John Halifax, Gentleman

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  “Child”—and her father himself could not help smiling at the simplicity of her speech—“it is often easiest to lose those we are fond of and who are fond of us, because, in one sense, we never can really lose them. Nothing in this world, nor, I believe, in any other, can part those who truly and faithfully love.”

  I think he was hardly aware how much he was implying, at least not in its relation to her, else he would not have said it. And he would surely have noticed, as I did, that the word “love,” which had not been mentioned before—it was “liking,” “fond of,” “care for,” or some such round-about, childish phrase—the word “love” made Maud start. She darted from one to the other of us a keen glance of inquiry, and then turned the colour of a July rose.

  Her attitude, her blushes, the shy tremble about her mouth, reminded me vividly, too vividly, of her mother twenty-eight years ago.

  Alarmed, I tried to hasten the end of our conversation, lest, voluntarily or involuntarily, it might produce the very results which, though they might not have altered John’s determination, would almost have broken his heart.

  So, begging her to “kiss and make friends,” which Maud did, timidly, and without attempting further questions, I hurried the father and daughter into the house; deferring for mature consideration, the question whether or not I should trouble John with any too-anxious doubts of mine concerning her.

  As we drove back through Norton Bury, I saw that while her 539mother and Lady Oldtower conversed, Maud sat opposite rather more silent than her wont; but when the ladies dismounted for shopping, she was again the lively independent Miss Halifax,

  “Standing with reluctant feet,

  Where womanhood and childhood meet;”

  and assuming at once the prerogatives and immunities of both.

  Her girlish ladyship at last got tired of silks and ribbons, and stood with me at the shop-door, amusing herself with commenting on the passers-by.

  These were not so plentiful as I once remembered, though still the old town wore its old face—appearing fairer than ever, as I myself grew older. The same Coltham coach stopped at the Lamb Inn, and the same group of idle loungers took an interest in its disemboguing of its contents. But railways had done an ill turn to the coach and to poor Norton Bury: where there used to be six inside passengers, to-day was turned out only one.

  “What a queer-looking little woman! Uncle Phineas, people shouldn’t dress so fine as that when they are old.”

  Maud’s criticism was scarcely unjust. The light-coloured flimsy gown, shorter than even Coltham fashionables would have esteemed decent, the fluttering bonnet, the abundance of flaunting curls—no wonder that the stranger attracted considerable notice in quiet Norton Bury. As she tripped mincingly along, in her silk stockings and light shoes, a smothered jeer arose.

  “People should not laugh at an old woman, however conceited she may be,” said Maud, indignantly.

  “Is she old?”

  “Just look.”

  And surely when, as she turned from side to side, I caught her full face—what a face it was! withered, thin, sallow almost to deathliness, with a bright rouge-spot on each cheek, a broad smile on the ghastly mouth.

  540“Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas?”

  “Possibly. Do not look at her.” For I was sure this must be the wreck of such a life as womanhood does sometimes sink to—a life, the mere knowledge of which had never yet entered our Maud’s pure world.

  She seemed surprised, but obeyed me and went in. I stood at the shop-door, watching the increasing crowd, and pitying, with that pity mixed with shame that every honest man must feel towards a degraded woman, the wretched object of their jeers. Half-frightened, she still kept up that set smile, skipping daintily from side to side of the pavement, darting at and peering into every carriage that passed. Miserable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and ease in her movements, as if she had fallen from some far higher estate.

  At that moment, the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood in it, dozing his daily drive away, his gouty foot propped up before him—slowly lumbered up the street. The woman made a dart at it, but was held back.

  “Canaille! I always hated your Norton Bury! Call my carriage. I will go home.”

  Through its coarse discordance, its insane rage, I thought I knew the voice. Especially when, assuming a tone of command, she addressed the old coachman:

  “Draw up, Peter; you are very late. People, give way! Don’t you see my carriage?”

  There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. Brithwood opened his dull, drunken eyes and stared about him.

  “Canaille!”—the scream was more of terror than anger, as she almost flung herself under the horses’ heads in her eagerness to escape from the mob. “Let me go! My carriage is waiting. I am Lady Caroline Brithwood!”

  The ’squire heard her. For a single instant they gazed at one another—besotted husband, dishonoured, divorced wife—gazed 541with horror and fear, as two sinners who had been each other’s undoing, might meet in the poetic torments of Dante’s “Inferno,” or the tangible fire and brimstone of many a blind but honest Christian’s hell. One single instant,—and then Richard Brithwood made up his mind.

  “Coachman, drive on!”

  But the man—he was an old man—seemed to hesitate at urging his horses right over “my lady.” He even looked down on her with a sort of compassion—I remembered having heard say that she was always kind and affable to her servants.

  “Drive on, you fool! Here”—and Mr. Brithwood threw some coin amongst the mob—“Fetch the constable—some of you; take the woman to the watch-house!”

  And the carriage rolled on, leaving her there, crouched on the kerbstone, gazing after it with something between a laugh and a moan.

  Nobody touched her. Perhaps some had heard of her; a few might even have seen her—driving through Norton Bury in her pristine state, as the young ’squire’s handsome wife—the charming Lady Caroline.

  I was so absorbed in the sickening sight, that I did not perceive how John and Ursula, standing behind me, had seen it likewise—evidently seen and understood it all.

  “What is to be done?” she whispered to him.

  “What ought we to do?”

  Here Maud came running out to see what was amiss in the street.

  “Go in, child,” said Mrs. Halifax, sharply. “Stay till I fetch you.”

  Lady Oldtower also advanced to the door; but catching some notion of what the disturbance was, shocked and scandalised, retired into the shop again.

  John looked earnestly at his wife, but for once she did 542not or would not understand his meaning; she drew back uneasily.

  “What must be done?—I mean, what do you want me to do?”

  “What only a woman can do—a woman like you, and in your position.”

  “Yes, if it were only myself. But think of the household—think of Maud. People will talk so. It is hard to know how to act.”

  “Nay; how did One act—how would He act now, if He stood in the street this day? If we take care of aught of His, will He not take care of us and of our children?”

  Mrs. Halifax paused, thought a moment, hesitated—yielded.

  “John, you are right; you are always right. I will do anything you please.”

  And then I saw, through the astonished crowd, in face of scores of window-gazers, all of whom knew them, and a great number of whom they also knew, Mr. Halifax and his wife walk up to where the miserable woman lay.

  John touched her lightly on the shoulder—she screamed and cowered down.

  “Are you the constable? He said he would send the constable.”

  “Hush—do not be afraid. Cousin—Cousin Caroline.”

  God knows how long it was since any woman had spoken to her in that tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered wits. She rose to her feet, smiling airily.

  “Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing you somewhere. Your name is—”


  “Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?”—speaking gently as she would have done to a child.

  Lady Caroline bowed—a ghastly mockery of her former sprightly grace. “Not exactly; but I dare say I shall presently—au revoir, madame!”

  543She was going away, kissing her hand—that yellow, wrinkled, old woman’s hand,—but John stopped her.

  “My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to come home with us.”

  “Plait il?—oh yes; I understand. I shall be happy—most happy.”

  John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference; Mrs. Halifax supported her on the other side. Without more ado, they put her in the carriage and drove home, leaving Maud in my charge, and leaving astounded Norton Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased.

  544CHAPTER XXXVIII

  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, 545grief, 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 546except 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 547the 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.”

  548He 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 stan
d 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 549not 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,