The mother lit a candle, and he followed her up-stairs.
Just the same homely room--half-bedchamber, half-nursery--the same little curtainless bed where, for a week past, we had been accustomed to see the wasted figure and small pale face lying, in smiling quietude, all day long.
It lay there still. In it, and in the room, was hardly any change. One of Walter"s playthings was in a corner of the window-sill, and on the chest of drawers stood the nosegay of Christmas roses which Guy had brought for his sister yesterday morning. Nay, her shawl--a white, soft, furry shawl, that she was fond of wearing--remained still hanging up behind the door. One could almost fancy the little maid had just been said "good-night" to, and left to dream the childish dreams on her nursery pillow, where the small head rested so peacefully, with that pretty babyish nightcap tied over the pretty curls.
There she was, the child who had gone out of the number of our children--our earthly children--for ever.
Her mother sat down at the side of the bed, her father at its foot, looking at her. Lord Ravenel stood by, motionless; then stooping down, he kissed the small marble hand.
"Good-bye, good-bye, my little Muriel!"
And he left the room abruptly, in such an anguish of grief that the mother rose and followed him.
John went to the door and locked it, almost with a sort of impatience; then came back and stood by his darling, alone. Me he never saw--no, nor anything in the world except that little face, even in death so strangely like his own. The face which had been for eleven years the joy of his heart, the very apple of his eye.
For a long time he remained gazing, in a stupor of silence; then, sinking on his knee, he stretched out his arms across the bed, with a bitter cry:
"Come back to me, my darling, my first-born! Come back to me, Muriel, my little daughter--my own little daughter!"
But thou wert with the angels, Muriel--Muriel!
CHAPTER XXIX
We went home, leaving all that was mortal of our darling sleeping at Enderley, underneath the snows.
For twelve years after then, we lived at Longfield; in such unbroken, uneventful peace, that looking back seems like looking back over a level sea, whose leagues of tiny ripples make one smooth gla.s.sy plain.
Let me recall--as the first wave that rose, ominous of change--a certain spring evening, when Mrs. Halifax and I were sitting, as was our wont, under the walnut-tree. The same old walnut-tree, hardly a bough altered, though many of its neighbours and kindred had grown from saplings into trees--even as some of us had grown from children almost into young men.
"Edwin is late home from Norton Bury," said Ursula.
"So is his father."
"No--this is just John"s time. Hark! there are the carriage-wheels!"
For Mr. Halifax, a prosperous man now, drove daily to and from his mills, in as tasteful an equipage as any of the country gentry between here and Enderley.
His wife went down to the stream to meet him, as usual, and they came up the field-path together.
Both were changed from the John and Ursula of whom I last wrote. She, active and fresh-looking still, but settling into that fair largeness which is not unbecoming a lady of middle-age, he, inclined to a slight stoop, with the lines of his face more sharply defined, and the hair wearing away off his forehead up to the crown. Though still not a grey thread was discernible in the crisp locks at the back, which successively five little ones had pulled, and played with, and nestled in; not a sign of age, as yet, in "father"s curls."
As soon as he had spoken to me, he looked round as usual for his children, and asked if the boys and Maud would be home to tea?
"I think Guy and Walter never do come home in time when they go over to the manor-house."
"They"re young--let them enjoy themselves," said the father, smiling.
"And you know, love, of all our "fine" friends, there are none you so heartily approve of as the Oldtowers."
These were not of the former race. Good old Sir Ralph had gone to his rest, and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead; Sir Herbert, who in his dignified grat.i.tude never forgot a certain election day, when he first made the personal acquaintance of Mr. Halifax. The manor-house family brought several other "county families" to our notice, or us to theirs.
These, when John"s fortunes grew rapidly--as many another fortune grew, in the beginning of the thirty years" peace, when unknown, petty manufacturers first rose into merchant princes and cotton lords--these gentry made a perceptible distinction, often amusing enough to us, between John Halifax, the tanner of Norton Bury, and Mr. Halifax, the prosperous owner of Enderley Mills. Some of them, too, were clever enough to discover, what a pleasant and altogether "visitable" lady was Mrs. Halifax, daughter of the late Mr. March, a governor in the West Indies, and cousin of Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe. But Mrs. Halifax, with quiet tenacity, altogether declined being visited as anything but Mrs. Halifax, wife of John Halifax, tanner, or mill-owner, or whatever he might be. All honours and all civilities that did not come through him, and with him, were utterly valueless to her.
To this her peculiarity was added another of John"s own, namely, that all his life he had been averse to what is called "society;" had eschewed "acquaintances,"--and--but most men might easily count upon their fingers the number of those who, during a life-time, are found worthy of the sacred name of "friend." Consequently, our circle of a.s.sociations was far more limited than that of many families holding an equal position with us--on which circ.u.mstance our neighbours commented a good deal. But little we cared; no more than we had cared for the chit-chat of Norton Bury. Our whole hearts were bound up within our own home--our happy Longfield.
"I do think this place is growing prettier than ever," said John, when, tea being over--a rather quiet meal, without a single child--we elders went out again to the walnut-tree bench. "Certainly, prettier than ever;" and his eye wandered over the quaint, low house, all odds and ends--for nearly every year something had been built, or something pulled down; then crossing the smooth bit of lawn, Jem Watkins"s special pride, it rested on the sloping field, yellow with tall b.u.t.tercups, wavy with growing gra.s.s. "Let me see--how long have we lived here? Phineas, you are the one for remembering dates. What year was it we came to Longfield?"
"Eighteen hundred and twelve. Thirteen years ago."
"Ah, so long!"
"Not too long," said Mrs. Halifax, earnestly. "I hope we may end our days here. Do not you, John?"
He paused a little before answering. "Yes, I wish it; but I am not sure how far it would be right to do it."
"We will not open that subject again," said the mother, uneasily. "I thought we had all made up our minds that little Longfield was a thousand times pleasanter than Beechwood, grand as it is. But John thinks he never can do enough for his people at Enderley."
"Not that alone, love. Other reasons combined. Do you know, Phineas,"
he continued, musingly, as he watched the sun set over Leckington Hill--"sometimes I fancy my life is too easy--that I am not a wise steward of the riches that have multiplied so fast. By fifty, a man so blest as I have been, ought to have done really something of use in the world--and I am forty-five. Once, I hoped to have done wonderful things ere I was forty-five. But somehow the desire faded."
His wife and I were silent. We both knew the truth; that calm as had flowed his outer existence, in which was omitted not one actual duty, still, for these twelve years, all the high aims which make the glory and charm of life as duties make its strength, all the active energies and n.o.ble ambitions which especially belong to the prime of manhood, in him had been, not dead perhaps, but sleeping. Sleeping, beyond the power of any human voice to waken them, under the daisies of a child"s grave at Enderley.
I know not if this was right--but it was scarcely unnatural. In that heart, which loved as few men love, and remembered as few men remember, so deep a wound could never be thoroughly healed. A certain something in him seemed different ever after, as if a portion of the father"s own life had been taken away with Muriel, and lay buried in the little dead bosom of his first-born, his dearest child.
"You forget," said Mrs. Halifax, tenderly--"you forget, John, how much you have been doing, and intend to do. What with your improvements at Enderley, and your Catholic Emanc.i.p.ation--your Abolition of Slavery and your Parliamentary Reform--why, there is hardly any scheme for good, public or private, to which you do not lend a helping hand."
"A helping purse, perhaps, which is an easier thing, much."
"I will not have you blaming yourself. Ask Phineas, there--our household Solomon."
"Thank you, Ursula," said I, submitting to the not rare fortune of being loved and laughed at.
"Uncle Phineas, what better could John have done in all these years, than look after his mills and educate his three sons?"
"Have them educated, rather," corrected he, sensitive over his own painfully-gained and limited acquirements. Yet this feeling had made him doubly careful to give his boys every possible advantage of study, short of sending them from home, to which he had an invincible objection. And three finer lads, or better educated, there could not be found in the whole country.
"I think, John, Guy has quite got over his fancy of going to Cambridge with Ralph Oldtower."
"Yes; college life would not have done for Guy," said the father thoughtfully.
"Hush! we must not talk about them, for here come the children."
It was now a mere figure of speech to call them so, though in their home-taught, loving simplicity, they would neither have been ashamed nor annoyed at the epithet--these two tall lads, who in the dusk looked as man-like as their father.
"Where is your sister, boys?"
"Maud stopped at the stream with Edwin," answered Guy, rather carelessly. His heart had kept its childish faith; the youngest, pet as she was, was never anything to him but "little Maud." One--whom the boys still talked of, softly and tenderly, in fireside evening talks, when the winter winds came and the snow was falling--one only was ever spoken of by Guy as "sister."
Maud, or Miss Halifax, as from the first she was naturally called--as naturally as our lost darling was never called anything else than Muriel--came up, hanging on Edwin"s arm, which she was fond of doing, both because it happened to be the only arm low enough to suit her childish stature, and because she was more especially "Edwin"s girl,"