ah, aside from the very depths of the father's heart. Not a bit too fast for my clever fingers, though, said Ursula quickly. Look, John, at this lovely braiding, but I'm not going to do any more of it. I shall certainly have no time to waste over fineries at Longfield. Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and laid it down again. After a pause, he said, should you be very much disappointed if we do not go to Longfield after all? Not go to Longfield? The involuntary exclamation showed how deep her longing had been, because I'm afraid. It is hard, I know, but I'm afraid we cannot manage it. Are you very sorry? Yes, she said frankly and truthfully, not so much for myself, but the children. Ah, the poor children. Ursula stitched away rapidly for some moments till the grieved look faded out of her face. Then she turned it all cheerful once more to her husband. Now, John, tell me, never mind about the children, tell me. He told her, as was his habit at all times, of some losses which had today befallen him, bad debts in his business, which would make it, if not impracticable, at least imprudent to enter on any new expenses that year. Nay, he must, if possible, retrench a little. Ursula listened without question, comment, or complaint. Is that all? She said at last, very gently. All. Then never mind, I do not. We will find some other pleasures for the children. We have so many pleasures, I, all of us. Husband, it is not so hard to give up this one. He said in a whisper, low almost as a lover's, I could give up anything in the world but them and thee. So, with a brief information to me at supper time, Uncle Phineas, did you hear? We cannot go to Longfield. The renunciation was made and the subject ended. For this year, at least, our Arcadian dream was over. But John's troubled looks did not pass away. It seemed as if this night, his long toil had come to that crisis when the strongest man breaks down or trembles within a hair's breadth of breaking down, conscious too, horribly conscious that if so, himself will be the least part of the universal ruin. His face was haggard, his movements irritable and restless. He started nervously at every sound. Sometimes, even a hasty word, an uneasiness about trifles, showed how strong was the effort he made at self-control. Ursula, usually by far the most quick tempered of the two, became tonight mild and patient. She neither watched nor questioned him, wise woman as she was. She only sat still, busying herself over her work, speaking now and then of little things, lest he should notice her anxiety about him. He did at last. Nay, I'm not ill, do not be afraid. Only my head aches, so let me lay it here as the children do. His wife made a place for it on her shoulder. There it rested, the poor, tired head, until gradually the hard and painful expression of the features relaxed, and it became John's own natural face, as quiet as any of the little faces on their pillows upstairs, when stoutless, slumber had long banished all anticipation of Longfield. At last he too fell asleep. Ursula held up her finger that I might not stir. The clock in the corner and the soft sobbing of the flame on the hearth were the only sounds in the parlour. She sewed on quietly to the end of her work, then let it drop on her lap and sat still. Her cheek leaned itself softly against John's hair, and in her eyes, which seemed so intently contemplating, the little frock, I saw large, bright tears gather, fall. But her look was serene, nay happy, as if she thought of these beloved ones, husband and children, her very own, preserved to her in health and peace. I, and in that which is better than either, the unity of love, for that priceless blessing, for the comfort of being his comfort, for the sweetness of bringing up these his children in the fear of God and in the honour of their father, she, true wife and mother as she was, would not have exchanged the wealth of the whole world. What's that? We all started, as a sudden ring at the bell peeled through the house, waking John and frightening the very children in their beds, all for a mere letter, too, brought by a lackey of Lord Luxmore's, having somewhat indignantly ascertained this fact, the mother ran upstairs to quiet her little ones. When she came down, John still stood with the letter in his hand. He had not told me what it was. When I chanced to ask, he answered in a low tone, presently. On his wife's entrance, he gave her the letter without a word. Well might it startled her into a cry of joy. Truly the dealings of heaven to us were wonderful. Mr. John Halifax, sir, your wife, Ursula Halifax, having some time since attained the age fixed by her late father as her majority, I will, within a month after date, pay over to your order, all moneys, principal and interest accruing to her, and hitherto left in my hands as trustee, according to the will of the late Henry March, Esquire. I am, sir, yours, et cetera, Richard Brithwood. Wonderful, wonderful! It was all I could say, that one bad man, for his own purposes, should influence another bad man to an act of justice, and that their double evil should be made to work out our good. Also, that this should come just in our time of need when John's strength seemed ready to fail. Oh, John, John, now you need not work so hard. That was his wife's first cry, as she clung to him almost in tears. He, too, was a good deal agitated. This sudden lifting of the burden made him feel how heavy it had been, how terrible the responsibility, how sickening the fear. Thank God! In any case, you are quite safe now, you and the children. He sat down, very pale. His wife knelt beside him and put her arms around his neck. I gently went out of the room. When I came in again, they were standing by the fireside, both cheerful, as two people to whom had happened such unexpected good fortune might naturally be expected to appear. I offered my congratulations in rather a comical vein than otherwise. We all of us had caught John's habit of putting things in a comical light whenever he felt them keenly. Yes, he's a rich man now. Mind you treat your brother with extra respect, Phineas. And your sister, too, for she shall walk in silk attire and siller, hey, to spare. She's quite young and handsome still, isn't she? How magnificent she'll look in that gray silk gown. John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you, the father of a family, you that are to be the largest mill owner in Enderley. He looked at her fondly, half deprecatingly, not till I have made you and the children all safe, as I said. We are safe, quite safe, when we have you. Oh, Phineas, make him see it as I do, make him understand that it will be the happiest day in his wife's life when she knows him happy in his heart's desire. We sat a little while longer, talking over the strange change in our fortunes, for they wished to make me feel that now, as ever, what was theirs was mine. Then Ursula took her candle to depart. Love, John cried, calling her back as she shut the door, and watching her stand there patient, watching with something of the old mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Mrs. Halifax, when shall I have the honor of ordering your long-tailed gray ponies? End of chapter 22. Chapter 23 of John Halifax, gentlemen. This is a Libbervox recording. All Libbervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libbervox.org, recording by Anna Simon. John Halifax, gentlemen, by Diana Craig. Chapter 23. Not many weeks afterwards, we went to live at Longfield, which henceforth became the family home for many years. Longfield, happy Longfield, little nest of love and joy and peace, where the children grew up and we grew old, where season after season brought some new change, ripening in us and around us, where summer and winter, day and night, the hand of God's providence was over our roof, blessing our goings out and our comings in, our basket and our stall, crowning us with the richest blessing of all that we were made a household where brethren dwelt together in unity. Beloved Longfield, my heart, slow pulsing as befits one near the grave, thrills warm and young as I remember thee. Yet how shall I describe it, the familiar spot, so familiar that it seems to need no description at all? It was but a small place when we first came there. It led out of the high road by a field gate, the white gate, from which a narrow path wound down to a stream, lands up a green slope to the house, a mere farmhouse, nothing more. It had one parlour, three decent bedrooms, kitchen and outhouses. We built extemporary chambers out of the barn and cheese room. In one of these, the boys, Guy and Edwin, slept against the low roof of which the father generally knocked his head every morning when he came to call the lads. Its windows were open all summer round and birds and bats used often times to fly in to the great delight of the youthful inmates. Another infinite pleasure to the little folk was that for the first year, the farmhouse kitchen was made our dining room. There, through the open door, Edwin's pigeons, murals, two doves, and sometimes a stately hen, walked in and out at pleasure. Whether our livestock brought up in a law of kindness, whereas well-trained and well-behaved as our children, I cannot tell. But certain it is that we never found any harm from this system, necessitated by our early straits at Longfield, this liberty, fraternity, and equality. Those words, in themselves, true and lovely, but rested to false meaning whose fatal sound was now dying out of Europe, merged in the equally false and fatal shout of, gloire, gloire, remind me of an event which I believe was the first that broke the delicious monotony of our new life. It was one September morning. Mrs. Halifax, the children and I, were down at the stream, planning a bridge across it, and a sort of stable where John's halls might be put up. The mother had steadily resisted the long-tailed grey ponies, for with all the necessary improvements at Longfield, with a large settlement that John insisted upon making on his wife and children, before he would use in his business any portion of her fortune. We found we were by no means so rich as to make any great change in our way of life advisable. And after all, the mother's best luxuries were to see her children merry and strong, her husband's face lightened of its care, and to know he was now placed beyond doubt in the position he had always longed for. For was he not this very day gone to sign the lease of Emily Mills? Mrs. Halifax had just looked at her watch, and she and I were wondering, with quite a childish pleasure, whether he were not now signing the important deed, when Guy came running to say a coach and four was trying to enter the white gate. Who could it be? But they must be stopped, or they'll spoil John's new gravel road that he takes such pride in. Uncle Phineas, what's your mind going to see? Who should I see, but almost the last person I expected, who had not been beheld, hardly spoken of, in our household these ten years? Lady Carolyn Brithwood, in her travelling habit of green cloth, her velvet riding-head, with its prints of whale's feathers, gaer than ever, though her pretty face was withering under the paint, and her lively manner growing coarse and bold. Is this Longfield? Just Mr. Halifax. Moon-gyr, Mr. Fletcher, is that you? She held out her hand with the frankest condescension, and in the brightest humour in the world. She insisted on sending on the carriage, and accompanying me down to the stream, for a surprise, a scene. Mrs. Halifax, seeing the coach drive on, had evidently forgotten all about it. She stood in a little dell which the stream had made, Walter in her arms, her figure thrown back, so as to poise the child's weight. Her right hand kept firm hold of Guy, who was peddling barefoot in the stream. Edwin, the only one of the boys who never gave any trouble, was soberly digging away beside little Muriel. The lady clapped her hands. Bravo, bravissima, a charming family picture, Mrs. Halifax! Lady Caroline. Ursula left her children, and came to greet her old acquaintance, whom she had never once seen since she was Ursula Halifax. Perhaps that fact touched her, and it was with a kind of involuntary tenderness that she looked into the sickly face, where all the smiles could not hide the wrinkles. It is many years since we met, and we're both somewhat altered, cousin Caroline. You are, with those three great boys, the little girl Ursula also? Oh yes, I remember William told me. Poor little thing. And with uneasy awe, she turned from our blind Muriel, our child of peace. Will you come up to the house? My husband is only ridden over to Annerley. He will be home soon. And glad to see me, I wonder, for I am rather afraid of that husband of yours. Hey, Ursula? Yet I should greatly like to stay. Ursula laughed, and repeated the welcome. She was so happy herself, she longed to distribute her happiness. They walked, the children following, towards the house. Under the great walnut tree, by the sunk fence, which guarded the flower garden from the sheep and cows, Mrs. Halifax stopped and pointed down the green slope of the field across the valley to the wooded hills opposite. Isn't that a pretty view? Said Guy, creeping up and touching the strangest gown. Our children had lived too much in an atmosphere of love to know either shyness or fear. Very pretty, my little friend. That's one tree hill. Father's going to take us all a walk there this afternoon. Do you like going walks with your father? Oh, don't we? An electric smile ran through the whole circle. It told enough of the blessed home tale. Lady Caroline laughed a sharp laugh. My dear, I see how things are. You don't regret having married John Halifax to the tenor. Regret? Nay, be not in patches. I always said he was a noble fellow. So does the Earl now. And William, you can't think what a hero your husband is to William. Lord Revenal? Aye, my little brother was growing a young man now, a frightful bigot, wanting to make our houses Catholic as when two or three of us lost our heads for King James. But he's a good boy. Poor William. I'd rather not talk about him. Ursula inquired courteously if her cousin Richard were well. Bah, I suppose he is. He's always well. His latest astonishing honesty to Mr. Halifax caused him a fit of gout. My name brought. If they meet, I suppose all things will be smooth between them. My husband never had any ill feeling to Mr. Brithwood. I should not bear him an undying enmity if he had. But you see, there's election time, and the Earl wishes to put in a gentleman, a friend of ours, for Kingswell. Mr. Halifax owns some culture there, huh? Mr. Fletcher does. My husband transacts business. Stop, stop! cried Lady Caroline. I don't understand business. I only know that they want your husband to be friendly with mine. Is this plain enough? Suddenly, be under no apprehension, Mr. Halifax never bears malice against anyone. Was this the reason of your visit, Lady Caroline? Ah, mon dieu, what would be coveous if we were all as straightforward as you, Mr. Ursula? But it sounds charming in the country. No, my dear, I am came. Nay, I hardly know why. Probably because I like to come. My usual reason for most actions. Is that your salamangé? Won't you ask me to dinner, ma cousine? Of course, the mother said, though I fancied afterwards, the invitation rather weighed upon her mind, probably from the doubt whether or no John would like it. But in little things, as in great, she had always this safe trust in him, that conscientiously to do what she felt to be right was the surest way to be right in her husband's eyes. So Lady Caroline was our guest for the day, a novel guest, but she made herself at once familiar and pleasant. Guy, a little gentleman from his cradle, installed himself her admiring night attendant everywhere. Adrin brought her to see his pigeons. Walter, with sweet shy blushes, offered her a little flower. And the three, as the greatest of all favours, insisted on escorting her to pay a visit to the beautiful cove not a week old. Laughing, she followed the boys, telling them how lately in Sicily she'd been presented to a week old prince, son of Louis Philippe, the young Duke of Orléans, and the princess Marie Amélie. And truly, children, it was not half so pretty as your little calf. Ursula, I'm sick of court sometimes. I would turn shepherd as myself if we could find a tolerable Arcadia. Is there any Arcadia like home? Home. Her face expressed the utmost loathing, fear and scorn. I remembered hearing that the squire since his return from abroad had grown just like his father, was drunk every day and all day long. Is your husband altered, Ursula? He must be quite a young man still. Oh, what it is to be young. John looks much older, people say, but I don't see it. Arcadia again. Can such things be, especially in England, that paradise of husbands where the first husband in the realm set such an illustrious example? How do you stay at home British matrons feel towards my friend, the princess of Wales? God help her, and make her as good a woman as she is a wronged and miserable wife, said Ursula, sadly. Query, can a good woman be made out of a wronged and miserable wife? If so, Mrs. Halifax, you should certainly take out a patent for the manufacture. The subject touched too near home. Ursula wisely avoided it by inquiring if Lady Caroline meant to remain in England. So that they'll, she turned suddenly grave. Your fresh air makes me feel wary. Shall we go in, dolls? Dinner was ready laid out, a plain meal, since neither the father nor any of us cared for table dainties. But I think if we'd lived in a hut and fed off wooden platters on potatoes and salt, our repost would have been fair and orderly, and our hut the need is that a hut could be. For the mother of the family had in perfection almost the best genius a woman can have, the genius of tiredness. We were not in the least ashamed of our simple dinner table, where no difference was ever made for anybody. We had little plate, but plenty of snow-white napery, and pretty china, and the scents at the flower garden on one side, and the green waving of the elm tree on the other. It was as good as dining out of doors. The boys were still guarded round Lady Caroline in a little closet off the dining room where lessons were learned. Muriel sat as usual on the door sill, patting one of her doves that used a common perch on her head and her shoulder of their own accord, when I heard the child say to herself, Father's coming. Where, darling? Up the farmyard way. There, he's on the gravel walk. He has stopped. I daresay it is to pull some of the jasmine that grows over the well. Now fly away, dove. Father's here. And the next minute a general shout echoed. Father's here. He stood in the doorway, lifting one after the other up in his arms, having a kiss and a merry word for all, this good father. Oh, solemn name, which deity himself claims and owns. Happy these children, who in its fullest sense could understand the word father, to whom, from the dawn of the little lives, their father was what all fathers should be, the truest representative here on earth, of that father in heaven, who is at once justice, wisdom, and perfect love. Happy too, most blessed among women, the woman who gave her children such a father. Urschler came, for his eye was wandering in search of her, and received the embrace, without which he never left her or returned. All rightly settled, John? Quite settled. I'm so glad. With a second kiss, not often bestowed in public as congratulation. He was going to tell more, when Urschler said, rather hesitatingly, We have a visitor today. Lady Caroline came out of her corner, laughing. She did not expect me, I see. Am I welcome? Any welcome that Mrs. Halifax has given is also mine. But John's manner, though polite, was somewhat constrained, and he felt, as it seemed to my observant eye, more surprised than gratification in this incursion on his quiet home. Also, I noticed that when Lady Caroline, in the height of her condescension, would have Muriel close to her dinner, he involuntarily drew his little daughter to her accustomed place by sight himself. She always sits here, thank you. The table-talk was chiefly between a lady and her host. She rarely talked to women, when a man was to be had. Conversation veered between the Emperor Napoleon, and Lord Wellington, Lord William Benton, and Sardinian policy, the conjugal squabbles of Carleton House, and the one absorbing political question of this year, Catholic emancipation. You're a staunch supporter of the bill, my father says. Of course, you aid him in the King's election tomorrow. I can scarcely call it an election, return John. He had been commenting on it to us that morning rather severely. An election? It was merely a talk in the King's head parlor, a nomination, and show of hands by some dozen poor labourers, tenants of Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore, who got a few pounds apiece for their services, and the thing was done. Who is the nominee, Lady Caroline? A young gentleman of small fortune, but excellent parts, who returned with us from Naples. The lady's manner being rather more formal than she generally used, John looked up quickly. The election being tomorrow, of course his name is no secret, oh no, Vermilia, Mr. Gerard Vermilia, do you know him? I have heard of him. As he spoke, either intentionally or no, John looked full at Lady Caroline. She dropped her eyes and began playing with her bracelets. Both immediately quitted the subject of King's well election. Soon after we rose from table, and Guy, who at all dinner time fixed his admiring gaze upon the pretty lady, insisted on taking her down the garden and gathering for her a magnificent erum lily, the mother's favourite lily. I suggested gaining permission first, and was sent to ask the question. I found John and his wife in serious, even painful conversation. Love, he was saying, I've known it for a very long, but if she had not come here, I would never have grieved you by telling it. Perhaps it is not true, said Ursula warmly. The world is ready enough to invent cruel falsehoods about us women. Us women? Don't say that, Ursula. I will not have my wife named in the same breath with her. John? I will not, I say. You don't know what it cost me, even to see her touch her hand. John? The soft tone recalled him to his better self. Forgive me, but I would not have the least taint come near this wife of mine. I could not bear to think of her holding intercourse with a light woman. A woman false to her husband. I do not believe it. Caroline was foolish. She was never wicked. Listen, if this were true, how could she be laughing while our children now? Oh, John, think, she has no children. The deep pity passed from Ursula's heart to her husband's. John clasped fondly the two hands that were laid on his shoulders as, looking up in his face, the happy wife pleaded silently for one whom all the world knew was so wronged and so unhappy. We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a better Christian than I. All afternoon they both showed more than courtesy, kindness to this woman, as whom, as anyone out of our retired household would have known, and as John did know well. All the world was already pointing the finger on account of Mrs. Gerard Vermilia. She, on her part, with her chameleon power of seizing and sunning herself under the light of the moment, was in a state of the highest enjoyment. She turned shepherdess, fed the poultry with etwin, pulled off her jeweled ornaments, and gave them to wolves for playthings. Nay, she even washed off her rouge at their spring, and came in with faint natural roses upon her faded cheeks. So happy she seemed, so innocently, childishly happy, that more than once I saw John and Ursula exchange satisfied looks, rejoicing that they had followed after the divine charity which thinketh no evil. After tea we all turned out, as was our want on summer evenings, the children playing about, while the father and mother strolled up and down the sloping field-path, arm in arm like lovers, or sometimes he fondly leaning upon her. Thus they would walk and talk together in the twilight for hours. Lady Caroline pointed to them, Look! Adam and Eve modernised! Both is an filimon when they were young. Bon Dieu, what it is to be young! She said this in a gasp, as if wild with terror of the days that were coming upon her, the dark days. People are always young, I answered, who love one another as these do. Love, what an old-fashioned word! I hate it! It is so, what would you say in English, so déchirant! I would not cultivate une grande passion for the world! I smiled at the idea of the bond between Mr. and Mrs. Halifax taking the French-ified character of une grande passion. But home-love, married-love, love among children, and at the fire-side, you believe in that? She turned upon me her beautiful eyes. They had a scared look, like a bird driven right into the father's net. C'est impossible, impossible! The word hissed itself out between her shut teeth. Impossible! Then she walked quickly on, and was a lively self once more. When the evening closed and the younger children were gone to bed, she became rather restless about the non-appearance of her coach. At last a lackey arrived on foot. She angrily inquired why a carriage had not been sent for her. Marcia didn't give orders, my lady, answered the man somewhat rudely. Lady Caroline turned pale, with anger or fear, perhaps both. You have not properly answered your mistress's question, said Mr. Halifax. Master says so, begging my lady's pardon for repeating it, but he says, my lady went out against his will, and she may come home when and how she likes. My lady burst out laughing, and laughed violently and long. Tell him I will. Be sure you tell him I will. It is the last and the easiest obedience. John sent the lackey out of the room, and Ursula said something about not speaking thus before a servant. Before a servant? Why, my dear, we found it entertainment for our whole establishment, my husband and I. We are the myth, with the Prince Regent and the Princess of Wales are to the country at large. We divide our people between us. I fascinate. He bribes. Well done, Richard Brithwood. I may come home when and how I like. Truly I'll use that kind permission. Her eyes glittered with an evil fire. Her cheeks were hot and red. Mrs. Halifax, I shall be thrown on your hospitality for an hour or two longer. Could you send a letter for me? To your husband? Certainly. My husband? Never. Yes, to my husband. The first part of the sentence was full of fierce contempt. The letter smothered and slowly desperate. Tell me, Ursula, what constitutes a man once husband? Brutality, tyranny, the tyranny which the law sanctions? Or kindness, sympathy, devotion, everything that makes life beautiful, everything that constitutes happiness and sin? The word in her ear was so low that she started as if conscience only had asserted, conscience to whom only her intents were known. John came forward, speaking gravely but not unkindly. Lady Caroline, I am deeply grieve that this should have happened in my house, and through your visiting us against your husband's will. His will? Pardon me, but I think a wife is bound to the very last to obey in all things, not absolutely wrong her husband's will. I am glad you thought of writing to Mr. Brithwood. She shook her head in mocking denial. May I ask then, since I am to have the honor of sending it, to whom is this letter? To, I think she would have told a falsehood if John's eyes had not been so keenly fixed upon her. To a friend. Friends are at all times dangerous to a lady who hates her husband, especially male friends. Especially male friends. Here a guy who had lingered out of his little bed, most unlawfully, hovering about, ready to do any children's duty to his idol of the day, came up to bid her good night, and held up his rosy mouth, eagerly. I, kiss the little child, I! And from her violent laugh, till she burst into a passion of tears, the mother signed me to carry Guy away. She and John took Lady Caroline into the parlor and shut the door. Of course, I did not then learn what passed, but I did afterwards. Lady Caroline's tears were a-venicent, like all her emotions. Soon she became composed, asked again through writing materials, then countermanded the request. No, I will wait till to-morrow. Angela, you will take me in for the night. Mrs. Halifax looked appealingly to her husband, but he gave no assent. Lady Caroline, you should willingly stay, where it not, as you must know, so fatal a step. In your position, you should be most careful to leave the world and your husband no single handle against you. Mr. Halifax, what right have you? None save that of an honest man who sees a woman cruelly wronged and desperate with a wrong, who would thankfully save her if he could. Save me from what or whom? From Mr. Gerard Vermilia, who is now waiting down the road, and whom, if Lady Caroline Brithwood once flies to, or even sees, at this crisis, she loses her place among honourable English matrons for ever. John said this with no air of verges' anger or contempt, but as the simple statement of effect, the convicted woman dropped her face between her hands. Ursula, greatly shocked, was some time before she spoke. Is it true, Caroline? What is true? That which my husband has heard of you? Yes, she cried, springing up, and dashing back her beautiful hair, beautiful still, though she must have been five or six and thirty at least. Yes, it is true, it shall be true. I will break my bonds and live the life I was made for. I would have done it long ago, but for no matter. Why, Ursula, what is the matter? No matter. Why, Ursula, he adores me. Young and handsome as he is, he adores me. He will give me my youth back again. Aye, he will. And she sang out a French sans son, something about la liberté et ce plaisir, la jeunesse, l'amour. The mother grew sterner. Any such wife and mother would. Then and there, compassion might have died out of even her good heart, had it not been for the sudden noise over head of children's feet, children's chattering. Once more the pitiful thought came, she has no children. Caroline, she said, catching her gown as she passed. When I was with you, you had a child which only breathed and died. It died spotless. When you die, how dare you meet that little baby. The singing changed to sobbing. I had forgotten my little baby. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Mrs. Halifax, taking an urn's those meaningless friends, ejaculations, whispered something about him, who alone can comfort and help us all. Him? I never knew him, if indeed he be. No, no, there is no afterlife. Ursula turned away in horror. John, what shall we do with her? No home, no husband, no God. He never leaves himself without a witness. Look, love. The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro, weeping and wringing her hands. It was cruel, cruel. You should not have spoken about my baby. Now tell me just one word. I will not believe anybody's word except your own. Caroline, are you still innocent? Lady Caroline shrank from her touch. Don't hold me so. You may have one standard of virtue, I another. Still, tell me. And if I did, you, an honourable English matron, was not that your husband's word, would turn from me most likely. She will not, John said. She has been happy, and you most miserable. Oh, most miserable. That bitter groan went to both their hearts. Ursula leaned over her. Herself almost in tears. Cousin Caroline, John says true. I will not turn from you. I know you have been sinned against, cruelly, cruelly. Only tell me that you yourself have not sinned. I have sinned, she called it. Ursula started, drew closer to her husband, neither spoke. Mrs. Halifax, why don't you take away your hand? I, let me think. This is terrible. Oh, John! Again, Lady Caroline said, in a sharp bold tone, take away your hand. Husband, shall I? No. For some minutes they stood together, both silent, with this poor woman. I call her poor, as did they, knowing that if a sufferer needs pity, how tenfold more does a sinner. John spoke first. Cousin Caroline, she lifted up her head in amazement. We are your cousins. I wish to be your friends, my wife and I. Will you listen to us? She sobbed still, but less violently. Only first, you must promise to renounce forever guilt and disgrace. I feel it none. He's an honorable gentleman. He loves me, and I love him. That is the true marriage. No, I will make you no such promise. Let me go. Pardon me, not yet. I cannot suffer my wife's kinswoman to elope from my own house without trying to prevent it. Prevent, sir. Mr. Halifax, you forget who you are, and who I am, the daughter of the Earl of Luxmore. Were you the king's daughter, it would make no difference. I will save you in spite of yourself if I can. I've already spoken to Mr. Vermilion, and he's gone away. Gone away? The only living soul that loves me. Gone away? I must follow him. Quick! Quick! You cannot. He's miles distant by this time. He's afraid that this story should come out tomorrow at Kingswell, and to be an MP and save from arrest is better to Mr. Vermilion than even yourself, Lady Caroline. John's wife, unaccustomed to hear him take that cool, worldly, half-sarcastic tone, turned to him somewhat reproachfully, but he judged best. For the moment, this tone had more weight with the woman of the world than any homilies. She began to be afraid of Mr. Halifax. Impulse, rather than resolution, guided her, and even these impulses were feeble and easily governed. You sat down again, muttering, My will is free. You cannot control me. Only so far as my conscience justifies me in preventing a crime. A crime? It would be such. No sophistries of French philosophy on your part, no cruelty on your husbands, can abrogate the one law which, if you disown it as gods, is still man's, being necessary for the peace, honour, and safety of society. What law? Thou shalt not commit adultery. People do not often utter this plain Bible word. It made Ursula start, even when spoken sonnally by her own husband. It tore from the self-convicted woman all the sentimental disguises with which the world then hid and still hides its corruptions. Her sin arose and stared her blackly in the face, as sin. She cowered before it. Am I that? And William will know it. Poor William! She looked up at Ursula, for the first time with a guilty look. Hitherto, it had been only one of pain or despair. Nobody knows it except you. Don't tell William. I would have gone long ago, but for him, he's a good boy. Don't let him guess his sister was— She left the word unspoken. Shame seemed to crush her down to the earth. Shame, the precursor of saving penitence. At least, John thought so. He quitted the room, leaving her to the ministry of his other self, his wife. As he sat down with me, and told me in a few words what indeed had already more than half guessed, I could not but notice the expression of his own face. And I recognized how a man can be at once righteous to judge, tender to pity, and strong to save. A man, the principle of whose life is, as John's was, that it should be made conformable to the image of him who was himself on earth the image of God. Ursula came out and called her husband. They talked some time together. I guessed from what I heard that she was Lady Caroline to stay the night here, but that he, with better judgment, was urging the necessity of her returning to the protection of her husband's home without an hour's delay. It is her only chance of saving her reputation. She must do it. Tell her so, Ursula. After a few minutes, Mrs. Halifax came out again. I have persuaded her at last. She says she will do whatever you think best. Only before she goes, she wants to look at the children. May she? Poor soul. Yes, John murmured, turning away. Stepping out of sight, we saw the poor lady pass through the quiet, empty house into the children's bedroom. We heard her smothered sob at times the whole way. Then I went down to the stream and helped John to settle his horse with Mrs. Halifax's old saddle. In her girlish days Ursula used to be very fond of riding. She can ride back again from the myth, said John. She wishes to go, and is best she should. So that nothing need be said, except that Lady Caroline spent a day at Longfield, and that my wife and I accompanied her safe home. While he spoke, the two ladies came down the field path. I fancied, I heard, even now, a faint echo of that peculiarly sweet and careless laugh, indicating how light were all impressions on a temperament so plastic and weak, so easily remoulded by the very next influence that fate might throw across her perilous way. John Halifax, a scissor-tare on horseback, took the bridle under one arm and gave the other one to his wife. Thus they passed up the path and out at the white gate. I delayed a little while, listening to the wind and the pretzel of the stream, that when singing along in daylight or in darkness by our happy home at Longfield, and I sighed to myself, poor Lady Caroline.