CHAPTER XVIII
For weeks after then, we went on in our usual way; Ursula March living within a stone's throw of us. She had left her cousin's, and come to reside with Dr. Jessop and his wife.
It was a very hard trial for John.
Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessop. We could not blame her; she held a precious charge, and Norton Bury was a horrible place for gossip. Already tale after tale had gone abroad about Miss March's "ingratitude" to her relations. Already tongue after tongue had repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of "young Halifax and the 'squire." Had it been "young Halifax and Miss March," I truly believe John could not have borne it.
As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by chance—a momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in the street. I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether he mentioned it or not—knew by the wild, troubled look, which did not wear off for hours.
I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain.
For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over "the lad," as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a young man, was going from him—he was becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed. That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had been so beautiful in him all his life through, were utterly lost.
"What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual—I knew why; for Ursula and her friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight. "Thou art very ill, I fear?"
"Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with me. Do let me alone."
Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken words. "It was not THEE that spoke, John," I said.
"No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodges here:" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives in is at times a burning hell."
He spoke in a low tone of great anguish. What could I answer? Nothing.
We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut trees in the Abbey-yard were budding green: there came that faint, sweet sound of children at play, which one hears as the days begin to lengthen.
"It's a lovely evening," he said.
"John!" I looked him in the face. He could not palm off that kind deceit upon me. "You have heard something about her?"
"I have," he groaned. "She is leaving Norton Bury."
"Thank God!" I muttered.
John turned fiercely upon me—but only for a moment. "Perhaps I too ought to say, 'Thank God.' This could not have lasted long, or it would have made me—what I pray His mercy to save me from, or to let me die. Oh, lad, if I could only die."
He bent down over the window-sill, crushing his forehead on his hands.
"John," I said, in this depth of despair snatching at an equally desperate hope, "what if, instead of keeping this silence, you were to go to her and tell her all?"
"I have thought of that: a noble thought, worthy of a poor 'prentice lad! Why, two several evenings I have been insane enough to walk to Dr. Jessop's door, which I have never entered, and—mark you well! they have never asked me to enter since that night. But each time ere I knocked my senses came back, and I went home—luckily having made myself neither a fool nor a knave."
There was no answer to this either. Alas! I knew as well as he did, that in the eye of the world's common sense, for a young man not twenty-one, a tradesman's apprentice, to ask the hand of a young gentlewoman, uncertain if she loved him, was most utter folly. Also, for a penniless youth to sue a lady with a fortune, even though it was (the Brithwoods took care to publish the fact) smaller than was at first supposed—would, in the eye of the world's honour, be not very much unlike knavery. There was no help—none!
"David," I groaned, "I would you had never seen her."
"Hush!—not a word like that. If you heard all I hear of her—daily—hourly—her unselfishness, her energy, her generous, warm heart! It is blessedness even to have known her. She is an angel—no, better than that, a woman! I did not want her for a saint in a shrine—I wanted her as a help-meet, to walk with me in my daily life, to comfort me, strengthen me, make me pure and good. I could be a good man if I had her for my wife. Now—"
He rose, and walked rapidly up and down. His looks were becoming altogether wild.
"Come, Phineas, suppose we go to meet her up the road—as I meet her almost every day. Sometimes she merely bends and smiles, sometimes she holds out her little hand, and 'hopes I am quite well!' And then they pass on, and I stand gaping and staring after them like an idiot. There—look—there they are now."
Ay! walking leisurely along the other side of the road—talking and smiling to one another, in their own merry, familiar way, were Mrs. Jessop and Miss March.
They were not thinking of us, not the least. Only just ere they passed our house Ursula turned slightly round, and looked behind; a quiet, maidenly look, with the smile still lingering on her mouth. She saw nothing, and no one; for John had pulled me from the window, and placed himself out of sight. So, turning back again, she went on her way. They both disappeared.
"Now, Phineas, it is all ended."
"What do you mean?"
"I have looked on her for the last time."
"Nay—she is not going yet."
"But I am—fleeing from the devil and his angels. Hurrah, Phineas, lad! We'll have a merry night. To-morrow I am away to Bristol, to set sail for America."
He wrung my hands with a long, loud, half-mad laugh; and then dropped heavily on a chair.
A few hours after, he was lying on my bed, struck down by the first real sickness he had ever known. It was apparently a low agueish fever, which had been much about Norton Bury since the famine of last year. At least, so Jael said; and she was a wise doctoress, and had cured many. He would have no one else to attend him—seemed terrified at the mere mention of Dr. Jessop. I opposed him not at first, for well I knew, whatever the proximate cause of his sickness might be, its root was in that mental pang which no doctors could cure. So I trusted to the blessed quiet of a sick-room—often so healing to misery—to Jael's nursing, and his brother's love.
After a few days we called in a physician—a stranger from Coltham—who pronounced it to be this Norton Bury fever, caught through living, as he still persisted in doing, in his old attic, in that unhealthy alley where was Sally Watkins's house. It must have been coming on, the doctor said, for a long time; but it had no doubt now reached its crisis. He would be better soon.
But he did not get better. Days slid into weeks, and still he lay there, never complaining, scarcely appearing to suffer, except from the wasting of the fever; yet when I spoke of recovery he "turned his face unto the wall"—weary of living.
Once, when he had lain thus a whole morning, hardly speaking a word, I began to feel growing palpable the truth which day by day I had thrust behind me as some intangible, impossible dread—that ere now people had died of mere soul-sickness, without any bodily disease. I took up his poor hand that lay on the counterpane;—once, at Enderley, he had regretted its somewhat coarse strength: now Ursula's own was not thinner or whiter. He drew it back.
"Oh, Phineas, lad, don't touch me—only let me rest."
The weak, querulous voice—that awful longing for rest! What if, despite all the physician's assurances, he might be sinking, sinking—my friend, my hope, my pride, all my comfort in this life—passing from it and from me into another, where, let me call never so wildly, he could not answer me any more, nor come back to me any more.
Oh, God of mercy! if I were to be left in this world without my brother!
I had many a time thought over the leaving him, going quietly away when it should please the Giver of all breath to recall mine, falling asleep, encompassed and sustained by his love until the last; then, a burden no longer, leaving him to work out a glorious life, whose rich web should include and bring to beautiful perfection all the poor broken threads in mine. But now, if this should be all vain, if he should go from me, not I from him—I slid down to the ground, to my knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went up on high.
How could I save him?
There seemed but one way; I sprung at it; stayed not to think if it were right or wrong, honourable or dishonourable. His life hung in the balance, and there was but one way; besides, had I not cried unto God for help?
I put aside the blind, and looked out of doors. For weeks I had not crossed the threshold; I almost started to find that it was spring. Everything looked lovely in the coloured twilight; a blackbird was singing loudly in the Abbey trees across the way; all things were fresh and glowing, laden with the hope of the advancing year. And there he lay on his sick-bed, dying!
All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan—"No light! I can't bear the light! Do let me rest!"
In half-an-hour, without saying a word to human being, I was on my way to Ursula March.
She sat knitting in the summer-parlour alone. The doctor was out; Mrs. Jessop I saw down the long garden, bonnetted and shawled, busy among her gooseberry-bushes—so we were safe.
As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a soft dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, and driven some sweet, shy thought away.
But she met me cordially—said she was glad to see me—that she had not seen either of us lately; and the knitting pins began to move quickly again.
Those dainty fingers—that soft, tremulous smile—I could have hated her!
"No wonder you did not see us, Miss March; John has been very ill, is ill now—almost dying."
I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to see them strike.
They struck—they wounded; I could see her shiver.
"Ill!—and no one ever told me!"
"You? How could it affect you? To me, now"—and my savage words, for they were savage, broke down in a burst of misery—"nothing in this world to me is worth a straw in comparison with John. If he dies—"
I let loose the flood of my misery. I dashed it over her, that she might see it—feel it; that it might enter all the fair and sightly chambers of her happy life, and make them desolate as mine. For was she not the cause?
Forgive me! I was cruel to thee, Ursula; and thou wert so good—so kind!
She rose, came to me, and took my hand. Hers was very cold, and her voice trembled much.
"Be comforted. He is young, and God is very merciful."
She could say no more, but sat down, nervously twisting and untwisting her fingers. There was in her looks a wild sorrow—a longing to escape from notice; but mine held her fast, mercilessly, as a snake holds a little bird. She sat cowering, almost like a bird, a poor, broken-winged, helpless little bird—whom the storm has overtaken.
Rising, she made an attempt to quit the room.
"I will call Mrs. Jessop: she may be of use—"
"She cannot. Stay!"
"Further advice, perhaps? Doctor Jessop—you must want help—"
"None save that which will never come. His bodily sickness is conquered—it is his mind. Oh, Miss March!" and I looked up at her like a wretch begging for life—"Do YOU not know of what my brother is dying?"
"Dying!" A long shudder passed over her, from head to foot—but I relented not.
"Think—a life like his, that might be made a blessing to all he loves—to all the world—is it to be sacrificed thus? It may be—I do not say it will—but it may be. While in health he could fight against this—this which I must not speak of; but now his health is gone. He cannot rally. Without some change, I see clearly, even I, who love him better than any one can love him—"
She stirred a little here.
"Far better," I repeated; "for while John does NOT love me best, he to me is more than any one else in the world. Yet even I have given up hope, unless—But I have no right to say more."
There was no need. She began to understand. A deep, soft red, sun-rise colour, dawned all over her face and neck, nay, tinged her very arms—her delicate, bare arms. She looked at me once—just once—with a mute but keen inquiry.
"It is the truth, Miss March—ay, ever since last year. You will respect it? You will, you shall respect it?"
She bent her head in acquiescence—that was all. She had not uttered a single syllable. Her silence almost drove me wild.
"What! not one word? not one ordinary message from a friend to a friend?—one who is lying ill, too!"
Still silence.
"Better so!" I cried, made desperate at last. "Better, if it must be, that he should die and go to the God who made him—ay, made him, as you shall yet see, too noble a man to die for any woman's love."
I left her—left her where she sat, and went my way.
Of the hours that followed the less I say the better. My mind was in a tumult of pain, in which right and wrong were strangely confused. I could not decide—I can scarcely decide now—whether what I had done ought to have been done; I only know that I did it—did it under an impulse so sudden and impetuous that it seemed to me like the guidance of Providence. All I could do afterwards was to trust the result where we say we trust all things, and yet are for ever disquieting ourselves in vain—we of little faith!
I have said, and I say again, that I believe every true marriage—of which there is probably one in every five thousand of conjugal unions—is brought about by heaven, and heaven only; and that all human influence is powerless either to make or to mar that happy end. Therefore, to heaven I left this marriage, if such it was destined to be. And so, after a season, I calmed myself enough to dare entering that quiet sick-chamber, where no one ever entered but Jael and me.
The old woman met me at the door.
"Come in gently, Phineas; I do think there is a change."
A change!—that awful word! I staggered rather than walked to John's bed-side.
Ay, there was a change, but not THAT one—which made my blood run cold in my veins even to think of. Thank God for evermore for His great mercies—not THAT change!
John was sitting up in bed. New life shone in his eyes, in his whole aspect. Life and—no, not hope, but something far better, diviner.
"Phineas, how tired you look; it is time you were in bed."
The old way of speaking—the old, natural voice, as I had not heard it for weeks. I flung myself by the bed-side—perhaps I wept outright—God knows! It is thought a shame for a man to weep; yet One Man wept, and that too was over His friend—His brother.
"You must not grieve over me any more, dear lad; to-morrow, please God! I mean to be quite well again."
Amidst all my joy I marvelled over what could be the cause of so miraculous a change.
"You would smile if I told you—only a dream."
No, I did not smile; for I believed in the Ruler of all our spirits, sleeping or waking.
"A dream so curious, that I have scarcely lost the impression of it yet. Do you know, Phineas, she has been sitting by me, just where you sit now."
"She?"
"Ursula."
If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, which had never fallen from his lips before—it was always either "Miss March," or the impersonal form used by all lovers to disguise the beloved name—"URSULA," spoken as no man speaks any woman's name save the one which is the music of his heart, which he foresees shall be the one fireside tune of his life, ever familiar, yet ever sweet.
"Yes, she sat there, talking. She told me she knew I loved her—loved her so much that I was dying for her; that it was very wrong; that I must rise up and do my work in the world—do it for heaven's sake, not for hers; that a true man should live, and live nobly for the woman he loves—it is only a coward who dies for her."
I listened, wonder-struck—for these were the very words that Ursula March might have uttered; the very spirit that seemed to shine in her eyes that night—the last night she and John spoke to one another. I asked him if there was any more of the dream?
"Nothing clear. I thought we were on the Flat at Enderley, and I was following her; whether I reached her or not I cannot tell. And whether I ever shall reach her I cannot tell. But this I know, Phineas, I will do as she bade me; I will arise and walk."
And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Next morning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a spectre, indeed; but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father noticed it, when at dinner-time, with Jael's help—poor old Jael! how proud she was—John crawled downstairs.
"Why, thee art picking up, lad! Thee'lt be a man again in no time."
"I hope so. And a better man than ever I was before."
"Thee might be better, and thee might be worse. Anyhow, we couldn't do without thee, John. Hey, Phineas! who's been meddling with my spectacles?"
The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaper upside down.
We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner.
In the afternoon my father stayed at home—a rare thing for him to do; nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. John lay on an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and the window-sill. I read to him—trying to keep his attention, and mine too, solely to the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts were wandering—Jael burst in.
"John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee."
No, John—no need for that start—that rush of impetuous blood to thy poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. No, it was only Mrs. Jessop.
At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the good lady's eyes brimmed over.
"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me—but I am an old woman, you know. Lie down again."
With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side.
"I had no idea—why did you not let us know—the doctor and me? How long have you been ill?"
"I am quite well now—I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow, shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.
I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it—glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy.
"But you must be very careful—very careful of yourself, indeed."
"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him. Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."
I spoke—perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good old lady—but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me.
"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardly knows how much we—we all—esteem him." And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now. My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula—" here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket—"my dear child sends you this."
It was a little note—unsealed. The superscription was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing—"John Halifax."
His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I—she is—very kind." The words died away—the hand which grasped, ay, for more than a minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an aspen leaf.
"Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, sedulously looking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it otherwise—I would not wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her season of trouble."
I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. She took off her glove, wiped a finger across each eyelash, and sat still.
"Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax?"
No answer.
"I will take your message back. She told me what she had said to you."
Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,
"I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like to come and see you if you would allow me.
"Yours sincerely,
"URSULA MARCH."
This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years afterwards, yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocket-book.
"Well, what shall I say to my child?"
"Say"—he half rose, struggling to speak—"ask her to come."
He turned his head towards the window, and the sunshine glittered on two great drops, large as a child's tear.
Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we waited—scarcely moving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes fixed dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron railings between the Abbey trees. More than once they wandered to the little letter, which lay buried in his hands. He felt it there—that was enough.
My father came in from the garden, and settled to his afternoon doze; but I think John hardly noticed him—nor I. My poor old father! Yet we were all young once—let youth enjoy its day!
At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlour door, rosy with walking—a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by the law of God, and by her own heart.
John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only clasped hands.
He was not strong enough for disguises now—in his first look she might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers—but it dropped down, down, as Ursula March's clear glance had never dropped before. Then I knew how all would end.
Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's wife is wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she says her green gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n."
My father awoke—rubbed his eyes—became aware of a lady's presence—rubbed them again, and sat staring.
John led Ursula to the old man's chair.
"Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness—"
His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcast eyelids:
"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father."
Abel Fletcher nodded—adjusted his spectacles—eyed her all over—and nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth.
"If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Wilt thee sit down?"
Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing, and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder, trembling as she trembled. For she did tremble very much.
Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts before him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny, and half smiled.
"Wilt thee stay, and have a dish of tea with us?"
So it came to pass, I hardly remember how, that in an hour's space our parlour beheld the strangest sight it had beheld since—Ah, no wonder that when she took her place at the table's foot, and gave him his dish of tea with her own hand—her pretty ringed lady's hand—my old father started, as if it had been another than Miss March who was sitting there. No wonder that, more than once, catching the sound of her low, quiet, gentlewomanlike speech, different from any female voices here, he turned round suddenly with a glance, half-scared, half-eager, as if she had been a ghost from the grave.
But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the doctor's little wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled themselves for a cosy chat, taking very little notice of us three.
Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise present: for all Norton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher had a soft place in his heart it was for his garden and his flowers. These were very lovely; in colour and scent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay looking at them and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole life were absorbed into that one exquisite hour.
For me—where I sat I do not clearly know, nor probably did any one else.
"There," said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childish satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking.
"They are very beautiful," I heard John's voice answer, with a strange trembling in it. "It is growing too dark to judge of colours; but the scent is delicious, even here."
"I could move the table closer to you."
"Thank you—let me do it—will you sit down?"
She did so, after a very slight hesitation, by John's side. Neither spoke—but sat quietly there, with the sunset light on their two heads, softly touching them both, and then as softly melting away.
"There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, appositely and gravely.
"Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I remember noticing it through the trees the night when—"
He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a very unimportant conversation as they were apparently holding my involuntary listening could do no harm.
"You will be able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss March again. "Norton Bury is a pretty town."
John asked, suddenly—"Are you going to leave it?"
"Not yet—I do not know for certain—perhaps not at all. I mean," she added, hurriedly, "that being independent, and having entirely separated from, and been given up by, my cousins, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessop altogether."
"Of course—most natural." The words were formally spoken, and John did not speak again for some time.
"I hope,"—said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stopping, as if her own voice frightened her.
"What do you hope?"
"That long before this moon has grown old you will be quite strong again."
"Thank you! I hope so too. I have need for strength, God knows!" He sighed heavily.
"And you will have what you need, so as to do your work in the world. You must not be afraid."
"I am not afraid. I shall bear my burthen like other men. Every one has some inevitable burthen to bear."
"So I believe."
And now the room darkened so fast that I could not see them; but their voices seemed a great way off, as the children's voices playing at the old well-head used to sound to me when I lay under the brow of the Flat—in the dim twilights at Enderley.
"I intend," John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Bury, and go abroad for some time."
"Where?"
"To America. It is the best country for a young man who has neither money, nor kindred, nor position—nothing, in fact, but his own right hand with which to carve out his own fortunes—as I will, if I can."
She murmured something about this being "quite right."
"I am glad you think so." But his voice had resumed that formal tone which ever and anon mingled strangely with its low, deep tenderness. "In any case, I must quit England. I have reasons for so doing."
"What reasons?"
The question seemed to startle John—he did not reply at once.
"If you wish I will tell you; in order that, should I ever come back—or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough to be my friend will know I did not go away from mere youthful recklessness, or love of change."
He waited, apparently for some answer—but it came not, and he continued:
"I am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, while I stay here, I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish to sink under it—I had rather, as you said, 'Do my work in the world' as a man ought. No man has a right to say unto his Maker, 'My burthen is heavier than I can bear.' Do you not think so?"
"I do."
"Do you not think I am right in thus meeting, and trying to conquer, an inevitable ill?"
"IS it inevitable?"
"Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don't reason with me—you cannot judge—you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay I shall become unworthy of myself, unworthy of—Forgive me, I have no right to talk thus; but you called me 'friend,' and I would like you to think kindly of me always. Because—because—" and his voice shook—broke down utterly. "God love thee and take care of thee, wherever I may go!"
"John, stay!"
It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But he heard it—felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his love for evermore. At once all was made clear between them; for whatever the world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, and she received as much as she gave.
When Jael brought in lights the room seemed to me, at first, all in a wild dazzle. Then I saw John rise, and Miss March with him. Holding her hand, he led her across the room. His head was erect, his eyes shining—his whole aspect that of a man who declares before all the world, "This is MY OWN."
"Eh?" said my father, gazing at them from over his spectacles.
John spoke brokenly, "We have no parents, neither she nor I. Bless her—for she has promised to be my wife."
And the old man blessed her with tears.
CHAPTER XIX
"I hardly like taking thee out this wet day, Phineas—but it is a comfort to have thee."
Perhaps it was, for John was bent on a trying errand. He was going to communicate to Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe, Ursula's legal guardian and trustee, the fact that she had promised him her hand—him, John Halifax, the tanner. He did it—nay, insisted upon doing it—the day after he came of age, and just one week after they had been betrothed—this nineteenth of June, one thousand eight hundred and one.
We reached the iron gate of the Mythe House;—John hesitated a minute, and then pulled the bell with a resolute hand.
"Do you remember the last time we stood here, John? I do, well!"
But soon the happy smile faded from his lips, and left them pressed together in a firm, almost painful gravity. He was not only a lover but a man. And no man could go to meet what he knew he must meet in this house, and on this errand, altogether unmoved. One might foresee a good deal—even in the knowing side-glance of the servant, whom he startled with his name, "Mr. Halifax."
"Mr. Brithwood's busy, sir—better come to-morrow," suggested the man—evidently knowing enough upon his master's affairs.
"I am sorry to trouble him—but I must see Mr. Brithwood to-day."
And John determinedly followed the man into the grand empty dining-room, where, on crimson velvet chairs, we sat and contemplated the great stag's head with its branching horns, the silver flagons and tankards, and the throstles hopping outside across the rainy lawn: at our full leisure, too, for the space of fifteen minutes.
"This will not do," said John—quietly enough, though this time it was with a less steady hand that he pulled the bell.
"Did you tell your master I was here?"
"Yes, sir." And the grin with which the footman came in somehow slid away from his mouth's corners.
"How soon may I have the honour of seeing him?"
"He says, sir, you must send up your business by me."
John paused, evidently subduing something within him—something unworthy of Ursula's lover—of Ursula's husband that was to be.
"Tell your master my business is solely with himself, and I must request to see him. It is important, say, or I would not thus intrude upon his time."
"Very well, sir."
Ere long, the man brought word that Mr. Brithwood would be at liberty, for five minutes only, in the justice-room. We were led out, crossing the court-yard once more—where, just riding out, I saw two ladies, one of whom kissed her hand gaily to John Halifax—to the magistrate's office. There, safely separated from his own noble mansion, Mr. Brithwood administered justice. In the outer room a stout young fellow—a poacher, probably—sat heavily ironed, sullen and fierce; and by the door a girl with a child in her arms, and—God pity her!—no ring on her finger, stood crying; another ill-looking fellow, maudlin drunk, with a constable by him, called out to us as we passed for "a drop o' beer."
These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, magistrate for the county of ——, had to judge and punish, according to his own sense of equity and his knowledge of his country's law.
He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dictating so energetically to his clerk behind him, that we had both entered, and John had crossed the room, before he saw us, or seemed to see.
"Mr. Brithwood."
"Oh—Mr. Halifax. Good-morning."
John returned the salutation, which was evidently meant to show that the giver bore no grudge; that, indeed, it was impossible so dignified a personage as Richard Brithwood, Esquire, in his public capacity, too, could bear a grudge against so inferior an individual as John Halifax.
"I should be glad, sir, of a few minutes' speech with you."
"Certainly—certainly; speak on;" and he lent a magisterial ear.
"Excuse me, my business is private," said John, looking at the clerk.
"No business is private here," returned the 'squire, haughtily.
"Then shall I speak with you elsewhere? But I must have the honour of an interview with you, and immediately."
Whether Mr. Brithwood was seized with some indefinite alarm, he himself best knew why, or whether John's manner irresistibly compelled him to civility, as the stronger always compels the weaker, I cannot tell—but he signed to the clerk to leave the room.
"And, Jones, send back all the others to the lock-up house till tomorrow. Bless my life! it's near three o'clock. They can't expect to keep a gentleman's dinner waiting—these low fellows."
I suppose this referred only to the culprits outside; at all events, we chose to take it so.
"Now—you, sir—perhaps you'll despatch your business; the sooner the better."
"It will not take long. It is a mere matter of form, which nevertheless I felt it my duty to be the first to inform you. Mr. Brithwood, I have the honour of bearing a message to you from your cousin—Miss Ursula March."
"She's nothing to me—I never wish to see her face again, the—the vixen!"
"You will be kind enough, if you please, to avoid all such epithets; at least, in my hearing."
"Your hearing! And pray who are you, sir?"
"You know quite well who I am."
"Oh, yes! And how goes the tanning? Any offers in the horseflesh line? Always happy to meet you in the way of business. But what can you possibly have to do with me, or with any member of my family?"
John bit his lip; the 'squire's manner was extremely galling; more so, perhaps, in its outside civility than any gross rudeness.
"Mr. Brithwood, I was not speaking of myself, but of the lady whose message I have the honour to bring you."
"That lady, sir, has chosen to put herself away from her family, and her family can hold no further intercourse with her," said the 'squire, loftily.
"I am aware of that," was the reply, with at least equal hauteur.
"Are you? And pray what right may you have to be acquainted with Miss March's private concerns?"
"The right—which, indeed, was the purport of her message to you—that in a few months I shall become her husband."
John said this very quietly—so quietly that, at first, the 'squire seemed hardly to credit his senses. At last, he burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Well, that is the best joke I ever did hear."
"Pardon me; I am perfectly serious."
"Bah! how much money do you want, fellow? A pretty tale! you'll not get me to believe it—ha! ha! She wouldn't be so mad. To be sure, women have their fancies, as we know, and you're a likely young fellow enough; but to marry you—"
John sprang up—his whole frame quivering with fury. "Take care, sir; take care how you insult my WIFE!"
He stood over the wretch—the cowardly shrinking wretch—he did not touch him, but he stood over him till, terrified out of his life, Richard Brithwood gasped out some apology.
"Sit down—pray sit down again. Let us proceed in our business."
John Halifax sat down.
"So—my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying?"
"She will be, some months hence. We were engaged a week ago, with the full knowledge and consent of Doctor and Mrs. Jessop, her nearest friends."
"And of yours?" asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sarcasm as his blunt wits could furnish him.
"I have no relatives."
"So I always understood. And that being the case, may I ask the meaning of the visit? Where are your lawyers, your marriage settlements, hey? I say, young man—ha! ha! I should like to know what you can possibly want with me, Miss March's trustee?"
"Nothing whatever. Miss March, as you are aware, is by her father's will left perfectly free in her choice of marriage; and she has chosen. But since, under certain circumstances, I wish to act with perfect openness, I came to tell you, as her cousin and the executor of this will, that she is about to become my wife."
And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance strengthened and calmed him.
"May I inquire into those 'certain circumstances'?" asked the other, still derisively.
"You know them already. Miss March has a fortune and I have none; and though I wish that difference were on the other side—though it might and did hinder me from seeking her—yet now she is sought and won, it shall not hinder my marrying her."
"Likely not," sneered Mr. Brithwood.
John's passion was rising again.
"I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say what it chooses; we follow a higher law than the world—she and I. She knows me, she is not afraid to trust her whole life with me; am I to be afraid to trust her? Am I to be such a coward as not to dare to marry the woman I love, because the world might say I married her for her money?"
He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking full into Richard Brithwood's face. The 'squire sat dumfoundered at the young man's vehemence.
"Your pardon," John added, more calmly. "Perhaps I owe her some pardon too, for bringing her name thus into discussion; but I wished to have everything clear between myself and you, her nearest relative. You now know exactly how the matter stands. I will detain you no longer—I have nothing more to say."
"But I have," roared out the 'squire, at length recovering himself, seeing his opponent had quitted the field. "Stop a minute."
John paused at the door.
"Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or any other vagabond she pleases—it's no business of mine. But her fortune is my business, and it's in my hands too. Might's right, and possession's nine-tenths of the law. Not one penny shall she get out of my fingers as long as I can keep hold of it."
John bowed, his hand still on the door. "As you please, Mr. Brithwood. That was not the subject of our interview. Good-morning."
And we were away.
Re-crossing the iron gates, and out into the open road, John breathed freely.
"That's over—all is well."
"Do you think what he threatened is true? Can he do it?"
"Very likely; don't let us talk about that." And he walked on lightly, as if a load were taken off his mind, and body and soul leaped up to meet the glory of the summer sunshine, the freshness of the summer air.
"Oh! what a day is this!—after the rain, too! How she will enjoy it!"
And coming home through Norton Bury, we met her, walking with Mrs. Jessop. No need to dread that meeting now.
Yet she looked up, questioning, through her blushes. Of course he had told her where we were going to-day; her who had a right to know every one of his concerns now.
"Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid."
Afraid, indeed! Not the least fear was in those clear eyes. Nothing but perfect content—perfect trust.
John drew her arm through his. "Come, we need not mind Norton Bury now," he said, smiling.
So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, earnestly and rather seriously to one another; while Mrs. Jessop and I followed behind.
"Bless their dear hearts!" said the old lady, as she sat resting on the stile of a bean-field. "Well, we have all been young once."
Not all, good Mrs. Jessop, thought I; not all.
Yet, surely it was most pleasant to see them, as it is to see all true lovers—young lovers, too, in the morning of their days. Pleasant to see written on every line of their happy faces the blessedness of Nature's law of love—love began in youth-time, sincere and pure, free from all sentimental shams, or follies, or shames—love mutually plighted, the next strongest bond to that in which it will end, and is meant to end, God's holy ordinance of marriage.
We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. It was John's custom to go there almost every evening; though certainly he could not be said to "go a-courting." Nothing could be more unlike it than his demeanour, or indeed the demeanour of both. They were very quiet lovers, never making much of one another "before folk." No whispering in corners, or stealing away down garden walks. No public show of caresses—caresses whose very sweetness must consist in their entire sacredness; at least, I should think so. No coquettish exactions, no testing of either's power over the other, in those perilous small quarrels which may be the renewal of passion, but are the death of true love.
No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat at her work, and he made himself generally pleasant, falling in kindly to the Jessop's household ways. But whatever he was about, at Ursula's lightest movement, at the least sound of her voice, I could see him lift a quiet glance, as if always conscious of her presence; her who was the delight of his eyes.
To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link seemed to be drawn closer between them, though they spoke little together, and even sat at opposite sides of the table; but whenever their looks met, one could trace a soft, smiling interchange, full of trust, and peace, and joy. He had evidently told her all that had happened to-day, and she was satisfied.
More, perhaps, than I was; for I knew how little John would have to live upon besides what means his wife brought him; but that was their own affair, and I had no business to make public my doubts or fears.
We all sat round the tea-table, talking gaily together, and then John left us, reluctantly enough; but he always made a point of going to the tan-yard for an hour or two, in my father's stead, every evening. Ursula let him out at the front door; this was her right, silently claimed, which nobody either jested at or interfered with.
When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a minute or two longer than was absolutely necessary, there was a wonderful brightness on her young face; though she listened with a degree of attention, most creditable in its gravity, to a long dissertation of Mrs. Jessop's on the best and cheapest way of making jam and pickles.
"You know, my dear, you ought to begin and learn all about such things now."
"Yes," said Miss March, with a little droop of the head.
"I assure you"—turning to me—"she comes every day into the kitchen—never mind, my dear, one can say anything to Mr. Fletcher. And what lady need be ashamed of knowing how a dinner is cooked and a household kept in order?"
"Nay, she should rather be proud; I know John thinks so."
At this answer of mine Ursula half smiled: but there was a colour in her cheek, and a thoughtfulness in her eyes, deeper than any that our conversation warranted or occasioned. I was planning how to divert Mrs. Jessop from the subject, when it was broken at once by a sudden entrance, which startled us all like a flash of lightning.
"Stole away! stole away! as my husband would say. Here have I come in the dusk, all through the streets to Dr. Jessop's very door. How is she? where is she, ma petite!"
"Caroline!"
"Ah! come forward. I haven't seen you for an age."
And Lady Caroline kissed her on both cheeks in her lively French fashion, which Ursula received patiently, and returned—no, I will not be certain whether she returned it or not.
"Pardon—how do you do, Mrs. Jessop, my dear woman? What trouble I have had in coming! Are you not glad to see me, Ursula?"
"Yes, very." In that sincere voice which never either falsified or exaggerated a syllable.
"Did you ever expect to see me again?"
"No, certainly I did not. And I would almost rather not see you now, if—"
"If Richard Brithwood did not approve of it? Bah! what notions you always had of marital supremacy. So, ma chere, you are going to be married yourself, I hear?"
"Yes."
"Why, how quietly you seem to take it! The news perfectly electrified me this morning. I always said that young man was 'un heros de romans!' Ma foi! this is the prettiest little episode I ever heard of. Just King Cophetua and the beggar-maid—only reversed. How do you feel, my Queen Cophetua?"
"I do not quite understand you, Caroline."
"Neither should I you, for the tale seems incredible. Only you gave me such an honest 'yes,' and I know you never tell even white lies. But it can't be true; at least, not certain. A little affaire de coeur, maybe—ah! I had several before I was twenty—very pleasant, chivalrous, romantic, and all that; and such a brave young fellow, too! Helas! love is sweet at your age!"—with a little sigh—"but marriage! My dear child, you are not surely promised to this youth?"
"I am."
"How sharply you say it! Nay, don't be angry. I liked him greatly. A very pretty fellow. But then he belongs to the people."
"So do I."
"Naughty child, you will not comprehend me. I mean the lower orders, the bourgeoisie. My husband says he is a tanner's 'prenticeboy."
"He was apprentice; he is now partner in Mr. Fletcher's tan-yard."
"That is nearly as bad. And so you are actually going to marry a tanner?"
"I am going to marry Mr. Halifax. We will, if you please, cease to discuss him, Lady Caroline."
"La belle sauvage!" laughed the lady; and, in the dusk, I fancied I saw her reach over to pat Ursula's hand in her careless, pretty way. "Nay, I meant no harm."
"I am sure you did not; but we will change the subject."
"Not at all. I came to talk about it. I couldn't sleep till I had. Je t'aime bien, tu le sais, ma petite Ursule."
"Thank you," said Ursula, gently.
"And I would like well to see you married. Truly we women must marry, or be nothing at all. But as to marrying for love, as we used to think of, and as charming poets make believe—my dear, now-a-days, nous avons change tout cela."
Ursula replied nothing.
"I suppose my friend the young bourgeois is very much in love with you? With 'les beaux yeux de votre cassette,' Richard swears; but I know better. What of that? All men say they love one—but it will not last. It burns itself out. It will be over in a year, as we wives all know. Do we not, Mrs. Jessop? Ah! she is gone away."
Probably they thought I was away too—or else they took no notice of me—and went talking on.
"Jane would not have agreed with you, Cousin Caroline; she loved her husband very dearly when she was a girl. They were poor, and he was afraid to marry; so he let her go. That was wrong, I think."
"How wise we are growing in these things now!" laughed Lady Caroline. "But come, I am not interested in old turtle-doves. Say about yourself."
"I have nothing more to say."
"Nothing more? Mon Dieu! are you aware that Richard is furious; that he vows he will keep every sou he has of yours—law or no law—for as long as ever he can? He declared so this morning. Did young Halifax tell you?"
"Mr. Halifax has told me."
"'MR. Halifax!' how proudly she says it. And are you still going to be married to him?"
"Yes."
"What! a bourgeois—a tradesman? with no more money than those sort of people usually have, I believe. You, who have had all sorts of comforts, have always lived as a gentlewoman. Truly, though I adore a love-marriage in theory, practically I think you are mad—quite mad, my dear."
"Do you?"
"And he, too! Verily, what men are! Especially men in love. All selfish together."
"Caroline!"
"Isn't it selfish to drag a pretty creature down, and make her a drudge, a slave—a mere poor man's wife?"
"She is proud of being such!" burst in the indignant young voice. "Lady Caroline, you may say what you like to me; you were kind always, and I was fond of you; but you shall not say a word against Mr. Halifax. You do not know him—how could you?"
"And you do? Ah! ma petite, we all think that, till we find out to the contrary. And so he urges you to be married at once—rich or poor—at all risks, at all costs? How lover-like—how like a man! I guess it all. Half beseeches—half persuades—"
"He does not!" And the girl's voice was sharp with pain. "I would not have told you, but I must—for his sake. He asked me this afternoon if I was afraid of being poor? if I would like to wait, and let him work hard alone, till he could give me a home like that I was born to? He did, Caroline."
"And you answered—"
"No—a thousand times, no! He will have a hard battle to fight—would I let him fight it alone? when I can help him—when he says I can."
"Ah, child! you that know nothing of poverty, how can you bear it?"
"I will try."
"You that never ruled a house in your life—"
"I can learn."
"Ciel! 'tis wonderful! And this young man has no friends, no connections, no fortune! only himself."
"Only himself," said Ursula, with a proud contempt.
"Will you tell me, my dear, why you marry him?"
"Because"—and Ursula spoke in low tones, that seemed wrung out of her almost against her will—"because I honour him, because I trust him; and, young as I am, I have seen enough of the world to be thankful that there is in it one man whom I can trust, can honour, entirely. Also—though I am often ashamed lest this be selfish—because when I was in trouble he helped me; when I was misjudged he believed in me; when I was sad and desolate he loved me. And I am proud of his love—I glory in it. No one shall take it from me—no one will—no one can, unless I cease to deserve it."
Lady Caroline was silent. Despite her will, you might hear a sigh breaking from some deep corner of that light, frivolous heart.
"Bien! chacun a son gout! But you have never stated one trifle—not unnecessary, perhaps, though most married folk get on quite well without it—'Honour,' 'trust,'—pshaw! My child—do you LOVE Mr. Halifax?"
No answer.
"Nay, why be shy? In England, they say, and among the people—no offence, ma petite—one does sometimes happen to care for the man one marries. Tell me, for I must be gone, do you love him? one word, whether or no?"
Just then the light coming in showed Ursula's face, beautiful with more than happiness, uplifted even with a religious thankfulness, as she said simply:
"John knows."