"John Halifax,there be a woman asking for thee."No,John--no need for that start--that rush of impetuous blood to thy poor thin cheek,as if there were but one woman in all the world.
No,it was only Mrs.Jessop.
At sight of him,standing up,tall,and gaunt,and pale,the good lady's eyes brimmed over.
"You have been very ill,my poor boy!Forgive me--but I am an old woman,you know.Lie down again."With gentle force she compelled him,and sat down by his side.
"I had no idea--why did you not let us know--the doctor and me?How long have you been ill?""I am quite well now--I am indeed.I shall be about again tomorrow,shall I not,Phineas?"and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.
I gave it,firmly and proudly.I was glad she should know it--glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it.Glad that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy.
"But you must be very careful--very careful of yourself,indeed.""He will,Mrs.Jessop.Or,if not,he has many to take care of him.
Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."I spoke--perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good old lady--but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me.
"I well believe that,Mr.Fletcher.And I think Mr.Halifax hardly knows how much we--we all--esteem him."And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand."You must make haste and get well now.
My husband will come and see you to-morrow.For Ursula--"here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket--"my dear child sends you this."It was a little note--unsealed.The superscription was simply his name,in her clear,round,fair hand-writing--"John Halifax."His fingers closed over it convulsively."I--she is--very kind."The words died away--the hand which grasped,ay,for more than a minute,the unopened letter,trembled like an aspen leaf.
"Yes,hers is a grateful nature,"observed Mrs.Jessop,sedulously looking at and speaking to me."I would not wish it otherwise--Iwould not wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her season of trouble."I was silent.The old lady's tongue likewise failed her.She took off her glove,wiped a finger across each eyelash,and sat still.
"Have you read your little note,Mr.Halifax?"No answer.
"I will take your message back.She told me what she had said to you."Ay,all the world might have read those simple lines:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,"I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill.I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father.I should like to come and see you if you would allow me.
"Yours sincerely,"URSULA MARCH."
This was all the note.I saw it,more than thirty years afterwards,yellow and faded,in the corner of his pocket-book.
"Well,what shall I say to my child?"
"Say"--he half rose,struggling to speak--"ask her to come."He turned his head towards the window,and the sunshine glittered on two great drops,large as a child's tear.
Mrs.Jessop went away.And now for a long hour we waited--scarcely moving.John lay,his eyes sometimes closed,sometimes fixed dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron railings between the Abbey trees.More than once they wandered to the little letter,which lay buried in his hands.He felt it there--that was enough.
My father came in from the garden,and settled to his afternoon doze;but I think John hardly noticed him--nor I.My poor old father!Yet we were all young once--let youth enjoy its day!
At length Ursula came.She stood at the parlour door,rosy with walking--a vision of youth and candid innocence,which blushed not,nor had need to blush,at any intent or act that was sanctified by the law of God,and by her own heart.
John rose to meet her.They did not speak,but only clasped hands.
He was not strong enough for disguises now--in his first look she might have seen,have felt,that I had told her the truth.For hers--but it dropped down,down,as Ursula March's clear glance had never dropped before.Then I knew how all would end.
Jael's voice broke in sharply."Abel Fletcher,the doctor's wife is wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden,and she says her green gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n."My father awoke--rubbed his eyes--became aware of a lady's presence--rubbed them again,and sat staring.
John led Ursula to the old man's chair.
"Mr.Fletcher,this is Miss March,a friend of mine,who,hearing Iwas ill,out of her great kindness--"
His voice faltered.Miss March added,in a low tone,with downcast eyelids:
"I am an orphan,and he was kind to my dear father."Abel Fletcher nodded--adjusted his spectacles--eyed her all over--and nodded again;slowly,gravely,with a satisfied inspection.His hard gaze lingered,and softened while it lingered,on that young face,whereon was written simplicity,dignity,truth.
"If thee be a friend of John's,welcome to my house.Wilt thee sit down?"Offering his hand,with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father,he placed her in his own arm-chair.How well I remember her sitting there,in her black silk pelisse,trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing,and her riding-hat,the soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder,trembling as she trembled.For she did tremble very much.
Gradually the old man's perception opened to the facts before him.
He ceased his sharp scrutiny,and half smiled.
