Her children never suspected this,I saw;but they were young.For her husband--I could not understand John.He,so quick-sighted;he who meeting any sorrow looked steadily up at the Hand that smote him,knowing neither the coward's dread nor the unbeliever's disguise of pain--surely he must see what was impending.Yet he was as calm as if he saw it not.Calm,as no man could be contemplating the supreme parting between two who nearly all their lives had been not two,but one flesh.
Yet I had once heard him say that a great love,and only that,makes parting easy.Could it be that this love of his,which had clasped his wife so firmly,faithfully,and long,fearlessly clasped her still,by its own perfectness assured of its immortality?
But all the while his human love clung about her,showing itself in a thousand forms of watchful tenderness.And hers clung to him,closely,dependently;she let herself be taken care of,ruled and guided,as if with him she found helplessness restful and submission sweet.Many a little outward fondness,that when people have been long married naturally drops into disuse,was revived again;he would bring her flowers out of the garden,or new books from the town;and many a time,when no one noticed,I have seen him stoop and press his lips upon the faded hand,where the wedding-ring hung so loosely;--his own for so many years,his own till the dust claimed it,that well-beloved hand!
Ay,he was right.Loss,affliction,death itself,are powerless in the presence of such a love as theirs.
It was already the middle of July.From January to July--six months!
Our neighbours without--and there were many who felt for us--never asked now,"Is there any news of Mr.Guy?"Even pretty Grace Oldtower--pretty still,but youthful no longer--only lifted her eyes inquiringly as she crossed our doorway,and dropped them again with a hopeless sigh.She had loved us all,faithfully and well,for a great many years.
One night,when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after staying with us the whole day--Maud and I sat in the study by ourselves,where we generally sat now.The father spent all his evenings up-stairs.We could hear his step overhead as he crossed the room or opened the window,then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife's bedside.Sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading or talk;then long silence.
Maud and I sat in silence too.She had her own thoughts--I mine.
Perhaps they were often one and the same:perhaps--for youth is youth after all--they may have diverged widely.Hers were deep,absorbed thoughts,at any rate,travelling fast--fast as her needle travelled;for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways and her mother's work.
We had the lamp lit,but the windows were wide open;and through the sultry summer night we could hear the trickle of the stream and the rustle of the leaves in the beech-wood.We sat very still,waiting for nothing,expecting nothing;in the dull patience which always fell upon us about this hour--the hour before bed-time,when nothing more was to be looked for but how best to meet another dreary day.
"Maud,was that the click of the front gate swinging?""No,I told Walter to lock it before he went to bed.Last night it disturbed my mother."Again silence.So deep that the maid's opening the door made us both start.
"Miss Halifax--there's a gentleman wanting to see Miss Halifax."Maud sprung up in her chair,breathless.
"Any one you know,is it?"
"No,Miss."
"Show the gentleman in."
He stood already in the doorway,--tall,brown,bearded.Maud just glanced at him,then rose,bending stiffly,after the manner of Miss Halifax of Beechwood.
"Will you be seated?My father--"
"Maud,don't you know me?Where's my mother?I am Guy."
