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 today, 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!
The moments narrowed. Would he say what he had intended, concerning his position in the world? Had she guessed or learned anything, or were we to her simply Mr. Halifax and Mr. Fletcher — two “gentlemen” of Norton Bury? It appeared so.
“This is not a very long good-bye, I trust?” said she to me, with something more than courtesy. “I shall remain at the Mythe House some weeks, I believe. How long do you purpose staying at Enderley?”
I was uncertain.
“But your home is in Norton Bury? I hope — I trust, you will allow my cousin to express in his own house his thanks and mine for your great kindness during my trouble?”
Neither of us answered. Miss March looked surprised — hurt — nay, displeased; then her eye, resting on John, lost its haughtiness, and became humble and sweet.
“Mr. Halifax, I know nothing of my cousin, and I do know you. Will you tell me — candidly, as I know you will — whether there is anything in Mr. Brithwood which you think unworthy of your acquaintance?”
“He would think me unworthy of his,” was the low, firm answer.
Miss March smiled incredulously. “Because you are not very rich? What can that signify? It is enough for me that my friends are gentlemen.”
“Mr. Brithwood, and many others, would not allow my claim to that title.”
Astonished — nay, somewhat more than astonished — the young gentlewoman drew back a little. “I do not quite understand you.”
“Let me explain, then;” and her involuntary gesture seeming to have brought back all honest dignity and manly pride, he faced her, once more himself. “It is right, Miss March, that you should know who and what I am, to whom you are giving the honour of your kindness. Perhaps you ought to have known before; but here at Enderley we seemed to be equals — friends.”
“I have indeed felt it so.”
“Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you — what you never asked, and I was only too ready to forget — that we are not equals — that is, society would not regard us as such — and I doubt if even you yourself would wish us to be friends.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are a gentlewoman and I am a tradesman.”
The news was evidently a shock to her — it could not but be, reared as she had been. She sat — the eye-lashes dropping over her flushed cheeks — perfectly silent.
John’s voice grew firmer — prouder — no hesitation now.
“My calling is, as you will soon hear at Norton Bury, that of a tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher — Phineas’s father.”
“Mr. Fletcher!” She looked up at me — a mingled look of kindliness and pain.
“Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He is rich — he has been well educated; I have had to educate myself. I came to Norton Bury six years ago — a beggar-boy. No, not quite that — for I never begged! I either worked or starved.”
The earnestness, the passion of his tone, made Miss March lift her eyes, but they fell again.
“Yes, Phineas found me in an alley — starving. We stood in the rain, opposite the mayor’s house. A little girl — you know her, Miss March — came to the door, and threw out to me a bit of bread.”
Now indeed she started. “You — was that you?”
“It