The next morning rose,as I have seen many a morning rise at Enderley--misty and grey;but oh,so heavenly fair!with a pearly network of dewy gossamer under foot,and overhead countless thistle downs flying about,like fairy chariots hurrying out of sight of the sun,which had only mounted high enough above the Flat to touch the horizon of hills opposite,and the tops of my four poplars,leaving Rose Cottage and the valley below it all in morning shadow.John called me to go with him on the common;his voice sounded so cheerful outside my door that it was with a glad heart I rose and went.
He chose his old walk--his "terrace."No chance now of meeting the light figure coming tripping along the level hill.All that dream was now over.He did not speak of it--nor I.He seemed contented--or,at least,thoroughly calmed down;except that the sweet composure of his mien had settled into the harder gravity of manhood.The crisis and climax of youth had been gone through--he never could be a boy again.
We came to that part of John's terrace which overhung the churchyard.
Both of us glanced instinctively down to the heap of loose red earth--the as yet nameless grave.Some one stood beside it--the only one who was likely to be there.
Even had I not recognized her,John's manner would have told me who it was.A deadly paleness overspread his face--its quietness was gone--every feature trembled.It almost broke my heart to see how deeply this love had struck its roots down to the very core of his;twisting them with every fibre of his being.A love which,though it had sprung up so early,and come to maturity so fast,might yet be the curse of his whole existence.Save that no love conceived virtuously,for a good woman,be it ever so hopeless,can be rightly considered as a curse.
"Shall we go away?"I whispered--"a long walk--to the other side of the Flat?She will have left Rose Cottage soon.""When?"
"Before noon,I heard.Come,David."
He suffered me to put my arm in his,and draw him away for a step or two,then turned.
"I can't,Phineas,I can't!I MUST look at her again--only for one minute--one little minute."But he stayed--we were standing where she could not see us--till she had slowly left the grave.We heard the click of the churchyard gate:where she went afterward we could not discern.
John moved away.I asked him if we should take our walk now?But he did not seem to hear me;so I let him follow his own way--perhaps it might be for good--who could tell?
He descended from the Flat,and came quickly round the corner of the cottage.Miss March stood there,trying to find one fresh rose among the fast-withering clusters about what had been our parlour window and now was hers.
She saw us,acknowledged us,but hurriedly,and not without some momentary signs of agitation.
"The roses are all gone,"she said rather sadly.
"Perhaps,higher up,I can reach one--shall I try?"I marvelled to see that John's manner as he addressed her was just like his manner always with her.
"Thank you--that will do.I wanted to take some away with me--I am leaving Rose Cottage to-day,Mr.Halifax.""So I have heard."
He did not say "sorry to hear."I wondered did the omission strike her?But no--she evidently regarded us both as mere acquaintances,inevitably,perhaps even tenderly,bound up with this time;and as such,claiming a more than ordinary place in her regard and remembrance.No man with common sense or common feeling could for a moment dare to misinterpret the emotion she showed.
Re-entering the house,she asked us if we would come in with her;she had a few things to say to us.And then she again referred gratefully to our "kindness."We all went once more--for the last time--into the little parlour.
"Yes--I am going away,"said she,mournfully.
"We hope all good will go with you--always and everywhere.""Thank you,Mr.Fletcher."
It was strange,the grave tone our intercourse now invariably assumed.We might have been three old people,who had long fought with and endured the crosses of the world,instead of two young men and a young woman,in the very dawn of life.
"Circumstances have fixed my plans since I saw you yesterday.I am going to reside for a time with my cousins,the Brithwoods.It seems best for me.Lady Caroline is very kind,and I am so lonely."She said this not in any complaint,but as if accepting the fact,and making up her mind to endure it.A little more fragmentary conversation passed,chiefly between herself and me--John uttered scarcely a word.He sat by the window,half shading his face with his hand.Under that covert,the gaze which incessantly followed and dwelt on her face--oh,had she seen it!
