John Halifax, Gentleman Part 64

"You are a staunch supporter of the Bill, my father says. Of course, you aid him in the Kingswell election to-morrow?"

"I can scarcely call it an election," returned John. He had been commenting on it to us that morning rather severely. An election! it was merely a talk in the King's Head parlour, a nomination, and show of hands by some dozen poor labourers, tenants of Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore, who got a few pounds a-piece for their services--and the thing was done.

"Who is the nominee, Lady Caroline?"

"A young gentleman of small fortune, but excellent parts, who returned with us from Naples."

The lady's manner being rather more formal than she generally used, John looked up quickly.

"The election being to-morrow, of course his name is no secret?"

"Oh, no! Vermilye. Mr. Gerard Vermilye. Do you know him?"

"I have heard of him."

As he spoke--either intentionally or no--John looked full at Lady Caroline. She dropped her eyes and began playing with her bracelets.

Both immediately quitted the subject of Kingswell election.

Soon after we rose from table; and Guy, who had all dinner-time fixed his admiring gaze upon the "pretty lady," insisted on taking her down the garden and gathering for her a magnificent arum lily, the mother's favourite lily. I suggested gaining permission first; and was sent to ask the question.

I found John and his wife in serious, even painful conversation.

"Love," he was saying, "I have known it for very long; but if she had not come here, I would never have grieved you by telling it."

"Perhaps it is not true," said Ursula, warmly. "The world is ready enough to invent cruel falsehoods about us women."

"'Us women!' Don't say that, Ursula. I will not have my wife named in the same breath with HER."

"John!"

"I will not, I say. You don't know what it cost me even to see her touch your hand."

"John!"

The soft tone recalled him to his better self.

"Forgive me! but I would not have the least taint come near this wife of mine. I could not bear to think of her holding intercourse with a light woman--a woman false to her husband."

"I do not believe it. Caroline was foolish, she was never wicked.

Listen!--If this were true, how could she be laughing with our children now? Oh! John--think--she has no children."

The deep pity pa.s.sed from Ursula's heart to her husband's. John clasped fondly the two hands that were laid on his shoulders, as, looking up in his face, the happy wife pleaded silently for one whom all the world knew was so wronged and so unhappy.

"We will wait a little before we judge. Love, you are a better Christian than I."

All afternoon they both showed more than courtesy--kindness, to this woman, at whom, as any one out of our retired household would have known, and as John did know well--all the world was already pointing the finger, on account of Mr. Gerard Vermilye. She, on her part, with her chameleon power of seizing and sunning herself in the delight of the moment, was in a state of the highest enjoyment. She turned "shepherdess," fed the poultry with Edwin, pulled off her jewelled ornaments, and gave them to Walter for playthings; nay, she even washed off her rouge at the spring, and came in with faint natural roses upon her faded cheeks. So happy she seemed, so innocently, childishly happy; that more than once I saw John and Ursula exchange satisfied looks, rejoicing that they had followed after the divine charity which "thinketh no evil."

After tea we all turned out, as was our wont on summer evenings; the children playing about; while the father and mother strolled up and down the sloping field-path, arm in arm like lovers, or sometimes he fondly leaning upon her. Thus they would walk and talk together in the twilight, for hours.

Lady Caroline pointed to them. "Look! Adam and Eve modernized; Baucis and Philemon when they were young. Bon Dieu! what it is to be young!"

She said this in a gasp, as if wild with terror of the days that were coming upon her--the dark days.

"People are always young," I answered, "who love one another as these do."

"Love! what an old-fas.h.i.+oned word. I hate it! It is so--what would you say in English?--so dechirant. I would not cultivate une grande pa.s.sion for the world."

I smiled at the idea of the bond between Mr. and Mrs. Halifax taking the Frenchified character of "une grande pa.s.sion."

"But home-love, married love, love among children and at the fire-side;--you believe in that?"

She turned upon me her beautiful eyes; they had a scared look, like a bird's driven right into the fowler's net.

"C'est impossible--impossible!"

The word hissed itself out between her shut teeth--"impossible." Then she walked quickly on, and was her lively self once more.

When the evening closed, and the younger children were gone to bed, she became rather restless about the non-appearance of her coach. At last a lacquey arrived on foot. She angrily inquired why a carriage had not been sent for her?

"Master didn't give orders, my lady," answered the man, somewhat rudely.

Lady Caroline turned pale--with anger or fear--perhaps both.

"You have not properly answered your mistress's question," said Mr.

Halifax.

"Master says, sir--begging my lady's pardon for repeating it--but he says, 'My lady went out against his will, and she may come home when and how she likes.'"

"My lady" burst out laughing, and laughed violently and long.

"Tell him I will. Be sure you tell him I will. It is the last and the easiest obedience."

John sent the lacquey out of the room; and Ursula said something about "not speaking thus before a servant."

"Before a servant! Why, my dear, we furnish entertainment for our whole establishment, my husband and I. We are at the Mythe what the Prince Regent and the Princess of Wales are to the country at large. We divide our people between us; I fascinate--he bribes. Ha! ha! Well done, Richard Brithwood! I may come home 'when and how I like!' Truly, I'll use that kind permission."

Her eyes glittered with an evil fire: her cheeks were hot and red.

"Mrs. Halifax, I shall be thrown on your hospitality for an hour or two longer. Could you send a letter for me?"

"To your husband? Certainly."

"My husband?--Never!--Yes, to MY HUSBAND." The first part of the sentence was full of fierce contempt; the latter, smothered, and slowly desperate. "Tell me, Ursula, what const.i.tutes a man one's husband?

Brutality, tyranny--the tyranny which the law sanctions? Or kindness, sympathy, devotion, everything that makes life beautiful--everything that const.i.tutes happiness and--"

"Sin."

The word in her ear was so low, that she started as if conscience only had uttered it--conscience, to whom only her intents were known.