It was the year 1812.I had lived for ten years as a brother in my adopted brother's house,whither he had brought me on the day of my father's funeral;entreating that I should never leave it again.
For,as was shortly afterwards made clear,fate--say Providence--was now inevitably releasing him from a bond,from which,so long as my poor father lived,John would never have released himself.It was discovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merely nominal--that of necessity,for the support of our two families,the tan-yard must be sold,and the business confined entirely to the flour-mill.
At this crisis,as if the change of all things broke her stout old heart,which never could bend to any new ways--Jael died.We laid her at my father's and mother's feet--poor old Jael!and that grave-yard in St.Mary's Lane now covered over all who loved me,all who were of my youth day--my very own.
So thought I--or might have thought--but that John and Ursula then demanded with one voice,"Brother,come home."I resisted long:for it is one of my decided opinions that married people ought to have no one,be the tie ever so close and dear,living permanently with them,to break the sacred duality--no,let me say the unity of their home.
I wished to try and work for my living,if that were possible--if not,that out of the wreck of my father's trade might be found enough to keep me,in some poor way.But John Halifax would not hear of that.And Ursula--she was sitting sewing,while the little one lay on her lap,cooing softly with shut eyes--Ursula took my hand to play with Muriel's.The baby fingers closed over mine--"See there,Phineas;SHE wants you too."So I stayed.
Perhaps it was on this account that better than all his other children,better than anything on earth except himself,I loved John's eldest daughter,little blind Muriel.
He had several children now.The dark old house,and the square town garden,were alive with their voices from morning till night.First,and loudest always,was Guy--born the year after Muriel.He was very like his mother,and her darling.After him came two more,Edwin and Walter.But Muriel still remained as "sister"--the only sister either given or desired.
If I could find a name to describe that child it would be not the one her happy mother gave her at her birth,but one more sacred,more tender.She was better than Joy--she was an embodied Peace.
Her motions were slow and tranquil--her voice soft--every expression of her little face extraordinarily serene.Whether creeping about the house,with a foot-fall silent as snow,or sitting among us,either knitting busily at her father's knee,or listening to his talk and the children's play,everywhere and always Muriel was the same.
No one ever saw her angry,restless,or sad.The soft dark calm in which she lived seemed never broken by the troubles of this our troublous world.
She was,as I have said,from her very babyhood a living peace.And such she was to us all,during those ten struggling years,when our household had much to contend with,much to endure.If at night her father came home jaded and worn,sickened to the soul by the hard battle he had to fight daily,hourly,with the outside world,Muriel would come softly and creep into his bosom,and he was comforted.
If,busying herself about,doing faithfully her portion too,that the husband when he came in of evenings might find all cheerful and never know how heavy had been the household cares during the day--if,at times,Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone,at sight of Muriel it softened at once.No one could speak any but soft and sweet words when the blind child was by.
Yet,I think either parent would have looked amazed had any one pitied them for having a blind child.The loss--a loss only to them,and not to her,the darling!--became familiar,and ceased to wound;the blessedness was ever new."Ay,and she shall be blessed,"had said my dear father.So she was.From her,or for her,her parents never had to endure a single pain.Even the sicknesses of infancy and childhood,of which the three others had their natural share,always passed her by,as if in pity.Nothing ever ailed Muriel.
The spring of 1812was an era long remembered in our family.Scarlet fever went through the house--safely,but leaving much care behind.
When at last they all came round,and we were able to gather our pale little flock to a garden feast,under the big old pear-tree,it was with the trembling thankfulness of those who have gone through great perils,hardly dared to be recognized as such till they were over.
"Ay,thank God it is over!"said John,as he put his arm round his wife,and looked in her worn face,where still her own smile lingered--her bright,brave smile,that nothing could ever drive away."And now we must try and make a little holiday for you.""Nonsense!I am as well as possible.Did not Dr.Jessop tell me,this morning,I was looking younger than ever?I--a mother of a family,thirty years old?Pray,Uncle Phineas,do I look my age?"I could not say she did not--especially now.But she wore it so gracefully,so carelessly,that I saw--ay,and truly her husband saw--a sacred beauty about her jaded cheek,more lovely and lovable than all the bloom of her youth.Happy woman!who was not afraid of growing old.
"Love"--John usually called her "Love"--putting it at the beginning of a sentence,as if it had been her natural Christian name--which,as in all infant households,had been gradually dropped or merged into the universal title of "Mother."My name for her was always emphatically "The Mother"--the truest type of motherhood I ever knew.
