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 a.s.sured 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."
CHAPTER x.x.xIX
Guy and his mother were together. She lay on a sofa in her dressing-room; he sat on a stool beside her, so that her arm could rest on his neck and she could now and then turn his face towards her and look at it--oh, what a look!
She had had him with her for two whole days--two days to be set against eight years! Yet the eight years seemed already to have collapsed into a span of time, and the two days to have risen up a great mountain of happiness, making a barrier complete against the woeful past, as happiness can do--thanks to the All-merciful for His mercies. Most especially for that mercy--true as His truth to the experience of all pure hearts--that one bright, brief season of joy can outweigh, in reality and even in remembrance, whole years of apparently interminable pain.
Two days only since the night Guy came home, and yet it seemed months ago! Already we had grown familiar to the tall, bearded figure; the strange step and voice about the house; all except Maud, who was rather shy and reserved still. We had ceased the endeavour to reconcile this our Guy--this tall, grave man of nearly thirty, looking thirty-five and more--with Guy, the boy that left us, the boy that in all our lives we never should find again. Nevertheless, we took him, just as he was, to our hearts, rejoicing in him one and all with inexpressible joy.
He was much altered, certainly. It was natural, nay, right, that he should be. He had suffered much; a great deal more than he ever told us--at least, not till long after; had gone through poverty, labour, sickness, shipwreck. He had written home by the "Stars-and-Stripes"--sailed a fortnight later by another vessel--been cast away--picked up by an outward-bound ship--and finally landed in England, he and his partner, as penniless as they left it.
"Was your partner an Englishman, then?" said Maud, who sat at the foot of the sofa, listening. "You have not told us anything about him yet."
Guy half smiled. "I will by and by. It"s a long story. Just now I don"t want to think of anybody or anything except my mother."
He turned, as he did twenty times a day, to press his rough cheek upon her hand and look up into her thin face, his eyes overflowing with love.
"You must get well now, mother. Promise!"
Her smile promised--and even began the fulfilment of the same.
"I think she looks stronger already--does she, Maud? You know her looks better than I; I don"t ever remember her being ill in old times.
Oh, mother, I will never leave you again--never!"
"No, my boy."
"No, Guy, no."--John came in, and stood watching them both contentedly.
"No, my son, you must never leave your mother."
"I will not leave either of you, father," said Guy, with a reverent affection that must have gladdened the mother"s heart to the very core.
Resigning his place by her, Guy took Maud"s, facing them; and father and son began to talk of various matters concerning their home and business arrangements; taking counsel together, as father and son ought to do. These eight years of separation seemed to have brought them nearer together; the difference between them--in age, far less than between most fathers and sons, had narrowed into a meeting-point.
Never in all his life had Guy been so deferent, so loving, to his father. And with a peculiar trust and tenderness, John"s heart turned to his eldest son, the heir of his name, his successor at Enderley Mills. For, in order that Guy might at once take his natural place, and feel no longer a waif and stray upon the world, already a plan had been started, that the firm of Halifax and Sons should become Halifax Brothers. Perhaps, ere very long--only the mother said privately, rather anxiously too, that she did not wish this part of the scheme to be mentioned to Guy just now--perhaps, ere long it would be "Guy Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood;" and "the old people" at happy little Longfield.
As yet Guy had seen n.o.body but ourselves, and n.o.body had seen Guy.
Though his mother gave various good reasons why he should not make his public appearance as a "ship-wrecked mariner," costume and all, yet it was easy to perceive that she looked forward not without apprehension to some meetings which must necessarily soon occur, but to which Guy made not the smallest allusion. He had asked, cursorily and generally, after "all my brothers and sisters," and been answered in the same tone; but neither he nor we had as yet mentioned the names of Edwin or Louise.
They knew he was come home; but how and where the first momentous meeting should take place we left entirely to chance, or, more rightly speaking, to Providence.
So it happened thus. Guy was sitting quietly on the sofa at his mother"s feet, and his father and he were planning together in what way could best be celebrated, by our school-children, tenants, and work-people, an event which we took a great interest in, though not greater than in this year was taken by all cla.s.ses throughout the kingdom--the day fixed for the abolition of Negro Slavery in our Colonies--the 1st of August, 1834. He sat in an att.i.tude that reminded me of his boyish lounging ways; the picture of content; though a stream of sunshine pouring in upon his head, through the closed Venetian blind, showed many a deep line of care on his forehead, and more than one silver thread among his brown hair.
In a pause--during which no one exactly liked to ask what we were all thinking about--there came a little tap at the door, and a little voice outside.
"Please, me want to come in."
Maud jumped up to refuse admission; but Mr. Halifax forbade her, and himself went and opened the door. A little child stood there--a little girl of three years old.
Apparently guessing who she was, Guy rose up hastily, and sat down in his place again.
"Come in, little maid," said the father; "come in, and tell us what you want."
"Me want to see Grannie and Uncle Guy."
Guy started, but still he kept his seat. The mother took her grandchild in her feeble arms, and kissed her, saying softly,
"There--that is Uncle Guy. Go and speak to him."
And then, touching his knees, Guy felt the tiny, fearless hand. He turned round, and looked at the little thing, reluctantly, inquisitively. Still he did not speak to or touch her.
"Are you Uncle Guy?"