In the late autumn, John married Ursula March. He was twenty-one, and
she eighteen. It was very young--too young, perhaps, prudent folk
might say: and yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on unions
like this. A right and holy marriage, a true love-marriage, be it
early or late, is--must be--sanctified and happy; yet those have the
best chance of happiness, who, meeting on the very threshold of life,
enter upon its duties together; with free, fresh hearts, easily moulded
the one to the other, rich in all the riches of youth, acute to enjoy,
brave and hopeful to endure.
Such were these two--God bless them!
They were married quite privately, neither having any near kindred.
Besides, John held strongly the opinion that so solemn a festival as
marriage is only desecrated by outward show. And so, one golden autumn
morning, Ursula walked quietly up the Abbey aisle in her plain white
muslin gown; and John and she plighted their faithful vows, no one
being present except the Jessops and I. They then went away for a
brief holiday--went away without either pomp or tears, entirely
happy--husband and wife together.
When I came home and said what had happened my good father seemed
little surprised. He had expressly desired not to be told anything of
the wedding till all was over--he hated marriages.
"But since it is done, maybe 'tis as well," said he, grimly. "She
seems a kindly young thing; wise, even--for a woman."
"And pleasant too, father?"
"Ay, but favour is deceitful, and beauty vain. So the lad's gone;" and
he looked round, as if missing John, who had lived in our house ever
since his illness. "I thought as much, when he bade me goodnight, and
asked my leave to take a journey. So he's married and gone! Come,
Phineas, sit thee down by thy old father; I am glad thee wilt always
remain a bachelor."
We settled ourselves, my father and I; and while the old man smoked his
meditative pipe I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two lads
had read by the fire-side; the summer days when we had lounged on the
garden wall. He was a married man now, the head of a household; others
had a right--the first, best, holiest right--to the love that used to
be all mine; and though it was a marriage entirely happy and hopeful,
though all that day and every day I rejoiced both with and for my
brother, still it was rather sad to miss him from our house, to feel
that his boyish days were quite over--that his boyish place would know
him no more.
But of course I had fully overcome, or at least suppressed, this
feeling when, John having brought his wife home, I went to see them in
their own house.
I had seen it once before; it was an old dwelling-house, which my
father bought with the flour-mill, situated in the middle of the town,
the front windows looking on the street, the desolate garden behind
shut in by four brick walls. A most un-bridal-like abode. I feared
they would find it so, even though John had been busy there the last
two months, in early mornings and late evenings, keeping a comical
secrecy over the matter as if he were jealous that any one but himself
should lend an eye, or put a finger, to the dear task of making ready
for his young wife.
They could not be great preparations, I knew, for the third of my
father's business promised but a small income. Yet the gloomy outside
being once passed, the house looked wonderfully bright and clean; the
walls and doors newly-painted and delicately stencilled:--("Master did
all that himself," observed the proud little handmaid, Jenny--Jem
Watkins's sweetheart. I had begged the place for her myself of
Mistress Ursula.) Though only a few rooms were furnished, and that
very simply, almost poorly, all was done with taste and care; the
colours well mingled, the wood-work graceful and good.
They were out gardening, John Halifax and his wife.
Ay, his wife; he was a husband now. They looked so young, both of
them, he kneeling, planting box-edging, she standing by him with her
hand on his shoulder--the hand with the ring on it. He was laughing at
something she had said, thy very laugh of old, David! Neither heard me
come till I stood close by.
"Phineas, welcome, welcome!" He wrung my hand fervently, many times;
so did Ursula, blushing rosy red. They both called me "brother," and
both were as fond and warm as any brother and sister could be.
A few minutes after, Ursula--"Mrs. Halifax," as I said I ought to call
her now--slipped away into the house, and John and I were left
together. He glanced after his wife till she was out of sight, played
with the spade, threw it down, placed his two hands on my shoulders,
and looked hard in my face. He was trembling with deep emotion.
"Art thou happy, David?"
"Ay, lad, almost afraid of my happiness. God make me worthy of it, and
of her!"
He lifted his eyes upwards; there was in them a new look, sweet and
solemn, a look which expressed the satisfied content of a life now
rounded and completed by that other dear life which it had received
into and united with its own--making a full and perfect whole, which,
however kindly and fondly it may look on friends and kindred outside,
has no absolute need of any, but is complete in and sufficient to
itself, as true marriage should be. A look, unconsciously fulfilling
the law--God's own law--that a man shall leave father and mother,
brethren and companions, and shall cleave unto his wife, and "they two
shall become one flesh."
And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half-sadly for a
moment, the vague, fine line of division which was thus for evermore
drawn between him and me of no fault on either side, and of which he
himself was unaware. It was but the right and natural law of things,
the difference between the married and unmarried, which only the latter
feel. Which, perhaps, the Divine One meant them to feel--that out of
their great solitude of this world may grow a little inner Eden, where
they may hear His voice, "walking in the garden in the cool of the day."
We went round John's garden; there was nothing Eden-like about it,
being somewhat of a waste still, divided between ancient cabbage-beds,
empty flower-beds, and great old orchard-trees, very thinly laden with
fruit.
"We'll make them bear better next year," said John, hopefully. "We may
have a very decent garden here in time." He looked round his little
domain with the eye of a master, and put his arm, half proudly, half
shyly, round his wife's shoulders--she had sidled up to him, ostensibly
bringing him a letter, though possibly only for an excuse, because in
those sweet early days they naturally liked to be in each other's sight
continually. It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meek
matronliness had come over the high spirit of the "Nut-browne Mayde."
"May I read?" she said, peeping over him.
"Of course you may, little one." A comical pet name for him to give
her, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering the
time when John Halifax bowed to the stately and dignified young
gentlewoman who stood at Mrs. Tod's door. To think he should ever have
come to call Miss Ursula March "little one!"
But this was not exactly a time for jesting, since, on reading the
letter, I saw the young wife flush an angry red, and then look grave.
Until John, crumpling up the paper, and dropping it almost with a
boyish frolic into the middle of a large rosemary-bush, took his wife
by both her hands, and gazed down into her troubled face, smiling.
"You surely don't mind this, love? We knew it all before. It can make
no possible difference."
"No! But it is so wrong--so unjust. I never believed he dared do
it--to you."
"Hear her, Phineas! She thinks nobody dare do anything ill to her
husband--not even Richard Brithwood."
"He is a--"
"Hush, dear!--we will not talk about him; since, for all his threats,
he can do us no harm, and, poor man! he never will be half as happy as
we."
That was true. So Mr. Brithwood's insulting letter was left to moulder
harmlessly away in the rosemary-bush, and we all walked up and down the
garden, talking over a thousand plans for making ends meet in that
little household. To their young hopefulness even poverty itself
became a jest; and was met cheerfully, like an honest, hard-featured,
hard-handed friend, whose rough face was often kindly, and whose harsh
grasp made one feel the strength of one's own.
"We mean," John said gaily, "to be two living Essays on the Advantages
of Poverty. We are not going to be afraid of it or ashamed of it. We
don't care who knows it. We consider that our respectability lies
solely in our two selves."
"But your neighbours?"
"Our neighbours may think of us exactly what they like. Half the sting
of poverty is gone when one keeps house for one's own comfort, and not
for the comments of one's neighbours."
"I should think not," Ursula cried, tossing back her head in merry
defiance. "Besides, we are young, we have few wants, and we can easily
reduce our wants to our havings."
"And no more grey silk gowns?" said her husband, half-fondly,
half-sadly.
"You will not be so rude as to say I shall not look equally well in a
cotton one? And as for being as happy in it--why, I know best."
He smiled at her once more,--that tender, manly smile which made all
soft and lustrous the inmost depths of his brown eyes; truly no woman
need be afraid, with a smile like that, to be the strength, the
guidance, the sunshine of her home.
We went in, and the young mistress showed us her new house; we
investigated and admired all, down to the very scullery; then we
adjourned to the sitting-room--the only one--and, after tea, Ursula
arranged her books, some on stained shelves, which she proudly informed
me were of John's own making, and some on an old spinet, which he had
picked up, and which, he said, was of no other use than to hold books,
since she was not an accomplished young lady, and could neither sing
nor play.
"But you don't dislike the spinet, Ursula? It caught my fancy. Do you
know I have a faint remembrance that once, on such a thing as this, my
mother used to play?"
He spoke in a low voice; Ursula stole up to him with a fond, awed look.
"You never told me anything about your mother?"
"Dear, I had little to tell. Long ago you knew whom you were going to
marry--John Halifax, who had no friends, no kindred, whose parents left
him nothing but his name."
"And you cannot remember them?"
"My father not at all; my mother very little."
"And have you nothing belonging to them?"
"Only one thing. Should you like to see it?"
"Very much." She still spoke slowly, and with slight hesitation. "It
was hard for him not to have known his parents," she added, when John
had left the room. "I should like to have known them too. But
still--when I know HIM--"
She smiled, tossed back the coronet of curls from her forehead--her
proud, pure forehead, that would have worn a coronet of jewels more
meekly than it now wore the unadorned honour of being John Halifax's
wife. I wished he could have seen her.
That minute he re-appeared.
"Here, Ursula, is all I have of my parents. No one has seen it, except
Phineas there, until now."
He held in his hand the little Greek Testament which he had showed me
years before. Carefully, and with the same fond, reverent look as when
he was a boy, he undid the case, made of silk, with ribbon
strings--doubtless a woman's work--it must have been his mother's. His
wife touched it, softly and tenderly. He showed her the fly-leaf; she
looked over the inscription, and then repeated it aloud.
"'Guy Halifax, gentleman.' I thought--I thought--"
Her manner betrayed a pleased surprise: she would not have been a
woman, especially a woman reared in pride of birth, not to have felt
and testified the like pleasure for a moment.
"You thought that I was only a labourer's son: or--nobody's. Well,
does it signify?"
"No," she cried, as, clinging round his neck and throwing her head
back, she looked at him with all her heart in her eyes. "No, it does
NOT signify. Were your father the king on his throne, or the beggar in
the streets, it would be all the same to me; you would still be
yourself--MY husband--MY John Halifax."
"God bless thee--my own wife that He has given me!" John murmured,
through his close embrace.
They had altogether forgotten any one's presence, dear souls! so I kept
them in that happy oblivion by slipping out to Jenny in the kitchen,
and planning with her how we could at least spare Jem Watkins two days
a week to help in the garden, under Mr. Halifax's orders.
"Only, Jenny," smiled I, with a warning finger, "no idling and
chattering. Young folk must work hard if they want to come to the
happy ending of your master and mistress."
The little maid grew the colour of her swain's pet peonies, and
promised obedience. Conscientious Jem there was no fear of--all the
rosy-cheeked damsels in Christendom would not have turned him aside
from one iota of his duty to Mr. Halifax. Thus there was love in the
parlour and love in the kitchen. But, I verily believe, the young
married couple were served all the better for their kindness and
sympathy to the humble pair of sweethearts in the rank below them.
John walked home with me--a pleasure I had hardly expected, but which
was insisted upon both by him and Ursula. For from the very first of
her betrothal there had been a thorough brother-and-sisterly bond
established between her and me. Her womanly, generous nature would
have scorned to do what, as I have heard, many young wives do--seek to
make coldness between her husband and his old friends. No; secure in
her riches, in her rightful possession of his whole heart, she took
into hers everything that belonged to John, every one he cared for; to
be for ever held sacred and beloved, being his, and therefore her own.
Thus we were the very best of friends, my sister Ursula and me.
John and I talked a little about her--of her rosy looks, which he hoped
would not fade in their town dwelling--and of good Mrs. Tod's wonderful
delight at seeing her, when last week they had stayed two days in the
dear old cottage at Enderley. But he seemed slow to speak about his
wife, or to dilate on a joy so new that it was hardly to be breathed
on, lest it might melt into air.
Only when, as we were crossing the street, a fine equipage passed, he
looked after it with a smile.
"Grey ponies! she is so fond of long-tailed grey ponies. Poor child!
when shall I be able to give her a carriage? Perhaps some day--who
knows!"
He turned the conversation, and began telling me about the cloth
mill--his old place of resort; which he had been over once again when
they were at Rose Cottage.
"And do you know, while I was looking at the machinery, a notion came
into my head that, instead of that great water-wheel--you remember
it?--it might be worked by steam."
"What sort of steam?"
"Phineas, your memory is no better, I see. Have you forgotten my
telling you how, last year, some Scotch engineer tried to move boats by
steam, on the Forth and Clyde canal? Why should not the same power be
turned to account in a cloth-mill? I know it could--I have got the
plan of the machinery in my head already. I made a drawing of it last
night, and showed it to Ursula; SHE understood it directly."
I smiled.
"And I do believe, by common patience and skill, a man might make his
fortune with it at those Enderley cloth-mills."
"Suppose you try!" I said in half jest, and was surprised to see how
seriously John took it.
"I wish I could try--if it were only practicable. Once or twice I have
thought it might be. The mill belongs to Lord Luxmore. His steward
works it. Now, if one could get to be a foreman or overseer--"
"Try--you can do anything you try."
"No, I must not think of it--she and I have agreed that I must not,"
said he, steadily. "It's my weakness--my hobby, you know. But--no
hobbies now. Above all, I must not, for a mere fancy, give up the work
that lies under my hand. What of the tan-yard, Phineas?"
"My father missed you, and grumbled after you a good deal. He looks
anxious, I think. He vexes himself more than he needs about business."
"Don't let him. Keep him as much at home as you can. I'll manage the
tan-yard: you know--and he knows too--that everything which can be
done for us all I shall do."
I looked up, surprised at the extreme earnestness of his manner.
"Surely, John--"
"Nay, there is nothing to be uneasy about--nothing more than there has
been for this year past. All trade is bad just now. Never fear, we'll
weather the storm--I'm not afraid."
Cheerfully as he spoke, I began to guess--what he already must have
known--that our fortunes were as a slowly leaking ship, of which the
helm had slipped from my old father's feeble hand. But John had taken
it--John stood firm at the wheel. Perhaps, with God's blessing, he
might guide us safe to land.
I had not time to say more, when, with its pretty grey ponies, the
curricle once more passed our way. Two ladies were in it: one leaned
out and bowed. Presently a lacquey came to beg Mr. Halifax would come
and speak with Lady Caroline Brithwood.
"Shall you go, John?"
"Certainly--why not?" And he stepped forward to the carriage-side.
"Ah! delighted to see mon beau cousin. This is he, Emma," turning to
the lady who sat by her--oh, what a lovely face that lady had! no
wonder it drove men mad; ay, even that brave man in whose honest life
can be chronicled only this one sin, of being bewitched by her.
John caught the name--perhaps, too, he recognized the face--it was only
too public, alas! His own took a sternness, such as I had never before
seen, and yet there was a trace of pity in it too.
"You are quite well. Indeed, he looks so--n'est-ce pas, ma chere?"
John bore gravely the eyes of the two ladies fixed on him, in rather
too plain admiration--very gravely, too, he bowed.
"And what of our young bride, our treasure that we stole--nay, it was
quite fair--quite fair. How is Ursula?"
"I thank you, Mrs. Halifax is well."
Lady Caroline smiled at the manner, courteous through all its coldness,
which not ill became the young man. But she would not be repelled.
"I am delighted to have met you. Indeed, we must be friends. One's
friends need not always be the same as one's husband's, eh, Emma? You
will be enchanted with our fair bride. We must both seize the first
opportunity, and come as disguised princesses to visit Mrs. Halifax."
"Again let me thank you, Lady Caroline. But--"
"No 'buts.' I am resolved. Mr. Brithwood will never find it out. And
if he does--why, he may. I like you both; I intend us to be excellent
friends, whenever I chance to be at Norton Bury. Don't be proud, and
reject me, there's good people--the only good people I ever knew who
were not disagreeable."
And leaning on her large ermine muff, she looked right into John's
face, with the winning sweetness which Nature, not courts, lent to
those fair features--already beginning to fade, already trying to hide
by art their painful, premature decay.
John returned the look, half sorrowfully; it was so hard to give back
harshness to kindliness. But a light laugh from the other lady caught
his ear, and his hesitation--if hesitation he had felt-was over.
"No, Lady Caroline, it cannot be. You will soon see yourself that it
cannot. Living, as we do, in the same neighbourhood, we may meet
occasionally by chance, and always, I hope, with kindly feeling; but,
under present circumstances--indeed, under any circumstances--intimacy
between your house and ours would be impossible."
Lady Caroline shrugged her shoulders with a pretty air of pique. "As
you will! I never trouble myself to court the friendship of any one.
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle."
"Do not mistake me," John said, earnestly. "Do not suppose I am
ungrateful for your former kindness to my wife; but the difference
between her and you--between your life and hers--is so extreme."
"Vraiment!" with another shrug and smile, rather a bitter one.
"Our two paths lie wide apart--wide as the poles; our house and our
society would not suit you; and that my wife should ever enter
yours"--glancing from one to the other of those two faces, painted with
false roses, lit by false smiles,--"No, Lady Caroline," he added,
firmly, "it is impossible."
She looked mortified for a moment, and then resumed her gaiety, which
nothing could ever banish long.
"Hear him, Emma! So young and so unkindly! Mais nous verrons. You
will change your mind. Au revoir, mon beau cousin."
They drove off quickly, and were gone.
"John, what will Mrs. Halifax say?"
"My innocent girl! thank God she is safe away from them all--safe in a
poor man's honest breast." He spoke with much emotion.
"Yet Lady Caroline--"
"Did you see who sat beside her?"
"That beautiful woman?"
"Poor soul! alas for her beauty! Phineas, that was Lady Hamilton."
He said no more, nor I. At my own door he left me, with his old merry
laugh, his old familiar grasp of my shoulder.
"Lad, take care of thyself, though I'm not by to see. Remember, I am
just as much thy tyrant as if I were living here still."
I smiled, and he went his way to his own quiet, blessed, married home.