 CHAPTER 32 In the home light. It was a scene, glowing almost as those evening pictures at Longfield, those pictures photographed on memory by the summer sun of our lives, and which no paler after sun could have power to reproduce. Nothing earthly is ever reproduced in the same form. I suppose heaven meant it to be so, that in the perpetual progression of our existence we should be reconciled to loss, and taught that change itself is but another form for aspiration. Aspiration which never can rest, or ought to rest, in any thing short of the one absolute perfection, the one all-satisfying good, in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. I say this to excuse myself for thoughts, which at times made me grave, even in the happy home light of John's study, where, for several weeks after the last incident I have recorded, the family were in the habit of gathering every evening. For poor guy was a captive. The mere trifle had turned out to be a sprained foot, which happening to a tall and strong young man became serious. He bore his imprisonment restlessly enough at first, but afterwards grew more reconciled, took to reading, drawing, and society, and even began to interest himself in the pursuits of his sister Maude, who every morning had her lessons in the study. Miss Silver first proposed this. She had evinced more feeling than was usual to her, since Guy's accident, showed him many little feminine kindnesses, out of compunction, it seemed, and altogether was much improved. Of evenings as now she always made one of the young people, who were generally grouped together around Guy's sofa, Edwin, Walter, and little Maude. The father and mother sat opposite, as usual, side by side. He with his newspaper, she with her work, or sometimes falling into pleasant idleness they would slip hand in hand, and sit talking to one another in an undertone, or silently and smilingly watch the humours of their children. For me I generally took to my nook in the chimney corner. It was a very ancient fireplace, with settles on each side, and dogs instead of a grate, upon which many a faggot hissed and crackled its merry brief life away. Edwin could be more cheery and comfortable than this old-fashioned low-roofed room, three sides of which were peopled with books, all the books which John had gathered up during the course of his life. Perhaps it was their long familiar friendly faces which made this his favourite room, his own as special domain, but he did not keep it tabooed from his family. He liked to have them about him, even in his studious hours. Though of evenings we all sat together as now, each busy and none interrupting the rest. At intervals flashes of talk or laughter broke out, chiefly from Guy, Walter, or Maude, when Edwin would look up from his everlasting book, and even the grave governess relaxed into a smile. Since she had learnt to smile it became more and more apparent how very handsome Miss Silver was. This is, I think, the fittest word for her, that correctness of form and colour which attracts the eye chiefly, and perhaps the eye of men rather than of women. At least Mrs. Halifax could never be brought to see it, but then her peculiar taste was for slender small brunettes like Grace Oldtower, whereas Miss Silver was large and fair. Fair in every sense, most decidedly, and now that she evidently began to pay a little more attention to her dress and her looks, we found out that she was also young. Only twenty-one today, Guy says, I remarked one day to Ursula, how did Guy know it? I believe he discovered the wonderful secret from Maude. Maude and her brother Guy have grown wonderful friends since his illness. Do you not think so? Yes, I found the two of them, and even Miss Silver, as merry as possible when I came into the study this morning. Did you? said the mother, with an involuntary glance at the group opposite. There was nothing particular to observe. They all sat in most harmless quietude, Edwin reading, Maude at his feet playing with the cat, Miss Silver busy at a piece of that delicate muslin work with which young women then used to ornament their gowns. Guy had been drawing a pattern from it, and now lent back upon his sofa, shading off the fire with his hand, and from behind it gazing, as I had often seen him gaze lately, with a curious intentness, at the young governess. Guy, said his mother, and Guy started. What were you thinking about? Oh, nothing, that is. Here by some accident Miss Silver quitted the room. Mother, come over here, I want your opinion. There, sit down, though it's nothing of the least importance. Nevertheless, it was with some hesitation that he brought out the mighty question, namely that it was Miss Silver's birthday today, that he thought we ought to remember it and give her some trifle as a present. And I was considering this large flora I ordered from London. She would like it extremely. She is so fond of botany. What do you know about botany? said Edwin sharply and rather irrelevantly, as it seemed, till I remembered how he plumed himself upon his knowledge of this science, and how he had persisted in taking Maude, and her governess also, long wintry walks across the country, in order to study the cryptogamia. Guy vouchsafe no answer to his brother. He was too much absorbed in turning over the pages of the beautiful flora on his knee. What do you say, all of you? Father, don't you think she would like it? Then suppose you give it to her? At this inopportune moment Miss Silver returned. She might have been aware that she was under discussion, at least so much of discussion as was implied by Guy's eager words and his mother's silence, for she looked around her uneasily and was about to retire. Do not go, Guy exclaimed anxiously. Pray, do not, his mother added. We were just talking about you, Miss Silver. My son hopes you will accept this book from him, and from us all, with all kind birthday wishes. And rising, with a little more gravity than was her want, Mrs. Halifax touched the girl's forehead with her lips and gave her the present. Miss Silver colored and drew back. You are very good, but indeed I would much rather not have it. Why so? Do you dislike gifts or this gift in particular? Oh, no, certainly not. Then said John, as he too came forward and shook hands with her with an air of hearty kindness. Pray, take the book. Do let us show how much we respect you, how entirely we regard you as one of the family. Guy turned a look of grateful pleasure to his father, but Miss Silver, coloring more than ever, still held back. No, I cannot, indeed I cannot. Why can you not? For several reasons. Give me only one of them, as much as can be expected from a young lady, said Mr. Halifax, good-humoredly. Mr. Guy ordered the flora for himself. I must not allow him to renounce his pleasure for me. It would not be renouncing it if you had it, returned the lad in a low tone, at which once more his younger brother looked up angrily. What folly about nothing! How can one read with such a clatter going on? You old bookworm, you care for nothing and nobody but yourself, Guy answered, laughing. But Edwin, really incensed, rose and settled himself in the far corner of the room. Edwin is right, said the father, in a tone which indicated his determination to end the discussion, a tone which even Miss Silver obeyed. My dear young lady, I hope you will like your book. Guy, write her name in it at once. Guy willingly obeyed, but was a good while over the task. His mother came and looked over his shoulder. Louisa Eugénie, how did you know that, Guy? Louisa Eugénie, is that your name, my dear? The question, simple as it was, seemed to throw the governess into much confusion, even agitation. At last she drew herself up with the old repulsive gesture, which of late had been slowly wearing off. No, I will not deceive you any longer. My right name is Louisa Eugénie D'Argent. Mrs. Halifax started. Are you a French woman? On my father's side, yes. Why did you not tell me so? Because if you remember, at our first interview, you said no French woman should educate your daughter, and I was homeless, friendless. Better starve than tell a falsehood, cried the mother indignantly. I told no falsehood. You never asked me of my parentage. Nay, said John, interfering, you must not speak in that manner to Mrs. Halifax. Why did you renounce your father's name? Because English people would have scouted my father's daughter. You knew him, everybody knew him. He was D'Argent the Jackalbin, D'Argent the Bonnet Rouge. She threw out these words defiantly and quitted the room. This is a dreadful discovery, Edwin. You have seen most of her, did you ever imagine? I knew it, mother, said Edwin, without lifting his eyes from his book. After all, French or English, it makes no difference. I should think not, indeed, cried Guy angrily. Whatever her father is, if anyone dared to think the worst of her, hush, till another time, said the father, with a glance at Maud, who, with wide-open eyes in which the tears were just springing, had been listening to all these revelations about her governess. But Maud's tears were soon stopped, as well as this painful conversation, by the entrance of our daily, or rather nightly, visitor for these six weeks past Lord Ravenel. His presence, always welcome, was a great relief now. We never discussed family affairs before people. The boys began to talk to Lord Ravenel, and Maud took her privileged place on a footstool beside him. From the first sight she had been his favorite, he said, because of her resemblance to Muriel. But I think more than any fancied likeness to that sweet lost face, which he never spoke of without tenderness inexpressible. There was something in Maud's buoyant youth, just between childhood and girlhood, having the charms of one and the immunities of the other, which was especially attractive to this man, who, at three and thirty, found life a weariness and a birthing. At least, he said so. Life was never either weary or birthingsome in our house, not even tonight, though our friend found us less lively than usual, though John maintained more than his usual silence, and Mrs. Halifax fell into troubled reveries. Guy and Edwin, both considerably excited, argued and contradicted one another more warmly than even the beachwood liberty of speech allowed. For Miss Silver, she did not appear again. Lord Ravenel seemed to take these slight dessegrements very calmly. He stayed his customary time, smiling languidly as ever at the boy's controversies, or listening with a half-pleased, half-melancholy laziness to Maud's gay prattle, his eye following her about the room with the privileged tenderness that twenty-year seniority allows a man to feel and show towards a child. At his wanted hour he rode away, sighingly contrasting pleasant beachwood with dreary and solitary luxemore. After his departure we did not again close round the fire. Maud vanished, the younger boy's also. Guy settled himself on his sofa, having first taken the pains to limp across the room and fetched the flora, which Edwin had carefully stowed away in the bookcase. Then making himself comfortable, as the pleasure-loving lad liked well enough to do, he lay dreamily gazing at the title page where was written her name and, from Guy Halifax with, What are you going to add, my son? He, glancing up at his mother, made her no answer and hastily closed the book. She looked hurt, but, saying nothing more, began moving about the room, putting things in order before retiring. John sat in the armchair, meditative. She asked him what he was thinking about. About that man, Jacques Darjeant. You have heard of him, then? Few had not, twenty years ago, he was one of the most blatant beasts of the reign of terror. A fellow without honesty, conscience, or even common decency. And that man's daughter we have had in our house teaching our innocent child. Alarm and disgust were written on every feature of the mother's face. It was scarcely surprising, now that the ferment which had convulsed society in our younger days was settling down, though still we were far from that ultimate calm which enables posterity to judge fully and fairly such a remarkable historical crisis as the French Revolution. Most English people looked back with horror on the extreme opinions of that time. If Mrs. Halifax had a weak point, it was her prejudice against anything French or Jacobinical. Partly, from that tendency to moral conservatism, which in most persons, especially women, strengthens as old age advances. Partly, I believe, from the terrible warning given by the fate of one, of whom for years we had never heard, whose very name was either unknown to or forgotten by our children. John, can't you speak? Don't you see the frightful danger? Love, try and be calmer. How can I? Remember, remember Caroline? Nay, we are not talking of her, but of a girl whom we know and have had good opportunity of knowing. A girl who, whatever may have been her antecedence, has lived for six months blamelessly in our house. Would to heaven she had never entered it, but it is not too late. She may leave, she shall leave immediately. Mother, burst out Guy, never since she bore him had his mother heard her name uttered in such a tone. She stood petrified. Mother, you are unjust, heartless, cruel, she shall not leave, she shall not, I say. Guy, how dare you speak to your mother in that way? Yes, Father, I dare, I'll dare anything rather than, stop, mind what you are saying or you may repent it. And Mr. Halifax, speaking in that low tone to which his voice fell in serious displeasure, laid a heavy hand on the lad's shoulder. Father and son exchanged fiery glances. The mother, terrified, rushed between them. Don't, John, don't be angry with him, he could not help it, my poor boy. At her piteous look Guy and his father both drew back. John put his arm round his wife and made her sit down. She was trembling exceedingly. You see, Guy, how wrong you have been, how could you wound your mother so? I did not mean to wound her, the lad answered, I only wish to prevent her from being unjust and unkind to one to whom she must show all justice and kindness, one whom I respect, esteem, whom I love, love, yes, Mother, yes, Father, I love her, I intend to marry her. Guy said this with an air of quiet determination, very different from the usual impetuosity of his character. It was easy to perceive that a great change had come over him, that in this passion the silent growth of which no one had suspected he was most thoroughly in earnest. From the boy he had suddenly started up into the man and his parents saw it. They looked at him and then mournfully at one another. The father was the first to speak. All this is very sudden, you should have told us of it before. I did not know it myself till, till very lately, the youth answered more softly, lowering his head and blushing. Is Miss Silver, is the lady aware of it? No. That is well, said the father after a pause. In this silence you have acted as an honorable lover should towards her, as a dutiful son should act towards his parents. Guy looked pleased. He stole his hand nearer his mother's, but she neither took it nor repelled it. She seemed quite stunned. At this point I noticed that Maude had crept into the room. I sent her out again as quickly as I could. Alas, this was the first secret that needed to be kept from her, the first painful mystery in our happy, happy home. In any such home the first falling in love, whether of son or daughter, necessarily makes a great change, greater if the former than the latter. There is often a pitiful truth, I know not why it should be so, but so it is, in the foolish rhyme which the mother had laughingly said over to me this morning. My son's my son till he gets him a wife, my daughter's my daughter all her life. And when, as in this case, the son wishes to marry one whom his father may not wholly approve, whom his mother does not heartily love, surely the pain is deep in tenfold. Those who in the dazzled vision of youth see only the beauty and splendor of love, first love, who deem it comprises the whole of life, beginning, aim, and end. May marvel that I, who have been young and now am old, see as I saw that night not only the lovers but the parents' side of the question. I felt overwhelmed with sadness as, viewing the three, I counted up in all its bearings and consequences near and remote this attachment of poor guys. Well, father, he said at last, guessing by intuition that the father's heart would best understand his own. Well, my son, John answered sadly, you were young once, so I was, with a tender glance upon the lads' heated and excited countenance. Do not suppose I cannot feel with you. Still I wish you had been less precipitant. You were little older than I am when you married. But my marriage was rather different from this projected one of yours. I knew your mother well, and she knew me. Both of us had been tried, by trouble which we shared together, by absence, by many in various cares. She chose one another, not hastily or blindly, but with free will and open eyes. No guy, he added, speaking earnestly and softly, mine was no sudden fancy, no frantic passion. I honoured your mother above all women. I loved her as my own soul. So do I love Louise. I would die for her any day. But the son's impetuosity the father smiled, not incredulously, only sadly. All this while the mother had sat motionless, never uttering a sound. Suddenly hearing a footstep and a light knock at the door she darted forward and locked it, crying in a voice that one could hardly have recognised as hers. No admit and go away. A note was pushed in under the door. Miss Halifax picked it up, opened it, read it mechanically, and sat down again, taking no notice, even when Guy, catching sight of the handwriting, eagerly seized the paper. It was merely a line, stating Miss Silver's wish to leave Beechwood immediately, signed with her full name, her right name, Louise Eugénie d'Argent. A post-script added, Your silence I shall take as permission to depart, and shall be gone early tomorrow. Tomorrow, gone tomorrow, and she does not even know that I love her, mother you have ruined my happiness, I will never forgive you, never. Never forgive his mother, his mother who had borne him, nursed him, reared him, who had loved him with that love, like none other in the world, the love of a woman for her first-born son, all these twenty-one years. It was hard. I think the most passionate lover, in reasonable moments, would allow that it was hard. No marvel that even her husband's clasp could not remove the look of heartbroken, senseless suffering which settled stonely down in Ursula's face, as she watched her boy, storming about, furious with uncontrollable passion and pain. At last, mother-like, she forgot the passion in pity of the pain. He is not strong yet, he will do himself harm. Let me go to him, John, let me. Her husband released her. Suddenly, with a weak, uncertain walk, she went up to Guy and touched his arm. You must keep quiet or you will be ill. I cannot have my son ill, not for any girl. Come, sit down, here, beside your mother. She was obeyed. Looking into her eyes and seeing no anger there, nothing but grief and love, the young man's right spirit came into him again. Oh, mother, mother, forgive me, I am so miserable, so miserable. He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed and clasped him, close, her boy, who never could be wholly hers again, who had learned to love someone else dearer than his mother. After a while she said, Father, shake hands with Guy, tell him that we forgive his being angry with us, that perhaps some day she stopped, uncertain as to the Father's mind or seeking strength for her own. Some day, John continued, Guy will find out that we can have nothing in the world except our children's good, so dear to us as their happiness. Guy looked up, beaming with hope and joy. Oh, Father, oh, mother, will you indeed? We will indeed say nothing, the Father answered, smiling, nothing until tomorrow. Then we will all three talk the matter quietly over and see what can be done. Of course I knew to a certainty the conclusion they would come to. CHAPTER XXXIII. Late that night, as I sat up pondering over all that had happened, Mrs. Halifax came into my room. She looked round, asked me, according to her want, if there was anything I wanted before she retired for the night? Ursula was as good to me as any sister, then stood by my easy chair. I would not meet her eyes, but I saw her hands fluttering in their restless way. I pointed to her accustomed chair. No, I can't sit down. I must say good night. Then, coming at once to the point, Phineas, you are always up first in the morning. Will you, John thinks it had better be you, will you give a message from us to Maud's governess? Yes, what shall I say? Merely that we request she will not leave Beechwood until we have seen her. If Miss Silver had overheard the manner and tone of that request, I doubt if it would not have hastened rather than delayed her departure. But God help the poor mother, her wounds were still fresh. Would it not be better, I suggested, if you were to write to her? I can't, no, I can't, spoken with the sharpness of exceeding pain. Soon after, as in faint apology, she added, I am so tired, we are very late to-night. Yes, it is almost morning. I thought you were both in bed. No, we have been sitting talking in Guy's room. His father thought it would be better. And is all settled? Yes. Having told me this, and having, as it were, by such a conclusion, confessed it was right the question should be thus settled, Guy's mother seemed more herself. Yes, she repeated, John thinks it ought to be, at least that she should know Guy's the feeling with which Guy regards her, if, after the probation of a year, it still remains, and he is content to begin life on a small income, we have given our consent to our son's marriage. It struck me how the mother's mind entirely dwelt on the one party in this matter, Guy's feelings, our son's marriage, and so on. The other side of the question, or the possibility of any hindrance there, never seemed to enter her imagination. Perhaps it would not, even into mine, for I shared the family faith in its best beloved Guy, but for Mrs. Halifax's so entirely ignoring the idea that any consent except her son's and his parents was necessary to this marriage. It will not part him from us so very much, you see, Phineas, she said, evidently trying to view the bright side, and she has no relatives living, not one. For income Guy will have the entire profit of the Nortonberry mills, and they might begin as we did in the old Nortonberry house, the dear old house. The thought of her own young days seemed to come, soothingly and sweet, taking the sting out of her pain, showing her how it was but right and justice that nature's holy law should be fulfilled, that children, in their turn, should love and marry and be happy like their parents. Yes, she answered as I gently hinted this, I know you are right, all is quite right, and as it should be, though it was a shock at first. No matter, John esteems her, John likes her, for me, oh, I shall make a capital, what is it, a capital mother-in-law, in time. With that smile, which was almost cheerful, she bade me good-night, rather hastily, perhaps, as if she wished to leave me while her cheerfulness lasted. Then I heard her step along the passage, pausing once, most likely at Guy's room-door. Her own closed, and the house was in silence. I rose early in the morning, not one wit too early, for I met Miss Silver in the hall, bonneted and shulled, carrying down with her own hands a portion of her chattels. She evidently contemplated an immediate departure. It was with the greatest difficulty that, without betraying my reasons, which, of course, was impossible, I could persuade her to change her determination. For a girl, last night's events had apparently shaken her from that indifference, which she seemed to think the best armor of a helpless, proud governess against the world. She would scarcely listen to a word. She was in extreme agitation, half a dozen times she insisted on leaving, and then sat down again. I had not given her credit for so much wholesome irresolution, so much genuine feeling. Her manner almost convinced me of a fact which everyone else seemed to hold a certain, but which I myself should have liked to see proved, namely, that Guy, in asking her love, would have, what in every right and happy marriage a man ought to have, the knowledge that the love was his before he asked for it. Seeing this, my heart warmed to the girl. I respected her brave departure. I rejoiced that it was needless. Willingly I would have quieted her distress with some hopeful, ambiguous word, but that would have been trenching, as no one ever ought to trench, on the lover's sole right. So I held my tongue, watching with an amused pleasure the color hovering to and fro over that usually impassive face. At last, at the opening of the study-door, we stood in the hall still. Those blushes rose up to her forehead in one involuntary tide. But it was only Edwin, who had lately taken to a habit of getting up very early to study mathematics. He looked surprised at seeing me with Miss Silver. What is that box? She is not going. No, I have been in treating her not. Add your persuasions, Edwin. For Edwin, with all his quietness, was a lad of much wisdom, great influence, and no little penetration. I felt inclined to believe that, though as yet he had not been led into the secret of last night, he guessed it pretty well already. He might have done, by the peculiar manner in which he went up to the governess and took her hand. Pray, stay, I beg of you. She made no more ado, but stayed. I left her with Edwin, and took my usual morning walk, up and down the garden, till breakfast time. A strange and painful breakfast it was, even though the most important element in its painfulness, Guy, was happily absent. The rest of us kept up a fragmentary, awkward conversation. Everyone round the table, looking as indeed one might have expected they would look, with one exception. Miss Silver, who, from her behavior last night, and her demeanor to me this morning, I had supposed would now have gathered up all her haughtiness to resist Guy's parents, as ignorant both of his feelings and their intentions towards her, a young lady of her proud spirit might well resist, was, to my astonishment, as mild and meek as this soft spring morning. Nay, like it, seemed often on the very verge of the melting mood. More than once her drooping eyelashes were gemmed with tears. And when, the breakfast table being quickly deserted, Edwin, indeed, had left it almost immediately, she, sitting absently in her place, was gently touched by Mrs. Halifax, she started up, with the same vivid rush of color that I had before noticed. It completely altered the expression of her face, made her look ten years younger, ten years happier, and, being happier, ten times more amiable. This expression, I was not the only one to notice it, was, by some intuition, reflected on the mothers. It made softer than any speech of hers to Miss Silver, the few words, My dear, will you come with me into the study? To lessons? Yes, I beg your pardon. Maude, where is Maude? Never mind lessons, just yet. We will have a little chat with my son. Uncle Phineas, you'll come? Will you come, too, my dear? If you wish it. And with an air of unwanted obedience, she followed Mrs. Halifax. Poor guy, confused young lover, meeting for the first time after his confession the acknowledged object of his preference, I really felt sorry for him. And except that women have generally twice as much self-control in such cases as men, and Miss Silver proved it, I might even have been sorry for her. But then her uncertainties would soon be over. She had not to make, all her family being aware she was then and there making it, That terrible offer of marriage, which I am given to understand is, even under the most favorable circumstances, as formidable as going up to the cannon's mouth. I speak of it jestingly, as we all gested uneasily that morning, save Mrs. Halifax, who scarcely spoke a word. At length, when Miss Silver, growing painfully restless, again referred to lessons, she said, Not yet, I want Maude for half an hour. Will you be so kind as to take my place and sit with my son the while? Oh, certainly. I was vexed with her, really vexed, for that ready ascent. But then, who knows the ins and outs of women's ways? At any rate, for guy's sake, this must be got over, the quicker the better. His mother rose. My son, my dear boy, she lent over him, whispering, I think she kissed him, then slowly, quietly she walked out of the study. I followed. Outside the door we parted, and I heard her go upstairs to her own room. It might have been half an hour afterwards when Maude and I, coming in from the garden, met her standing in the hall. No one was with her, and she was doing nothing. Two very remarkable facts in the daily life of the mother of the family. Maude ran up to her with some primroses. Very pretty, very pretty, my child. But you don't look at them, you don't care for them, I'll go and show them to Miss Silver. No, was the hasty answer. Come back, Maude, Miss Silver is occupied. Making some excuse I sent the child away, for I saw that even Maude's presence was intolerable to her mother. That poor mother, whose suspense was growing into positive agony. She waited, standing at the dining-room window, listening, going in and out of the hall, for another ten minutes. It is very strange, very strange indeed, he promised to come and tell me. Surely at least he ought to come and tell me first, me, his mother. She stopped at the word, oppressed by exceeding pain. Hark! Was that the study-door? I think so, one minute more, and you will be quite certain. A. One minute more, and we were quite certain. The young lover entered, his bitter tidings written on his face. She has refused me, mother, I never shall be happy more. Poor guy, I slipped out of his sight and left the lad alone with his mother. Another hour passed of this strange, strange day. The house seemed painfully quiet. Maude, disconsolate and cross, had taken herself away to the beach-wood with Walter. The father and Edwin were busy at the mills, and had sent word that neither would return to dinner. I wondered from room to room, always accepting that shut-up room where, as I took care, no one should disturb the mother and son. At last I heard them both going upstairs. Guy was still too lame to walk without assistance. I heard the poor lad's fretful tones and the soothing, cheerful voice that answered them. Verily, thought I, if, since he must fall in love, Guy had only fixed his ideal standard of womanhood a little nearer home, if he had only chosen for his wife a woman a little more like his mother. But I suppose that would have been expecting impossibilities. Well, he had been refused, our Guy, whom we all would have imagined irresistible, our Guy, whom to look on was to love. Some harsh folk might say this might be a good lesson for the lad, nay, for most lads. But I deny it. I doubt if any young man, meeting at the outset of life a rejection like this, which either ignorance or heedlessness on the woman's part had made totally unexpected ever is the better for it, perhaps for many years cruelly the worse, for most women being quick-sighted about love, and most men, especially young men, blind enough in its betrayal, any woman who willfully allows an offer only to refuse it lowers not only herself but her whole sex for a long, long time after in the lover's eyes. At least, I think so, as I was thinking in the way old bachelors are prone to moralize over such things, when, coming out of Guy's room, I met Mrs. Halifax. She crossed the passage, hastily but noiselessly, to a small ante-room which Miss Silver had for her own private study, out of which half a dozen stairs led to the chamber where she and her pupil slept. The ante-room was open, the bed-chamber door closed. She is in there? I believe she is. Guy's mother stood irresolute. Her nit-brow and nervous manner betrayed some determination she had come to which had cost her hard. Suddenly she turned to me. Keep the children out of the way, will you, Phineas? Don't let them know. Don't let anybody know about Guy. Of course not. There is some mistake. There must be some mistake. Perhaps she is not sure of our consent, his father's and mine. Very right of her, very right. I honor her for her indecision. But she must be assured to the contrary. My boy's peace must not be sacrificed. You understand, Phineas? A. Perhaps better than she did herself, poor mother. But when in answer to the hasty knock I caught a glimpse of Miss Silver opening the door, Miss Silver with hair all falling down disheveled and features swollen with crying, I went away completely at fault, as the standards by seemed doomed to be in all love affairs. I began to hope that this would settle itself somehow in all parties understanding one another after the good old romantic fashion and living very happy to the end of their lives. I saw nothing more of anyone until tea time, when Mrs. Halifax and the governess came in together. Something in their manners struck me, one being subdued and gentle, the other tender and kind. Both, however, were exceedingly grave, nay, sad, but it appeared to be that sadness which is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from either anger or resentment. Neither Guy nor Edwin nor the Father were present. When John's voice was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had just risen to retire with Maude. Good night, for I shall not come downstairs again, she said hastily. Good night, the mother answered in the same whisper. Rose kissed her kindly and let her go. When Edwin and his Father appeared, they too looked remarkably grave, as grave as if they had known by intuition all the trouble in the house. Of course no one referred to it. The mother merely noticed how late they were and how tired they both looked. Supper passed in silence, and then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed. His Father called him back, Edwin, you will remember? I will, Father. Something is amiss with Edwin, said his mother when the two younger boys had closed the door behind them. What did you wish him to remember? Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with that peculiarly tender gaze which she knew well to be the forewarning of trouble—trouble he could not save her from—could only help her to bear. Ursula laid her head on his shoulder with one deep sob of long smothered pain. I suppose you know all. I thought you would soon guess, oh, John, our happy days are over. Our children are children no more. But ours still, love, always will be ours. What of that when we can no longer make them happy, when they look for happiness to others and not to us, my own poor boy, to think that his mother can neither give him comfort nor save him pain any more? She wept bitterly. When she was somewhat soothed, John, making her sit down by him, but turning a little from her, bade her tell him all that had happened today. A few words explained the history of Guy's rejection and its cause. She loved someone else, when I, as his mother, went and asked her the question she confessed this. And what did you say? What could I say? I could not blame her. I was even sorry for her. She cried so bitterly and begged me to forgive her. I said I did, freely, and hoped she would be happy. That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell you who he, this lover, was? No, she said she could not, until he gave her permission. That whether they would ever be married she did not know. She knew nothing, save that he was good and kind, and the only creature in the world who had ever cared for her. Poor girl. John, startled by his manner, you have something to tell me? You know who this is, this man who has stood between my son and his happiness? Yes, I do know. I cannot say how far the mother saw, what, as if by a flash of lightning I did, but she looked up in her husband's face with a sudden, speechless dread. Love, it is a great misfortune, but it is no one's blame, neither ours nor theirs. They never thought of guys loving her. He says so, Edwin himself. Is it, Edwin? In a cry as if her heart was breaking. His own brother, his very own brother, oh, my poor guy! Well might the mother mourn. Well might the father look as if years of care had been added to his life that day. For a disaster like this happening in any household, especially a household where love is recognized as a tangible truth, neither to be laughed at, passed carelessly over nor lectured down, makes the family cease to be a family in many things from hence forward. The two strongest feelings of life clash, the bond of brotherly unity in its perfectness, is broken forever. For some minutes we sat, bewildered as it were, thinking of the tale as if it had been told of some other family than ours. Mechanically the mother raised her eyes. The first object they chanced to meet was a rude watercolor drawing, kept coarse-dab as it was, because it was the only reminder we had of what never could be recalled. One red-cheeked child with a hoop, staring at another red-cheeked child with a nose-gay, supposed to represent little Edwin and little Guy. Guy taught Edwin to walk. Edwin made Guy learn his letters. How fun they were of one another, those two boys! Now brother will be said against brother. They will never feel like brothers, never again. Love. Don't, John, don't speak to me just yet. It is so terrible to think of. Both my boys, both my two noble boys, to be made miserable for that girl's sake. Oh, that she had never darkened our doors. Oh, that she had never been born. Nay, you must not speak thus. Remember Edwin loves her. She will be Edwin's wife. Never, cried the mother desperately, I will not allow it. Guy is the eldest. His brother has acted meanly. So has she. No, John, I will not allow it. You will not allow what has already happened? What providence has permitted to happen? Ursula, you forget. They love one another. This one fact, this solemn upholding of the preeminent right and law of love, which law John believed in, they both believed in, so sacredly and firmly, appeared to force itself upon Mrs. Halifax's mind. Her passion subsided. I cannot judge clearly. You can, always. Husband help me. Poor wife, poor mother, he muttered, caressing her, and in that caress himself all but giving way, alas, that I should have brought thee into such a sea of trouble. Perhaps he referred to the circumstance of his bringing Miss Silver into our house, perhaps to his own blindness or want of parental caution in throwing the young people continually together. However, John was not one to lament over things inevitable, or by overweening blame of his own want of foresight to imply a doubt of the foreseeing of providence. Love, he said, I fear we have been too anxious to play Deus ex machina with our children, forgetting in whose hands are marrying and giving in marriage, life's crosses and life's crowns. Trouble has come when we look not for it. We can but try to see the right course and seeing it to act upon it. Ursula assented, with a bursting heart it seemed, but still she assented, believing, even as in her young days, that her husband's will was wisest, best. He told her, in few words, all that Edwin had that day confess to his father, how these two, being much together, had become attached to one another, as young folks will, couples whom no one would ever think suited each for each, except nature, and the instinct of their own hearts. Absorbed in this love which Edwin solemnly declared was never openly declared till this morning, they neither of them thought of Guy, and thus things had be fallen, things which no earthly power could remove or obliterate, things in which, whatever way we looked, all seemed darkness. We could but walk blindly on, a step at a time, trusting to that faith of which all our lives past had borne confirmation, the firm faith that evil itself is to the simple and God-fearing, but the disguised messenger of good. Saying like this, John said, talking as his wife loved to hear him talk, every quiet, low word dropping like balm upon her grieved heart, not trying to deceive her into the notion that pain is not pain, but showing her how best to bear it. At length she looked up, as if with God's help, and her husband's comforting, she could bear it. Only one thing, Guy does not know. He need not know just yet, not till he is stronger. Surely Edwin will not tell him? No, he promised me he would not. Do not start so. Indeed, there is no fear. But that very assurance seemed to rouse it. She began straining her ears to catch the least noise in the rooms overhead, the boy's rooms. Guy and Walter shared one, Edwin had his to himself. They surely will not meet, yet Guy sometimes likes sitting over Edwin's fire. Hark! Was not that the creaking of Guy's room door? Love, detaining her. I know, John, I am not thinking of going. Guy might suspect something. No, indeed, I am not afraid. They were always fond of one another, my boys. She sat down, violently forcing herself not to listen, not to fear. But the truth was too strong for her. Hark! I am sure they are talking. John, you said Edwin promised? Faithfully promised. But if, by some accident, Guy found out the truth? Hark! They are talking very loud. That is a chair fallen. Oh, John, don't keep me. My boys, my boys! And she ran upstairs in an agony. What a sight for a mother's eyes! Two brothers of whom it had been our boast that from babyhood they had never been known to lift a hand against each other, now struggling together like Cain and Abel, and from the fury in their faces the quarrel might have had a similar ending. Guy, Edwin! But the mother might as well have shrieked to the winds. The father came and parted them. Boys, are you gone mad? Fighting like brutes in this way? Shame, Guy! Edwin, I trusted you. I could not help it, Father. He had no right to steal into my room, no right to snatch her letter from me. It was her letter then? cried Guy furiously. She writes to you? You were writing back to her? Edwin made no answer but held out his hand for the letter with that look of white passion in him so rarely seen, perhaps not thrice since his infancy. Guy took no heed. Give it me back, Guy, I warn you. Not till I have read it. I have a right. You have none. She is mine. Yours! Guy laughed in his face. Yes, mine. Ask my father. Ask my mother. They know. Mother! The letter fell from the poor lad's hand. Mother, you would not deceive me. He only says it to vex me. I was in a passion, I know. Mother, it isn't true. His piteous tone, the almost childish way in which he caught at her sleeve as she turned from him, ah, poor Guy. Edwin, is it my brother Edwin? Who would have thought it? Half bewildered he looked from one to the other of us all. But no one spoke. No one contradicted him. Edwin, his passion quite gone, stooped in a sorrowful and humble way to pick up his betrothed letter. Then Guy flew at him and caught him by the collar. You coward! How dared you! No, I won't hurt him. She is fond of him. Go away, every one of you. Oh, mother, mother, mother! He fell on her neck, sobbing. He gathered him in her arms as she had used to do in his childhood, and so we left them. As one whom his mother comforteth. A. Prophet of Israel, thou wert wise. End of Chapter 33, Recording by Michelle Harris. Chapter 34 of John Halifax, gentlemen. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. John Halifax, gentlemen. By Dana Craig, Chapter 34. John and I sat over the study fire till long after midnight. Many an anxious watch I had kept with him, but none sadder than this, because now, for the first time, our house was divided against itself. Osoro had entered it, not from without, but from within. Osoro, which we could not meet and bear, has a family. Alas, darker and darker had the bitter truth forced itself upon us, that neither joy nor affliction would ever find us a family again. I think all parents must feel cruelly a pang like this, the first trouble in which they cannot help their children, the first time when those children must learn to stand alone, each for himself, compelled to carry his own burden and work out will or ill his individual life. When the utmost, the wisest or tenderest father can do is to keep near with outstretched hand that the child may cling to assured of finding sympathy, counsel and love. If this father had stood aloof all his life on some pinnacle of paternal pride, paternal dignity, if he had not made himself his boy's companion, counselor and friend, how great would have been his terrors now. For, as we both knew well, too well to trust our self to say it. If there was one thing in the world that ruins a lad, drives him to desperation, shuts the door of home upon him, and opens many another door, of which the entrance is the very gate of hell, it is such a disappointment as this which had happened to our guy. His father saw it all, saw it clearer, crueler than even his mother could see. Yet, when very late, almost adorned, she came in, with the tidings that the guy was himself again now, sleeping as quietly as a child. Her husband was able to join in her deep thankfulness and give her hope for the days to come. But what is to be done with the guy? God knows, John answered. But his tone expressed a meaning different from that generally conveyed in the words, a meaning which the mother caught at once and rested on. Hey, you are right, he knows, and so they went away together, almost content. Next morning I woke late, the sunshine falling across my bed, and the sparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had been dreaming with a curious personacity of the old days at Rose Cottage, the days when John first fell in love with Ursula. Uncle Finneith, I heard myself called. It was John's son who sat opposite with one wild eyes and a subtle anguish on his mouth, that merry, handsome mouth, the only really handsome mouth in the family. You're up early, boy. What was the good of lying in bed? I'm not ill, beside I wish to go about as usual. I don't wish anybody to think that I care. He stopped, evidently fighting hard against himself. I knew less than the last for our guy. Was I too violent last night? I did not mean it. I meant to be a man. This man whom a lady has refused, eh? And bragging it out, he began to whistle. But the lips fell, the frank brow grew knotted with pain. The leg broke into a passion of misery. The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived. Unwittingly we well believed, but still deceived. Many little things he told me, guys was the nature that once spent and soothed itself by talking. Of Miss Silver's extreme gentleness and kindness towards him. A kindness which seemed so like, so cruelly like love. Love, oh, she loves me. She told me so. Of course, I was Edwin's brother. I, there, was the sting which never could be removed, which might rankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not only lost his love, but his more precious than love, faith in womankind. He began to make light of his loosing, to think the prize was not so great after all. He sat on my bed singing, guy had a fine voice and ear, singing out of mockery songs which I had no special aversion to. Light songs written by an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, about girls and wine and being far from the lips we love, but always ready enough to make love to the lips we are near. Then, laughing at me, he threw up the window and looked out. I think it was wrong of those two, wrong and selfish as all lovers are, young lovers in the flush of their happiness. I think it was cruel of Edwin and Louise to walk up and down there in the elder brother's very eyes. For a moment he struggled against his passion. Uncle Phineas, just look here, how charming, ha ha! Did you ever see such a couple of fools? Fools, maybe, but happy, happy to the very core, thoroughly engrossed in their happiness. The elder brother was almost maddened by it. He must mind what he does, tell him so, Uncle Phineas, it would be safer. He must mind, I want an answer for myself. I was fond of Edwin, I was indeed, but now it seems sometimes as if I hated him. Guy! Oh, but it had been a stranger and not he, if it had been anyone else in the world, except my brother. And with that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again, it was such a tender heart, his mother's heart. After a time he recovered himself and came down with me to breakfast as he had insisted upon doing. He met them all, even Miss Silver and Edwin, who had placed himself by her side with an air of right. These lovers, however deeply grieved they looked, and to do justice it was really so, needed not to be grieved over by any of us, nor, looking at the father and mother, would we have dared to grieve over them. In the silent watches of the night, heart to heart, husband and wife had taken counsel together, together had carried their sorrows to the only lightener of burdens. It seemed that theirs was lightened, that even in this strange entanglement of fate they were able to wait patiently, trusting into the almighty mercy not only themselves, but the children he had given them. When breakfast being over, John, according to his custom, read the chapter and the prayer, no one rose up or went out, no one refused, even in this anguish of strife, jealousy and disunion, to repeat after him the our father of their childhood. I believe every one of us remembered the years with an awe that was not altogether pain, this morning's chapter and prayer. When it was ended, all the troubles closed around us again. Nothing seemed natural. We hung about in twos and threes, uncertain what to do. Guy walked up and down alone. His mother asked him if seeing his foot was so well, he would like to go down to the mills as usual. But he declined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about lessons, which Edwin jealously negative immediately and proposed that she and Maude should take a drive somewhere. This is Halifax, eagerly assented. Lady Old Tower has been wanting them both for some time. He would like to go, would you not, for a day or two, said she, addressing the governess? Guy caught at this. Going away, are you, when? He put the question to Miss Silver direct. His eyes blazing right into her own. She made some confused reply about leaving immediately. In the carriage, of course, shall I have the honour of driving you? No, said Edwin decisively. A fierce vindictive look passed between the brothers. I looked terrible in itself, more terrible in its warning of days to come. No wonder the mother shuddered, no wonder the young betrothed pale and alarmed slipped out of the room. Edwin followed her. Then Guy, snatching up his sister, lifted her roughly on his knee. Come along, Maude, you'll be my girl now. Nobody else wants you. Kiss me, child. But the little lady drew back. So you hate me too. Edwin has been teaching you. Very well, get away, you cheat. He pushed her violently aside. Maude began to cry. His father looked up from his book, the book he had not been reading. Though he had seemingly thought it best to take no notice of what was passing around him. Come here, Maude, my child. Guy, you should not be unkind to your little sister. Try and command yourself, dear boy. The words, though spoken gently, almost in a whisper, were more than the land's chafed spirit could brook. Father, you insult me. I will not bear it. I will quit the room. He went out, shutting the door, passionately after him. His mother rose up to follow him, then sat down again. The eyes that she lifted to her husband were deprecating, beseeching, heavy with a speechless poem. For John, he said nothing. Not, though, as it was plain to see, this, the first angry order of his respectful word he had ever received from any one of his children, struck him like an arrow. For a moment stirred him even to wrath. Holy wrath! The justice pleasure of a father who feels that the least portion of his child's sin is the sin against him. Perhaps this very feeling, distinct from and far beyond all personal indignation, all sense of offended dignity, made the anger strangely brief. So brief that when the other children awed and startled, looked for some abolition of his low, it was all gone. Instead was something at which the children, more awed still, crept out of the room. Ursula even, alarmed, looked in his face as if for the first time she could not comprehend her husband. John, you should forgive poor guy. He did not intend any harm. No, no. And he is so very miserable, never before did he fail in his duty to you. But what if I have found in mind to him? What if you used to say I could not understand guy? What if I had come short toward him? I then am accountable to God for every one of my children. John, John, she knelt down and put her arms round his neck. Husband, do not look unhappy. I do not mean to blame you. We may be wrong both of us, all of us, but we will not be afraid. We know who pities us, even as we pity our children. Thus she spoke and moored to the same purport. But it was a long time before her words brought any consolation. Then the parents talked together, trying to arrange some plan whereby Guy's mind might be occupied and soothed, or else Edwin removed out of his sight for a little while. Once I hinted at the advantage of Guy's leaving home, but Mrs. Hullifax seemed to shrink from this project, as though it were foreboding of perpetual exile. No, no, anything but that. Besides, Guy would not wish it. He has never left me in his life. His going would seem like the general breaking up of the family. Although she did not, would not see that the family was already broken. Broken more than either absence, marriage, or death itself could have affected. One more thing we had to consider, a thing at once natural and right in any family, namely how to hide its wounds from the chattering, scantless world. And so, when by a happy chance they came over that morning, our good friend Lady Old Tower was married full of daughters. Mrs. Hullifax communicated with simple dignity that quelled all comment, the fact of my son Edwin's engagement, and accepted the invitation for Maude and Miss Silver, which was willingly repeated and pressed. One thing I noticed that in speaking of or to the girl who in a single day familiar with the governess had become and was sedulously treated as such, our own, Mrs. Hullifax invariably called her either to Miss Silver or my dear, never by any chance Louise or Mamazelle Darjean. Before she left Beachward, Edwin came in and hurriedly spoke to his mother. What he said was evidently painful to both. I was not aware of her, Edwin. I had not the slightest intention of offending her. Is she already made your judge and referee as to the actions of your mother? Edwin was a good lad, perhaps a little less loving than the rest of the boys. His self-restraint, his exceeding patience lulled the threatened storm. But you will be kind to a mother, I know you will. Did I not say so? May I bring her to you here, if you choose? It was the first open recognition between the mother and her son's betroth. There other meetings had been in public when, with a sedulous dread, both had behaved exactly as usual and no word or manner had betrayed their altered relations. Now, when for the first time it was needful for Miss Silver to be received as a daughter-elect, with all the natural sympathy due from one woman to another under similar circumstances, all the warmth of kindness due from a mother to her son's chosen wife. Then the want, the mournful want made itself felt. Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying vainly to regain self-control. If I could only love her, if she only had made me love her, she muttered over and over again. I hoped from the bottom of my soul that Edwin had not hurt her, had not seen her involuntarily coil, as he led to his mother, his handsome girl that he seemed so proud of, his happy, affianced wife. Happiness melts some that just like spring and sunshine. The words looked up with swimming eyes. I'll be kind to me, no one was ever kind to me till I came here. The good heart gave way. Mrs. Halifax opened her arms. Be true to Edwin, love Edwin, I shall love you, I am sure I shall. Kissing her once or twice, the mother let fall a few tears, then sat down still keeping the girl's hand, and pissing herself with various little kindnesses about her. Are you sure you are well wrapped up, Edwin, see that she has my fur coat in the carriage? What cold fingers! Have some wine before you start, my dear. The silver altogether melted sobbing. She murmured something about forgiveness. Nay, did I say a word about forgiveness, then do not you. Let us be patient, we shall all be happy in time. And Guy? Guy will be himself soon, returned the mother rather proudly. We shall not mention him, if you please, my dear. At this moment Guy must have heard the carriage wheels and guessed Miss Silver was going, for he appeared at the parlour door. He found his mother toying with Miss Silver's hand, Edwin standing by, proud and glad, with his arm clasped round the weath. He did not remove it, in his brother's very face, perhaps because of the expression on the face, the lover held fast to his own. Mrs Halifax rose up, alarmed. She was just going, Guy, shake hands and bid her goodbye. The girl's hand, which was sorrowfully and kindly extended, Guy snatched and held fast. Let her pass, cried Edwin angrily. I certainly have not the least wished to detain her. Goodbye, a pleasant journey. And still keeping her hand, he gazed with burning eyes on the features he had so loved, as boys do love, with a wild imaginative passion, kindled by beauty alone. I shall claim my right just for once, may I, sister Louise? With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's betrothed round the waist and kissed her, once twice savagely. It was done so suddenly, and under such an ingenuous disguise of right, that open vengeance was impossible. But as Edwin hurried Louise away, the look that passed between the two young men was enough to blot out henceforth all friendship, all brotherhood. That insult would never be forgotten. She was gone, the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was left alone with me and his mother. This is how the facts set sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings and going, his restless starts, his fits of dark musing, when his face grew like the face of some stranger, someone whom he would have shrunk from, anyone but our own merry Guy. Mother, the voice startled me, such irritable and horrible bitterness, marred its once pleasant tones. When do they come back? Do you mean, I mean those people? In a week or so, your brother returns tonight, of course. My brother, eh? Better not say it, it's an ugly word. Mrs Halifax attempted no reproof. She knew that it would have been useless, worse than useless then. Mother, Guy said at last, coming up and leaning against her chair, you must let me go. Where, my son? Anywhere, out of their sight, those two. You see, I cannot bear it. It maddens me, makes me wicked, makes me not myself, or rather makes me truly myself, which is altogether wicked. No, Guy, no, my boy, have patience, all this will go away. It might, if I had anything to do. Mother, nearing down by her with a pittiest gaze, know that you need not look so wretched. I wouldn't harm Edwin. Would not take from him his happiness. But to live in sight of it, day after day, hour after hour, I can't do it. Do not ask me, let me get away. But where? Anywhere, as I said, only let me go far away from them, where no possible news of them can reach me. In some place, a mother, darling, where I can trouble no one and make no one miserable. The mother feebly shook her head, as if such a spot could be found on earth while she lived. But you saw that Guy was right. To expect him to remain at home was cruelty. As he had said, he could not bear it, few could. Few, even amongst women, have men much fewer. One great renunciation is possible, sometimes easy, as death may be. But to die daily, in youth too, with all the passions, vehement, the self-knowledge and self-control small. No, nature herself in that universal desire to escape, which comes with such a trial, hints at the unnaturalness of the ordeal, in which, sooner or later, the weak become paralyzed or callous. A strong God helped them. I happened to turn wicked. Guy's instinct to flight was his mother felt wise's safest best. My boy, you shall have your desire. You shall go. I had not expected another, at least not so immediately. I had thought, bound up in him as she was, accustomed to his daily sight, his daily fondness, for he was more with her and petted her more than any other of the children. I had thought to have seen some reluctance, some grieved in treaty. But no, not even when gaining her consent, her boy looked up as if her allowing him to quitter was the greatest kindness she had ever in her life bestowed. And when shall I go? Whenever you choose. Today, perhaps I might get away today. You can if you wish, my dear boy. But no sooner had she said it that the full force and meaning of the renunciation seemed to burst upon her. Her fingers, which had been smooth in Guy's hands as if it lay on her lap, tightly closed around it. With the other hand she put back his hair, gazing as if it were impossible to part with him. Guy, my heart is breaking. Promise that you will try to be yourself again, that you will never be anything other than my own good boy if I agree to let you go. What he answered, or what further passed between them, was not for me either to hear or know. I left the room immediately. When, some time after John's hour for returning from the mills, I also returned to the house. I found that everything was settled for Guy's immediate departure. There was some business in Spain, something about Andalusian wool, which his father made the ostensible reason for the journey. It would occupy him and distract his mind, beside giving him constant necessity of change. And they say travel is the best cure for the heartache. We hoped it might prove so. Perhaps the sawers point, and one that had been left undecided until both parents saw that in Guy's present mood any opposition was hurtful, even dangerous, was the lad's obstinate determination to depart alone. He refused his mother's companionship to London, even his father's across the country to the nearest point where one of those new and dangerous things called railways tempted travelers to their destruction. But Guy would go by it. The maddest and strangest way of locomotion pleased him best. So it was settled that he should go as he pleaded this very day. A strange day it seemed, long and near how short. Mrs. Halifax was incessantly busy. I caught sight of her now and then, flitting from room to room, with Guy's books in her hand, Guy's linen thrown over her arm. Sometimes she stood a few minutes by the window, doing a few stitches of necessary work, which when even nurse Watkins offered to do. Jenny, who had been a rosy last when Guy was born, she refused abruptly and went stitching on. There were no regular meals that day, better not perhaps. I saw John come up to his wife as she stood sewing and bring her a piece of bread and a glass of wine. But she could not touch either. Mother, try, whispered Guy mournfully. What will become of me if I have made you ill? Oh, no fear, no fear, she smiled, took the wine and swallowed it, broke off a bit of bread and went on with her work. The last hour or two passed so confusedly that I do not well remember them. I can only call to mind seeing Guy and his mother everywhere side by side, doing everything together, as if grudging each instant until the final instant came. I also have a vivid impression of her astonishing composure, of her calm voice when talking to Guy about indefinite trifles, although that was seldom to any other of us. It never faltered, never lost its rich round cheerfulness of tone, as if she wished him to carry to such and no other the familiar mother's voice coming across the seas. Once only it grew sharp, when Walter, who hovered about this consulate tea, knelt down to fasten his brother's portmanteau. No, let go, I can do everything myself. And now the time was fast-flying, her boy must depart. All the household collected in the hall to bid Mr. Guy goodbye. Guy whom everybody was so fond of. They believed, which was all that anyone save herself ever knew, that sudden business had called him away on a long and anxious journey. They lingered about him respectfully, with eager, honest blessings, such as was good the lad should have, good that he should bear away from him from England and from home. Finally Guy, his father and his mother, went into the study by themselves. Soon even his father came out and shut the door, that there should not be a single witness to the last few words between mother and son. These being over, they both came into the hall together, brave and calm, which calmness was maintained even to the last goodbye. Thus we sent our Guy away, cheerfully and with blessing, away into the wide dangerous world, alone with no guard or restraint, and in that except lay the whole mystery of our cheerfulness, the fear of God, his father's counsels and his mother's praise. Two years rolled over Beechwood, two uneventful years, the last of the children seized to be a child, and we prepared for that great era in all household history. For the first marriage in the family, it was to be celebrated very quietly, as Edwin and Louise both desired. Time had healed over many a pang, and taught many a soothing lesson, still it could not be supposed that this marriage was without its painfulness. Guy still remained abroad, his going had produced the happy result intended. Month after month his letters came, each more helpful than the last, each bringing balm to the mother's heart. Then he wrote to others beside his mother. Maude and Walter replied to him in long, home histories, and began to talk without hesitation. Nay, with great pride and pleasure, of my brother who is abroad, the family wound was closing, the family peace about to be restored. Maude, even fancy Guy, ought to come home to our wedding. But then she had never been told the whole of the past circumstances, and besides she was still too young to understand love matters. Yet so mercifully had Time smoothed down all things, that it sometimes appeared even to us elders as if those three days of bitterness were a mere dream, as if the year we dreaded had passed as calmly as any other year, save that in this interval Ursula's hair had begun to turn from brown to gray, and John's first mentioned so curiously that I cannot even now remember when or where that slight pain almost too slight to complain of, which he said warned him in climbing underly hill that he could not climb so fast as when he was young. And I returned his smile, telling him we were evidently growing old men, and must soon set our faces to descend the hill of life. Easy enough I was in saying this, thinking as I often did, with great content, that there was not the faintest doubt which of us would reach the bottom first. Yet I was glad to have safely passed my half-century of life, glad to have seen many of John's cares laid to rest, more especially those external troubles which I have not lately referred to, for indeed they were absorbed and forgotten in the home troubles that came after. He had lived down all slanders, and he had said he would, far and near travel the story of the day when Jessup's bank was near breaking, far and near, through security, for we found it out chiefly by its results. Poor people whispered the tale of a gentleman who had been attacked on the high roads, and whose only attempt at bringing the robbers to justice was to help the window of one and send the others safe out of the country, at his own expense, not governments. None of these were notable or showy deeds, scarcely one of them got, even under the disguise of aturisks, into the newspaper. The Norton-Bury Mercury, for its last dying sting, still complained, and very justly, that there was not a gentleman in the county whose name to sell them headed a charity subscription as that of John Halifax, as Squire of Beechwood. But the rite made its way as soon or late, the rite always does. He believed his good name was able to defend himself, and it did defend himself. He had faith in the only victory worth having, the universal victory of truth, and truth conquered at last. To drive with him across the country, he never carried pistols now, or to walk with him. As one day before Edwin's wedding, we walked a goodly procession through the familiar streets of Norton-Bury who was a perpetual pleasure to the rest of the family. Everybody knew him, everybody greeted him, everybody smiled as he passed, as though his presence and his recognition were good things to have and to win. His wife often laughed and said she doubted whether even Mr. O'Connell of Derrynain, who was just now making a commotion in Ireland, lighting the fire of religious and political discord from one end to the other of County Clair, she doubted if even Daniel O'Connell had more popularity among his own people than John Halifax had in the primitive neighborhood where he had lived so long. Mrs. Halifax herself was remarkably gay this morning, she had had letters from Guy together with a lovely present for which he said he had ransacked all the magazines, Des Moines and Paris. A white embroidered china shawl had arrived this morning. Lord Revinel, being the bearer, this was not the first time by many that he had brought us news of our Guy, and thereby made himself welcome at Beechwood. More welcome than he might have been otherwise. For his matter of life was so different from ours, not that Lord Revinel could be accused of any likeness to his father, but blood is blood, and education and habits are not to be easily overcome. The boys laughed at him for his aristocratic languid ways, mild teased him for his mild cynicism and a little interest. He seemed to take in anything while the mother herself was somewhat restless about his coming, wondering what possible good his acquaintance could do to us or ours to him, seeing we moved in totally different spheres, but John himself was invariably kind, nay tender over him. We all guessed why, and perhaps even had not the young man had so many good points while his faults were more negations than positive ill quantities, we likewise should have been tender over him for Meryl's sake. He had arrived at Beechwood this morning and falling as usual into our family routine had come with us to Nortonbury. He looked up with more interest than usual in his pence of eyes as he crossed the threshold of our house, and told Maud how he had come there many years ago with his father. That was the first time I've ever met your father, I overheard him say to Maud, not without feeling as if he thought he owned fate some gratitude for the meeting. Mrs. Halifax in the casual silver in Curie, which was all the old Earl ever won in our house, asked after the health of Lord Luxmore, he is still at Compage, does not, Guy mentioned him, Lord Luxmore takes the greatest pleasure in Guy's society. By her start, this was evidently new and not welcome tidings to Guy's mother. No wonder any mother in England would have shrank from the thought that her best beloved son, especially a young man from Guy's temperament and under Guy's present circumstances was thrown into the society which now surrounded and debauched dotage of the two notorious Earl of Luxmore. My son did not mention it, he has been too much occupied in business matters to write home frequently, since he reached Paris. However, his stay there is limited and this seemed to relieve her. I doubt if he will have much time left to visit Compage. He said no more than this, of course to Lord Luxmore's son, but her disquiet was sufficiently apparent. It was I who brought your son to Compage, where he is a universal favorite, from his wit and liveliness, I know no one who is a more pleasant companion than Guy. Guy's mother bowed, but coldly. I think Mrs. Halifax, you are aware that the Earl's tastes and mine differ widely, have always differed, but he is an old man, and I am his only son. He likes to see me sometimes, and I go, though I must confess, I take little pleasure in the circle he has around him. In which circle, as I understand, my son is constantly included? Why not? It is a very brilliant circle. The whole court of Charles Dix can afford none more amusing. For the rest, what matters, one learns to take things as they seem, without peering below the surface. One wears of impotent, quick satism against unconquerable evils. That is not our creed at Beechwood, said Mrs. Halifax abruptly. As she sees the conversation, but ever an anon, it seemed to recur to her mind a, though all the mirth of the young people, all the graveer pleasure which the father took in the happiness of his son, Edwin, his good son, who had never given him a single care. He declared his settling of Edwin, had been to him almost like the days. When he himself used to come of evenings, hammer in hand to put up shelves in the house, or nail the current bushes against the wall, doing everything conimore, and with the utmost care, knowing it would come under the quick eyes of Ursula March, that is of Ursula Halifax, for I don't think I let her see a single one of my wonderful doings until she was Ursula Halifax. Do you remember Phineas, when you came to visit us for the first time, and found us gardening, and she had on a white gown and a straw hat with blue ribbons. What a young thing she looked, hardly older than Mistress Mod here. John put his arm around his wife's waist, not so slender as it has been, until still, repeating with something of the musical cadence of his boyish readings of poetry, a line or two from the sweet old English song. And when the envy time transported, shall think to rob us of our joys, you'll in your girls again be courted, and all go wooing with my boys. Ursula laughed, and for the first time being the shadow passed from her continents, her husband had happily not noticed it, and apparently she did not wish to tell him she let him spend a happy day, even grew happy herself, in response to his care, to make her so by the resolute putting away of all painful present thoughts, and calling back of sweet and soothing memories belonging to this, their old married home. John seemed determined that if possible, the marriage that was to be should be as scared and as hopeful as their own. So full of it, we were all, that not until the day after, when Lord Ravenel had left us, longing apparently to be asked to stay for the wedding. But John did not ask him. I remembered what he had said about Guy's association with Lord Luxembourg's set. It was recalled to me by the mother's anxious face, as she gave me a foreign letter to post. Post it yourself, will you Phineas? I would not have it miscarry, or be late in its arrival on any account. No, for I saw it was her two or son at Paris. It will be the last letter I shall need to write. I read it again, lingering over it, to be certain that all was correct. The address being somewhat illegible for that free, firm hand of hers. My boy is coming home. Guy coming home to the marriage? No, but immediately after, he is quite himself now. He longs to come home, and his mother? His mother could not speak, like light to her eyes, like life to her heart. Was the thought of Guy's coming home? All that week, she looked ten years younger with a stepboy aunt, as any girls know about the marriage preparation. Together with other preparations, perhaps dearer still to the motherly heart, where if any preference did lurk, it was for the one for whom, possibly from whom, she had suffered most of all her children. John too, though the father's joy was graver and not unmixed with some anxiety, anxiety which he always put aside in his wife's presence, seemed eager to have his son at home. He is the eldest son, he repeated more than once when talking to me of his hope that Guy would now settle permanently at Beachwood after myself, the head of the family. After John, it was almost ridiculous to peer so far into the future as that. Of all the happy faces I saw the day before the marriage, I think the happiest was Mrs. Halifax's, as I met her coming out of Guy's room, which ever since he left had been locked up, unoccupied. Now his mother, through the room, opened the door with the cheerful air. You may go in if you like, Uncle Phineas. Does it not look nice? It did indeed with the fresh white curtains, the bed laid all in order, the bookshelves arranged, and even the fouling piece and fishing rod put in the right places. The room looked very neat, I said, with an amused doubt as to how long it was to remain so. That is true indeed, how he used to throw his things about. A sad untidy boy, and his mother left, but I saw all her features were trembling with emotion. He will not be exactly a boy now. I wonder if we shall find him much changed, very likely brown with a great beard. He said so in one of his letters, I shall hardly know my boy again, with the lighting up of the eye that furnished a flat contradiction to the mother's statement. Here are some of Mrs. Todd's roses I see. She made me take them. She said Master Guy always used to stop and pick a bunch, as he rode past. She hoped she shall see him ride past on Sunday next. Guy must pay her once of his very first visits, the good old soul. I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over the country to judge by the number of invitations I had heard of. Yes, everybody wants to steal my boy. Everybody has a welcome for him. How bright old walk-ins I polished that gun, Sir Herbert says. Guy must come over to the shooting next week. He used to be exceedingly fond of going to the manor house. I smiled to see the innocent smile of this good mother, who would have recoiled at the accusation of matchmaking. Yet I knew she was thinking of her great favorite, pretty Grace Oldtower, who was Grace Oldtower still, and had refused gossip said, half the brilliant matches in the county to the amazement and strong disapprobation of all her friends accepting Mrs. Halifax. Come away, Phineas, slightly crying, as if her joy weighed her down or as if conscious that she was letting fancy carry her too far into the unknown future. His room is quite ready now. Whatever time the boy arrives, come away. She shut and locked the door to be opened when, morning broke, and none could have desired a brighter marriage morning. Sunshine out of the doors, sunshine on all the faces within. Only family faces for no other guest had been invited and we had kept the day as secret as we could. There is nothing John disliked more than a slow wedding. Therefore it was with some surprise that while they were all upstairs adorning themselves for church, Maude and I, standing at the hall door, saw Lord Ravenel's traveling carriage drive up to it and Lord Ravenel himself, with a quicker and more decided gesture than was natural to him, sprung out. Maude ran into the porch, startling him much, apparently for indeed she was a sweet vision of youth, happiness and grace, in her pretty ride's maid's dress. Is this the wedding morning? I did not know. I will come again tomorrow, and he seemed eager to escape back to his carriage. This action relieved me from a vague apprehension of ill tidings and made less painful the first question which rose to my lips. Had he seen Guy? No. We thought for the moment. It might be Guy come home. Maude cried. We are expecting him. Have you heard of him since we saw you? Is he quite well? I believe so. I thought the answer brief, but then he was looking intently upon Guy's sister, who held his hands in her childish, affectionate way. She had not yet relinquished her privilege of being Lord Ravenel's pet. When hesitantly he proposed returning to Luxmore, unwilling to intrude upon the marriage, the little lady would not hear of it for a moment. She took the unexpected guest of the study, left him there with her father, explained to her mother all about his arrival and his having miss-seen Guy, appearing entirely delighted. I came into the drawing room and sat watching the sun, shining on marriage garments and marriage faces. All as bright as bright could be, including the mothers, it had clouded over for a few moments when the postman's ring was heard, but she said at once that it was most unlikely Guy would write. She had told him there was no need to write, so she stood content smoothing down the soft folds of her beautiful shawl, which Guy meant her to wear today. This together, with his fond remembrance of her, seemed almost as comfortable as the visible presence of her boy, her boy who was sure to come tomorrow. John, is that you? How softly you came in, and Lord Ravenel, he knows, we are glad to see him. Shall we make him one of our own family for the time being and take him with us to see that we are married? Lord Ravenel bowed. Mod tells us you have not seen Guy. I doubt if he will be able to arrive today, but he will fully expect him tomorrow. Lord Ravenel bowed again. Mrs. Halifax said something about this unexpected arrival of his. He came on business, John answered quickly, and Ursula made no more inquiries. She stood, talking with Lord Ravenel as I could see her stand now, playing with the deep fringe of her shawl, the sun glancing on her rich silk dress of her favorite silver gray, a picture of matronly grace and calm content as charming as even the handsome happy bride. I was still looking at her when John called me aside. I followed him to the study, shut the door, by his tone and look, I knew in a moment that something had happened. Yes, I'll tell you presently if there's time. While he was speaking some violent pain physical or mental, or both seemed to seize him, I had my hand on the door to call Ursula, but he held me fast with a kind of terror. Call no one, I am used to it. Water, he drank a glass full, which he stood by, breathed once or twice heavily and gradually recovered himself. The caller had scarcely come back into his face when he heard mod run laughing through the hall. Father, where are you? We are waiting for you. I will come in two minutes, my child. Having said this, in his own natural voice, he closed the door again and spoke to me rapidly. Phineas, I want you to stay away from church. Make some excuse or I will for you. Write a letter for me to this address in Paris. Say Guy Halifax's father will be there without fail within a week to answer all demands. All demands, I echoed, bewildered. He repeated the sentence word for word. Can you remember it? Literally mind, and post it at once before we return from church. Here the mother's call was heard. John, are you coming? In a moment, love. For her hand was on the door outside. But her husband held the other handle fast. He then went on breathlessly. You understand, Phineas? And you will be careful, very careful. She must not know, not till tonight. One word. Guy is alive and well? Yes, yes. Thank God. But Guy's father was gone while I spoke. Heavy as the news might be, this ill news which had struck me with apprehension, the moment I saw Lord Revanel, it was still indurable. I could not conjure up any grief so bitter as the boys dying. Therefore with the quietness that came naturally under the compulsion of such a necessity as the present, I rejoined the rest, made my excuses, and answered all objections. I watched the marriage party leave the house, a simple procession, the mother first leaving on Edwin, then Maud, Walter, and Lord Revanel. John walked last with Louis upon his arm. Thus I saw them move up the garden, and though the beach would, to the little church on the hill. I then wrote the letter and sent it off. That done, I went back into the study knowing nothing, able to guess nothing. Adult patients came over to me, the patients with which we often wait for unknown, inevitable misfortunes. Sometimes I almost forgot Guy and my startled remembrance of his father's look as he called me away and sat down, or rather dropped down into his chair. Was it illness? Yet he had not complained. He hardly ever complained, and scarcely had up a day sickness from year to year as I watched him and Louis up the garden. I had noticed his free firm gate without the least sign of unsteadiness or weakness. Besides, he was not one to keep any but a necessary secret from those who loved him. He could not be seriously ill, or we should have known it. Thus I pondered until I heard the church bells ring out merrily the marriage was over. It was just in time to meet them, at the front gates, which they entered. Our Edwin and his wife, through a living line of smiling faces, treading upon a carpet of strong flowers, enderly would not be defrauded of his welcome. All the village escorted the young couple in triumph home. I have a misty recollection of how happy everybody looked, how the sun was shining and the bells ringing, and the people cheering a mingled phantasmagoria of sights and sounds, in which I only saw one person distinctly, John. He waited while the young folk passed in, stood on the hall steps, in a few words thanked his people and bade them to the general rejoicing. They, uproarous, answered in loud hurrahs, and one energetic voice cried out, one cheer more for Master Guy. Guy's mother turned delighted, her eyes shining with proud tears. John thank them, tell them that Guy will thank them herself tomorrow. The Master thanked them, but he did not explain, or the honest rude voices drowned all mention of the latter fact, that Guy would be home tomorrow. All this while, and at the marriage breakfast, likewise, Mr. Halifax kept the same calm demeanor, once only when the rest were all gathered around the bride and bridegroom, he said to me, Phineas, is it done? What is done? asked Ursula subtly passing. A letter I asked him to write for me this morning. Now I had all my life been proud of John's love, that it was a safe face to trust in, that it could not, or if it could, it would not boast that stony calm under which some men are so proud of disguising themselves and their emotions from their nearest and dearest to them. If he were sad, we knew it. If he were happy, we knew it too. It was his principle that nothing but the strongest motive should make a man stoop to even the smallest hypocrisy. Therefore, hearing him thus speak to his wife, I was struck with great alarm. Mrs. Halifax herself seemed uneasy. A business letter I suppose, partly on business, I will tell you all about it in the evening. She looked reassured, just as you like, you know I'm not curious, but passing on she turned back, John, if it was anything important to be done, anything that I had to know at once you would not keep me in ignorance. No, my dearest, no. Then what had happened must be something in which no help availed, something altogether past and irremediable, something which he rightly wished to keep concealed for a few hours at least from his other children, so as not to mar the happiness of this day, of which there could be no second, this crowning day of their lives, this wedding day of Edwin and Louise. So he sat on the marriage table, he drank the marriage health, he gave them both the marriage blessing, finally he sent them away smiling and sorrowful, as is the bound in duty of young married couples to depart, Edwin pausing even on the carriage step to embrace his mother with a special tenderness and whisper her to give his love to Guy. It reminds one of guys leaving, said the mother, hastily brushing back the tears that would spring and roll down her smiling face, she had never until this moment, reverted to that miserable day, John, do you think it possible the boy can be at home tonight? John answered emphatically, but very softly, no. Why not? My letter would reach him in full time, Lord Ravenel has been to Paris and back since then. But turning full upon the young noblemen, I think you said you had not seen Guy? No. Did you hear anything of him? I, Mrs. Halothax, exceedingly distressed, almost beyond his power of self-restraint, the young man looked appealingly to John who replied to him, Lord Ravenel brought me a letter from Guy this morning. A letter from Guy, and you never told me how very strange. Still she seemed only to think it strange, some difficulty or folly perhaps. You could see, by the sudden flushing of her cheek, and her quick distrustful glance at Lord Ravenel, what she imagined it was that the boy had confessed to his father with an instinct of concealment, the mother's instinct for the moment she asked no questions. All still standing at the hall door, unresisting. She suffered her husband to take her arm and his hand to bring her into the study. Now the letter please, children go away I want to speak to your father. The letter, John? Her hand, which she held out, shook much. She tried to unfold the paper, stopped and looked up piteously. It is not to tell me he is not coming home. I can bear anything, you know, but he must come. Read. And took firm hold of her hand while she read, as we hold the hand of one undergoing great torture which must be undergone and which no human love can either prepare for or remove or alleviate. The letter which I saw afterwards was thus. Dear father and mother, I have disgraced you all. I have been drunk in a gaming house. A man insulted me. It was about my father. But you will hear. All the world suddenly I struck him. There was something in my hand and the man was hurt. He may be dead by this time. I don't know. I am away to America tonight. I shall never come home anymore. God bless you all. Guy Halifax. P.S. I got my mother's letter today. Mother, I was not in any right senses or should I have not done it. Mother, darling, forget me. Don't let me have broken your heart. Alas, I have broken it. Never come home anymore. Never come home anymore. She repeated this over and over again, vacantly. Nothing but these five words. Nature refused to bear it, or rather nature mercifully helped her to bear it. When John took his wife in his arms she was insensible and remained so, with inner valves, for hours. This was the end of Edwin's wedding day. End of Chapter 35