Chapter 114
He said this gently and quietly--more quietly than I am writing the words down now; and I listened--I listened.
"Phineas!"
I felt the pressure of his warm hand on my shoulder--the hand which had led me like a brother's all my life.
"Phineas, we have known one another these forty years. Is our love, our faith, so small, that either of us, for himself or his brother, need be afraid of death?--"
"Phineas!"--and the second time he spoke there was some faint reproach in the tone; "no one knows this but you. I see I was right to hesitate; I almost wish I had not told you at all."
Then I rose.
At my urgent request, he explained to me fully and clearly the whole truth. It was, as most truths are, less terrible when wholly known. It had involved little suffering as yet, the paroxysms being few and rare.
They had always occurred when he was alone, or when feeling them coming on he could go away and bear them in solitude.
"I have always been able to do so until to-night. She has not the least idea--my wife, I mean."
His voice failed.
"It has been terrible to me at times, the thought of my wife. Perhaps I ought to have told her. Often I resolved I would, and then changed my mind. Latterly, since she has been ill, I have believed, almost hoped, that she would not need to be told at all."
"Would you rather, then, that she--"
John calmly took up the word I shrank from uttering. "Yes; I would rather of the two that she went away first. She would suffer less, and it would be such a short parting."
He spoke as one would speak of a new abode, an impending journey. To him the great change, the last terror of humanity, was a thought--solemn indeed, but long familiar and altogether without fear.
And, as we sat there, something of his spirit pa.s.sed into mine; I felt how narrow is the span between the life mortal and the life immortal--how, in truth, both are one with G.o.d.
"Ay," he said, "that is exactly what I mean. To me there is always something impious in the 'preparing for death' that people talk about; as if we were not continually, whether in the flesh or out of it, living in the Father's presence; as if, come when He will, the Master should not find all of us watching? Do you remember saying so to me, one day?"
Ah, that day!
"Does it pain you, my talking thus? Because if so, we will cease."
"No--go on."
"That is right. I thought, this attack having been somewhat worse than my last, some one ought to be told. It has been a comfort to me to tell you--a great comfort, Phineas. Always remember that."
I have remembered it.
"Now, one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You see, though I may have years of life--I hope I shall--many busy years--I am never sure of a day, and I have to take many precautions. At home I shall be quite safe now." He smiled
He showed me his pocket-book; on a card bearing his name and address was written in his own legible hand, "HOME, AND TELL MY WIFE CAREFULLY."
I returned the book. As I did so, there dropped out a little note--all yellow and faded--his wife's only "love-letter,"--signed, "Yours sincerely, Ursula March."
John picked it up, looked at it, and put it back in its place.
"Poor darling! poor darling!" He sighed, and was silent for a while.
"I am very glad Guy has come home; very glad that my little Maud is so happily settled. Hark! how those children are laughing!"
For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the father's face, the father to whom all the delights of home had been so dear. But it soon vanished.
"How merry they are!--how strangely things have come about for us and ours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at this moment we have not a single care."
I grasped at that, for Dr. K---- had declared that if John had a quiet life--a life without many anxieties--he might, humanly speaking, attain a good old age.
"Ay, your father did. Who knows? we may both be old men yet, Phineas."
And as he rose, he looked strong in body and mind, full of health and cheer--scarcely even on the verge of that old age of which he spoke.
And I was older than he.
"Now, will you come with me to say good-night to the children?"
At first I thought I could not--then, I could. After the rest had merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time in the empty parlour, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to stand when we were boys, talking.
What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every word. And he--I KNOW he remembers it still.
Then we clasped hands.
"Good-night, Phineas."
"Good-night, John."
CHAPTER XL
Friday, the first of August, 1834.
Many may remember that day; what a soft, grey, summer morning it was, and how it broke out into brightness; how everywhere bells were ringing, club fraternities walking with bands and banners, school-children having feasts and work-people holidays; how, in town and country, there was spread abroad a general sense of benevolent rejoicing--because honest old England had lifted up her generous voice, nay, had paid down cheerfully her twenty millions, and in all her colonies the negro was free.
Many may still find, in some forgotten drawer, the medal bought by thousands and tens of thousands, of all cla.s.ses, in copper, silver, or gold--distributed in charity-schools, and given by old people to their grandchildren. I saw Mrs. Halifax tying one with a piece of blue ribbon round little Louise's neck, in remembrance of this day. The pretty medal, with the slave standing upright, stretching out to Heaven free hands, from which the fetters are dropping--as I overheard John say to his wife, he could fancy the freeman Paul would stand in the Roman prison, when he answered to those that loved him, "I HAVE FOUGHT THE GOOD FIGHT. I HAVE FINISHED MY COURSE. I HAVE KEPT THE FAITH."
Now, with my quickened ears, I often heard John talking quietly to his wife on this wise.
He remained by her side the whole forenoon--wheeling her about in her garden-chair; taking her to see her school-children in their glory on our lawn--to hear the shouts rising up from the people at the mill-yard below. For all Enderley, following the master's example, took an interest, hearty even among hearty hard-working England, in the Emanc.i.p.ation of the Slaves.
We had our own young people round us, and the day was a glorious day, they declared one and all.
John was happy too--infinitely happy. After dinner he carried his wife to her chair beside the weeping ash, where she could smell the late hay in the meadow, and hear the ripple of the stream in the beech-wood--faint, for it was almost dried up now, but pleasant still.
Her husband sat on the gra.s.s, making her laugh with his quaint sayings--admiring her in her new bonnet, and in the lovely white shawl--Guy's shawl--which Mr. Guy himself had really no time for admiring. He had gone off to the school tea-drinking, escorting his sister and sister-in-law, and another lady, whose eyes brightened with most "sisterly" joy whenever she glanced at her old playfellow. Guy's "sister" she nevertheless was not, nor was ever likely to be--and I questioned whether, in his secret heart, he had not begun already to feel particularly thankful for that circ.u.mstance.
"Ah, mother," cried the father, smiling, "you'll see how it will end: all our young birds will soon be flown--there will be n.o.body left but you and me."
"Never mind, John;" and stooping over him, she gave him one of her quiet, soft kisses, precious now she was an old woman as they had been in the days of her bloom. "Never mind. Once there were only our two selves--now there will be only our two selves again. We shall be very happy. We only need one another."
"Only one another, my darling."