see how gravely and doggedly John kept to his point —“though this lady did not look like a sylph or a wood-nymph — being neither very small nor very slight, and having a comfortable woollen cloak and hood over the grey silk gown — still, I don’t believe she’s an old woman, or married either.”
“How can you possibly tell? Did you see her face?”
“Of course not,” he answered, rather indignantly. “I should not think it manly to chase a lady as a schoolboy does a butterfly, for the mere gratification of staring at her. I stayed on the top of the Flat till she had gone indoors.”
“Into Rose Cottage?”
“Why — yes.”
“She had, doubtless, gone to fetch new-laid eggs for her — I mean for the sick gentleman’s breakfast. Kind soul!”
“You may jest, Phineas, but I think she is a kind soul. On her way home I saw her stop twice; once to speak to an old woman who was gathering sticks; and again, to scold a lad for thrashing a donkey.”
“Did you hear her?”
“No; but I judge from the lad’s penitent face as I passed him. I am sure she had been scolding him.”
“Then she’s not young, depend upon it. Your beautiful young creatures never scold.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said John, meditatively. “For my part, I should rather not cheat myself, or be cheated after that manner. Perfection is impossible. Better see the young woman as she really is, bad and good together.”
“The young woman! The fair divinity, you mean!”
“No;” shutting his mouth over the negative in his firm way —“I strongly object to divinities. How unpleasant it would be to woo an angel of perfection, and find her out at last to be only — only Mrs. —”
“Halifax,” suggested I; at which he laughed, slightly colouring.
“But how woeful must be our dearth of subjects, when we talk such nonsense as this! What suggested it?”
“Your friend in the grey gown, I suppose.”
“Requiescat in Pace! May she enjoy her eggs! And now I must go saddle the brown mare, and be off to Norton Bury. A lovely day for a ride. How I shall dash along!”
He rose up cheerily. It was like morning sunshine only to see his face. No morbid follies had ever tainted his healthy nature, whatsoever romance was there — and never was there a thoroughly noble nature without some romance in it. But it lay deep down, calm and unawakened. His heart was as light and free as air.
Stooping over my easy chair, he wheeled it to the window, in sight of the pleasant view.
“Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You’ll take a walk before dinner? You’ll not be moping?”
No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or not — the best things never are expressed or expressible — knew by a thousand little daily acts like these, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly love for me. As yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how little else I had, will pardon, if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon.
He lingered about, making me “all right,” as he called it, and planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors, when, as John said, “the duties of our responsible position” would allow.
“Responsible position! It’s our good landlady who ought to talk about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite number of children. There’s one of them got into mischief at last. Hark!”
“It’s Jack, my namesake. Bless my life! I knew he would come to grief with that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind. Get up again.”
But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious; and disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The next minute I saw him carrying in the unlucky Jack, who was bleeding from a cut in the forehead, and screaming vociferously.
“Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Tod; it is very slight — I saw it done. Jack, my lad! — be a man, and never mind it. Don’t scream so; you alarm your mother.”
But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no real cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for his carelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman.
“But he be always getting into mischief, sir — that boy. Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with the carriage-horse, and it kicked him and broke his arm. A deal he cares: he be just as sprack as ever. As I say to Tod — it bean’t no use fretting over that boy.”
“Have patience,” answered John, who had again carried the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Tod’s kitchen — the centre room of the cottage; and was trying to divert the torrent of maternal indignation, while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly looking wound. “Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards than if you had punished him.”
“Do’ee think so?” said the woman, as, struck either by the words, the manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. “Do’ee really think so, Mr. Halifax?”
“I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when one has been naughty. Isn’t it so, Jack, my namesake?”
“Jack ought to be proud o’ that, sir,” said the mother, respectfully; “and there’s some sense in what you say, too. You talk like my man does, o’ Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax; and they’re good folks, the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There’s a deal about forgiving in the Bible; isn’t there, sir?”
“Exactly,” John answered, smiling. “And so, Jack, you’re safe this time; only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake of donkeys or anything else.”
“No, sir — thank’ee, sir,” sobbed Jack, humbly. “You be a gentleman — Mr. March bean’t — he said it served me right for getting under his horses.”
“Hold thy tongue!” said Jack’s mother, sharply; for the latch of the opposite door was just then lifted, and a lady stood there.
“Mrs. Tod; my father says —”
Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her voice — a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone — John and I both involuntarily turned. We felt awkward! doubtful whether to stay or retire abruptly. She saved us the choice.
“Mrs. Tod, my father will take his soup at eleven. You will remember?”
“Yes, Miss March.”
Upon which, Miss March shut the door at once, and vanished.
She wore a grey silken gown. I glanced at John, but he did not see me, his eyes were fixed on the door, which had disclosed and concealed the momentary picture. Its momentariness impressed
