John Halifax, Gentleman Part 98

"No--no."

"And he is so very miserable. Never before did he fail in his duty to you."

"But what if I have failed in mine to him?--What if--you used to say I could not understand Guy--what if I have come short towards him? I, that am accountable to G.o.d for every one of my children."

"John--John"--she knelt down and put her arms round his neck. "Husband, do not look unhappy. I did not mean to blame you--we may be wrong, both of us--all of us. But we will not be afraid. We know Who pities us, even as we pity our children."

Thus she spoke, and more to the same purport; but it was a long time before her words brought any consolation. Then the parents talked together, trying to arrange some plan whereby Guy's mind might be occupied and soothed, or else Edwin removed out of his sight for a little while. Once I hinted at the advantage of Guy's leaving home; but Mrs. Halifax seemed to shrink from this project as though it were a foreboding of perpetual exile.

"No, no; anything but that. Beside, Guy would not wish it. He has never left me in his life. His going would seem like the general breaking up of the family."

Alas! she did not, would not see that the family was already "broken."

Broken, more than either absence, marriage, or death itself could have effected.

One thing more we had to consider--a thing at once natural and right in any family, namely, how to hide its wounds from the chattering, scandalous world. And so, when by a happy chance there came over that morning our good friend Lady Oldtower and her carriage full of daughters, Mrs. Halifax communicated, with a simple dignity that quelled all comment, the fact of "my son Edwin's engagement," and accepted the invitation for Maud and Miss Silver, which was willingly repeated and pressed.

One thing I noticed, that in speaking of or to the girl who in a single day from merely the governess had become, and was sedulously treated as, our own, Mrs. Halifax invariably called her, as heretofore, "Miss Silver," or "my dear;" never by any chance "Louise," or "Mademoiselle D'Argent."

Before she left Beechwood, Edwin came in and hurriedly spoke to his mother. What he said was evidently painful to both.

"I am not aware of it, Edwin; I had not the slightest intention of offending her. Is she already made your judge and referee as to the actions of your mother?"

Edwin was a good lad, though perhaps a little less loving than the rest of the boys. His self-restraint, his exceeding patience, lulled the threatened storm.

"But you will be kind to her, mother?--I know you will."

"Did I not say so?"

"And may I bring her to you here?"

"If you choose."

It was the first open recognition between the mother and her son's betrothed. Their other meeting had been in public, when, with a sedulous dread, both had behaved exactly as usual, and no word or manner had betrayed their altered relations. Now, when for the first time it was needful for Miss Silver to be received as a daughter elect, with all the natural sympathy due from one woman to another under similar circ.u.mstances, all the warmth of kindness due from a mother to her son's chosen wife--then the want, the mournful want, made itself felt.

Mrs. Halifax stood at the dining-room window, trying vainly to regain self-control.

"If I could only love her! If only she had made me love her!" she muttered, over and over again.

I hoped, from the bottom of my soul, that Edwin had not heard her--had not seen her involuntarily recoil, as he led to his mother his handsome girl that he seemed so proud of, his happy, affianced wife. Happiness melts some natures, like spring and sunshine. Louise looked up with swimming eyes.

"Oh! be kind to me! n.o.body was ever kind to me till I came here!"

The good heart gave way: Mrs. Halifax opened her arms.

"Be true to Edwin--love Edwin, and I shall love you--I am sure I shall."

Kissing her once or twice, the mother let fall a few tears; then sat down, still keeping the girl's hand, and busying herself with various little kindnesses about her.

"Are you sure you are well wrapped up? Edwin, see that she has my fur cloak in the carriage. What cold fingers! Have some wine before you start, my dear."

Miss Silver altogether melted; sobbing, she murmured something about forgiveness.

"Nay, did I say a word about forgiveness? Then, do not you. Let us be patient--we shall all be happy in time."

"And--Guy?"

"Guy will be himself soon," returned the mother, rather proudly. "We will not mention him, if you please, my dear."

At this moment, Guy must have heard the carriage-wheels and guessed Miss Silver was going, for he appeared at the parlour door. He found his mother toying with Miss Silver's hand; Edwin standing by, proud and glad, with his arm clasped round Louise.

He did not remove it. In his brother's very face--perhaps because of the expression of that face--the lover held fast his own.

Mrs. Halifax rose up, alarmed. "She is just going, Guy. Shake hands, and bid her good-bye."

The girl's hand, which was sorrowfully and kindly extended, Guy s.n.a.t.c.hed and held fast.

"Let her pa.s.s," cried Edwin, angrily.

"Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. Good-bye! A pleasant journey!" And, still keeping her hand, he gazed with burning eyes on the features he had so loved--as boys do love--with a wild imaginative pa.s.sion, kindled by beauty alone. "I shall claim my right--just for once--may I, sister Louise?"

With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's betrothed round the waist and kissed her--once--twice--savagely.

It was done so suddenly and under such an ingenious disguise of "right," that open vengeance was impossible. But as Edwin hurried Louise away, the look that pa.s.sed between the two young men was enough to blot out henceforward all friendship, all brotherhood. That insult would never be forgotten.

She was gone--the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was left alone with me and his mother.

Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings and goings--his restless starts--his fits of dark musing, when his face grew like the face of some stranger, some one whom he would have shrunk from--any one but our own merry Guy.

"Mother,"--the voice startled me, such irritable, intolerable bitterness marred its once pleasant tones--"when do they come back?"

"Do you mean--"

"I mean those people."

"In a week or so. Your brother returns to-night, of course."

"My BROTHER, eh? Better not say it--it's an ugly word."

Mrs. Halifax attempted no reproof; she knew that it would have been useless--worse than useless--then.

"Mother," Guy said at last, coming up and leaning against her chair, "you must let me go."

"Where, my son?"

"Anywhere--out of their sight--those two. You see, I cannot bear it.

It maddens me--makes me wicked--makes me not myself. Or rather makes me truly MYSELF, which is altogether wicked."

"No, Guy--no, my own boy. Have patience--all this will pa.s.s away."