"My dear,"at last said Mr.March,rather testily,"you make rather too much of our excellent Jane Cardigan.She is going to be married,and she will not care for you now.""Hush!papa,that is a secret at present.Pray,Mr.Halifax,do you know Norton Bury?"The abruptness of the question startled John,so that he only answered in a hurried affirmative.Indeed,Mr.March left him no time for further explanation.
"I hate the place.My late wife's cousins,the Brithwoods of the Mythe,with whom I have had--ahem!--strong political differences--live there.And I was once nearly drowned in the Severn,close by.""Papa,don't speak of that,please,"said Miss March,hurriedly;so hurriedly that I am sure she did not notice what would otherwise have been plain enough--John's sudden and violent colour.But the flush died down again--he never spoke a word.And,of course,acting on his evident desire,neither did I.
"For my part,"continued the young lady,"I have no dislike to Norton Bury.Indeed,I rather admired the place,if I remember right.""You have been there?"Though it was the simplest question,John's sudden look at her,and the soft inflection of his voice,struck me as peculiar.
"Once,when I was about twelve years old.But we will talk of something papa likes better.I am sure papa enjoys this lovely evening.Hark!how the doves are cooing in the beech-wood."I asked her if she had ever been in the beech-wood.
No;she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries--the fern-glades,the woodbine tangles,and the stream,that,if you listened attentively,you could hear faintly gurgling even where we sat.
"I did not know there was a stream so near.I have generally taken my walks across the Flat,"said Miss March,smiling,and then blushing at having done so,though it was the faintest blush imaginable.
Neither of us made any reply.
Mr.March settled himself to laziness and his arm-chair;the conversation fell to the three younger persons--I may say the two--for I also seceded,and left John master of the field.It was enough for me to sit listening to him and Miss March,as they gradually became more friendly;a circumstance natural enough,under the influence of that simple,solitary place,where all the pretences of etiquette seemed naturally to drop away,leaving nothing but the forms dictated and preserved by true manliness and true womanliness.
How young both looked,how happy in their frank,free youth,with the sun-rays slanting down upon them,making a glory round either head,and--as glory often does--dazzling painfully.
"Will you change seats with me,Miss March?--The sun will not reach your eyes here."She declined,refusing to punish any one for her convenience.
"It would not be punishment,"said John,so gravely that one did not recognize it for a "pretty speech"till it had passed--and went on with their conversation.In the course of it he managed so carefully,and at the same time so carelessly,to interpose his broad hat between the sun and her,that the fiery old king went down in splendour before she noticed that she had been thus guarded and sheltered.Though she did not speak--why should she?of such a little thing,--yet it was one of those "little things"which often touch a woman more than any words.
Miss March rose."I should greatly like to hear your stream and its wonderful singing."(John Halifax had been telling how it held forth to me during my long,lonely days)--"I wonder what it would say to me?Can we hear it from the bottom of this field?""Not clearly;we had better go into the wood."For I knew John would like that,though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal by a single word.
Miss March was more single-minded,or else had no reason for being the contrary.She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness."Papa,you wouldn't miss me--I shall not be away five minutes.Then,Mr.
Fletcher,will you go with me?"
"And I will stay beside Mr.March,so that he will not be left alone,"said John,reseating himself.
What did the lad do that for?--why did he sit watching us so intently,as I led Miss March down the meadow,and into the wood?It passed my comprehension.
The young girl walked with me,as she talked with me,in perfect simplicity and frankness,free from the smallest hesitation.Even as the women I have known have treated me all my life--showing me that sisterly trust and sisterly kindness which have compensated in a measure for the solitary fate which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me;which,in any case,conscience would have forced me to lay upon myself--that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister.
Yet I watched her with pleasure--this young girl,as she tripped on before me,noticing everything,enjoying everything.She talked to me a good deal too about myself,in her kindly way,asking what I did all day?--and if I were not rather dull sometimes,in this solitary country lodging?
"I am dull occasionally myself,or should be,if I had time to think about it.It is hard to be an only child."I told her I had never found it so.
