In the late autumn,John married Ursula March.He was twenty-one,and she eighteen.It was very young--too young,perhaps,prudent folk might say:and yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on unions like this.A right and holy marriage,a true love-marriage,be it early or late,is--must be--sanctified and happy;yet those have the best chance of happiness,who,meeting on the very threshold of life,enter upon its duties together;with free,fresh hearts,easily moulded the one to the other,rich in all the riches of youth,acute to enjoy,brave and hopeful to endure.
Such were these two--God bless them!
They were married quite privately,neither having any near kindred.
Besides,John held strongly the opinion that so solemn a festival as marriage is only desecrated by outward show.And so,one golden autumn morning,Ursula walked quietly up the Abbey aisle in her plain white muslin gown;and John and she plighted their faithful vows,no one being present except the Jessops and I.They then went away for a brief holiday--went away without either pomp or tears,entirely happy--husband and wife together.
When I came home and said what had happened my good father seemed little surprised.He had expressly desired not to be told anything of the wedding till all was over--he hated marriages.
"But since it is done,maybe 'tis as well,"said he,grimly."She seems a kindly young thing;wise,even--for a woman.""And pleasant too,father?"
"Ay,but favour is deceitful,and beauty vain.So the lad's gone;"and he looked round,as if missing John,who had lived in our house ever since his illness."I thought as much,when he bade me goodnight,and asked my leave to take a journey.So he's married and gone!Come,Phineas,sit thee down by thy old father;I am glad thee wilt always remain a bachelor."We settled ourselves,my father and I;and while the old man smoked his meditative pipe I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two lads had read by the fire-side;the summer days when we had lounged on the garden wall.He was a married man now,the head of a household;others had a right--the first,best,holiest right--to the love that used to be all mine;and though it was a marriage entirely happy and hopeful,though all that day and every day I rejoiced both with and for my brother,still it was rather sad to miss him from our house,to feel that his boyish days were quite over--that his boyish place would know him no more.
But of course I had fully overcome,or at least suppressed,this feeling when,John having brought his wife home,I went to see them in their own house.
I had seen it once before;it was an old dwelling-house,which my father bought with the flour-mill,situated in the middle of the town,the front windows looking on the street,the desolate garden behind shut in by four brick walls.A most un-bridal-like abode.Ifeared they would find it so,even though John had been busy there the last two months,in early mornings and late evenings,keeping a comical secrecy over the matter as if he were jealous that any one but himself should lend an eye,or put a finger,to the dear task of making ready for his young wife.
They could not be great preparations,I knew,for the third of my father's business promised but a small income.Yet the gloomy outside being once passed,the house looked wonderfully bright and clean;the walls and doors newly-painted and delicately stencilled:--("Master did all that himself,"observed the proud little handmaid,Jenny--Jem Watkins's sweetheart.I had begged the place for her myself of Mistress Ursula.)Though only a few rooms were furnished,and that very simply,almost poorly,all was done with taste and care;the colours well mingled,the wood-work graceful and good.
They were out gardening,John Halifax and his wife.
Ay,his wife;he was a husband now.They looked so young,both of them,he kneeling,planting box-edging,she standing by him with her hand on his shoulder--the hand with the ring on it.He was laughing at something she had said,thy very laugh of old,David!Neither heard me come till I stood close by.
"Phineas,welcome,welcome!"He wrung my hand fervently,many times;so did Ursula,blushing rosy red.They both called me "brother,"and both were as fond and warm as any brother and sister could be.
A few minutes after,Ursula--"Mrs.Halifax,"as I said I ought to call her now--slipped away into the house,and John and I were left together.He glanced after his wife till she was out of sight,played with the spade,threw it down,placed his two hands on my shoulders,and looked hard in my face.He was trembling with deep emotion.
"Art thou happy,David?"
