John Halifax, Gentleman Part 35

She laid her hand, with its soft, fluttering motions, on the good woman's shoulder, and looked up at John. He said afterwards that those dry, tearless eyes smote him to the heart.

"Why does she sob so, Mr Halifax? Papa will be better tomorrow, I am sure."

"I HOPE so," he answered, dwelling on the word; "we should always hope to the very last."

"The last?" with a quick, startled glance.

"And then we can only trust."

Something more than the MERE words struck her. She examined him closely for a minute.

"You mean--yes--I understand what you mean. But you are mistaken. The doctor would have told me--if--if--" she s.h.i.+vered, and left the sentence unfinished.

"Dr. Brown was afraid--we were all afraid," broke in Mrs. Tod, sobbing.

"Only Mr. Halifax, he said--"

Miss March turned abruptly to John. That woeful gaze of hers could be answered by no words. I believe he took her hand, but I cannot tell.

One thing I can tell, for she said it to me herself afterwards, that he seemed to look down upon her like a strong, pitiful, comforting angel; a messenger sent by G.o.d.

Then she broke away, and flew up-stairs. John came in again to me, and sat down. He did not speak for many minutes.

After an interval--I know not how long--we heard Mrs. Tod calling loudly for "Mr. Halifax." We both ran through the empty kitchen to the foot of the stairs that led to Mr. March's room.

Mr. March's room! Alas, he owned nothing now on this fleeting, perishable earth of ours. He had gone from it: the spirit stealing quietly away in sleep. He belonged now to the world everlasting.

Peace be to him! whatever his life had been, he was HER father.

Mrs. Tod sat half-way down the stair-case, holding Ursula March across her knees. The poor creature was insensible, or nearly so. She--we learnt--had been composed under the terrible discovery made when she returned to his room; and when all restorative means failed, the fact of death became certain, she had herself closed her father's eyes, and kissed him, then tried to walk from the room--but at the third step she dropped quietly down.

There she lay; physical weakness conquering the strong heart: she lay, overcome at last. There was no more to bear. Had there been, I think she would have been able to have borne it still.

John took her in his arms; I know not if he took her, or Mrs. Tod gave her to him--but there she was. He carried her across the kitchen into our own little parlour, and laid her down on my sofa.

"Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, keep everybody out. She is waking now."

She did, indeed, open her eyes, with a long sigh, but closed them again. Then with an effort she sat upright, and looked at us all around.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, and sobbing over her like a child. "Cry, do cry!"

"I CAN'T," she said, and lay down again.

We stood awed, watching that poor, pale face, on every line of which was written stunned, motionless, impa.s.sive grief. For John--two minutes of such a gaze as his might in a man's heart do the work of years.

"She must be roused," he said at last. "She MUST cry. Mrs. Tod, take her up-stairs. Let her look at her father."

The word effected what he desired; what almost her life demanded. She clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of weeping.

"Now, Phineas, let us go away."

And he went, walking almost like one blindfold, straight out of the house, I following him.

CHAPTER XIV

"I am quite certain, Mrs. Tod, that it would be much better for her; and, if she consents, it shall be so," said John, decisively.

We three were consulting, the morning after the death, on a plan which he and I had already settled between ourselves, namely, that we should leave our portion of the cottage entirely at Miss March's disposal, while we inhabited hers--save that locked and silent chamber wherein there was no complaining, no suffering now.

Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was successful; we received a message to the effect that Miss March would not refuse our "kindness." So we vacated; and all that long Sunday we sat in the parlour lately our neighbour's, heard the rain come down, and the church bells ring; the wind blowing autumn gales, and shaking all the windows, even that of the room overhead. It sounded awful THERE. We were very glad the poor young orphan was away.

On the Monday morning we heard going up-stairs the heavy footsteps that every one at some time or other has shuddered at; then the hammering.

Mrs. Tod came in, and told us that no one--not even his daughter--could be allowed to look at what had been "poor Mr. March," any more. All with him was ended.

"The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do then, poor thing!"

John made me no answer.

"Is she left well provided for, do you think?"

"It is impossible to say."

His answers were terse and brief enough, but I could not help talking about the poor young creature, and wondering if she had any relative or friend to come to her in this sad time.

"She said--do you remember, when she was crying--that she had not a friend in the wide world?"

And this fact, which he expressed with a sort of triumph, seemed to afford the greatest possible comfort to John.

But all our speculations were set at rest by a request brought this moment by Mrs. Tod--that Mr. Halifax would go with her to speak to Miss March.

"I! only I?" said John, starting.

"Only you, sir. She wants somebody to speak to about the funeral--and I said, 'There be Mr. Halifax, Miss March, the kindest gentleman'; and she said, 'if it wouldn't trouble him to come--'"

"Tell her I am coming."

When, after some time, he returned, he was very serious.

"Wait a minute, Phineas, and you shall hear; I feel confused, rather.

It is so strange, her trusting me thus. I wish I could help her more."

Then he told me all that had pa.s.sed--how he and Mrs. Tod had conjointly arranged the hasty funeral--how brave and composed she had been--that poor child, all alone!

"Has she indeed no one to help her?"

"No one. She might send for Mr. Brithwood, but he was not friendly with her father; she said she had rather ask this 'kindness' of me, because her father had liked me, and thought I resembled their Walter, who died."

"Poor Mr. March!--perhaps he is with Walter, now. But, John, can you do all that is necessary for her? You are very young."