For weeks after then,we went on in our usual way;Ursula March living within a stone's throw of us.She had left her cousin's,and come to reside with Dr.Jessop and his wife.
It was a very hard trial for John.
Neither of us were again invited by Mrs.Jessop.We could not blame her;she held a precious charge,and Norton Bury was a horrible place for gossip.Already tale after tale had gone abroad about Miss March's "ingratitude"to her relations.Already tongue after tongue had repeated,in every possible form of lying,the anecdote of "young Halifax and the 'squire."Had it been "young Halifax and Miss March,"I truly believe John could not have borne it.
As it was,though he saw her constantly,it was always by chance--a momentary glimpse at the window,or a passing acknowledgment in the street.I knew quite well when he had thus met her,whether he mentioned it or not--knew by the wild,troubled look,which did not wear off for hours.
I watched him closely,day by day,in an agony of doubt and pain.
For,though he said nothing,a great change was creeping over "the lad,"as I still fondly called him.His strength,the glory of a young man,was going from him--he was becoming thin,weak,restless-eyed.That healthy energy and gentle composure,which had been so beautiful in him all his life through,were utterly lost.
"What am I to do with thee,David?"said I to him one evening,when he had come in,looking worse than usual--I knew why;for Ursula and her friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight."Thou art very ill,I fear?""Not at all.There is not the least thing the matter with me.Do let me alone."Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken words."It was not THEE that spoke,John,"I said.
"No,you are right,it was not I.It was a sort of devil that lodges here:"he touched his breast."The chamber he lives in is at times a burning hell."He spoke in a low tone of great anguish.What could I answer?
Nothing.
We stood at the window,looking idly out.The chestnut trees in the Abbey-yard were budding green:there came that faint,sweet sound of children at play,which one hears as the days begin to lengthen.
"It's a lovely evening,"he said.
"John!"I looked him in the face.He could not palm off that kind deceit upon me."You have heard something about her?""I have,"he groaned."She is leaving Norton Bury.""Thank God!"I muttered.
John turned fiercely upon me--but only for a moment."Perhaps I too ought to say,'Thank God.'This could not have lasted long,or it would have made me--what I pray His mercy to save me from,or to let me die.Oh,lad,if I could only die."He bent down over the window-sill,crushing his forehead on his hands.
"John,"I said,in this depth of despair snatching at an equally desperate hope,"what if,instead of keeping this silence,you were to go to her and tell her all?""I have thought of that:a noble thought,worthy of a poor 'prentice lad!Why,two several evenings I have been insane enough to walk to Dr.Jessop's door,which I have never entered,and--mark you well!they have never asked me to enter since that night.But each time ere I knocked my senses came back,and I went home--luckily having made myself neither a fool nor a knave."There was no answer to this either.Alas!I knew as well as he did,that in the eye of the world's common sense,for a young man not twenty-one,a tradesman's apprentice,to ask the hand of a young gentlewoman,uncertain if she loved him,was most utter folly.Also,for a penniless youth to sue a lady with a fortune,even though it was (the Brithwoods took care to publish the fact)smaller than was at first supposed--would,in the eye of the world's honour,be not very much unlike knavery.There was no help--none!
"David,"I groaned,"I would you had never seen her.""Hush!--not a word like that.If you heard all I hear of her--daily--hourly--her unselfishness,her energy,her generous,warm heart!It is blessedness even to have known her.She is an angel--no,better than that,a woman!I did not want her for a saint in a shrine--Iwanted her as a help-meet,to walk with me in my daily life,to comfort me,strengthen me,make me pure and good.I could be a good man if I had her for my wife.Now--"He rose,and walked rapidly up and down.His looks were becoming altogether wild.
"Come,Phineas,suppose we go to meet her up the road--as I meet her almost every day.Sometimes she merely bends and smiles,sometimes she holds out her little hand,and 'hopes I am quite well!'And then they pass on,and I stand gaping and staring after them like an idiot.There--look--there they are now."Ay!walking leisurely along the other side of the road--talking and smiling to one another,in their own merry,familiar way,were Mrs.
Jessop and Miss March.
They were not thinking of us,not the least.Only just ere they passed our house Ursula turned slightly round,and looked behind;a quiet,maidenly look,with the smile still lingering on her mouth.
She saw nothing,and no one;for John had pulled me from the window,and placed himself out of sight.So,turning back again,she went on her way.They both disappeared.
"Now,Phineas,it is all ended."
"What do you mean?"
"I have looked on her for the last time."
"Nay--she is not going yet."
"But I am--fleeing from the devil and his angels.Hurrah,Phineas,lad!We'll have a merry night.To-morrow I am away to Bristol,to set sail for America."He wrung my hands with a long,loud,half-mad laugh;and then dropped heavily on a chair.