cannot for ever grieve.
I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some degree herself again; at least, so much of her old self as was right, natural, and good for her to be.
She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him was easy and natural, as to a friend who deserved and possessed her warm gratitude: his was more constrained. Gradually, however, this wore away; there was something in her which, piercing all disguises, went at once to the heart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the touchstone of truth.
He asked — no, I believe I asked her, how long she intended staying at Enderley?
“I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin Richard Brithwood was left my guardian. This my fa — this was to have been altered, I believe. I wish it had been. You know Norton Bury, Mr. Halifax?”
“I live there.”
“Indeed!”— with some surprise. “Then you are probably acquainted with my cousin and his wife?”
“No; but I have seen them.”
John gave these answers without lifting his eyes.
“Will you tell me candidly — for I know nothing of her, and it is rather important that I should learn — what sort of person is Lady Caroline?”
This frank question, put directly, and guarded by the battery of those innocent, girlish eyes, was a very hard question to be answered; for Norton Bury had said many ill-natured things of our young ‘squire’s wife, whom he married at Naples, from the house of the well-known Lady Hamilton.
“She was, you are aware, Lady Caroline Ravenel, the Earl of Luxmore’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes; but that does not signify. I know nothing of Lord Luxmore — I want to know what she is herself.”
John hesitated, then answered, as he could with truth, “She is said to be very charitable to the poor, pleasant and kind-hearted. But, if I may venture to hint as much, not exactly the friend whom I think Miss March would choose, or to whom she would like to be indebted for anything but courtesy.”
“That was not my meaning. I need not be indebted to any one. Only, if she were a good woman, Lady Caroline would have been a great comfort and a useful adviser to one who is scarcely eighteen, and, I believe, an heiress.”
“An heiress!” The colour flashed in a torrent over John’s whole face, then left him pale. “I— pardon me — I thought it was otherwise. Allow me to — to express my pleasure —”
“It does not add to mine,” said she, half-sighing. “Jane Cardigan always told me riches brought many cares. Poor Jane! I wish I could go back to her — but that is impossible!”
A silence here intervened, which it was necessary some one should break.
“So much good can be done with a large fortune,” I said.
“Yes. I know not if mine is very large; indeed, I never understood money matters, but have merely believed what — what I was told. However, be my fortune much or little, I will try to use it well.”
“I am sure you will.”
John said nothing; but his eyes, sad indeed, yet lit with a proud tenderness, rested upon her as she spoke. Soon after, he rose up to take leave.
“Do not go yet; I want to ask about Norton Bury. I had no idea you lived there. And Mr. Fletcher too?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“In what part of the town?”
“On the Coltham Road, near the Abbey.”
“Ah, those Abbey chimes! — how I used to listen to them, night after night, when the pain kept me awake!”
“What pain?” asked John, suddenly, alive to any suffering of hers.
Miss March smiled almost like her old smile. “Oh! I had nearly forgotten it, though it was very bad at the time; only that I cut my wrist rather dangerously with a bread knife, in a struggle with my nurse.”
“When was that?” eagerly inquired John.
For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas! the tide of fate was running strong against my poor David. What could I do but stand aside and watch?
“When was it? Let me see — five, six years ago. But, indeed, ’tis nothing.”
“Not exactly ‘nothing.’ Do tell me!”
And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as one would count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yet Time’s remorseless hand still keeps on, pouring, pouring.
“Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses — I was very naughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread that I wanted to give away to a poor lad.”
“Who stood opposite — under an alley — in the rain? — was it not so?”
“How could you know? But he looked so hungry; I was so sorry for him.”
“Were you?”— in a tone almost inaudible.
“I have often thought of him since, when I chanced to look at this mark.”
“Let me look at it — may I?”
Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering, just above the wrist, a deep, discoloured seam. He gazed at it, his features all quivering, then, without a word either of adieu or apology, he quitted the room.
Chapter 15
––––––––
I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door where John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certain embarrassment.
“What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any way?”
“Indeed, no.”
“Why did he go away?”
But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put, involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it; while, at the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises or prevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and very frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly:
“I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer telling you himself.”
“As he pleases,” returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in her usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods and about Norton Bury.
