We went home,leaving all that was mortal of our darling sleeping at Enderley,underneath the snows.
For twelve years after then,we lived at Longfield;in such unbroken,uneventful peace,that looking back seems like looking back over a level sea,whose leagues of tiny ripples make one smooth glassy plain.
Let me recall--as the first wave that rose,ominous of change--a certain spring evening,when Mrs.Halifax and I were sitting,as was our wont,under the walnut-tree.The same old walnut-tree,hardly a bough altered,though many of its neighbours and kindred had grown from saplings into trees--even as some of us had grown from children almost into young men.
"Edwin is late home from Norton Bury,"said Ursula.
"So is his father."
"No--this is just John's time.Hark!there are the carriage-wheels!"For Mr.Halifax,a prosperous man now,drove daily to and from his mills,in as tasteful an equipage as any of the country gentry between here and Enderley.
His wife went down to the stream to meet him,as usual,and they came up the field-path together.
Both were changed from the John and Ursula of whom I last wrote.
She,active and fresh-looking still,but settling into that fair largeness which is not unbecoming a lady of middle-age,he,inclined to a slight stoop,with the lines of his face more sharply defined,and the hair wearing away off his forehead up to the crown.Though still not a grey thread was discernible in the crisp locks at the back,which successively five little ones had pulled,and played with,and nestled in;not a sign of age,as yet,in "father's curls."As soon as he had spoken to me,he looked round as usual for his children,and asked if the boys and Maud would be home to tea?
"I think Guy and Walter never do come home in time when they go over to the manor-house.""They're young--let them enjoy themselves,"said the father,smiling.
"And you know,love,of all our 'fine'friends,there are none you so heartily approve of as the Oldtowers."These were not of the former race.Good old Sir Ralph had gone to his rest,and Sir Herbert reigned in his stead;Sir Herbert,who in his dignified gratitude never forgot a certain election day,when he first made the personal acquaintance of Mr.Halifax.The manor-house family brought several other "county families"to our notice,or us to theirs.These,when John's fortunes grew rapidly--as many another fortune grew,in the beginning of the thirty years'peace,when unknown,petty manufacturers first rose into merchant princes and cotton lords--these gentry made a perceptible distinction,often amusing enough to us,between John Halifax,the tanner of Norton Bury,and Mr.Halifax,the prosperous owner of Enderley Mills.Some of them,too,were clever enough to discover,what a pleasant and altogether "visitable"lady was Mrs.Halifax,daughter of the late Mr.March,a governor in the West Indies,and cousin of Mr.Brithwood of the Mythe.But Mrs.Halifax,with quiet tenacity,altogether declined being visited as anything but Mrs.Halifax,wife of John Halifax,tanner,or mill-owner,or whatever he might be.All honours and all civilities that did not come through him,and with him,were utterly valueless to her.
To this her peculiarity was added another of John's own,namely,that all his life he had been averse to what is called "society;"had eschewed "acquaintances,"--and--but most men might easily count upon their fingers the number of those who,during a life-time,are found worthy of the sacred name of "friend."Consequently,our circle of associations was far more limited than that of many families holding an equal position with us--on which circumstance our neighbours commented a good deal.But little we cared;no more than we had cared for the chit-chat of Norton Bury.Our whole hearts were bound up within our own home--our happy Longfield.
"I do think this place is growing prettier than ever,"said John,when,tea being over--a rather quiet meal,without a single child--we elders went out again to the walnut-tree bench."Certainly,prettier than ever;"and his eye wandered over the quaint,low house,all odds and ends--for nearly every year something had been built,or something pulled down;then crossing the smooth bit of lawn,Jem Watkins's special pride,it rested on the sloping field,yellow with tall buttercups,wavy with growing grass."Let me see--how long have we lived here?Phineas,you are the one for remembering dates.What year was it we came to Longfield?""Eighteen hundred and twelve.Thirteen years ago.""Ah,so long!"
"Not too long,"said Mrs.Halifax,earnestly."I hope we may end our days here.Do not you,John?"He paused a little before answering."Yes,I wish it;but I am not sure how far it would be right to do it.""We will not open that subject again,"said the mother,uneasily."Ithought we had all made up our minds that little Longfield was a thousand times pleasanter than Beechwood,grand as it is.But John thinks he never can do enough for his people at Enderley.""Not that alone,love.Other reasons combined.Do you know,Phineas,"he continued,musingly,as he watched the sun set over Leckington Hill--"sometimes I fancy my life is too easy--that I am not a wise steward of the riches that have multiplied so fast.By fifty,a man so blest as I have been,ought to have done really something of use in the world--and I am forty-five.Once,I hoped to have done wonderful things ere I was forty-five.But somehow the desire faded."His wife and I were silent.We both knew the truth;that calm as had flowed his outer existence,in which was omitted not one actual duty,still,for these twelve years,all the high aims which make the glory and charm of life as duties make its strength,all the active energies and noble ambitions which especially belong to the prime of manhood,in him had been,not dead perhaps,but sleeping.Sleeping,beyond the power of any human voice to waken them,under the daisies of a child's grave at Enderley.
