"This pear-tree is full of fruit--is it not?How thick they hang and yet it seems but yesterday that Ursula and I were standing here,trying to count the blossoms."He stopped--touching a branch with his hand.His voice sank so Icould hardly hear it.
"Do you know,Phineas,that when this tree is bare--we shall,if with God's blessing all goes well--we shall have--a little child."I wrung his hand in silence.
"You cannot imagine how strange it feels.A child--hers and mine--little feet to go pattering about our house--a little voice to say--Think,that by Christmas-time I shall be a FATHER."He sat down on the garden-bench,and did not speak for a long time.
"I wonder,"he said at last,"if,when I was born,MY father was as young as I am:whether he felt as I do now.You cannot think what an awful joy it is to be looking forward to a child;a little soul of God's giving,to be made fit for His eternity.How shall we do it!we that are both so ignorant,so young--she will be only just nineteen when,please God,her baby is born.Sometimes,of an evening,we sit for hours on this bench,she and I,talking of what we ought to do,and how we ought to rear the little thing,until we fall into silence,awed at the blessing that is coming to us.""God will help you both,and make you wise."
"We trust He will;and then we are not afraid."A little while longer I sat by John's side,catching the dim outline of his face,half uplifted,looking towards those myriad worlds,which we are taught to believe,and do believe,are not more precious in the Almighty sight than one living human soul.
But he said no more of the hope that was coming,or of the thoughts which,in the holy hush of that summer night,had risen out of the deep of his heart.And though after this time they never again formed themselves into words,yet he knew well that not a hope,or joy,or fear of his,whether understood or not,could be unshared by me.
In the winter,when the first snow lay on the ground,the little one came.
It was a girl--I think they had wished for a son;but they forgot all about it when the tiny maiden appeared.She was a pretty baby--at least,all the women-kind said so,from Mrs.Jessop down to Jael,who left our poor house to its own devices,and trod stately in Mrs.
Halifax's,exhibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies with the infinitesimal human morsel inside them,which she vehemently declared was the very image of its father.
For that young father--
But I--what can _I_say?How should _I_tell of the joy of a man over his first-born?
I did not see John till a day afterwards--when he came into our house,calm,happy,smiling.But Jael told me,that when she first placed his baby in his arms he had wept like a child.
The little maiden grew with the snowdrops.Winter might have dropped her out of his very lap,so exceedingly fair,pale,and pure-looking was she.I had never seen,or at least never noticed,any young baby before;but she crept into my heart before I was aware.I seem to have a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy,from the time her week-old fingers,with their tiny pink nails--a ludicrous picture of her father's hand in little--made me smile as they closed over mine.
She was named Muriel--after the rather peculiar name of John's mother.Her own mother would have it so;only wishing out of her full heart,happy one!that there should be a slight alteration made in the second name.Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy--Muriel Joy Halifax.
That name--beautiful,sacred,and never-to-be-forgotten among us--Iwrite it now with tears.
In December,1802,she was born--our Muriel.And on February 9th--alas!I have need to remember the date!--she formally received her name.We all dined at John's house--Dr.and Mrs.Jessop,my father and I.
It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but his own for twenty years.We had not expected him,since,when asked and entreated,he only shook his head;but just when we were all sitting down to the table,Ursula at the foot,her cheeks flushed,and her lips dimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was so nice and neat,she startled us by a little cry of pleasure.And there,in the doorway,stood my father!
His broad figure,but slightly bent even now,his smooth-shaven face,withered,but of a pale brown still,with the hard lines softening down,and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be;dressed carefully in his First-day clothes,the stainless white kerchief supporting his large chin,his Quaker's hat in one hand,his stick in the other,looking in at us,a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his mouth--thus he stood--thus I see thee,O my dear old father!
The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough.
He only said,"I thank thee,John,""I thank thee,Ursula;"and took his place beside the latter,giving no reason why he had changed his mind and come.Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those who,their guests knew,could not honestly afford luxuries;though there were no ornaments,save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and white Christmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a nobler feast.
Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire,or watched outside the window the thickly falling snow.
"It has not snowed these two months,"said John;"never since the day our little girl was born."And at that moment,as if she heard herself mentioned,and was indignant at our having forgotten her so long,the little maid up-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry,which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household.
My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to see John's daughter.We knew he did not like babies.Again the little helpless wail;Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expression,then began to say something about going back to the tan-yard.
