John Halifax, Gentleman Part 29

"Probably not."

I am afraid John was disappointed at my "probably." I am afraid that when he stood at our window, contemplating the little group which filled up our wicket-gate, he missed some one out of the three--which, I suspect, was neither Mrs. Tod nor yet the baby.

"I like her face very much better now, David. Do you?"

It was a very curious fact, which I never noticed till afterwards, that though there had been some lapse of time before I hazarded this remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun to that indefinite personal p.r.o.noun.

"A good--nay, a n.o.ble face; though still, with those irregular features, I can't--really I can't--call her beautiful."

"Nor I."

"She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, for the first time in our lives, we may say we have seen a LADY."

"Most certainly a lady."

"Nay, I only meant that, girl as she is, she is evidently accustomed to what is called 'society.' Which makes it the more likely that her father is the Mr. March who was cousin to the Brithwoods. An odd coincidence."

"A very odd coincidence."

After which brief reply John relapsed into taciturnity.

More than once that morning we recurred to the subject of our neighbours--that is, I did--but John was rather saturnine and uncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Tod was removing the breakfast, I ventured to ask her a harmless question or two--who Mr. March was, and where he came from?--I was abruptly reproved, the very minute our good landlady had shut the door, for my tendency to "gossip."

At which I only laughed, and reminded him that he had ingeniously scolded me after, not before, I had gained the desired information--namely, that Mr. March was a gentleman of independent property--that he had no friends hereabouts, and that he usually lived in Wales.

"He cannot be our Mr. March, then."

"No," said John, with an air of great relief.

I was amused to see how seriously he took such a trifle; ay, many a time that day I laughed at him for evincing such great sympathy over our neighbours, and especially--which was plain enough to see, though he doubtless believed he entirely disguised it--for that interest which a young man of twenty would naturally take in a very charming and personable young woman. Ay, naturally, as I said to myself, for I admired her too, extremely.

It seems strange now to call to mind that morning, and our light-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that Destiny should often come thus, creeping like a child to our very doors; we hardly notice it, or send it away with a laugh; it comes so naturally, so simply, so accidentally, as it were, that we recognise it not. We cannot believe that the baby intruder is in reality the king of our fortunes; the ruler of our lives. But so it is continually; and since IT IS, it must be right.

We finished the morning by reading Shakspeare--Romeo and Juliet--at which the old folio seemed naturally to open. There is a time--a sweet time, too, though it does not last--when to every young mind the play of plays, the poem of poems, is Romeo and Juliet. We were at that phase now.

John read it all through to me--not for the first time either; and then, thinking I had fallen asleep, he sat with the book on his knee, gazing out of the open window.

It was a warm summer day--breathless, soundless--a day for quietness and dreams. Sometimes a bee came buzzing among the roses, in and away again, like a happy thought. Nothing else was stirring; not a single bird was to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a coo of the wood-pigeons among the beech-trees--a low, tender voice--reminding one of a mother's crooning over a cradled child; or of two true lovers standing clasped heart to heart, in the first embrace, which finds not, and needs not, a single word.

John sat listening. What was he thinking about? Why that strange quiver about his mouth?--why that wonderful new glow, that infinite depth of softness in his eyes?

I closed mine. He never knew I saw him. He thought I slept placidly through that half-hour; which seemed to him as brief as a minute. To me it was long--ah, so long! as I lay pondering with an intensity that was actual pain, on what must come some time, and, for all I knew, might even now be coming.

CHAPTER XI

A week slipped by. We had grown familiar with Enderley Hill--at least I had. As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, being absent five days out of the seven; riding away when the morning sun had slid down to the boles of my four poplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out over their heads at night. It was hard for him; but he bore the disappointment well.

With me one day went by just like another. In the mornings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, and there lay a little under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny shelter, watching the ants running in and out of the numerous ant-hills there; or else I turned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywhere hereabouts; for the common, so far from being barren, was a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare flowers.

Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty and variety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate for a full hour.

My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the Enderley villagers, or the Tod children, who were a grade above these, and decidedly "respectable," would appear and have a game of play at the foot of the slope, their laughter rising up to where I lay. Or some old woman would come with her pails to the spring below, a curious and very old stone well, to which the cattle from the common often rushed down past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their mouths making glancing circles in the water as they drank.

Being out of doors almost all day, I saw very little of the inhabitants of our cottage. Once or twice a lady and gentleman pa.s.sed, creeping at the foot of the slope so slowly, that I felt sure it must be Mr. March and his daughter. He was tall, with grey hair; I was not near enough to distinguish his features. She walked on the further side, supporting him with her arm. Her comfortable morning hood was put off, and she had on her head that ugly, stiff thing which ladies had lately taken to wearing, and which, Jael said, was called a "bonnet."

Except on these two occasions, I had no opportunity of making any observations on the manners and customs of our neighbours. Occasionally Mrs. Tod mentioned them in her social chatter, while laying the cloth; but it was always in the most cursory and trivial way, such as "Miss March having begged that the children might be kept quiet--Mrs. Tod hoped their noise didn't disturb ME? but Mr. March was such a very fidgety gentleman--so particular in his dress, too--Why, Miss March had to iron his cravats with her own hands. Besides, if there was a pin awry in her dress he did make such a fuss--and, really, such an active, busy young lady couldn't look always as if she came trim out of a band-box. Mr. March wanted so much waiting on, he seemed to fancy he still had his big house in Wales, and his seven servants."

Mrs. Tod conversed as if she took it for granted I was fully acquainted with all the prior history of her inmates, or any others that she mentioned--a habit peculiar to Enderley folk with strangers. It was generally rather convenient, and it saved much listening; but in this case, I would rather have had it broken through. Sometimes I felt strongly inclined to question her; but on consulting John, he gave his veto so decidedly against seeking out people's private affairs in such an illicit manner that I felt quite guilty, and began to doubt whether my sickly, useless, dreaming life, was not inclining me to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are accustomed--I know not why--to insult the other s.e.x by describing as "womanish."

As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so that we could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbours, save upon the neutral ground of Mrs. Tod's kitchen; where, however I might have felt inclined to venture, John's prohibition stopped me entirely.

Thus--save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on his mare's back, and led me far away, over common, and valley, and hill, for miles, only coming back at twilight--save those two blithe days, I spent the week in dignified solitude, and was very thankful for Sunday.

We determined to make it a long, lovely, country Sunday; so we began it at six a.m. John took me a new walk across the common, where--he said, in answer to my question--we were quite certain NOT to meet Miss March.

"Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calculate her paths with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know you have been out most mornings?"

"Morning is the only time I have for walking, you know, Phineas."

"Ah, true! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I almost wish we could go home."

"Don't think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home."

I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest; that whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was the one uppermost in his mind.

"Well, we'll stay--that is, if you are happy, John."

"Thoroughly happy; I like the das.h.i.+ng rides to Norton Bury. Above all, I like coming back. The minute I begin to climb Enderley Hill, the tan-yard, and all belonging to it, drops off like an incubus, and I wake into free, beautiful life. Now, Phineas, confess; is not this common a lovely place, especially of a morning?"

"Ay," said I, smiling at his energy. "But you did not tell me whether you had met Miss March again."

"She has never once seen me."

"But you have seen her? Answer honestly."

"Why should I not?--Yes, I have seen her--once or twice or so--but never in any way that could annoy her."

"That explains why you have become so well acquainted with the direction of her walks?"

He coloured deeply. "I hope, Phineas, you do not think that--that in any way I should intrude on or offend a lady?"

"Nay, don't take it so seriously--indeed, I meant nothing of the kind.

It would be quite natural if a young man like you did use some pains to look at such a 'cunning piece of Nature's handiwork' as that apple-cheeked girl of seventeen."

"Russet apple. She is brown, you know--a real 'nut-brown mayde,'" said John, recovering his gay humour. "Certainly, I like to look at her. I have seen many a face that was more good-looking--never one that looked half so good."

"Sententious that;" yet I could not smile--he spoke with such earnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would have walked half-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why not he?