For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house--if that
miserable existence of hers could be called living--bedridden, fallen
into second childhood:
"Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;"
oblivious to both past and present, recognising none of us, and taking
no notice of anybody, except now and then of Edwin's little daughter,
baby Louise.
We knew that all our neighbours talked us over, making far more than a
nine days' wonder of the "very extraordinary conduct" of Mr. and Mrs.
Halifax. That even good Lady Oldtower hesitated a little before she
suffered her tribe of fair daughters to visit under the same roof where
lay, quite out of the way, that poor wreck of womanhood, which would
hardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time the gossip
ceased of itself; and when, one summer day, a small decent funeral
moved out of our garden gate to Enderley churchyard, all the comment
was:
"Oh! is she dead?--What a relief it must be! How very kind of Mr. and
Mrs. Halifax!"
Yes, she was dead, and had "made no sign," either of repentance, grief,
or gratitude. Unless one could consider as such a moment's lightening
before death, which Maud declared she saw in her--Maud, who had tended
her with a devotedness which neither father nor mother forbade,
believing that a woman cannot too soon learn womanhood's best
"mission"--usefulness, tenderness, and charity. Miss Halifax was
certain that a few minutes before the last minute, she saw a gleam of
sense in the filmy eyes, and stooping down, had caught some feeble
murmur about "William--poor William!"
She did not tell me this; she spoke of it to no one but her mother, and
to her briefly. So the wretched life, once beautiful and loveful, was
now ended, or perhaps born in some new sphere to begin again its
struggle after the highest beauty, the only perfect love. What are we
that we should place limits to the infinite mercy of the Lord and Giver
of Life, unto whom all life returns?
We buried her and left her--poor Lady Caroline!
No one interfered with us, and we appealed to no one. In truth, there
was no one unto whom we could appeal. Lord Luxmore, immediately after
his father's funeral, had disappeared, whither, no one knew except his
solicitor; who treated with and entirely satisfied the host of
creditors, and into whose hands the sole debtor, John Halifax, paid his
yearly rent. Therewith, he wrote several times to Lord Luxmore; but
the letters were simply acknowledged through the lawyer: never
answered. Whether in any of them John alluded to Lady Caroline I do
not know; but I rather think not, as it would have served no purpose
and only inflicted pain. No doubt, her brother had long since believed
her dead, as we and the world had done.
In that same world one man, even a nobleman, is of little account. Lord
Ravenel sank in its wide waste of waters, and they closed over him.
Whether he were drowned or saved was of small moment to any one. He
was soon forgotten--everywhere except at Beechwood; and sometimes it
seemed as if he were even forgotten there. Save that in our family we
found it hard to learn this easy, convenient habit--to forget.
Hard, though seven years had passed since we saw Guy's merry face, to
avoid missing it keenly still. The mother, as her years crept on,
oftentimes wearied for him with a yearning that could not be told. The
father, as Edwin became engrossed in his own affairs, and Walter's
undecided temperament kept him a boy long after boyhood, often seemed
to look round vaguely for an eldest son's young strength to lean upon,
often said anxiously, "I wish Guy were at home."
Yet still there was no hint of his coming; better he never came at all
than came against his will, or came to meet the least pain, the shadow
of disgrace. And he was contented and prosperous in the western world,
leading an active and useful life, earning an honourable name. He had
taken a partner, he told us; there was real friendship between them,
and they were doing well; perhaps might make, in a few years, one of
those rapid fortunes which clever men of business do make in America,
and did especially at that time.
He was also eager and earnest upon other and higher cares than mere
business; entered warmly into his father's sympathy about many
political measures now occupying men's minds. A great number of
comparative facts concerning the factory children in England and
America; a mass of evidence used by Mr. Fowell Buxton in his arguments
for the abolition of slavery; and many other things, originated in the
impulsive activity, now settled into mature manly energy, of Mr. Guy
Halifax, of Boston, U.S.--"our Guy."
"The lad is making a stir in the world," said his father one day, when
we had read his last letter. "I shall not wonder if when he comes home
a deputation from his native Norton Bury were to appear, requesting him
to accept the honour of representing them in Parliament. He would suit
them--at least, as regards the canvassing and the ladies--a great deal
better than his old father--eh, love?"
Mrs. Halifax smiled, rather unwillingly, for her husband referred to a
subject which had cost her some pain at the time. After the Reform
Bill passed, many of our neighbours, who had long desired that one of
John's high character, practical knowledge, and influence in the town,
should be its M.P., and were aware that his sole objection to entering
the House was the said question of Reform, urged him very earnestly to
stand for Norton Bury.
To everybody's surprise, and none more than our own, he refused.
Publicly he assigned no reason for this except his conviction that he
could not discharge as he ought, and as he would once have done, duties
which he held so sacred and indispensable. His letter, brief and
simple, thanking his "good neighbours," and wishing them "a younger and
worthier" member, might be found in some old file of the Norton Bury
Herald still. Even the Norton Bury Mercury, in reprinting it,
commented on its touching honesty and brevity, and--concluding his
political career was ended with it--condescended to bestow on Mr.
Halifax the usual obituary line--
"We could have better spared a better man."
When his family, and even his wife, reasoned with him, knowing that to
enter Parliament had long been his thought, nay, his desire, and
perhaps herself taking a natural pride in the idea of seeing M.P.--M.P.
of a new and unbribed House of Commons--after his well-beloved name; to
us and to her he gave no clearer motive for his refusal than to the
electors of Norton Bury.
"But you are not old, John," I argued with him one day; "you possess to
the full the mens sana in corpore sano. No man can be more fitted than
yourself to serve his country, as you used to say it might be served,
and you yourself might serve it, after Reform was gained."
He smiled, and jocularly thanked me for my good opinion.
"Nay, such service is almost your duty; you yourself once thought so
too. Why have you changed your mind?"
"I have not changed my mind, but circumstances have changed my actions.
As for duty--duty begins at home. Believe me, I have thought well over
the subject. Brother, we will not refer to it again."
I saw that something in the matter pained him, and obeyed his wish.
Even when, a few days after, perhaps as some compensation for the
mother's disappointment, he gave this hint of Guy's taking his place
and entering Parliament in his room.
For any one--nay, his own son--to take John's place, to stand in John's
room, was not a pleasant thought, even in jest; we let it pass by
unanswered, and John himself did not recur to it.
Thus time went on, placidly enough; the father and mother changed into
grandfather and grandmother, and little Maud into Auntie Maud. She bore
her new honours and fulfilled her new duties with great delight and
success. She had altered much of late years: at twenty was as old as
many a woman of thirty--in all the advantages of age. She was sensible,
active, resolute, and wise; sometimes thoughtful, or troubled with fits
of what in any less wholesome temperament would have been melancholy;
but as it was, her humours only betrayed themselves in some slight
restlessness or irritability, easily soothed by a few tender words or a
rush out to Edwin's, and a peaceful coming back to that happy home,
whose principal happiness she knew that she, the only daughter, made.
She more than once had unexceptionable chances of quitting it; for Miss
Halifax possessed plenty of attractions, both outwardly and inwardly,
to say nothing of her not inconsiderable fortune. But she refused all
offers, and to the best of our knowledge was a free-hearted damsel
still. Her father and mother seemed rather glad of this than
otherwise. They would not have denied her any happiness she wished
for; still it was evidently a relief to them that she was slow in
choosing it; slow in quitting their arms of love to risk a love
untried. Sometimes, such is the weakness of parental humanity, I
verily believe they looked forward with complacency to the possibility
of her remaining always Miss Halifax. I remember one day, when Lady
Oldtower was suggesting--half jest, half earnest--"better any marriage
than no marriage at all;" Maud's father replied, very seriously--
"Better no marriage, than any marriage that is less than the best."
"How do you mean?"
"I believe," he said, smiling, "that somewhere in the world every man
has his right wife, every woman her right husband. If my Maud's come
he shall have her. If not, I shall be well content to see her a happy
old maid."
Thus after many storms, came this lull in our lives; a season of busy
yet monotonous calm,--I have heard say that peace itself, to be
perfect, ought to be monotonous. We had enough of it to satisfy our
daily need; we looked forward to more of it in time to come, when Guy
should be at home, when we should see safely secured the futures of all
the children, and for ourselves a green old age,
"Journeying in long serenity away."
A time of heavenly calm--which as I look back upon it grows heavenlier
still! Soft summer days and autumn afternoons, spent under the
beech-wood, or on the Flat. Quiet winter evenings, all to
ourselves--Maud and her mother working, Walter drawing. The father
sitting with his back to the lamp--its light making a radiance over his
brow and white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the curls behind,
restoring somewhat of the youthful colour to his fading hair. Nay, the
old youthful ring of his voice I caught at times, when he found
something funny in his book and read it out loud to us; or laying it
down, sat talking as he liked to talk about things speculative,
philosophical, or poetical--things which he had necessarily let slip in
the hurry and press of his business life, in the burthen and heat of
the day; but which now, as the cool shadows of evening were drawing on,
assumed a beauty and a nearness, and were again caught up by
him--precious as the dreams of his youth.
Happy, happy time--sunshiny summer, peaceful winter--we marked neither
as they passed; but now we hold both--in a sacredness inexpressible--a
foretaste of that Land where there is neither summer nor winter,
neither days nor years.
The first break in our repose came early in the new year. There had
been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never once in all his
wanderings had missed writing home at Christmas time. When the usual
monthly mail came in, and no word from him--a second month, and yet
nothing, we began to wonder about his omission less openly--to cease
scolding him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we still
eagerly brought up instances of the latter--"Guy is such a thoughtless
boy about his correspondence."
Gradually, as his mother's cheek grew paler, and his father more
anxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up discussing
publicly the many excellent reasons why no letters should come from
Guy. We had written, as usual, by every mail. By the last--by the
March mail, I saw that in addition to the usual packet for Mr. Guy
Halifax--his father, taking another precautionary measure, had written
in business form to "Messrs. Guy Halifax and Co." Guy had always,
"just like his carelessness!" omitted to give the name of his partner;
but addressed thus, in case of any sudden journey or illness of Guy's,
the partner, whoever he was, would be sure to write.
In May--nay, it was on May day, I remember, for we were down in the
mill-meadows with Louise and her little ones going a-maying--there came
in the American mail.
It brought a large packet--all our letters of this year sent back
again, directed in a strange hand, to "John Halifax, Esquire,
Beechwood," with the annotation, "By Mr. Guy Halifax's desire."
Among the rest--though the sickening sight of them had blinded even his
mother at first, so that her eye did not catch it, was one that
explained--most satisfactorily explained, we said--the reason they were
thus returned. It was a few lines from Guy himself, stating that
unexpected good fortune had made him determine to come home at once.
If circumstances thwarted this intention, he would write without fail;
otherwise he should most likely sail by an American merchantman--the
"Stars-and-Stripes."
"Then he is coming home. On his way home!"
And the mother, as with one shaking hand she held fast the letter, with
the other steadied herself by the rail of John's desk--I guessed now
why he had ordered all the letters to be brought first to his
counting-house. "When do you think we shall see--Guy?"
At thought of that happy sight, her bravery broke down. She wept
heartily and long.
John sat still, leaning over the front of his desk. By his sigh, deep
and glad, one could tell what a load was lifted off the father's heart
at the prospect of his son's return.
"The liners are only a month in sailing; but this is a barque most
likely, which takes longer time. Love, show me the date of the boy's
letter."
She looked for it herself. It was in JANUARY!
The sudden fall from certainty to uncertainty--the wild clutch at that
which hardly seemed a real joy until seen fading down to a mere hope, a
chance, a possibility--who has not known all this?
I remember how we all stood, mute and panic-struck, in the dark little
counting-house. I remember seeing Louise, with her children in the
door-way, trying to hush their laughing, and whispering to them
something about "poor Uncle Guy."
John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread, and show that it was
less than at first appeared.
"We ought to have had this letter two months ago; this shows how often
delays occur--we ought not to be surprised or uneasy at anything. Guy
does not say when the ship was to sail--she may be on her voyage still.
If he had but given the name of her owners! But I can write to Lloyd's
and find out everything. Cheer up, mother. Please God, you shall have
that wandering, heedless boy of yours back before long."
He replaced the letters in their enclosure--held a general
consultation, into which he threw a passing gleam of faint gaiety, as
to whether being ours we had a right to burn them, or whether having
passed through the post-office they were not the writer's but the
owner's property, and Guy could claim them, with all their useless
news, on his arrival in England. This was finally decided, and the
mother, with faint smile, declared that nobody should touch them; she
would put them under lock and key "till Guy came home."
Then she took her husband's arm; and the rest of us followed them as
they walked slowly up the hill to Beechwood.
But after that day Mrs. Halifax's strength decayed. Not suddenly,
scarcely perceptibly; not with any outward complaint, except what she
jested over as "the natural weakness of old age;" but there was an
evident change. Week by week her long walks shortened; she gave up her
village school to me; and though she went about the house still and
insisted on keeping the keys, gradually, "just for the sake of
practice," the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud.
An answer arrived from Lloyd's: the "Stars-and-Stripes" was an
American vessel, probably of small tonnage and importance, was the
under-writers knew nothing of it.
More delay--more suspense. The summer days came--but not Guy. No news
of him--not a word--not a line.
His father wrote to America--pursuing inquiries in all directions. At
last some tangible clue was caught. The "Stars-and-Stripes" had
sailed, had been spoken with about the Windward Isles--and never heard
of afterwards.
Still, there was a hope. John told the hope first, before he ventured
to speak of the missing ship, and even then had to break the news
gently, for the mother had grown frail and weak, and could not bear
things as she used to do. She clung as if they had been words of life
or death to the ship-owner's postscript--"that they had no recollection
of the name of Halifax; there might have been such a gentleman on
board--they could not say. But it was not probable; for the
'Stars-and-Stripes' was a trading vessel, and had not good
accommodation for passengers."
Then came week after week--I know not how they went by--one never does,
afterwards. At the time they were frightfully vivid, hour by hour; we
rose each morning, sure that some hope would come in the course of the
day; we went to bed at night, heavily, as if there were no such thing
as hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that was the worst
consciousness of all, our life of suspense became perfectly natural;
and everything in and about the house went on as usual, just as though
we knew quite well--what the Almighty Father alone knew!--where our
poor lad was, and what had become of him. Or rather, as if we had
settled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our own lives alone
would bring us, that he had slipped out of life altogether, and there
was no such being as Guy Halifax under this pitiless sun.
The mother's heart was breaking. She made no moan, but we saw it in
her face. One morning--it was the morning after John's birthday, which
we had made a feint of keeping, with Grace Oldtower, the two little
grandchildren, Edwin and Louise--she was absent at breakfast and
dinner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many days
following it happened the same; with the same faint excuse, or with no
excuse at all. How we missed her about the house!--ay, changed as she
had been. How her husband wandered about, ghost-like, from room to
room!--could not rest anywhere, or do anything. Finally, he left our
company altogether, and during the hours that he was at home rarely
quitted for more than a few minutes the quiet bed-chamber, where, every
time his foot entered it, the poor pale face looked up and smiled.
Ay, smiled; for I noticed, as many another may have done in similar
cases, that when her physical health definitely gave way, her mental
health returned. The heavy burthen was lighter; she grew more
cheerful, more patient; seemed to submit herself to the Almighty will,
whatever it might be. As she lay on her sofa in the study, where one
or two evenings John carried her down, almost as easily as he used to
carry little Muriel, his wife would rest content with her hand in his,
listening to his reading, or quietly looking at him, as though her lost
son's face, which a few weeks since she said haunted her continually,
were now forgotten in his father's. Perhaps she thought the one she
should soon see--while the other--
"Phineas," she whispered one day, when I was putting a shawl over her
feet, or doing some other trifle that she thanked me for,--"Phineas, if
anything happens to me, you will comfort John!"
Then first I began seriously to contemplate a possibility, hitherto as
impossible and undreamed of as that the moon should drop out of the
height of heaven--What would the house be without the mother?
Her children never suspected this, I saw; but they were young. For her
husband--
I could not understand John. He, so quick-sighted; he who meeting any
sorrow looked steadily up at the Hand that smote him, knowing neither
the coward's dread nor the unbeliever's disguise of pain--surely he
must see what was impending. Yet he was as calm as if he saw it not.
Calm, as no man could be contemplating the supreme parting between two
who nearly all their lives had been not two, but one flesh.
Yet I had once heard him say that a great love, and only that, makes
parting easy. Could it be that this love of his, which had clasped his
wife so firmly, faithfully, and long, fearlessly clasped her still, by
its own perfectness assured of its immortality?
But all the while his human love clung about her, showing itself in a
thousand forms of watchful tenderness. And hers clung to him, closely,
dependently; she let herself be taken care of, ruled and guided, as if
with him she found helplessness restful and submission sweet. Many a
little outward fondness, that when people have been long married
naturally drops into disuse, was revived again; he would bring her
flowers out of the garden, or new books from the town; and many a time,
when no one noticed, I have seen him stoop and press his lips upon the
faded hand, where the wedding-ring hung so loosely;--his own for so
many years, his own till the dust claimed it, that well-beloved hand!
Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself, are powerless in the
presence of such a love as theirs.
It was already the middle of July. From January to July--six months!
Our neighbours without--and there were many who felt for us--never
asked now, "Is there any news of Mr. Guy?" Even pretty Grace
Oldtower--pretty still, but youthful no longer--only lifted her eyes
inquiringly as she crossed our doorway, and dropped them again with a
hopeless sigh. She had loved us all, faithfully and well, for a great
many years.
One night, when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after staying with us
the whole day--Maud and I sat in the study by ourselves, where we
generally sat now. The father spent all his evenings up-stairs. We
could hear his step overhead as he crossed the room or opened the
window, then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife's
bedside. Sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading or talk; then
long silence.
Maud and I sat in silence too. She had her own thoughts--I mine.
Perhaps they were often one and the same: perhaps--for youth is youth
after all--they may have diverged widely. Hers were deep, absorbed
thoughts, at any rate, travelling fast--fast as her needle travelled;
for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways and her
mother's work.
We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open; and through the
sultry summer night we could hear the trickle of the stream and the
rustle of the leaves in the beech-wood. We sat very still, waiting for
nothing, expecting nothing; in the dull patience which always fell upon
us about this hour--the hour before bed-time, when nothing more was to
be looked for but how best to meet another dreary day.
"Maud, was that the click of the front gate swinging?"
"No, I told Walter to lock it before he went to bed. Last night it
disturbed my mother."
Again silence. So deep that the maid's opening the door made us both
start.
"Miss Halifax--there's a gentleman wanting to see Miss Halifax."
Maud sprung up in her chair, breathless.
"Any one you know, is it?"
"No, Miss."
"Show the gentleman in."
He stood already in the doorway,--tall, brown, bearded. Maud just
glanced at him, then rose, bending stiffly, after the manner of Miss
Halifax of Beechwood.
"Will you be seated? My father--"
"Maud, don't you know me? Where's my mother? I am Guy."