how the water came from the spring above; the old well-head where the cattle drank; how it took its course merrily through the woods, till at the bottom of the valley below it grew into a wide stream.
“Small beginnings make great endings,” observed Miss March, sententiously.
John answered her with the happiest smile! He dipped his hollowed palm into the water and drank: she did the same. Then, in her free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a cup out of a broad leaf, which, by the greatest ingenuity, she managed to make contain about two teaspoonfuls of water for the space of half a minute, and held it to my mouth.
“I am like Rebecca at the well. Drink, Eleazer,” she cried, gaily.
John looked on. “I am very thirsty, too,” said he, in a low voice.
The young girl hesitated a moment; then filled and offered to him the Arcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper and more subtle draught than that innocent water.
Both became somewhat grave, and stood, one on either side the stream, looking down upon it, letting its bubbling murmur have all the talk. What it said I know not: I only know that it did not, could not, say to those two what it said to me.
When we took leave of our acquaintances Mr. March was extremely courteous, and declared our society would always be a pleasure to himself and his daughter.
“He always says so formally, ‘my daughter,’” I observed, breaking the silence in which they had left us. “I wonder what her Christian name is.”
“I believe it is Ursula.”
“How did you find that out?”
“It is written in one of her books.”
“Ursula!” I repeated, wondering where I had heard it before. “A pretty name.”
“A very pretty name.”
When John fell into this echo mood I always found it best to fall into taciturnity.
Chapter 13
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Next day, the rain poured down incessantly, sweeping blindingly across the hills as I have rarely seen it sweep except at Enderley. The weather had apparently broken up, even thus early in the autumn; and for that day, and several days following, we had nothing but wind, rain, and storm. The sky was as dusky as Miss March’s grey gown; broken sometimes in the evening by a rift of misty gold, gleaming over Nunnely Hill, as if to show us what September sunsets might have been.
John went every day to Norton Bury that week. His mind seemed restless — he was doubly kind and attentive to me; but every night I heard him go out in all the storm to walk upon the common. I longed to follow him, but it was best not.
On the Saturday morning, coming to breakfast, I heard him ask Mrs. Tod how Mr. March was? We knew the invalid had been ailing all the week, nor had we seen him or his daughter once.
Mrs. Tod shook her head ominously. “He is very bad, sir; badder than ever, I do think. She sits up wi’ him best part of every night.”
“I imagined so. I have seen her light burning.”
“Law, Mr. Halifax! you don’t be walking abroad of nights on the Flat? It’s terrible bad for your health,” cried the honest soul, who never disguised the fact that Mr. Halifax was her favourite of all her lodgers, save and except Miss March.
“Thank you for considering my health,” he replied, smiling. “Only tell me, Mrs. Tod, can anything be done — can we do anything for that poor gentleman?”
“Nothing, sir — thank’ee all the same.”
“If he should grow worse let me go for Doctor Brown. I shall be at home all day.”
“I’ll tell Miss March of your kindness, sir,” said Mrs. Tod, as with a troubled countenance she disappeared.
“Were you not going to Norton Bury today, John?”
“I was — but — as it is a matter of no moment, I have changed my mind. You have been left so much alone lately. Nay — I’ll not disguise the truth; I had another reason.”
“May I know it?”
“Of course you may. It is about our fellow-lodgers. Doctor Brown — I met him on the road this morning — told me that her father cannot live more than a few days — perhaps a few hours. And she does not know it.”
He leaned on the mantelpiece. I could see he was very much affected.
So was I.
“Her relatives — surely they ought to be sent for?”
“She has none. Doctor Brown said she once told him so: none nearer than the Brithwoods of the Mythe — and we know what the Brithwoods are.”
A young gentleman and his young wife — proverbially the gayest, proudest, most light-hearted of all our country families.
“Nay, Phineas, I will not have you trouble yourself. And after all, they are mere strangers — mere strangers. Come, sit down to breakfast.”
But he could not eat. He could not talk of ordinary things. Every minute he fell into abstractions. At length he said, suddenly:
“Phineas, I do think it is wicked, downright wicked, for a doctor to be afraid of telling a patient he is going to die — more wicked, perhaps, to keep the friends in ignorance until the last stunning blow falls. She ought to be told: she must be told: she may have many things to say to her poor father. And God help her! for such a stroke she ought to be a little prepared. It might kill her else!”
He rose up and walked about the room. The seal once taken from his reserve, he expressed himself to me freely, as he had used to do — perhaps because at this time his feelings required no disguise. The dreams which might have peopled that beautiful sunset wood necessarily faded in an atmosphere like this — filled with the solemn gloom of impending death.
At last he paused in his hurried walk, quieted, perhaps, by what he might have read in my ever-following eyes.
“I know you are as grieved as I am, Phineas. What can we do? Let us forget that they are strangers, and act as one Christian ought to another. Do YOU not think she ought to be told?”
“Most decidedly. They might get further advice.”
“That would be vain. Dr. Brown says it is a hopeless case, has been so for long; but he would not believe it, nor have his daughter told. He clings to life desperately. How horrible for her!”
“You think most of her.”
“I do,” said he, firmly. “He is reaping what he sowed, poor man! God knows I pity him. But she is as good as an angel of heaven.”
It was evident that,
