John Halifax, Gentleman Part 57

"Do you know, Phineas, that when this tree is bare--we shall, if with G.o.d's blessing all goes well--we shall have--a little child."

I wrung his hand in silence.

"You cannot imagine how strange it feels. A child--hers and mine--little feet to go pattering about our house--a little voice to say--Think, that by Christmas-time I shall be a FATHER."

He sat down on the garden-bench, and did not speak for a long time.

"I wonder," he said at last, "if, when I was born, MY father was as young as I am: whether he felt as I do now. You cannot think what an awful joy it is to be looking forward to a child; a little soul of G.o.d's giving, to be made fit for His eternity. How shall we do it! we that are both so ignorant, so young--she will be only just nineteen when, please G.o.d, her baby is born. Sometimes, of an evening, we sit for hours on this bench, she and I, talking of what we ought to do, and how we ought to rear the little thing, until we fall into silence, awed at the blessing that is coming to us."

"G.o.d will help you both, and make you wise."

"We trust He will; and then we are not afraid."

A little while longer I sat by John's side, catching the dim outline of his face, half uplifted, looking towards those myriad worlds, which we are taught to believe, and do believe, are not more precious in the Almighty sight than one living human soul.

But he said no more of the hope that was coming, or of the thoughts which, in the holy hush of that summer night, had risen out of the deep of his heart. And though after this time they never again formed themselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope, or joy, or fear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by me.

In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little one came.

It was a girl--I think they had wished for a son; but they forgot all about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby--at least, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, who left our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs.

Halifax's, exhibiting to all beholders the ma.s.s of white draperies with the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehemently declared was the very image of its father.

For that young father--

But I--what can _I_ say? How should _I_ tell of the joy of a man over his first-born?

I did not see John till a day afterwards--when he came into our house, calm, happy, smiling. But Jael told me, that when she first placed his baby in his arms he had wept like a child.

The little maiden grew with the snowdrops. Winter might have dropped her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, and pure-looking was she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young baby before; but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to have a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy, from the time her week-old fingers, with their tiny pink nails--a ludicrous picture of her father's hand in little--made me smile as they closed over mine.

She was named Muriel--after the rather peculiar name of John's mother.

Her own mother would have it so; only wishing out of her full heart, happy one! that there should be a slight alteration made in the second name. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy--Muriel Joy Halifax.

That name--beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten among us--I write it now with tears.

In December, 1802, she was born--our Muriel. And on February 9th--alas! I have need to remember the date!--she formally received her name. We all dined at John's house--Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father and I.

It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but his own for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked and entreated, he only shook his head; but just when we were all sitting down to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks flushed, and her lips dimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was so nice and neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And there, in the doorway, stood my father!

His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth-shaven face, withered, but of a pale brown still, with the hard lines softening down, and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be; dressed carefully in his First-day clothes, the stainless white kerchief supporting his large chin, his Quaker's hat in one hand, his stick in the other, looking in at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his mouth--thus he stood--thus I see thee, O my dear old father!

The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough. He only said, "I thank thee, John," "I thank thee, Ursula;" and took his place beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his mind and come. Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though there were no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and white Christmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a n.o.bler feast.

Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside the window the thickly falling snow.

"It has not snowed these two months," said John; "never since the day our little girl was born."

And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid up-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry, which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household.

My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to see John's daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the little helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expression, then began to say something about going back to the tan-yard.

"Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ursula wants to show you our little lady."

My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still, came faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coo of pleasure, like a wood-dove in its nest--every mother knows the sound. And then Mrs. Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter flower, her baby daughter.

Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her--closed his eyes against both, and looked no more.

Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the general admiration of her treasure.

"She might well come in a snow-storm," said Mrs. Jessop, taking the child. "She is just like snow, so soft and white."

"And as soundless--she hardly ever cries. She just lies in this way half the day over, cooing quietly, with her eyes shut. There, she has caught your dress fast. Now, was there ever a two months' old baby so quick at noticing things? and she does it all with her fingers--she touches everything;--ah! take care, doctor," the mother added, reproachfully, at a loud slam of the door, which made the baby tremble all over.

"I never knew a child so susceptible of sounds," said John, as he began talking to it and soothing it;--how strange it was to see him! and yet it seemed quite natural already. "I think even now she knows the difference between her mother's voice and mine; and any sudden noise always startles her in this way."

"She must have astonishingly quick hearing," said the doctor, slightly annoyed. Ursula wisely began to talk of something else--showed Muriel's eyelashes, very long for such a baby--and descanted on the colour of her eyes, that fruitful and never-ending theme of mothers and friends.

"I think they are like her father's; yes, certainly like her father's.

But we have not many opportunities of judging, for she is such a lazy young damsel, she hardly ever opens them--we should often fancy her asleep, but for that little soft coo; and then she will wake up all of a sudden. There now! do you see her? Come to the window, my beauty!

and show Dr. Jessop your bonny brown eyes."

They were bonny eyes! lovely in shape and colour, delicately fringed; but there was something strange in their expression--or rather, in their want of it. Many babies have a round, vacant stare--but this was no stare, only a wide, full look--a look of quiet blankness--an UNSEEING look.

It caught Dr. Jessop's notice. I saw his air of vexed dignity change into a certain anxiety.

"Well, whose are they like--her father's or mine? His, I hope--it will be the better for her beauty. Nay, we'll excuse all compliments."

"I--I can't exactly tell. I could judge better by candlelight."

"We'll have candles."

"No--no! Had we not better put it off altogether, till another day?--I'll call in to-morrow and look at her eyes."

His manner was hesitating and troubled. John noticed it.

"Love, give her to me. Go and get us lights, will you?"

When she was gone, John took his baby to the window, gazed long and intently into her little face, then at Dr. Jessop. "Do you think--no--it's not possible--that there can be anything the matter with the child's eyes?"

Ursula coming in, heard the last words.

"What was that you said about baby's eyes?"

No one answered her. All were gathered in a group at the window, the child being held on her father's lap, while Dr. Jessop was trying to open the small white lids, kept so continually closed. At last the baby uttered a little cry of pain--the mother darted forward, and clasped it almost savagely to her breast.

"I will not have my baby hurt! There is nothing wrong with her sweet eyes. Go away; you shall not touch her, John."