"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."