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 passed, 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 sex 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 dashing 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?
"But, John, you never told me that you had seen her again!"
"Because you never asked me."
We were silent. Silent until we had walked along the whole length of a
Roman encampment, the most perfect of the various fosses that seamed
the flat--tokens of many a battle fought on such capital battleground,
and which John had this morning especially brought me to look at.
"Yes," I said at last, putting the ending affirmative to a long train
of thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments; "yes, it
is quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quite
natural, and not unlikely either, if she--"
"Pshaw!" interrupted he. "What nonsense you are talking! Impossible!"
and setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, he kicked it down into
the ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had fallen before it in
ages gone by.
The impetuous gesture--the energetic "impossible," struck me less than
the quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressed
thought--carrying it to a greater length than I myself had ever
contemplated.
"Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of THAT sort ever entered
my head. I only thought you might admire her, and be unsettled thereby
as young men are when they take fancies. That would grieve me very
much, John."
"Don't let it then? Why, I have only seen her five times; I never
spoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall do. Could any
one be in a safer position? Besides," and his tone changed to extreme
gravity, "I have too many worldly cares to think of; I can't afford the
harmless little amusement of falling in love--so be easy, Phineas."
I smiled; and we began a discussion on camps and fosses, vallum and
praetorium; the Danes, Saxons, and Normans; which, doubtless, we
carried on to a most learned length: but at this distance of time, and
indeed the very day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all about
it.
That long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never came out all
day, but the whole earth and sky melted together in a soft, grey haze;
when we lay on the common and heard church-bells ringing, some distant,
some near; and, after all was quiet, talked our own old sabbath talks,
of this world and the world to come; when, towards twilight, we went
down into the beech-wood below the house, and sat idly there among the
pleasant-smelling ferns; when, from the morning to the evening, he
devoted himself altogether to my comfort and amusement--to perfect
which required of him no harder duty than to be near me always;--that
Sunday was the last I ever had David altogether for my own--my very own.
It was natural, it was just, it was right. God forbid that in any way
I should have murmured.
About ten o'clock--just as he was luring me out to see how grand the
common looked under the black night, and we were wondering whether or
no the household were in bed--Mrs. Tod came mysteriously into the
parlour and shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face looked
somewhat troubled.
"Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to 'ee, sir?"
"With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Tod. There's nothing wrong with your
children?"
"No, I thank'ee. You are very kind, sir. No, it be about that poor
Miss March."
I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was leaning on. "I
hope--" he began, and stopped.
"Her father is dreadful bad to-night, and it's a good seven-mile walk
to the doctor's at S----; and Miss March says--that is, she don't, for
I bean't going to tell her a word about it--but I think, Mr. Halifax,
if I might make so bold, it would be a great kindness in a young
gentleman like you to lend Tod your mare to ride over and fetch the
doctor."
"I will, gladly. At once?"
"Tod bean't come in yet."
"He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March so--I mean, do
not tell her, of course. It was very right of you to come to us in
this way, Mrs. Tod. Really, it would be almost a treat to be ill in
your house--you are so kind."
"Thank'ee, Mr. Halifax," said the honest landlady, greatly delighted.
"But a body couldn't help doing anything for Miss March. You would
think so yourself, if you only knew her."
"No doubt," returned John, more politely than warmly, I fancied, as he
closed the door after the retreating figure of Mrs. Tod. But when he
came and sat down again I saw he was rather thoughtful. He turned the
books restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle to
anything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour, and our
pearl of kind-hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; at
last he started up and said,--
"Phineas, I think I'll go myself."
"Where?"
"To fetch Doctor Brown. If Tod is not come in it would be but a common
charity. And I know the way."
"But the dark night?"
"Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a stranger. And
though I have taken good care that the three horses in the tan-yard
shall have the journey, turn and turn about; still it's a good pull
from here to Norton Bury, and the mare's my favourite. I would rather
take her myself."
I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simple
thing; and agreed that it was right and best he should do it.
"Then shall I call Mrs. Tod and inquire? Or perhaps it might make less
fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, Phineas, or
shall I?"
Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what I
called the Debateable Land.
No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening to
the groaning overhead.
"That must be Mr. March, John."
"I hear. Good heavens! how hard for her. And she such a young thing,
and alone," muttered he, as he stood gazing into the dull wood embers
of the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved; but the expression on his
face was one of pure and holy compassion. That at this moment no less
unselfish feeling mingled with it I am sure.
Mrs. Tod appeared at the door leading to the other half of the cottage;
she was apparently speaking to Miss March on the staircase. We heard
again those clear, quick, decided tones, but subdued to a half-whisper.
"No, Mrs. Tod, I am not sorry you did it--on my father's account, 'tis
best. Tell Mr.--the young gentleman--I forget his name--that I am very
much obliged to him."
"I will, Miss March--stay, he is just here.--Bless us! she has shut the
door already.--Won't you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I'll stir up the
fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are always welcome in my kitchen,
young gentlemen." And Mrs. Tod bustled about, well aware what a cosy
and cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings.
But when John explained the reason of our intrusion there was no end to
her pleasure and gratitude. He was the kindest young gentleman that
ever lived.--She would tell Miss March so; as, indeed, she had done
many a time.
"'Miss,' said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I had
told her how you came hunting for lodgings--(she often has a chat with
me quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too proud
to forget that she's a born lady)--'Miss,' said I, 'who Mr. Halifax may
be I don't know, but depend upon it he's a real gentleman.'"
I was the sole amused auditor of this speech, for John had vanished. In
a few minutes more he had brought the mare round, and after a word or
two with me was clattering down the road.
I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blind
to watch him.
John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back with
him. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his cheeks
all glowing with the ride. He only remarked, "that the autumn nights
were getting chill," and sat down. The kitchen clock struck one.
"You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? I
shall sit up just a little while, to hear how Mr. March is."
"I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that one
learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut up
together in a lonely place like this, especially when they are in
trouble."
"Ay, that's it," said he, quickly. "It's the solitude, and their being
in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away?"
"Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had gone to bed
except his daughter and Mrs. Tod."
"Hark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if one might
ask--No! they would think it intrusive. He must be better. But Dr.
Brown told me that in one of these paroxysms he might--Oh, that poor
young thing!"
"Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Doctor Brown surely
knows."
"I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not my
business: my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, as
quickly as possible."
"Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can do anything more."
"Ay--if we can do anything more," repeated he, as we again recrossed
the boundary-line, and entered the Tod country.
All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burnt brightly, and a cricket
sang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans overhead were stilled,
but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps crept
down-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and Miss March.
We ought to have left the kitchen: I think John muttered something to
that effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door; but--I
don't know how it was--we stayed.
She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheeks
were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for many
hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to this
paleness.
"I think he is better, Mrs. Tod--decidedly better," said she, speaking
quickly. "You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. I
hope you told Mr.--Oh--"
She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her roses
returned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend.
John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; but
no--he was thinking too little of himself for that. His
demeanour--earnest, gentle, kind--was the sublimation of all manly
courtesy.
"I hope, madam"--young men used the deferential word in those days
always--"I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to
retire until we had heard."
"Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind," said Miss
March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes.
"Indeed he is kind," broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. "He rode all
the way to S----, his own self, to fetch the doctor."
"Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse."
"Oh! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father is
better? Is there nothing else I can do for you?"
His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his years,
softened too with that quiet deference which marked at once the man who
reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood--seemed entirely to
reassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of character,
made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a young
lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged neutral
ground, perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another than the
mere surname.
Nature, sincerity, and simplicity conquered all trammels of formal
custom. She held out her hand to him.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I wanted help I would ask you;
indeed I would."
"Thank YOU. Good-night."
He pressed the hand with reverence--and was gone. I saw Miss March
look after him: then she turned to speak and smiled with me. A light
word, an easy smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often pitied out
of the fulness of her womanly heart.
Soon I followed John into the parlour. He asked me no questions, made
no remarks, only took his candle and went up-stairs.
But, years afterwards, he confessed to me that the touch of that
hand--it was a rather peculiar hand in the "feel" of it, as the
children say, with a very soft palm, and fingers that had a habit of
perpetually fluttering, like a little bird's wing--the touch of that
hand was to the young man like the revelation of a new world.