John Halifax, Gentleman Part 28

It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs clattering up the road: joyfully I ran out.

David was not quite his youthful, gay self that night; not quite, as he expressed it, "the David of the sheep-folds." He was very tired, and had what he called "the tan-yard feeling," the oppression of business cares.

"Times are hard," said he, when we had finally shut out the starlight, and Mrs. Tod had lit candles, bade us good-night in her free, independent way, and "hoped Mr. Halifax had everything he wanted." She always seemed to consider him the head of our little menage.

"The times are very hard," repeated John, thoughtfully. "I don't see how your father can rightly be left with so many anxieties on his shoulders. I must manage to get to Norton Bury at least five days a week. You will have enough of solitude, I fear."

"And you will have little enough of the pleasant country life you planned, and which you seem so to delight in."

"Never mind--perhaps it's good for me. I have a life of hard work before me, and can't afford to get used to too much pleasure. But we'll make the most of every bit of time we have. How have you felt to-day? Strong?"

"Very strong. Now what would you like us to do tomorrow?"

"I want to show you the common in early morning--the view there is so lovely."

"Of Nature, or human nature?"

He half smiled, though only at my mischievousness. I could see it did not affect him in the least. "Nay, I know what you mean; but I had forgotten her, or, if not absolutely forgotten, she was not in my mind just then. We will go another way, as indeed I had intended: it might annoy the young lady, our meeting her again."

His grave, easy manner of treating and dismissing the subject was a tacit reproach to me. I let the matter drop; we had much more serious topics afloat than gossip about our neighbours.

At seven next morning we were out on the Flat.

"I'm not going to let you stand here in the dews, Phineas. Come a little farther on, to my terrace, as I call it. There's a panorama!"

It was indeed. All around the high flat a valley lay, like a moat, or as if some broad river had been dried up in its course, and, century after century, gradually converted into meadow, woodland, and town.

For a little white town sat demurely at the bottom of the hollow, and a score or two of white cottages scattered themselves from this small nucleus of civilisation over the opposite bank of this imaginary river, which was now a lovely hill-side. Gorges, purple with shadow, yellow corn-fields, and dark clumps of woodland dressed this broad hill-side in many colours; its highest point, Nunnely Hill, forming the horizon where last night I had seen the sun go down, and which now was tinted with the tenderest western morning grey.

"Do you like this, Phineas? I do, very much. A dear, smiling, English valley, holding many a little nest of an English home. Fancy being patriarch over such a region, having the whole valley in one's hand, to do good to, or ill. You can't think what primitive people they are hereabouts--descendants from an old colony of Flemish cloth-weavers: they keep to the trade. Down in the valley--if one could see through the beech wood--is the grand support of the neighbourhood, a large cloth mill!"

"That's quite in your line, John;" and I saw his face brighten up as it had done when, as a boy, he had talked to me about his machinery. "What has become of that wonderful little loom you made?"

"Oh! I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth-mill!--I have been all over it. If the owner would put aside his old Flemish stolidity!

I do believe he and his ancestors have gone on in the same way, and with almost the same machinery, ever since Queen Elizabeth's time.

Now, just one or two of our modern improvements, such as--but I forget, you never could understand mechanics."

"You can, though. Explain clearly, and I'll try my best."

He did so, and so did I. I think he even managed to knock something of the matter into my stupid head, where it remained--for ten minutes!

Much longer remained the impression of his energetic talk--his clear-headed way of putting before another what he understood so well himself. I marvelled how he had gained all his information.

"Oh! it's easy enough, when one has a natural propensity for catching hold of facts; and then, you know, I always had a weakness for machinery; I could stand for an hour watching a mill at work, especially if it's worked by a great water-wheel."

"Would you like to be a mill-owner?"

"Shouldn't I!"--with a suns.h.i.+ny flash, which soon clouded over.

"However, 'tis idle talking; one cannot choose one's calling--at least, very few can. After all, it isn't the trade that signifies--it's the man. I'm a tanner, and a capital tanner I intend to be. By-the-by, I wonder if Mrs. Tod, who talks so much about 'gentlefolk,' knows that latter fact about you and me?"

"I think not; I hope not. Oh, David! this one month at least let us get rid of the tan-yard."

For I hated it more than ever now, in our quiet, free, Arcadian life; the very thought of it was insupportable, not only for myself, but for John.

He gently blamed me, yet, I think, he involuntarily felt much as I did, if he would have allowed himself so to feel.

"Who would guess now that I who stand here, delighting myself in this fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, all thick with flowers--what a pretty blue cl.u.s.ter that is at your foot, Phineas!--who would guess that all yesterday I had been stirring up tan-pits, handling raw hides? Faugh! I wonder the little harebells don't sicken in these, my hands--such ugly hands, too!"

"Nonsense, John! they're not so bad, indeed; and if they were, what does it matter?"

"You are right; lad; it does not matter. They have done me good service, and will yet, though they were not made for carrying nosegays."

"There is somebody besides yourself plucking posies on the Flat. See, how large the figure looks against the sky. It might be your t.i.taness, John--

'Like Proserpina gathering flowers, Herself the fairest--'

--no, not fairest; for I declare she looks very like your friend Grey-gown--I beg her pardon--Miss March."

"It is she," said John, so indifferently that I suspect that fact had presented itself to him for at least two minutes before I found it out.

"There's certainly a fatality about your meeting her."

"Not the least. She has this morning taken her walk in a different direction, as I did; and we both chanced again to hit upon the same,"

answered John, gravely and explanatorily. "Come away down the slope.

We must not intrude upon a lady's enjoyments."

He carried me off, much against my will, for I had a great wish to see again that fresh young face, so earnest, cheerful, and good. Also, as I laboured in vain to convince my companion, the said face indicated an independent dignity which would doubtless make its owner perfectly indifferent whether her solitary walk were crossed by two gentlemen or two hundred.

John agreed to this; nevertheless, he was inexorable. And, since he was "a man of the world"--having, in his journeys up and down the country for my father, occasionally fallen into "polite" society--I yielded the point to him and submitted to his larger experience of good breeding.

However, Fate, kinder than he, took the knot of etiquette into her own hands, and broke it.

Close to the cottage door, our two paths converging, and probably our breakfast-hours likewise, brought us suddenly face to face with Miss March.

She saw us, and we had a distinct sight of her.

I was right: we and our contiguity were not of the smallest importance to Miss March. Her fresh morning roses did not deepen, nor her eyes droop, as she looked for a moment at us both--a quiet, maidenly look of mere observation. Of course no recognition pa.s.sed; but there was a merry dimple beside her mouth, as if she quite well knew who we were, and owned to a little harmless feminine curiosity in observing us.

She had to pa.s.s our door, where stood Mrs. Tod and the baby. It stretched out its little arms to come to her, with that pretty, babyish gesture which I suppose no woman can resist. Miss March could not.

She stopped, and began tossing up the child.

Truly, they made a pleasant picture, the two--she with her hooded cloak dropping off, showing her graceful shape, and her dark-brown hair, all gathered up in a ma.s.s of curls at the top of her head, as the fas.h.i.+on then was. As she stood, with her eyes sparkling, and the young blood flus.h.i.+ng through her clear brunette cheeks, I was not sure whether I had not judged too hastily in calling her "no beauty."

Probably, by his look, John thought the same.

She stood right before our wicket-gate; but she had evidently quite forgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. Tod's bonny boy, until the landlady made some remark about "letting the gentlemen by." Then, with a slight start, drawing her hood back over her head, the young lady stepped aside.

In pa.s.sing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural enough. For me, I could hardly take mine from her, such a pleasant creature was she to behold. She half smiled--he bowed, which she returned, courteously, and we both went in-doors. I told him this was a good beginning of acquaintance with our neighbour.

"Not at all, no acquaintance; a mere civility between two people living under the same roof. It will never be more."