of life is not inevitably life’s sole sustenance; that it was something to have a friend and brother who loved him with a love — like Jonathan’s —“passing the love of women.”
“I have been very wrong,” he kept repeating, in a broken voice; “but I was not myself. I am better now. Come — let us go home.”
He put his arm round me to keep me warm, and brought me safely into the house. He even sat down by the fire to talk with me. Whatever struggle there had been, I saw it was over, he looked his own self — only so very, very pale — and spoke in his natural voice; ay, even when mentioning HER, which he was the first to do.
“She goes tomorrow, you are sure, Phineas?”
“I believe so. Shall you see her again?”
“If she desires it.”
“Shall you say anything to her?”
“Nothing. If for a little while — not knowing or not thinking of all the truth — I felt I had strength to remove all impediments, I now see that even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse — a knave. I will be neither — I will be a man.”
I replied not: how could one answer such words? — calmly uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his heart.
“Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly this morning?”
“She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself.”
“I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth — save one thing. She need never know that.”
I guessed by his broken voice what the “one thing” was; — which he counted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would have counted worth everything — the priceless gift of a good man’s love. Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a lifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry — ay, even sorry for Ursula March.
“Do you not think I am right, Phineas?”
“Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge.”
“It is right,” said he, firmly. “There can be no possible hope for me; nothing remains but silence.”
I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young man, only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love could be absolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John Halifax. But as things now stood I deemed it best to leave him altogether to himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through HIS will, would happen: for me to interfere either way would be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some sense, exceedingly wrong.
So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence.
John broke it — talking to himself as if he had forgotten I was by.
“To think it was she who did it — that first kindness to a poor friendless boy. I never forgot it — never. It did me more good than I can tell. And that scar on her poor arm — her dear little tender arm; — how this morning I would have given all the world to —”
He broke off — instinctively, as it were — with the sort of feeling every good man has, that the sacred passion, the inmost tenderness of his love, should be kept wholly between himself and the woman he has chosen.
I knew that too; knew that in his heart had grown up a secret, a necessity, a desire, stronger than any friendship — closer than the closest bond of brotherly love. Perhaps — I hardly know why — I sighed.
John turned round —“Phineas, you must not think — because of this — which you will understand for yourself, I hope, one day; you must not think I could ever think less, or feel less, about my brother.”
He spoke earnestly, with a full heart. We clasped hands warmly and silently. Thus was healed my last lingering pain — I was thenceforward entirely satisfied.
I think we parted that night as we had never parted before; feeling that the trial of our friendship — the great trial, perhaps, of any friendship — had come and passed, safely: that whatever new ties might gather round each, our two hearts would cleave together until death.
The next morning rose, as I have seen many a morning rise at Enderley — misty and grey; but oh, so heavenly fair! with a pearly network of dewy gossamer under foot, and overhead countless thistle downs flying about, like fairy chariots hurrying out of sight of the sun, which had only mounted high enough above the Flat to touch the horizon of hills opposite, and the tops of my four poplars, leaving Rose Cottage and the valley below it all in morning shadow. John called me to go with him on the common; his voice sounded so cheerful outside my door that it was with a glad heart I rose and went.
He chose his old walk — his “terrace.” No chance now of meeting the light figure coming tripping along the level hill. All that dream was now over. He did not speak of it — nor I. He seemed contented — or, at least, thoroughly calmed down; except that the sweet composure of his mien had settled into the harder gravity of manhood. The crisis and climax of youth had been gone through — he never could be a boy again.
We came to that part of John’s terrace which overhung the churchyard. Both of us glanced instinctively down to the heap of loose red earth — the as yet nameless grave. Some one stood beside it — the only one who was likely to be there.
Even had I not recognized her, John’s manner would have told me who it was. A deadly paleness overspread his face — its quietness was gone — every feature trembled. It almost broke my heart to see how deeply this love had struck its roots down to the very core of his; twisting them with every fibre of his being. A love which, though it had sprung up so early, and come to maturity so fast, might yet be the curse of his whole existence. Save that no love conceived virtuously, for a good woman, be it ever so hopeless, can be rightly considered as a curse.
“Shall we go away?” I whispered —“a long walk — to the other side of the Flat? She will have left Rose Cottage soon.”
“When?”
“Before noon, I heard. Come, David.”
He suffered me to put my arm in his, and draw him away for a step or two, then turned.
“I can’t, Phineas, I can’t! I MUST look at her again — only for one minute — one little minute.”
But he stayed — we were standing where she could not see us — till she had slowly left the grave. We heard the click of the churchyard gate: where she went afterward we could not discern.
John moved away. I asked him if we should take our walk now? But he did not seem to hear me; so I let him follow his own way — perhaps it might be for good — who could tell?
He descended from the Flat, and came quickly round the corner of the cottage. Miss March stood there, trying to find one fresh rose among the fast-withering clusters about what had been our parlour window and now was hers.
She saw us, acknowledged us, but hurriedly, and not without some momentary signs of agitation.
“The roses are all gone,”
