John Halifax, Gentleman Part 87

A goodly group they made--our young folk; there were no "children"

now--for even Maud, who was tall and womanly for her age, had bloomed out in a ball dress, all white muslin and camellias, and appeared every inch "Miss Halifax." Walter, too, had lately eschewed jackets, and began to borrow razors; while Edwin, though still small, had a keen, old-man-like look, which made him seem--as he was, indeed, in character--the eldest of the three. Altogether, they were "a fine family," such as any man might rejoice to see growing, or grown up, around him.

But my eyes naturally sought the father as he stood among his boys, taller than any of them, and possessing far more than they that quality for which John Halifax had always been remarkable--dignity. True, Nature had favoured him beyond most men, giving him the stately, handsome presence, befitting middle age, throwing a kind of apostolic grace over the high, half-bald crown, and touching with a softened grey the still curly locks behind. But these were mere accidents; the true dignity lay in himself and his own personal character, independent of any exterior.

It was pleasant to watch him, and note how advancing years had given rather than taken away from his outward mien. As ever, he was distinguishable from other men, even to his dress--which had something of the Quaker about it still, in its sober colour, its rarely-changed fashion, and its exceeding neatness. Mrs. Halifax used now and then to laugh at him for being so particular over his daintiest of cambric and finest of lawn--but secretly she took the greatest pride in his appearance.

"John looks well to-night," she said, coming in and sitting down by me, her eyes following mine. One would not have guessed from her quiet gaze that she knew--what John had told me she knew, this morning. But these two in their perfect union had a wonderful strength--a wonderful fearlessness. And she had learned from him--what perhaps originally was foreign to her impressible and somewhat anxious mind--that steadfast faith, which, while ready to meet every ill when the time comes, until the time waits cheerfully, and will not disquiet itself in vain.

Thus, for all their cares, her face as well as his, was calm and bright. Bright, even with the prettiest girlish blush, when John came up to his wife and admired her--as indeed was not surprising.

She laughed at him, and declared she always intended to grow lovely in her old age. "I thought I ought to dress myself grandly, too, on Guy's birthday. Do you like me, John?"

"Very much: I like that black velvet gown, substantial, soft, and rich, without any show. And that lace frill round your throat--what sort of lace is it?"

"Valenciennes. When I was a girl, if I had a weakness it was for black velvet and Valenciennes."

John smiled, with visible pleasure that she had even a "weakness"

gratified now. "And you have put on my brooch at last, I see."

"Yes; but--" and she shook her head--"remember your promise!"

"Phineas, this wife of mine is a vain woman. She knows her own price is 'far above rubies'--or diamonds either. No, Mrs. Halifax, be not afraid; I shall give you no more jewels."

She did not need them. She stood amidst her three sons with the smile of a Cornelia. She felt her husband's eyes rest on her, with that quiet perfectness of love--better than any lover's love--

"The fulness of a stream that knew no fall"-- the love of a husband who has been married nearly twenty-five years.

Here a troop of company arrived, and John left me to a.s.sume his duty as host.

No easy duty, as I soon perceived; for times were hard, and men's minds troubled. Every one, except the light-heeled, light-hearted youngsters, looked grave.

Many yet alive remember this year--1825--the panic year. War having ceased, commerce, in its worst form, started into sudden and unhealthy overgrowth. Speculations of all kinds sprung up like fungi, out of dead wood, flourished a little, and dropped away. Then came ruin, not of hundreds, but thousands, of all ranks and cla.s.ses. This year, and this month in this year, the breaking of many established firms, especially bankers, told that the universal crash had just begun.

It was felt even in our retired country neighbourhood, and among our friendly guests this night, both gentle and simple--and there was a mixture of both, as only a man in Mr. Halifax's position could mix such heterogeneous elements--towns-people and country-people, dissenters and church-folk, professional men and men of business. John dared to do it--and did it. But though through his own personal influence many of different ranks whom he liked and respected, meeting in his own house, learned to like and respect one another, still, even to-night, he could not remove the cloud which seemed to hang over all--a cloud so heavy that none present liked referring to it. They hit upon all sorts of extraneous subjects, keeping far aloof from the one which evidently pressed upon all minds--the universal distress abroad, the fear that was knocking at almost every man's door but ours.

Of course the talk fell on our neighbours--country talk always does. I sat still, listening to Sir Herbert Oldtower, who was wondering that Lord Luxmore suffered the Hall to drop into disgraceful decay, and had begun cutting down the pine-woods round it.

"Woods, older than his t.i.tle by many a century--downright sacrilege!

And the property being entailed, too--actual robbery of the heir! But I understand anybody may do anything with Lord Ravenel--a mere selfish, cynical, idle voluptuary!"

"Indeed you are mistaken, Sir Herbert!" cried Mr. Jessop of Norton Bury--a very honest fellow was Josiah Jessop. "He banks with me--that is, there are some poor Catholics in this neighbourhood whom I pay--but bless me! he told me not to tell. No, indeed. Cynical he may be; idle, perhaps--most men of fashion are--but Lord Ravenel is not the least like his father--is he, Mr. Halifax?"

"I have not seen Lord Ravenel for many years."

And as if, even to this day, the mention of the young man's name brought back thoughts of the last day we had seen him--a day which, its sadness having gone by, still kept its unspoken sacredness, distinct from all other days--John moved away and went and talked to a girl whom both he and the mother liked above most young girls we knew--simple, sunny-faced Grace Oldtower.

Dancing began. Spite of my Quaker education, or perhaps for that very reason, I delighted to see dancing. Dancing, such as it was then, when young folk moved breezily and lightly, as if they loved it; skimming like swallows down the long lines of the Triumph--gracefully winding in and out through the graceful country dance--lively always, but always decorous. In those days people did not think it necessary to the pleasures of dancing that any stranger should have liberty to s.n.a.t.c.h a shy, innocent girl round the waist, and whirl her about in mad waltz or awkward polka, till she stops, giddy and breathless, with burning cheek and tossed hair, looking,--as I would not have liked to see our pretty Maud look.

No; though while watching the little lady to-night, I was inclined to say to her:

"When you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that."

And in her unwearied spirits she seemed as if she would readily have responded to the wish.

We did not see Guy among the dancers, who were now forming in a somewhat confused square, in order to execute a new dance called quadrilles, of which Miss Grace Oldtower was to be the instructress.

"Where is Guy?" said the mother, who would have missed him among a room full of people. "Have you seen Guy anywhere, Miss Silver?"

Miss Silver, who sat playing tunes--she had declined dancing--turned, colouring visibly.

"Yes, I have seen him; he is in the study."

"Would you be so kind as to fetch him?"

The governess rose and crossed the room, with a stately walk--statelier than usual. Her silk gown, of some rich soft colour, fashioned after Mrs. Halifax's taste, and the chaplet of bay-leaves, which Maud had insisted upon putting in her dark hair, made an astonishing change in Miss Silver. I could not help noticing it to Mrs. Halifax.

"Yes, indeed, she looks well. John says her features are fine; but for my part, I don't care for your statuesque faces; I like colour--expression. See that bright little Grace Oldtower!--a thoroughly English rose;--I like HER. Poor Miss Silver! I wish--"

What, out of compunction for a certain sharpness with which she had spoken, Mrs. Halifax was about to wish, remained undeclared. For, just this minute, Guy entered, and leaning his handsome head and his tender pet.i.ts soins over the "English rose," as his mother called her, led her out to the dancing.

We sat down and looked on.

"Guy dances lazily; he is rather pale too, I fancy."

"Tired, probably. He was out far too long on the ice to-day, with Maud and Miss Silver. What a pretty creature his partner is!" added Ursula, thoughtfully.

"The children are growing up fast," I said.

"Ay, indeed. To think that Guy is actually twenty-one--the age when his father was married!"

"Guy will be reminding you of that fact some day soon."

Mrs. Halifax smiled. "The sooner the better, if only he makes a worthy choice--if only he brings me a daughter whom I can love."

And I fancied there was love--motherly love--in the eyes that followed through the graceful mazes of her dancing, the bonny English rose.

Guy and his partner sat down beside us. His mother noticed that he had turned very pale again, and the lad owned to be in some pain: he had twisted his foot that morning, in helping Maud and Miss Silver across the ice; but it was a mere trifle--not worth mentioning.

It pa.s.sed over, with one or two anxious inquiries on the mother's part, and a soft, dewy shadow over the down-dropped cheek of the little rose, who evidently did not like to think of any harm coming to her old play-fellow. Then Sir Herbert appeared to lead Mrs. Halifax in to supper, Guy limped along with pretty Grace on his arm, and all the guests, just enough to fill our longest table in John's study, came thronging round in a buzz of mirthfulness.

Either the warm, hospitable atmosphere, or the sight of the merry youngsters, or the general influence of social pleasantness, had for the time being dispelled the cloud. But certainly it was dispelled.

The master of the feast looked down two long lines of happy faces--his own as bright as theirs--down to where, at the foot of the table, the mother and mistress sat. She had been slightly nervous at times during the evening, but now she appeared thoroughly at ease and glad--glad to see her husband take his place at the head of his own hospitable board, in the midst of his own friends and his own people honoured and beloved. It seemed a good omen--an omen that the bitter things outside would pa.s.s away.

How bitter they had been, and how sore the wife's heart still felt, I could see from the jealous way in which, smiling and cheerful as her demeanour was, she caught every look, every word of those around her which might chance to bear reference to her husband; in her quick avoidance of every topic connected with these disastrous times, and, above all, in her hurried grasp of a newspaper that some careless servant brought in fresh from the night-mail, wet with sleet and snow.

"Do you get your country paper regularly?" asked some one at table. And then some others appeared to recollect the Norton Bury Mercury, and its virulent attacks on their host--for there ensued an awkward pause, during which I saw Ursula's face beginning to burn. But she conquered her wrath.

"There is often much interest in our provincial papers, Sir Herbert. My husband makes a point of taking them all in--bad and good--of every shade of politics. He believes it is only by hearing all sides that you can truly judge of the state of the country."