Lord Ravenel knew--as all Paris did by this time--the whole story.
Though,as he truly said,he had not seen Guy.The lad was hurried off immediately,for fear of justice:but he had written from shipboard to Lord Ravenel,begging him himself to take the letter and break the news to us at Beechwood.
The man he had struck was not one of Lord Luxmore's set--though it was through some of his "noble"friends Guy had fallen into his company.He was an Englishman,lately succeeded to a baronetcy and estate;his name--how we started to hear it,though by Lord Ravenel and by us,for his sake,it was both pronounced and listened to,as if none of us had ever heard it before--Sir Gerard Vermilye.
As soon as Ursula recovered,Mr.Halifax and Lord Ravenel went to Paris together.This was necessary,not only to meet justice,but to track the boy--to whose destination we had no clue but the wide world,America.Guy's mother hurried them away--his mother,who rose from her bed,and moved about the house like a ghost--up-stairs and down-stairs--everywhere--excepting in that room,which was now once more locked,and the outer blind drawn down,as if Death himself had taken possession there.
Alas!we learned now that there may be sorrows bitterer even than death.
Mr.Halifax went away.Then followed a long season of torpid gloom--days or weeks,I hardly remember--during which we,living shut up at Beechwood,knew that our name--John's stainless,honourable name--was in everybody's mouth--parrotted abroad in every society--canvassed in every newspaper.We tried,Walter and I,to stop them at first,dreading lest the mother might read in some foul print or other scurrilous tales about her boy;or,as long remained doubtful,learn that he was proclaimed through France and England as a homicide--an assassin.But concealments were idle--she would read everything--hear everything--meet everything--even those neighbours who out of curiosity or sympathy called at Beechwood.Not many times,though;they said they could not understand Mrs.Halifax.So,after a while,they all left her alone,except good little Grace Oldtower.
"Come often,"I heard her say to this girl,whom she was fond of:they had sat talking a whole morning--idly and pensively;of little things around them,never once referring to things outside."Come often,though the house is dull.Does it not feel strange,with Mr.
Halifax away?"
Ay,this was the change--stranger at first than what had befallen Guy--for that long seemed a thing we could not realise;like a story told of some other family than ours.The present tangible blank was the house with its head and master away.
Curiously enough,but from his domestic habits easily accountable,he had scarcely ever been more than a few days absent from home before.
We missed him continually;in his place at the head of the table;in his chair by the fire;his quick ring at the hall bell,when he came up from the mills--his step--his voice--his laugh.The life and soul of the house seemed to have gone out of it from the hour the father went away.
I think in the wonderful workings of things--as we know all things do work together for good--this fact was good for Ursula.It taught her that,in losing Guy,she had not lost all her blessings.It showed her what in the passion of her mother-love she might have been tempted to forget--many mothers do--that beyond all maternal duty,is the duty that a woman owes to her husband:beyond all loves,is the love that was hers before any of them were born.
So,gradually,as every day John's letters came,--and she used to watch for them and seize them as if they had been love-letters;as every day she seemed to miss him more,and count more upon his return;referring all decisions,and all little pleasures planned for her,to the time "when your father comes home;"--hope and comfort began to dawn in the heart of the mourning mother.
And when at last John fixed the day of his coming back,I saw Ursula tying up the small bundle of his letters--his letters,of which in all her happy life she had had so few--his tender,comforting,comfortable letters.
"I hope I shall never need to have any more,"she said,half-smiling--the faint smile which began to dawn in her poor face,as if she must accustom it to look bright again in time for her husband's coming.
And when the day arrived,she put all the house in trim order,dressed herself in her prettiest gown,sat patient while Maud brushed and curled her hair--how white it had turned of late!--and then waited,with a flush on her cheek--like that of a young girl waiting for her lover--for the sound of carriage-wheels.
All that had to be told about Guy--and it was better news than any one of us had hoped for--John had already told in his letters.When he came back,therefore,he was burthened with no trouble undisclosed--greeted with no anguish of fear or bitter remembrance.
As he sprang out of the post-chaise,it was to find his wife standing at the door,and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome.No blessing on earth could be like the blessing of the father's return.
John looked pale,but not paler than might have been expected.
Grave,too--but it was a soft seriousness altogether free from the restlessness of keen anxiety.The first shock of this heavy misfortune was over.He had paid all his son's debts;he had,as far as was possible,saved his good name;he had made a safe home for the lad,and heard of his safely reaching it,in the New World.Nothing more was left but to cover over the inevitable grief,and hope that time would blot out the intolerable shame.That since Guy's hand was clear of blood--and,since his recovery,Sir Gerard Vermilye had risen into a positive hero of society--men's minds would gradually lose the impression of a deed committed in heat of youth,and repented of with such bitter atonement.