That small closet, which was next to the nursery I occupied, safely shut out by it from the rest of the house, seemed very still now. I went to sleep thinking of it, and dreamed of it afterwards.
In the middle of the night a slight noise woke me, and I almost fancied I was dreaming still; for there I saw a little white figure gliding past my bed’s foot; so softly and soundlessly—it might have been the ghost of a child—and it went into the dead child’s room.
For a moment, that superstitious instinct which I believe we all have, paralyzed me. Then I tried to listen. There was most certainly a sound in the next room—a faint cry, quickly smothered—a very human cry. All the stories I had ever heard of supposed death and premature burial rushed horribly into my mind. Conquering alike my superstitious dread or fear of entering the infected room, I leaped out of bed, threw on some clothes, got a light, and went in.
There laid the little corpse, all safe and still—for ever. And like its own spirit watching in the night at the head of the forsaken clay, sat Muriel.
I snatched her up and ran with her out of the room, in an agony of fear.
She hid her face on my shoulder, trembling, “I have not done wrong, have I? I wanted to know what it was like—that which you said was left of little Tommy. I touched it—it was so cold. Oh! Uncle Phineas! THAT isn’t poor little Tommy?”
“No, my blessed one—no, my dearest child! Don’t think of it any more.”
And, hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called 360John, and told him where I had found his little daughter. He never spoke, but snatched her out of my arms into his own, took her in his room, and shut the door.
From that time our fears never slumbered. For one whole week we waited, watching the children hour by hour, noting each change in each little face; then Muriel sickened.
It was I who had to tell her father, when as he came home in the evening I met him by the stream. It seemed to him almost like the stroke of death.
“Oh, my God! not her! Any but her!” And by that I knew, what I had long guessed, that she was the dearest of all his children.
Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though lightly. No one was in absolute danger except Muriel. But for weeks we had what people call “sickness in the house;” that terrible overhanging shadow which mothers and fathers well know; under which one must live and move, never resting night nor day. This mother and father bore their portion, and bore it well. When she broke down, which was not often, he sustained her. If I were to tell of all he did—how, after being out all day, night after night he would sit up watching by and nursing each little fretful sufferer, patient as a woman, and pleasant as a child play-mate—perhaps those who talk loftily of “the dignity of man” would smile. I pardon them.
The hardest minute of the twenty-four hours was, I think, that when, coming home, he caught sight of me afar off waiting for him, as I always did, at the white gate; and many a time, as we walked down to the stream, I saw—what no one else saw but God. After such times I used often to ponder over what great love His must be, who, as the clearest revelation of it, and of its nature, calls Himself “the Father.”
And He brought us safe through our time of anguish: He left us every one of our little ones.
One November Sunday, when all the fields were in a mist, 361and the rain came pouring softly and incessantly upon the patient earth which had been so torn and dried up by east winds, that she seemed glad enough to put aside the mockery of sunshine and melt in quiet tears, we once more gathered our flock together in thankfulness and joy.
Muriel came down-stairs triumphantly in her father’s arms, and lay on the sofa smiling; the firelight dancing on her small white face—white and unscarred. The disease had been kind to the blind child; she was, I think, more sweet-looking than ever. Older, perhaps; the round prettiness of childhood gone—but her whole appearance wore that inexpressible expression, in which, for want of a suitable word, we all embody our vague notions of the unknown world, and call “angelic.”
“Does Muriel feel quite well—quite strong and well?” the father and mother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her. She always answered, “Quite well.”
In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and John and I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of the rain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel’s “voice.”
“Father, listen!” whispered the mother, linking her arm through his as he stood at the door. Soft and slow came the notes of the old harpsichord—she was playing one of the abbey anthems. Then it melted away into melodies we knew not—sweet and strange. Her parents looked at one another—their hearts were full of thankfulness and joy.
“And Mary Baines’s little lad is in the churchyard.”
362CHAPTER XXVI
“What a comfort! the day-light is lengthening. I think this has been the very dreariest winter I ever knew. Has it not, my little daughter? Who brought her these violets?”
And John placed himself on a corner of my own particular armchair, where, somehow or other, Muriel always lay curled up at tea-time now—(ay, and many hours in the day-time, though we hardly noticed it at first). Taking between his hands the little face, which broke into smiles at the merest touch of the father’s fingers, be asked her “when she intended to go a walk with him?”
“To-morrow.”
“So we have said for a great many to-morrows, but it is always put off. What do you think, mother—is the little maid strong enough?”
Mrs. Halifax hesitated; said something about “east winds.”
“Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east winds, and played out of doors as the boys do. Would you not like it, Muriel?”
The child shrank back with an involuntary “Oh, no.”
“That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less strong than the lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas?” continued her father, hastily, for I was watching them.
363“Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather comes. We have had such a severe winter. Every one of the children has suffered,” said the mother, in a cheerful tone, as she poured out a cup of cream for her daughter, to whom was now given, by common consent, all the richest and rarest of the house.
“I think every one has,” said John, looking round on his apple-cheeked boys; it must have been a sharp eye that detected any decrease of health, or increase of suffering, there. “But my plan will set all to rights. I spoke to Mrs. Tod yesterday. She will be ready to take us all in. Boys, shall you like going to Enderley? You shall go as soon as ever the larch-wood is green.”
For, at Longfield, already we began to make a natural almanack and chronological table. “When the may was out”—“When Guy found the first robin’s nest”—“When the field was all cowslips”—and so on.
“Is it absolutely necessary we should go?” said the mother, who had a strong home-clinging, and already began to hold tiny Longfield as the apple of her eye.
“I think so, unless you will consent to let me go alone to Enderley.”
She shook her head.
“What, with those troubles at the mills? How can you speak so lightly?”
“Not lightly, love—only cheerfully. The troubles must be borne; why not bear them with as good heart as possible? They cannot last—let Lord Luxmore do what he will. If, as I told you, we re-let Longfield for this one summer to Sir Ralph, we shall save enough to put the mill in thorough repair. If my landlord will not do it, I will; and add a steam-engine, too.”
Now the last was a daring scheme, discussed many a winter night by us three in Longfield parlour. At first, Mrs. Halifax had looked grave—most women would, especially wives and 364mothers, in those days when every innovation was regarded with horror, and improvement and ruin were held synonymous. She might have thought so too, had she not believed in her husband. But now, at mention of the steam-engine, she looked up and smiled.
“Lady Oldtower asked me abou
t it to-day. She said, ‘she hoped you would not ruin yourself, like Mr. Miller of Glasgow!’ I said I was not afraid.”
Her husband returned a bright look. “It is easier to make the world trust one, when one is trusted by one’s own household.”
“Ah! never fear; you will make your fortune yet, in spite of Lord Luxmore.”
For, all winter, John had found out how many cares come with an attained wish. Chiefly, because, as the earl had said, his lordship possessed an “excellent memory.” The Kingswell election had worked its results in a hundred small ways, wherein the heavy hand of the landlord could be laid upon the tenant. He bore up bravely against it; but hard was the struggle between might and right, oppression and staunch resistance. It would have gone harder, but for one whom John now began to call his “friend;” at least, one who invariably called Mr. Halifax so—our neighbour, Sir Ralph Oldtower.
“How often has Lady Oldtower been here, Ursula?”
“She called first, you remember, after our trouble with the children; she has been twice since, I think. To-day she wanted me to bring Muriel and take luncheon at the Manor House. I shall not go—I told her so.”
“But gently, I hope?—you are so very outspoken, love. You made her clearly understand that it is not from incivility we decline her invitations?—Well—never mind! Some day we will take our place, and so shall our children, with any gentry in the land.”
I think—though John rarely betrayed it—he had strongly 365this presentiment of future power, which may often be noticed in men who have carved out their own fortunes. They have in them the instinct to rise; and as surely as water regains its own level, so do they, from however low a source, ascend to theirs.
Not many weeks after, we removed in a body to Enderley. Though the chief reason was, that John might be constantly on the spot, superintending his mills, yet I fancied I could detect a secondary reason, which he would not own even to himself; but which peered out unconsciously in his anxious looks. I saw it when he tried to rouse Muriel into energy, by telling her how much she would enjoy Enderley Hill; how sweet the primroses grew in the beechwood, and how wild and fresh the wind swept over the common, morning and night. His daily longing seemed to be to make her love the world, and the things therein. He used to turn away, almost in pain, from her smile, as she would listen to all he said, then steal off to the harpsichord, and begin that soft, dreamy music, which the children called “talking to angels.”
We came to Enderley through the valley, where was John’s cloth-mill. Many a time in our walks he and I had passed it, and stopped to listen to the drowsy fall of the miniature Niagara, or watch the incessant turning—turning of the great water-wheel. Little we thought he should ever own it, or that John would be pointing it out to his own boys, lecturing them on “undershot,” and “overshot,” as he used to lecture me.
It was sweet, though half-melancholy, to see Enderley again; to climb the steep meadows and narrow mule-paths, up which he used to help me so kindly. He could not now; he had his little daughter in his arms. It had come, alas! to be a regular thing that Muriel should be carried up every slight ascent, and along every hard road. We paused half-way up on a low wall, where I had many a time rested, watching the sunset over Nunneley Hill—watching for John to come home. Every night—at least after Miss March went away—he usually found me sitting there.
366He turned to me and smiled. “Dost remember, lad?” at which appellation Guy widely stared. But, for a minute, how strangely it brought back old times, when there were neither wife nor children—only he and I! This seat on the wall, with its small twilight picture of the valley below the mill, and Nunneley heights, with that sentinel row of sun-set trees—was all mine—mine solely—for evermore.
“Enderley is just the same, Phineas. Twelve years have made no change—except in us.” And he looked fondly at his wife, who stood a little way off, holding firmly on the wall, in a hazardous group, her three boys. “I think the chorus and comment on all life might be included in two brief phrases given by our friend Shakspeare, one to Hamlet, the other to Othello: ‘Tis very strange,’ and ‘Tis better as it is.’”
“Ay, ay,” said I thoughtfully. Better as it was; better a thousand times.
I went to Mrs. Halifax, and helped her to describe the prospect to the inquisitive boys; finally coaxing the refractory Guy up the winding road, where, just as if it had been yesterday, stood my old friends, my four Lombardy poplars, three together and one apart.
Mrs. Tod descried us afar off and was waiting at the gate; a little stouter, a little rosier—that was all. In her delight, she so absolutely forgot herself as to address the mother as Miss March; at which long-unspoken name Ursula started, her colour went and came, and her eyes turned restlessly towards the church hard by.
“It is all right—Miss—Ma’am, I mean. Tod bears in mind Mr. Halifax’s orders, and has planted lots o’ flower-roots and evergreens.”
“Yes, I know.”
And when she had put all her little ones to bed—we, wondering where the mother was, went out towards the little churchyard, and found her quietly sitting there.
367We were very happy at Enderley. Muriel brightened up before she had been there many days. She began to throw off her listlessness, and go about with me everywhere. It was the season she enjoyed most—the time of the singing of birds, and the springing of delicate-scented flowers. I myself never loved the beech-wood better than did our Muriel. She used continually to tell us this was the happiest spring she had ever had in her life.
John was much occupied now. He left his Norton Bury business under efficient care, and devoted himself almost wholly to the cloth-mill. Early and late he was there. Very often Muriel and I followed him, and spent whole mornings in the mill meadows. Through them the stream on which the machinery depended was led by various contrivances, checked or increased in its flow, making small ponds, or locks, or waterfalls. We used to stay for hours listening to its murmur, to the sharp, strange cry of the swans that were kept there, and the twitter of the water-hen to her young among the reeds. Then the father would come to us and remain a few minutes—fondling Muriel, and telling me how things went on at the mill.
One morning, as we three sat there, on the brick-work of a little bridge, underneath an elm tree, round the roots of which the water made a pool so clear, that we could see a large pike lying like a black shadow, half-way down; John suddenly said:
“What is the matter with the stream? Do you notice, Phineas?”
“I have seen it gradually lowering—these two hours. I thought you were drawing off the water.”
“Nothing of the kind—I must look after it. Good-bye, my little daughter. Don’t cling so fast; father will be back soon—and isn’t this a sweet sunny place for a little maid to be lazy in?”
His tone was gay, but he had an anxious look. He walked rapidly down the meadows, and went into his mill. Then I saw him retracing his steps, examining where the stream entered 368the bounds of his property. Finally, he walked off towards the little town at the head of the valley—beyond which, buried in woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was two hours more before we saw him again.
Then he came towards us, narrowly watching the stream. It had sunk more and more—the muddy bottom was showing plainly.
“Yes—that’s it—it can be nothing else! I did not think he would have dared to do it.”
“Do what, John? Who?”
“Lord Luxmore.” He spoke in the smothered tones of violent passion. “Lord Luxmore has turned out of its course the stream that works my mill.”
I tried to urge that such an act was improbable; in fact, against the law.
“Not against the law of the great against the little. Besides, he gives a decent colouring—says he only wants the use of the stream three days a week, to make fountains at Luxmore Hall. But I see what it is—I have seen it coming a whole year. He is determined to ruin me!”
John said this in much excitement. He hardly felt Muriel’s tiny
creeping hands.
“What does ‘ruin’ mean? Is anybody making father angry?”
“No, my sweet—not angry—only very, very miserable!”
He snatched her up, and buried his head in her soft, childish bosom. She kissed him and patted his hair.
“Never mind, dear father. You say nothing signifies, if we are only good. And father is always good.”
“I wish I were.”
He sat down with her on his knee; the murmur of the elm-leaves, and the slow dropping of the stream, soothed him. By and by, his spirit rose, as it always did, the heavier it was pressed down.
369“No, Lord Luxmore shall not ruin me! I have thought of a scheme. But first I must speak to my people—I shall have to shorten wages for a time.”
“How soon?”
“To-night. If it must be done—better done at once, before winter sets in. Poor fellows! it will go hard with them—they’ll be hard upon me. But it is only temporary; I must reason them into patience, if I can;—God knows, it is not they alone who want it.”
He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on the far white wing of Luxmore Hall.
“Have you no way of righting yourself? If it is an unlawful act, why not go to law?”
“Phineas, you forget my principle—only mine, however; I do not force it upon any one else—my firm principle, that I will never go to law. Never! I would not like to have it said, in contradistinction to the old saying, ‘See how these Christians FIGHT!’”
I urged no more; since, whether abstractedly the question be right or wrong, there can be no doubt that what a man believes to be evil, to him it is evil.
“Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my wife what has occurred—say, I will come to tea as soon as I can. But I may have some little trouble with my people here. She must not alarm herself.”
No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerile apprehensions—it was not her nature; she had the rare feminine virtue of never “fidgetting”—at least, externally. What was to be borne—she bore: what was to be done—she did; but she rarely made any “fuss” about either her doings or her sufferings.
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