John Halifax, Gentleman Part 49

"She?"

"Ursula."

If I could express the tone in which he uttered the word, which had never fallen from his lips before--it was always either "Miss March,"

or the impersonal form used by all lovers to disguise the beloved name--"URSULA," spoken as no man speaks any woman's name save the one which is the music of his heart, which he foresees shall be the one fireside tune of his life, ever familiar, yet ever sweet.

"Yes, she sat there, talking. She told me she knew I loved her--loved her so much that I was dying for her; that it was very wrong; that I must rise up and do my work in the world--do it for heaven's sake, not for hers; that a true man should live, and live n.o.bly for the woman he loves--it is only a coward who dies for her."

I listened, wonder-struck--for these were the very words that Ursula March might have uttered; the very spirit that seemed to shine in her eyes that night--the last night she and John spoke to one another. I asked him if there was any more of the dream?

"Nothing clear. I thought we were on the Flat at Enderley, and I was following her; whether I reached her or not I cannot tell. And whether I ever shall reach her I cannot tell. But this I know, Phineas, I will do as she bade me; I will arise and walk."

And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Next morning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a spectre, indeed; but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father noticed it, when at dinner-time, with Jael's help--poor old Jael! how proud she was--John crawled downstairs.

"Why, thee art picking up, lad! Thee'lt be a man again in no time."

"I hope so. And a better man than ever I was before."

"Thee might be better, and thee might be worse. Anyhow, we couldn't do without thee, John. Hey, Phineas! who's been meddling with my spectacles?"

The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaper upside down.

We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner.

In the afternoon my father stayed at home--a rare thing for him to do; nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. John lay on an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and the window-sill. I read to him--trying to keep his attention, and mine too, solely to the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts were wandering--Jael burst in.

"John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee."

No, John--no need for that start--that rush of impetuous blood to thy poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. No, it was only Mrs. Jessop.

At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the good lady's eyes brimmed over.

"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me--but I am an old woman, you know. Lie down again."

With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side.

"I had no idea--why did you not let us know--the doctor and me? How long have you been ill?"

"I am quite well now--I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow, shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.

I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it--glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy.

"But you must be very careful--very careful of yourself, indeed."

"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him.

Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."

I spoke--perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good old lady--but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me.

"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardly knows how much we--we all--esteem him." And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now.

My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula--" here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket--"my dear child sends you this."

It was a little note--unsealed. The superscription was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing--"John Halifax."

His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I--she is--very kind." The words died away--the hand which grasped, ay, for more than a minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an aspen leaf.

"Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, sedulously looking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it otherwise--I would not wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her season of trouble."

I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. She took off her glove, wiped a finger across each eyelash, and sat still.

"Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax?"

No answer.

"I will take your message back. She told me what she had said to you."

Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like to come and see you if you would allow me.

"Yours sincerely, "URSULA MARCH."

This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years afterwards, yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocket-book.

"Well, what shall I say to my child?"

"Say"--he half rose, struggling to speak--"ask her to come."

He turned his head towards the window, and the sunshine glittered on two great drops, large as a child's tear.

Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we waited--scarcely moving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes fixed dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron railings between the Abbey trees. More than once they wandered to the little letter, which lay buried in his hands. He felt it there--that was enough.

My father came in from the garden, and settled to his afternoon doze; but I think John hardly noticed him--nor I. My poor old father! Yet we were all young once--let youth enjoy its day!

At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlour door, rosy with walking--a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by the law of G.o.d, and by her own heart.

John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only clasped hands.

He was not strong enough for disguises now--in his first look she might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers--but it dropped down, down, as Ursula March's clear glance had never dropped before. Then I knew how all would end.

Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's wife is wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she says her green gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n."

My father awoke--rubbed his eyes--became aware of a lady's presence--rubbed them again, and sat staring.