John Halifax, Gentleman Part 30

"But, John, you never told me that you had seen her again!"

"Because you never asked me."

We were silent. Silent until we had walked along the whole length of a Roman encampment, the most perfect of the various fosses that seamed the flat--tokens of many a battle fought on such capital battleground, and which John had this morning especially brought me to look at.

"Yes," I said at last, putting the ending affirmative to a long train of thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments; "yes, it is quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quite natural, and not unlikely either, if she--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted he. "What nonsense you are talking! Impossible!"

and setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, he kicked it down into the ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had fallen before it in ages gone by.

The impetuous gesture--the energetic "impossible," struck me less than the quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressed thought--carrying it to a greater length than I myself had ever contemplated.

"Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of THAT sort ever entered my head. I only thought you might admire her, and be unsettled thereby as young men are when they take fancies. That would grieve me very much, John."

"Don't let it then? Why, I have only seen her five times; I never spoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall do. Could any one be in a safer position? Besides," and his tone changed to extreme gravity, "I have too many worldly cares to think of; I can't afford the harmless little amus.e.m.e.nt of falling in love--so be easy, Phineas."

I smiled; and we began a discussion on camps and fosses, vallum and praetorium; the Danes, Saxons, and Normans; which, doubtless, we carried on to a most learned length: but at this distance of time, and indeed the very day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all about it.

That long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never came out all day, but the whole earth and sky melted together in a soft, grey haze; when we lay on the common and heard church-bells ringing, some distant, some near; and, after all was quiet, talked our own old sabbath talks, of this world and the world to come; when, towards twilight, we went down into the beech-wood below the house, and sat idly there among the pleasant-smelling ferns; when, from the morning to the evening, he devoted himself altogether to my comfort and amus.e.m.e.nt--to perfect which required of him no harder duty than to be near me always;--that Sunday was the last I ever had David altogether for my own--my very own.

It was natural, it was just, it was right. G.o.d forbid that in any way I should have murmured.

About ten o'clock--just as he was luring me out to see how grand the common looked under the black night, and we were wondering whether or no the household were in bed--Mrs. Tod came mysteriously into the parlour and shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face looked somewhat troubled.

"Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to 'ee, sir?"

"With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Tod. There's nothing wrong with your children?"

"No, I thank'ee. You are very kind, sir. No, it be about that poor Miss March."

I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was leaning on. "I hope--" he began, and stopped.

"Her father is dreadful bad to-night, and it's a good seven-mile walk to the doctor's at S----; and Miss March says--that is, she don't, for I bean't going to tell her a word about it--but I think, Mr. Halifax, if I might make so bold, it would be a great kindness in a young gentleman like you to lend Tod your mare to ride over and fetch the doctor."

"I will, gladly. At once?"

"Tod bean't come in yet."

"He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March so--I mean, do not tell her, of course. It was very right of you to come to us in this way, Mrs. Tod. Really, it would be almost a treat to be ill in your house--you are so kind."

"Thank'ee, Mr. Halifax," said the honest landlady, greatly delighted.

"But a body couldn't help doing anything for Miss March. You would think so yourself, if you only knew her."

"No doubt," returned John, more politely than warmly, I fancied, as he closed the door after the retreating figure of Mrs. Tod. But when he came and sat down again I saw he was rather thoughtful. He turned the books restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle to anything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour, and our pearl of kind-hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; at last he started up and said,--

"Phineas, I think I'll go myself."

"Where?"

"To fetch Doctor Brown. If Tod is not come in it would be but a common charity. And I know the way."

"But the dark night?"

"Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a stranger. And though I have taken good care that the three horses in the tan-yard shall have the journey, turn and turn about; still it's a good pull from here to Norton Bury, and the mare's my favourite. I would rather take her myself."

I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simple thing; and agreed that it was right and best he should do it.

"Then shall I call Mrs. Tod and inquire? Or perhaps it might make less fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, Phineas, or shall I?"

Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what I called the Debateable Land.

No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening to the groaning overhead.

"That must be Mr. March, John."

"I hear. Good heavens! how hard for her. And she such a young thing, and alone," muttered he, as he stood gazing into the dull wood embers of the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved; but the expression on his face was one of pure and holy compa.s.sion. That at this moment no less unselfish feeling mingled with it I am sure.

Mrs. Tod appeared at the door leading to the other half of the cottage; she was apparently speaking to Miss March on the staircase. We heard again those clear, quick, decided tones, but subdued to a half-whisper.

"No, Mrs. Tod, I am not sorry you did it--on my father's account, 'tis best. Tell Mr.--the young gentleman--I forget his name--that I am very much obliged to him."

"I will, Miss March--stay, he is just here.--Bless us! she has shut the door already.--Won't you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I'll stir up the fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are always welcome in my kitchen, young gentlemen." And Mrs. Tod bustled about, well aware what a cosy and cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings.

But when John explained the reason of our intrusion there was no end to her pleasure and grat.i.tude. He was the kindest young gentleman that ever lived.--She would tell Miss March so; as, indeed, she had done many a time.

"'Miss,' said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I had told her how you came hunting for lodgings--(she often has a chat with me quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too proud to forget that she's a born lady)--'Miss,' said I, 'who Mr. Halifax may be I don't know, but depend upon it he's a real gentleman.'"

I was the sole amused auditor of this speech, for John had vanished. In a few minutes more he had brought the mare round, and after a word or two with me was clattering down the road.

I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blind to watch him.

John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back with him. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his cheeks all glowing with the ride. He only remarked, "that the autumn nights were getting chill," and sat down. The kitchen clock struck one.

"You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? I shall sit up just a little while, to hear how Mr. March is."

"I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that one learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut up together in a lonely place like this, especially when they are in trouble."

"Ay, that's it," said he, quickly. "It's the solitude, and their being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away?"

"Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had gone to bed except his daughter and Mrs. Tod."

"Hark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if one might ask--No! they would think it intrusive. He must be better. But Dr.

Brown told me that in one of these paroxysms he might--Oh, that poor young thing!"

"Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Doctor Brown surely knows."

"I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not my business: my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, as quickly as possible."