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 sunshiny 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 cluster 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 Titaness, 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 passed; 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 pass 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 mass of curls at the top of her head, as the fashion then was. As she stood, with her eyes sparkling, and the young blood flushing 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 passing 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 indoors. 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.”
“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
