John Halifax, Gentleman

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  “It was I who brought your son to Compiegne—where he is a universal favourite, 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.”

  496“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 wearies of impotent Quixotism against unconquerable evils.”

  “That is not our creed at Beechwood,” said Mrs. Halifax, abruptly, as she ceased the conversation. But ever and anon it seemed to recur to her mind—ay, through all the mirth of the young people, all the graver 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 this 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 currant-bushes against the wall, doing everything con amore, and with the utmost care, knowing it would come under the quick observant 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 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 Maud here.”

  John put his arm round his wife’s waist—not so slender as it had been, but comely and graceful 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 with envy Time transported

  Shall think to rob us of our joys,

  You’ll in your girls again be courted,

  And I’ll go wooing with my boys.”

  497Ursula laughed, and for the time being the shadow passed from her countenance. Her husband had happily not noticed it: and apparently, she did not wish to tell him her trouble. 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 sacred and as hopeful as their own.

  So full of it were we 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 Luxmore’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 to her son, at Paris.

  “It will be the last letter I shall need to write,” she added, 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 step buoyant as any girl’s she went about the marriage preparations; 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 498with 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 Beechwood. “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 threw open the door with a 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 book-shelves arranged, and even the fowling-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 laughed; 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 a lighting-up of the eye that furnished a flat contradiction to the mother’s statement.

  “Here are some of Mrs. Tod’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 hopes she shall see him ride past on Sunday next. Guy must pay her one of his very first visits; the good old soul!”

  I hinted that Guy would have to pay visits half over the 499country, 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 Watkins has 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 match-making. Yet I knew she was thinking of her great favourite, 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—excepting Mrs. Halifax.

  “Come away, Phineas!” slightly sighing, 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 doors—sunshine on all the faces within; only family faces,—for no other guests had been invited, and we had kept the day as secret as we could; there was nothing John disliked more than a show-wedding. Therefore it was with some surprise that while they were all up-stairs adorning themselves for church, Maud and I, standing at the hall-door, saw Lord Ravenel’s travelling carriage drive up to it, and Lord Ravenel himself, with a quicker and more decided gesture than was natural to him, spring out.

  Maud ran into the porch; startling him much, apparently; for indeed she was a sweet vision of youth, happiness, and grace, in her pretty bridesmaid’s dress.

  “Is this the wedding-morning? I did not know—I will come again to-morrow;” and he seemed eager to escape back to his carriage.

  500This 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,” Maud cried. “We are expecting him. Have you heard of him since we saw you? Is he q
uite 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, hesitatingly, 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 to the study, left him there with her father, explained to her mother all about his arrival and his having missed seeing 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 mother’s. 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 to-day. 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 to-morrow.

  “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 Edwin married?”

  Lord Ravenel bowed.

  501“Maud tells us you have not seen Guy. I doubt if he will be able to arrive to-day; but we 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 that rich silk dress, of her favourite silver-grey; 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 glassful, which stood by, breathed once or twice heavily, and gradually recovered himself. The colour had scarcely come back into his face when he heard Maud 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.

  502He 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 Ravenel—it was still endurable. I could not conjure up any grief so bitter as the boy’s dying.

  Therefore, with a 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, leaning on Edwin; then Maud, Walter, and Lord Ravenel; John walked last, with Louise upon his arm. Thus I saw them move up the garden, and through the beech-wood, 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—a dull patience came over me, the patience with which we often wait for unknown, inevitable misfortunes. Sometimes I almost forgot Guy in 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 a day’s sickness from year to year. And as I watched him and Louise up the garden, I had noticed his free, firm gait, without the least sign of unsteadiness 503or 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.

  I 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 strewn flowers. Enderley would not be defrauded of its 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, uproarious, 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 himself to-morrow.”

  The master thanked them, but either he did not explain—or the honest rude voices drowned all mention of the latter fact—that Guy would be home to-morrow.

  All this while, and at the marriage-breakfast likewise, Mr. Halifax kept the same calm demeanour. Once only, when the rest were all gathered round the bride and bridegroom, he said to me:

  “Phineas, is it done?”

  “What is done?” asked Ursula, suddenly passing.

  “A letter I asked him to write for me this morning.”

  Now I had all my life been proud of John’s face—that it 504was 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 those 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 this evening.”

  She looked re-assured. “Just as you like; you know I am not curious.” But passing on, she turned back. “John, if it was anything important to be done—anything that I ought 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 at the marriage-table; he drank the marriage-health; he gave them both a marriage-blessing. Finally, he sent them awa
y, smiling and sorrowful—as is the bounden duty of young married couples to depart—Edwin pausing even on the carriage-step to embrace his mother with especial tenderness, and whisper her to “give his love to Guy.”

  “It reminds one of Guy’s 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 to-night?”

  505John 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 nobleman—“I think you said you had not seen Guy?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anything of him?”

  “I—Mrs. Halifax—”

  Exceedingly distressed, almost beyond his power of self-restraint, the young man looked appealingly to John, who replied for 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.

  We were all still standing at the hall-door. Unresisting, she suffered her husband to take her arm in his and 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.”

  John only answered, “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.