John and I,in our walk,stood a moment by the low churchyard wall,and looked over at that plain white stone,where was inscribed her name,"Muriel Joy Halifax,"--a line out of that New Testament miracle-story she delighted in,"WHEREAS I WAS BLIND,NOW I SEE,"--and the date when SHE SAW.Nothing more:it was not needed.
"December 5,1813,"said the father,reading the date."She would have been quite a woman now.How strange!My little Muriel!"And he walked thoughtfully along,almost in the same footprints where he had been used to carry his darling up the hillside to the brow of Enderley Flat.He seemed in fancy to bear her in his arms still--this little one,whom,as I have before said,Heaven in its compensating mercy,year by year,through all changes,had made the one treasure that none could take away--the one child left to be a child for ever.
I think,as we rested in the self-same place,the sunshiny nook where we used to sit with her for hours together,the father's heart took this consolation so closely and surely into itself that memory altogether ceased to be pain.He began talking about the other children--especially Maud--and then of Miss Silver,her governess.
"I wish she were more likeable,John.It vexes me sometimes to see how coldly she returns the mother's kindness.""Poor thing!--she has evidently not been used to kindness.You should have seen how amazed she looked yesterday when we paid her a little more than her salary,and my wife gave her a pretty silk dress to wear to-night.I hardly knew whether she would refuse it,or burst out crying--in girlish fashion.""Is she a girl?Why,the boys say she looks thirty at least.Guy and Walter laugh amazingly at her dowdy dress and her solemn,haughty ways.""That will not do,Phineas.I must speak to them.They ought to make allowance for poor Miss Silver,of whom I think most highly.""I know you do;but do you heartily like her?""For most things,yes.And I sincerely respect her,or,of course,she would not be here.I think people should be as particular over choosing their daughter's governess as their son's wife;and having chosen,should show her almost equal honour.""You'll have your sons choosing themselves wives soon,John.I fancy Guy has a soft place in his heart for that pretty Grace Oldtower."But the father made no answer.He was always tenacious over the slightest approach to such jests as these.And besides,just at this moment Mr.Brown,Lord Luxmore's steward,passed--riding solemnly along.He barely touched his hat to Mr.Halifax.
"Poor Mr.Brown!He has a grudge against me for those Mexican speculations I refused to embark in;he did,and lost everything but what he gets from Lord Luxmore.I do think,Phineas,the country has been running mad this year after speculation.There is sure to come a panic afterwards,and indeed it seems already beginning.""But you are secure?You have not joined in the mania,the crash cannot harm you?Did I not hear you say that you were not afraid of losing a single penny?""Yes--unfortunately,"with a troubled smile.
"John,what do you mean?"
"I mean,that to stand upright while one's neighbours are falling on all sides is a most trying position.Misfortune makes people unjust.
The other day at the sessions I got cold looks enough from my brother magistrates--looks that would have set my blood boiling twenty years ago.And--you saw in the Norton Bury Mercury that article about 'grasping plebeian millionaires'--'wool-spinners,spinning out of their country's vitals.'That's meant for me,Phineas.Don't look incredulous.Yes--for me.""How disgraceful!"
"Perhaps so--but to them more than to me.I feel sorry,because of the harm it may do me--especially among working people,who know nothing but what they hear,and believe everything that is told them.
They see I thrive and others fail--that my mills are the only cloth mills in full work,and I have more hands than I can employ.Every week I am obliged to send new-comers away.Then they raise the old cry--that my machinery has ruined labour.So,you see,for all that Guy says about our prosperity,his father does not sleep exactly upon a bed of roses.""It is wicked--atrocious!"
"Not at all.Only natural--the penalty one has to pay for success.
It will die out most likely;meantime,we will mind it as little as we can.""But are you safe?--your life--"For a sudden fear crossed me--a fear not unwarranted by more than one event of this year--this terrible 1825.
"Safe?--Yes--"and his eyes were lifted,"I believe my life is safe--if I have work to do.Still,for others'sake,I have carried this month past whenever I go to and from the Coltham bank,besides my cash-box--this."He showed me,peering out of his breast-pocket,a small pistol.
I was greatly startled.
"Does your wife know?"
"Of course.But she knows too that nothing but the last extremity would force me to use it:also that my carrying it,and its being noised about that I do so,may prevent my ever having occasion to use it.God grant I never may!Don't let us talk about this."He stopped,gazing with a sad abstraction down the sunshiny valley--most part of which was already his own property.For whatever capital he could spare from his business he never sunk in speculation,but took a patriarchal pleasure in investing it in land,chiefly for the benefit of his mills and those concerned therein.
"My poor people--they might have known me better!But I suppose one never attains one's desire without its being leavened with some bitterness.If there was one point I was anxious over in my youth,it was to keep up through life a name like the Chevalier Bayard--how folk would smile to hear of a tradesman emulating Bayard--'sans peur et sans reproche!'And so things might be--ought to be.So perhaps they shall be yet,in spite of this calumny.""How shall you meet it?What shall you do?"
"Nothing.Live it down."