John Halifax, Gentleman Part 52

"The right--which, indeed, was the purport of her message to you--that in a few months I shall become her husband."

John said this very quietly--so quietly that, at first, the 'squire seemed hardly to credit his senses. At last, he burst into a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

"Well, that is the best joke I ever did hear."

"Pardon me; I am perfectly serious."

"Bah! how much money do you want, fellow? A pretty tale! you'll not get me to believe it--ha! ha! She wouldn't be so mad. To be sure, women have their fancies, as we know, and you're a likely young fellow enough; but to marry you--"

John sprang up--his whole frame quivering with fury. "Take care, sir; take care how you insult my WIFE!"

He stood over the wretch--the cowardly shrinking wretch--he did not touch him, but he stood over him till, terrified out of his life, Richard Brithwood gasped out some apology.

"Sit down--pray sit down again. Let us proceed in our business."

John Halifax sat down.

"So--my cousin is your wife, I think you were saying?"

"She will be, some months hence. We were engaged a week ago, with the full knowledge and consent of Doctor and Mrs. Jessop, her nearest friends."

"And of yours?" asked Mr. Brithwood, with as much sarcasm as his blunt wits could furnish him.

"I have no relatives."

"So I always understood. And that being the case, may I ask the meaning of the visit? Where are your lawyers, your marriage settlements, hey? I say, young man--ha! ha! I should like to know what you can possibly want with me, Miss March's trustee?"

"Nothing whatever. Miss March, as you are aware, is by her father's will left perfectly free in her choice of marriage; and she has chosen.

But since, under certain circ.u.mstances, I wish to act with perfect openness, I came to tell you, as her cousin and the executor of this will, that she is about to become my wife."

And he lingered over that name, as if its very utterance strengthened and calmed him.

"May I inquire into those 'certain circ.u.mstances'?" asked the other, still derisively.

"You know them already. Miss March has a fortune and I have none; and though I wish that difference were on the other side--though it might and did hinder me from seeking her--yet now she is sought and won, it shall not hinder my marrying her."

"Likely not," sneered Mr. Brithwood.

John's pa.s.sion was rising again.

"I repeat, it shall not hinder me. The world may say what it chooses; we follow a higher law than the world--she and I. She knows me, she is not afraid to trust her whole life with me; am I to be afraid to trust her? Am I to be such a coward as not to dare to marry the woman I love, because the world might say I married her for her money?"

He stood, his clenched hand resting on the table, looking full into Richard Brithwood's face. The 'squire sat dumfoundered at the young man's vehemence.

"Your pardon," John added, more calmly. "Perhaps I owe her some pardon too, for bringing her name thus into discussion; but I wished to have everything clear between myself and you, her nearest relative. You now know exactly how the matter stands. I will detain you no longer--I have nothing more to say."

"But I have," roared out the 'squire, at length recovering himself, seeing his opponent had quitted the field. "Stop a minute."

John paused at the door.

"Tell Ursula March she may marry you, or any other vagabond she pleases--it's no business of mine. But her fortune is my business, and it's in my hands too. Might's right, and possession's nine-tenths of the law. Not one penny shall she get out of my fingers as long as I can keep hold of it."

John bowed, his hand still on the door. "As you please, Mr. Brithwood.

That was not the subject of our interview. Good-morning."

And we were away.

Re-crossing the iron gates, and out into the open road, John breathed freely.

"That's over--all is well."

"Do you think what he threatened is true? Can he do it?"

"Very likely; don't let us talk about that." And he walked on lightly, as if a load were taken off his mind, and body and soul leaped up to meet the glory of the summer sunshine, the freshness of the summer air.

"Oh! what a day is this!--after the rain, too! How she will enjoy it!"

And coming home through Norton Bury, we met her, walking with Mrs.

Jessop. No need to dread that meeting now.

Yet she looked up, questioning, through her blushes. Of course he had told her where we were going to-day; her who had a right to know every one of his concerns now.

"Yes, dear, all is quite right. Do not be afraid."

Afraid, indeed! Not the least fear was in those clear eyes. Nothing but perfect content--perfect trust.

John drew her arm through his. "Come, we need not mind Norton Bury now," he said, smiling.

So they two walked forward, talking, as we could see, earnestly and rather seriously to one another; while Mrs. Jessop and I followed behind.

"Bless their dear hearts!" said the old lady, as she sat resting on the stile of a bean-field. "Well, we have all been young once."

Not all, good Mrs. Jessop, thought I; not all.

Yet, surely it was most pleasant to see them, as it is to see all true lovers--young lovers, too, in the morning of their days. Pleasant to see written on every line of their happy faces the blessedness of Nature's law of love--love began in youth-time, sincere and pure, free from all sentimental shams, or follies, or shames--love mutually plighted, the next strongest bond to that in which it will end, and is meant to end, G.o.d's holy ordinance of marriage.

We came back across the fields to tea at Mrs. Jessop's. It was John's custom to go there almost every evening; though certainly he could not be said to "go a-courting." Nothing could be more unlike it than his demeanour, or indeed the demeanour of both. They were very quiet lovers, never making much of one another "before folk." No whispering in corners, or stealing away down garden walks. No public show of caresses--caresses whose very sweetness must consist in their entire sacredness; at least, _I_ should think so. No coquettish exactions, no testing of either's power over the other, in those perilous small quarrels which may be the renewal of pa.s.sion, but are the death of true love.

No, our young couple were well-behaved always. She sat at her work, and he made himself generally pleasant, falling in kindly to the Jessop's household ways. But whatever he was about, at Ursula's lightest movement, at the least sound of her voice, I could see him lift a quiet glance, as if always conscious of her presence; her who was the delight of his eyes.

To-night, more than ever before, this soft, invisible link seemed to be drawn closer between them, though they spoke little together, and even sat at opposite sides of the table; but whenever their looks met, one could trace a soft, smiling interchange, full of trust, and peace, and joy. He had evidently told her all that had happened to-day, and she was satisfied.

More, perhaps, than I was; for I knew how little John would have to live upon besides what means his wife brought him; but that was their own affair, and I had no business to make public my doubts or fears.

We all sat round the tea-table, talking gaily together, and then John left us, reluctantly enough; but he always made a point of going to the tan-yard for an hour or two, in my father's stead, every evening.

Ursula let him out at the front door; this was her right, silently claimed, which n.o.body either jested at or interfered with.

When she returned, and perhaps she had been away a minute or two longer than was absolutely necessary, there was a wonderful brightness on her young face; though she listened with a degree of attention, most creditable in its gravity, to a long dissertation of Mrs. Jessop's on the best and cheapest way of making jam and pickles.