Part 44 (1/2)
”It's not,” said Hilary, starting up--”it's not their knock. It is--”
She never finished the sentence, for she was sobbing in Robert Lyon's arms.
”What does it all mean?” cried the bewildered Johanna, of whom, I must confess, for once n.o.body took the least notice.
It meant that, by one of these strange accidents, as we call them, which in a moment alter the whole current of things, the senior partner had suddenly died, and his son, not being qualified to take his place in the Liverpool house, had to go out to India instead of Robert Lyon, who would now remain permanently, as the third senior partner, in England.
This news had met him at Southampton. He had gone thence direct to Liverpool, arranged affairs so far as was possible, and returned, traveling without an hour's intermission, to tell his own tidings, as was best--or as he thought it was.
Perhaps at the core of his heart lurked the desire to come suddenly back, as, it is said, if the absent or the dead should come, they would find all things changed; the place filled up in home and hearth--no face of welcome--no heart leaping to heart in the ecstasy of reunion.
Well, if Robert Lyon had any misgivings--and being a man, and in love, perhaps he had--they were ended now.
”Is she glad to see me?” was all he could find to say when, Johanna having considerately vanished, he might have talked as much as he pleased.
Hilary's only answer was a little, low laugh of inexpressible content.
He lifted up between his bands the sweet face, neither so young nor so pretty as it had been, but oh! so sweet, with the sweetness that long outlives beauty--a face that a man might look on all his life time and never tire of--so infinitely loving, so infinitely true! And he knew it was his wife's face, to s.h.i.+ne upon him day by day, and year by year, till it faded into old age--beautiful and beloved even then. All the strong nature of the man gave way; he wept almost like a child in his ”little woman's” arms.
Let us leave them there, by that peaceful fireside--these two, who are to sit by one fire-side as long as they live. Of their further fortune we know nothing--nor do they themselves--except the one fact, in itself joy enough for any mortal cup to hold, that it will be shared together. Two at the hearth, two abroad; two to labor, two to rejoice; or, if so it must be, two to weep, and two to comfort one another; the man to be the head of the woman, and the woman the heart of the man. This is the ordination of G.o.d; this is the perfect life; none the less perfect that so many fall short of it.
So let us bid them good-by: Robert Lyon and Hilary Leaf, ”Good-by; G.o.d be with ye!” for we shall see them no more.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Elizabeth stood at the nursery window, pointing out to little Henry how the lilacs and laburnums were coming into flower in the square below, and speculating with him whether the tribe of sparrows which they had fed all the winter from the mignonette boxes on the window sill would be building nests in the tall trees of Russell Square; for she wished, with her great aversion to London, to make her nursling as far as possible ”a country child.”
Master Henry Leaf Ascott was by no means little now. He would run about on his tottering fat legs, and he could say, ”Mammy Lizzie,”
also, ”Pa-pa,” as had been carefully taught him by his conscientious nurse. At which papa had been at first excessively surprised, then gratified, and had at last taken kindly to the appellation as a matter of course.
It inaugurated a new era in Peter Ascott's life. At first twice a week, and then every day, he sent up for ”Master Ascott” to keep him company at dessert; he then changed his dinner hour from half past six to five, because Elizabeth, with her stern sacrifice of every thing to the child's good, had suggested to him, humbly but firmly, that late hours kept little Henry too long out of his bed. He gave up his bottle of port and his after-dinner sleep, and took to making water-lilies and caterpillars out of oranges and boats out of walnut sh.e.l.ls, for his boy's special edification. Sometimes when, at half past six, Elizabeth, punctual as clock-work, knocked at the dining room door, she heard father and son laughing together in a most jovial manner, though the decanters were in their places and the wine gla.s.ses untouched.
And even after the child disappeared, the butler declared that master usually took quietly to his newspaper, or rang for his tea, or perhaps dozed harmlessly in his chair till bedtime.
I do not allege that Peter Ascott was miraculously changed; people do not change, especially at his age; externally he was still the same pompous, overbearing, coa.r.s.e man, with whom, no doubt, his son would have a tolerably sore bargain in years to come. But still the child had touched a soft corner in his heart, the one soft corner which in his youth had yielded to the beauty of Miss Selina Leaf; and the old fellow was a better fellow than he had once been. Probably, with care, he might be for the rest of his life at least manageable.
Elizabeth hoped so for his boy's sake, and little as she liked him, she tried to conquer her antipathy as much as she could. She always ways took care to treat him with extreme respect, and to bring up little Henry to do the same. And, as often happens, Mr. Ascott began gradually to comport himself in a manner deserving of respect. He ceased his oaths and his coa.r.s.e language; seldom flew into a pa.s.sion; and last, not least, the butler avouched that master hardly ever went to bed ”muzzy” now. Toward all his domestics, and especially his son's nurse, he behaved himself more like a master and less like a tyrant; so that the establishment at Russell Square went on in a way more peaceful than had ever been known before.
There was no talk of his giving it a new mistress; he seemed to have had enough of matrimony. Of his late wife he never spoke; whether he loved her or not, whether he had regretted her or not, the love and regret were now alike ended.
Poor Selina! It was Elizabeth only, who, with a sacred sense of duty, occasionally talked to little Henry about ”mamma up there”--pointing to the blank bit of blue sky over the trees of Russell Square, and hoped in time to make him understand something about her, and how she had loved him, her ”baby.” This love, the only beautiful emotion her life had known, was the one fragment that remained of it after her death; the one remembrance she left to her child.
Little Henry was not in the least like her, nor yet like his father.
He took after some forgotten type, some past generation of either family, which reappeared in this as something new. To Elizabeth he was a perfect revelation of beauty and infantile fascination. He filled up every corner of her heart. She grew fat and flouris.h.i.+ng, even cheerful; so cheerful that she bore with equanimity the parting with her dear Miss Hilary, who went away in glory and happiness as Mrs. Robert Lyon, to live in Liverpool, and Miss Leaf with her. Thus both Elizabeth's youthful dreams ended in nothing, and it was more than probable that for the future their lives and hers being so widely apart, she would see very little of her beloved mistresses any more. But they had done their work in her and for her; and it had borne fruit a hundred fold, and would still.
”I know you will take care of this child--he is the hope of the family,” said Miss Leaf, when she was giving her last kiss to little Henry. ”I could not bear to leave him, if I were not leaving him with you.”
And Elizabeth had taken her charge proudly in her arms, knowing she was trusted, and in vowing to be worthy of that trust.