Be it so.There is One wiser than I--One in whose hands are the issues of all things."The sort of contrition with which he spoke--thus retracting,as it costs most men so much to retract,a decision given however justly at the time,but which fate has afterwards pronounced unjust,affected his son deeply.
"Father,your decision was right--William says it was.He says also,that it could not have been otherwise;that whatever he has become since,he owes it all to you,and to what passed that day.Though he loves her still,will never love any one else;yet he declares his loss of her has proved his salvation.""He is right,"said Mrs.Halifax."Love is worth nothing that will not stand trial--a fiery trial,if needs be.And as I have heard John say many and many a time--as he said that very night--in this world there is not,ought not to be,any such words as 'too late.'"John made no answer.He sat,his chin propped on his right hand,the other pressed against his bosom--his favourite attitude.Once or twice,with a deep-drawn,painful breath,he sighed.
Guy's eagerness could not rest."Father,I told him I would either write to or see him to-day.""Where is he?"
"At Norton Bury.Nothing could induce him to come here,unless certain that you desired it.""I do desire it."
Guy started up with great joy."Shall I write,then?""I will write myself."
But John's hand shook so much,that instead of his customary free,bold writing,he left only blots upon the page.He leant back in his chair,and said faintly--"I am getting an old man,I see.Guy,it was high time you came home."Mrs.Halifax thought he was tired,and made a place for his head on her pillow,where he rested some minutes,"just to please her,"he said.Then he rose and declared he would himself drive over to Norton Bury for our old friend.
"Nay,let me write,father.To-morrow will do just as well."The father shook his head."No--it must be to-day."Bidding good-bye to his wife--he never by any chance quitted her for an hour without a special tender leave-taking--John went away.
Guy was,he avouched,"as happy as a king."His old liveliness returned;he declared that in this matter,which had long weighed heavily on his mind,he had acted like a great diplomatist,or like the gods themselves,whom some unexacting,humble youth calls upon to "Annihilate both time and space,And make two lovers happy!""And I'm sure I shall be happy too,in seeing them.They shall be married immediately.And we'll take William into partnership--that was a whim of his,mother--we call one another 'Guy'and 'William,'just like brothers.Heigho!I'm very glad.Are not you?"The mother smiled.
"You will soon have nobody left but me.No matter.I shall have you all to myself,and be at once a spoiled child,and an uncommonly merry old bachelor."Again the mother smiled,without reply.She,too,doubtless thought herself a great diplomatist.
William Ravenel--he was henceforward never anything to us but William--came home with Mr.Halifax.First,the mother saw him;then I heard the father go to the maiden bower where Maud had shut herself up all day--poor child!--and fetch his daughter down.Lastly,Iwatched the two--Mr.Ravenel and Miss Halifax--walk together down the garden and into the beech-wood,where the leaves were whispering and the stock-doves cooing;and where,I suppose,they told and listened to the old tale--old as Adam--yet for ever beautiful and new.
That day was a wonderful day.That night we gathered,as we never thought we should gather again in this world,round the family table--Guy,Edwin,Walter,Maud,Louise,and William Ravenel--all changed,yet not one lost.A true love-feast it was:a renewed celebration of the family bond,which had lasted through so much sorrow,now knitted up once more,never to be broken.
When we came quietly to examine one another and fall into one another's old ways,there was less than one might have expected even of outward change.The table appeared the same;all took instinctively their old places,except that the mother lay on her sofa and Maud presided at the urn.
It did one's heart good to look at Maud,as she busied herself about,in her capacity as vice-reine of the household;perhaps,with a natural feeling,liking to show some one present how mature and sedate she was--not so very young after all.You could see she felt deeply how much he loved her--how her love was to him like the restoring of his youth.The responsibility,sweet as it was,made her womanly,made her grave.She would be to him at once wife and child,plaything and comforter,sustainer and sustained.Ay,love levels all things.They were not ill-matched,in spite of those twenty years.
And so I left them,and went and sat with John and Ursula--we,the generation passing away,or ready to pass,in Heaven's good time,to make room for these.We talked but little,our hearts were too full.
Early,before anybody thought of moving,John carried his wife up-stairs again,saying that,well as she looked,she must be compelled to economise both her good looks and her happiness.
When he came down again he stood talking for some time with Mr.
Ravenel.While he talked I thought he looked wearied--pallid even to exhaustion;a minute or two afterwards he silently left the room.
I followed him,and found him leaning against the chimney-piece in his study.
"Who's that?"He spoke feebly;he looked--ghastly!
I called him by his name.
"Come in.Fetch no one.Shut the door."
The words were hoarse and abrupt,but I obeyed.
"Phineas,"he said,again holding out a hand,as if he thought he had grieved me;"don't mind.I shall be better presently.I know quite well what it is--ah,my God--my God!"Sharp,horrible pain--such as human nature shrinks from--such as makes poor mortal flesh cry out in its agony to its Maker,as if,for the time being,life itself were worthless at such a price.I know now what it must have been;I know now what he must have endured.
