“Journeying in long serenity away.”
A time of heavenly calm—which as I look back upon it grows heavenlier still! Soft summer days and autumn afternoons, spent under the beech-wood, or on the Flat. Quiet winter evenings, all to ourselves—Maud and her mother working, Walter drawing. The father sitting with his back to the lamp—its light making a radiance over his brow and white bald crown, and as it thrilled through the curls behind, restoring somewhat of the youthful colour to his fading hair. Nay, the old youthful ring of his voice I caught at times, when he found something funny in his book and read it out loud to us; 550or laying it down, sat talking as he liked to talk about things speculative, philosophical, or poetical—things which he had necessarily let slip in the hurry and press of his business life, in the burthen and heat of the day; but which now, as the cool shadows of evening were drawing on, assumed a beauty and a nearness, and were again caught up by him—precious as the dreams of his youth.
Happy, happy time—sunshiny summer, peaceful winter—we marked neither as they passed; but now we hold both—in a sacredness inexpressible—a foretaste of that Land where there is neither summer nor winter, neither days nor years.
The first break in our repose came early in the new year. There had been no Christmas letter from Guy, and he never once in all his wanderings had missed writing home at Christmas time. When the usual monthly mail came in, and no word from him—a second month, and yet nothing, we began to wonder about his omission less openly—to cease scolding him for his carelessness. Though over and over again we still eagerly brought up instances of the latter—“Guy is such a thoughtless boy about his correspondence.”
Gradually, as his mother’s cheek grew paler, and his father more anxious-eyed, more compulsorily cheerful, we gave up discussing publicly the many excellent reasons why no letters should come from Guy. We had written, as usual, by every mail. By the last—by the March mail, I saw that in addition to the usual packet for Mr. Guy Halifax—his father, taking another precautionary measure, had written in business form to “Messrs. Guy Halifax and Co.” Guy had always, “just like his carelessness!” omitted to give the name of his partner; but addressed thus, in case of any sudden journey or illness of Guy’s, the partner, whoever he was, would be sure to write.
In May—nay, it was on May day, I remember, for we were down in the mill-meadows with Louise and her little ones going a-maying—there came in the American mail.
551It brought a large packet—all our letters of this year sent back again, directed in a strange hand, to “John Halifax, Esquire, Beechwood,” with the annotation, “By Mr. Guy Halifax’s desire.”
Among the rest—though the sickening sight of them had blinded even his mother at first, so that her eye did not catch it, was one that explained—most satisfactorily explained, we said—the reason they were thus returned. It was a few lines from Guy himself, stating that unexpected good fortune had made him determine to come home at once. If circumstances thwarted this intention, he would write without fail; otherwise he should most likely sail by an American merchantman—the “Stars-and-Stripes.”
“Then he is coming home. On his way home!”
And the mother, as with one shaking hand she held fast the letter, with the other steadied herself by the rail of John’s desk—I guessed now why he had ordered all the letters to be brought first to his counting-house. “When do you think we shall see—Guy?”
At thought of that happy sight, her bravery broke down. She wept heartily and long.
John sat still, leaning over the front of his desk. By his sigh, deep and glad, one could tell what a load was lifted off the father’s heart at the prospect of his son’s return.
“The liners are only a month in sailing; but this is a barque most likely, which takes longer time. Love, show me the date of the boy’s letter.”
She looked for it herself. It was in JANUARY!
The sudden fall from certainty to uncertainty—the wild clutch at that which hardly seemed a real joy until seen fading down to a mere hope, a chance, a possibility—who has not known all this?
I remember how we all stood, mute and panic-struck, in the dark little counting-house. I remember seeing Louise, with 552her children in the door-way, trying to hush their laughing, and whispering to them something about “poor Uncle Guy.”
John was the first to grasp the unspoken dread, and show that it was less than at first appeared.
“We ought to have had this letter two months ago; this shows how often delays occur—we ought not to be surprised or uneasy at anything. Guy does not say when the ship was to sail—she may be on her voyage still. If he had but given the name of her owners! But I can write to Lloyd’s and find out everything. Cheer up, mother. Please God, you shall have that wandering, heedless boy of yours back before long.”
He replaced the letters in their enclosure—held a general consultation, into which he threw a passing gleam of faint gaiety, as to whether being ours we had a right to burn them, or whether having passed through the post-office they were not the writer’s but the owner’s property, and Guy could claim them, with all their useless news, on his arrival in England. This was finally decided, and the mother, with faint smile, declared that nobody should touch them; she would put them under lock and key “till Guy came home.”
Then she took her husband’s arm; and the rest of us followed them as they walked slowly up the hill to Beechwood.
But after that day Mrs. Halifax’s strength decayed. Not suddenly, scarcely perceptibly; not with any outward complaint, except what she jested over as “the natural weakness of old age;” but there was an evident change. Week by week her long walks shortened; she gave up her village school to me; and though she went about the house still and insisted on keeping the keys, gradually, “just for the sake of practice,” the domestic surveillance fell into the hands of Maud.
An answer arrived from Lloyd’s: the “Stars-and-Stripes” was an American vessel, probably of small tonnage and importance, was the under-writers knew nothing of it.
553More delay—more suspense. The summer days came—but not Guy. No news of him—not a word—not a line.
His father wrote to America—pursuing inquiries in all directions. At last some tangible clue was caught. The “Stars-and-Stripes” had sailed, had been spoken with about the Windward Isles—and never heard of afterwards.
Still, there was a hope. John told the hope first, before he ventured to speak of the missing ship, and even then had to break the news gently, for the mother had grown frail and weak, and could not bear things as she used to do. She clung as if they had been words of life or death to the ship-owner’s postscript—“that they had no recollection of the name of Halifax; there might have been such a gentleman on board—they could not say. But it was not probable; for the ‘Stars-and-Stripes’ was a trading vessel, and had not good accommodation for passengers.”
Then came week after week—I know not how they went by—one never does, afterwards. At the time they were frightfully vivid, hour by hour; we rose each morning, sure that some hope would come in the course of the day; we went to bed at night, heavily, as if there were no such thing as hope in the world. Gradually, and I think that was the worst consciousness of all, our life of suspense became perfectly natural; and everything in and about the house went on as usual, just as though we knew quite well—what the Almighty Father alone knew!— where our poor lad was, and what had become of him. Or rather, as if we had settled in the certainty, which perhaps the end of our own lives alone would bring us, that he had slipped out of life altogether, and there was no such being as Guy Halifax under this pitiless sun.
The mother’s heart was breaking. She made no moan, but we saw it in her face. One morning—it was the morning after John’s birthday, which we had made a feint of keeping, 554with Grace Oldtower, the two little grandchildren, Edwin and Louise—she was absent at breakfast and dinner; she had not slept well, and was too tired to rise. Many days following it happened the
same; with the same faint excuse, or with no excuse at all. How we missed her about the house!—ay, changed as she had been. How her husband wandered about, ghost-like, from room to room!—could not rest anywhere, or do anything. Finally, he left our company altogether, and during the hours that he was at home rarely quitted for more than a few minutes the quiet bed-chamber, where, every time his foot entered it, the poor pale face looked up and smiled.
Ay, smiled; for I noticed, as many another may have done in similar cases, that when her physical health definitely gave way, her mental health returned. The heavy burthen was lighter; she grew more cheerful, more patient; seemed to submit herself to the Almighty will, whatever it might be. As she lay on her sofa in the study, where one or two evenings John carried her down, almost as easily as he used to carry little Muriel, his wife would rest content with her hand in his, listening to his reading, or quietly looking at him, as though her lost son’s face, which a few weeks since she said haunted her continually, were now forgotten in his father’s. Perhaps she thought the one she should soon see—while the other—
“Phineas,” she whispered one day, when I was putting a shawl over her feet, or doing some other trifle that she thanked me for,—“Phineas, if anything happens to me, you will comfort John!”
Then first I began seriously to contemplate a possibility, hitherto as impossible and undreamed of as that the moon should drop out of the height of heaven—What would the house be without the mother?
Her children never suspected this, I saw; but they were young. For her husband—
I could not understand John. He, so quick-sighted; he who 555meeting any sorrow looked steadily up at the Hand that smote him, knowing neither the coward’s dread nor the unbeliever’s disguise of pain—surely he must see what was impending. Yet he was as calm as if he saw it not. Calm, as no man could be contemplating the supreme parting between two who nearly all their lives had been not two, but one flesh.
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 assured 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 556by 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.”
557CHAPTER XXXIX
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.
558He 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 559years 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 nobody but ourselves, and nobody 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.
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