John Halifax, Gentleman

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  “God will help you both, and make you wise.”

  “We trust He will; and then we are not afraid.”

  A little while longer I sat by John’s side, catching the dim outline of his face, half uplifted, looking towards those myriad worlds, which we are taught to believe, and do believe, are not more precious in the Almighty sight than one living human soul.

  But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the thoughts which, in the holy hush of that summer night, had risen out of the deep of his heart. And though after this time they never again formed themselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope, or joy, or fear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by me.

  In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little one came.

  It was a girl—I think they had wished for a son; but they forgot all about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby—at least, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, who left our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs. Halifax’s, exhibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies with the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehemently declared was the very image of its father.

  For that young father—

  But I—what can I say? How should I tell of the joy of a man over his first-born?

  I did not see John till a day afterwards—when he came into our house, calm, happy, smiling. But Jael told me, that when she first placed his baby in his arms he had wept like a child.

  The little maiden grew with the snowdrops. Winter might have dropped her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, 277and pure-looking was she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young baby before; but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to have a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy, from the time her week-old fingers, with their tiny pink nails—a ludicrous picture of her father’s hand in little—made me smile as they closed over mine.

  She was named Muriel—after the rather peculiar name of John’s mother. Her own mother would have it so; only wishing out of her full heart, happy one! that there should be a slight alteration made in the second name. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy—Muriel Joy Halifax.

  That name—beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten among us—I write it now with tears.

  In December, 1802, she was born—our Muriel. And on February 9th—alas! I have need to remember the date!—she formally received her name. We all dined at John’s house—Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father and I.

  It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but his own for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked and entreated, he only shook his head; but just when we were all sitting down to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, and her lips dimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was so nice and neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And there, in the doorway, stood my father!

  His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth-shaven face, withered, but of a pale brown still, with the hard lines softening down, and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be; dressed carefully in his First-day clothes, the stainless white kerchief supporting his large chin, his Quaker’s hat in one hand, his stick in the other, looking in at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his mouth—thus he stood—thus I see thee, O my dear old father!

  The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome 278him enough. He only said, “I thank thee, John,” “I thank thee, Ursula;” and took his place beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his mind and come. Simple as the dinner was—simple as befitted those who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though there were no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and white Christmas roses—I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a nobler feast.

  Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside the window the thickly falling snow.

  “It has not snowed these two months,” said John; “never since the day our little girl was born.”

  And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid up-stairs set up a cry—that unmistakable child’s cry, which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household.

  My father gave a start—he had never seen or expressed a wish to see John’s daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the little helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away—Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expression, then began to say something about going back to the tan-yard.

  “Do not, pray do not leave us,” John entreated; “Ursula wants to show you our little lady.”

  My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still, came faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coo of pleasure, like a wood-dove in its nest—every mother knows the sound. And then Mrs. Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter flower, her baby daughter.

  Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her—closed his eyes against both, and looked no more.

  Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the general admiration of her treasure.

  “She might well come in a snow-storm,” said Mrs. Jessop, taking the child. “She is just like snow, so soft and white.”

  279“And as soundless—she hardly ever cries. She just lies in this way half the day over, cooing quietly, with her eyes shut. There, she has caught your dress fast. Now, was there ever a two months’ old baby so quick at noticing things? and she does it all with her fingers—she touches everything;—ah! take care, doctor,” the mother added, reproachfully, at a loud slam of the door, which made the baby tremble all over.

  “I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds,” said John, as he began talking to it and soothing it;—how strange it was to see him! and yet it seemed quite natural already. “I think even now she knows the difference between her mother’s voice and mine; and any sudden noise always startles her in this way.”

  “She must have astonishingly quick hearing,” said the doctor, slightly annoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of something else—showed Muriel’s eyelashes, very long for such a baby—and descanted on the colour of her eyes, that fruitful and never-ending theme of mothers and friends.

  “I think they are like her father’s; yes, certainly like her father’s. But we have not many opportunities of judging, for she is such a lazy young damsel, she hardly ever opens them—we should often fancy her asleep, but for that little soft coo; and then she will wake up all of a sudden. There now! do you see her? Come to the window, my beauty! and show Dr. Jessop your bonny brown eyes.”

  They were bonny eyes! lovely in shape and colour, delicately fringed; but there was something strange in their expression—or rather, in their want of it. Many babies have a round, vacant stare—but this was no stare, only a wide, full look—a look of quiet blankness—an UNSEEING look.

  It caught Dr. Jessop’s notice. I saw his air of vexed dignity change into a certain anxiety.

  “Well, whose are they like—her father’s or mine? His, I hope—it will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we’ll excuse all compliments.”

  280“I—I can’t exactly tell. I could judge better by candlelight.”

  “We’ll have candles.”

  “No—no! Had we not better put it off altogether, till another day?—I’ll call in to-morrow and look at her eyes.”

  His manner was hesitating and troubled. John noticed it.

  “Love, give her to me. Go and get us lights, will you?”

  When she was gone, John took his baby to the window, gazed long and intently into her little face, then at Dr. Jessop. “Do you think— no—it’s not possible—that there can be anything the matter with the child’s eyes?”

  Ursula coming in, heard the last words.

  “What was that you said about baby’s eyes?”


  No one answered her. All were gathered in a group at the window, the child being held on her father’s lap, while Dr. Jessop was trying to open the small white lids, kept so continually closed. At last the baby uttered a little cry of pain—the mother darted forward, and clasped it almost savagely to her breast.

  “I will not have my baby hurt! There is nothing wrong with her sweet eyes. Go away; you shall not touch her, John.”

  “Love!”

  She melted at that low, fond word; leaning against his shoulder—trying to control her tears.

  “It shocked me so—the bare thought of such a thing. Oh! husband, don’t let her be looked at again.”

  “Only once again, my darling. It is best. Then we shall be quite satisfied. Phineas, give me the candle.”

  The words—caressing, and by strong constraint made calm and soothing—were yet firm. Ursula resisted no more, but let him take Muriel—little, unconscious, cooing dove! Lulled by her father’s voice she once more opened her eyes wide. Dr. Jessop passed the candle before them many times, once so close that it almost touched her face; but the full, quiet eyes, never blenched nor closed. He set the light down.

  281“Doctor!” whispered the father, in a wild appeal against—ay, it was against certainty. He snatched the candle, and tried the experiment himself.

  “She does not see at all. Can she be blind?”

  “Born blind.”

  Yes, those pretty baby-eyes were dark—quite dark. There was nothing painful nor unnatural in their look, save, perhaps, the blankness of gaze which I have before noticed. Outwardly, their organization was perfect; but in the fine inner mechanism was something wrong—something wanting. She never had seen—never would see—in this world.

  “BLIND!” The word was uttered softly, hardly above a breath, yet the mother heard it. She pushed every one aside, and took the child herself. Herself, with a desperate incredulity, she looked into those eyes, which never could look back either her agony or her love. Poor mother!

  “John! John! oh, John!”—the name rising into a cry, as if he could surely help her. He came and took her in his arms—took both, wife and babe. She laid her head on his shoulder in bitter weeping. “Oh, John! it is so hard. Our pretty one—our own little child!”

  John did not speak, but only held her to him—close and fast. When she was a little calmer he whispered to her the comfort—the sole comfort even her husband could give her—through whose will it was that this affliction came.

  “And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to her, poor pet!” said Mrs. Jessop, as she wiped her friendly eyes. “She will not miss what she never knew. She may be a happy little child. Look, how she lies and smiles.”

  But the mother could not take that consolation yet. She walked to and fro, and stood rocking her baby, mute indeed, but with tears falling in showers. Gradually her anguish wept itself away, or was smothered down, lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on her breast.

  282Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm-chair, gently. It was my father. He sat down by her, taking her hand.

  “Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was blind. He was the happiest creature I ever knew.”

  My father sighed. We all marvelled to see the wonderful softness, even tenderness, which had come into him.

  “Give me thy child for a minute.” Ursula laid it across his knees; he put his hand solemnly on the baby-breast. “God bless this little one! Ay, and she shall be blessed.”

  These words, spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic benediction of the departing patriarchs of old, struck us all. We looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon her; as if the mysterious touch which had scaled up her eyes for ever had left on her a sanctity like as of one who has been touched by the finger of God.

  “Now, children, I must go home,” said my father.

  They did not detain us: it was indeed best that the poor young parents should be left alone.

  “You will come again soon?” begged Ursula, tenderly clasping the hand which he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured “God bless thee!”

  “Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy husband, my girl. And John, never be thou harsh to her, nor too hard upon her little failings. She is but young—but young.”

  He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of another than Ursula.

  As we walked down the street he spoke to me only once or twice, and then of things which startled me by their strangeness—things which had happened a long time ago; sayings and doings of mine in my childhood, which I had not the least idea he had either known of or remembered.

  When we got in-doors I asked if I should come and sit with him till his bed-time.

  283“No—no; thee looks tired, and I have a business letter to write. Better go to thy bed as usual.”

  I bade him good-night, and was going, when he called me back.

  “How old art thee, Phineas—twenty-four or five?”

  “Twenty-five, father.”

  “Eh! so much?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and looked down on me kindly, even tenderly. “Thee art but weakly still, but thee must pick up, and live to be as old a man as thy father. Goodnight. God be with thee, my son!”

  I left him. I was happy. Once I had never expected my old father and I would have got on together so well, or loved one another so dearly.

  In the middle of the night Jael came into my room, and sat down on my bed’s foot, looking at me. I had been dreaming strangely, about my own childish days, and about my father and mother when we were young.

  What Jael told me—by slow degrees, and as tenderly as when she was my nurse years ago—seemed at first so unreal as to be like a part of the dream.

  At ten o’clock, when she had locked up the house, she had come as usual to the parlour door, to tell my father it was bed-time. He did not answer, being sitting with his back to the door, apparently busy writing. So she went away.

  Half an hour afterwards she came again. He sat there still—he had not moved. One hand supported his head; the other, the fingers stiffly holding the pen, lay on the table. He seemed intently gazing on what he had written. It ran thus:

  “GOOD FRIEND,

  “To-morrosw I shall be—”

  But there the hand had stopped—for ever.

  O dear father! on that to-morrow thou wert with God.

  284CHAPTER XXII

  It was the year 1812. I had lived for ten years as a brother in my adopted brother’s house, whither he had brought me on the day of my father’s funeral; entreating that I should never leave it again. For, as was shortly afterwards made clear, fate—say Providence—was now inevitably releasing him from a bond, from which, so long as my poor father lived, John would never have released himself. It was discovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merely nominal—that of necessity, for the support of our two families, the tan-yard must be sold, and the business confined entirely to the flour-mill.

  At this crisis, as if the change of all things broke her stout old heart, which never could bend to any new ways—Jael died. We laid her at my father’s and mother’s feet—poor old Jael! and that grave-yard in St. Mary’s Lane now covered over all who loved me, all who were of my youth day—my very own.

  So thought I—or might have thought—but that John and Ursula then demanded with one voice, “Brother, come home.”

  I resisted long: for it is one of my decided opinions that married people ought to have no one, be the tie ever so close and dear, living permanently with them, to break the sacred duality—no, let me say the unity of their home.

  I wished to try and work for my living, if that were possible—285if not, that out of the wreck of my father’s trade might be found enough to keep me, in some poor way. But John Halifax would not hear of that. And Ursula—she was sitting sewing, while the little one lay on her lap, cooing softly with shut eyes—Ursula took my hand to play with Muriel’s. The baby f
ingers closed over mine—“See there, Phineas; SHE wants you too.” So I stayed.

  Perhaps it was on this account that better than all his other children, better than anything on earth except himself, I loved John’s eldest daughter, little blind Muriel.

  He had several children now. The dark old house, and the square town garden, were alive with their voices from morning till night. First, and loudest always, was Guy—born the year after Muriel. He was very like his mother, and her darling. After him came two more, Edwin and Walter. But Muriel still remained as “sister”—the only sister either given or desired.

  If I could find a name to describe that child it would be not the one her happy mother gave her at her birth, but one more sacred, more tender. She was better than Joy—she was an embodied Peace.

  Her motions were slow and tranquil—her voice soft—every expression of her little face extraordinarily serene. Whether creeping about the house, with a foot-fall silent as snow, or sitting among us, either knitting busily at her father’s knee, or listening to his talk and the children’s play, everywhere and always Muriel was the same. No one ever saw her angry, restless, or sad. The soft dark calm in which she lived seemed never broken by the troubles of this our troublous world.

  She was, as I have said, from her very babyhood a living peace. And such she was to us all, during those ten struggling years, when our household had much to contend with, much to endure. If at night her father came home jaded and worn, sickened to the soul by the hard battle he had to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Muriel would come softly and 286creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. If, busying herself about, doing faithfully her portion too, that the husband when he came in of evenings might find all cheerful and never know how heavy had been the household cares during the day—if, at times, Ursula’s voice took too sharp a tone, at sight of Muriel it softened at once. No one could speak any but soft and sweet words when the blind child was by.

  Yet, I think either parent would have looked amazed had any one pitied them for having a blind child. The loss—a loss only to them, and not to her, the darling!—became familiar, and ceased to wound; the blessedness was ever new. “Ay, and she shall be blessed,” had said my dear father. So she was. From her, or for her, her parents never had to endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of infancy and childhood, of which the three others had their natural share, always passed her by, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel.