John led Ursula to the old man"s chair.
"Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness--"
His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcast eyelids:
"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father."
Abel Fletcher nodded--adjusted his spectacles--eyed her all over--and nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satisfied inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth.
"If thee be a friend of John"s, welcome to my house. Wilt thee sit down?"
Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing, and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder, trembling as she trembled. For she did tremble very much.
Gradually the old man"s perception opened to the facts before him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny, and half smiled.
"Wilt thee stay, and have a dish of tea with us?"
So it came to pa.s.s, I hardly remember how, that in an hour"s s.p.a.ce our parlour beheld the strangest sight it had beheld since--Ah, no wonder that when she took her place at the table"s foot, and gave him his dish of tea with her own hand--her pretty ringed lady"s hand--my old father started, as if it had been another than Miss March who was sitting there. No wonder that, more than once, catching the sound of her low, quiet, gentlewomanlike speech, different from any female voices here, he turned round suddenly with a glance, half-scared, half-eager, as if she had been a ghost from the grave.
But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the doctor"s little wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled themselves for a cosy chat, taking very little notice of us three.
Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise present: for all Norton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher had a soft place in his heart it was for his garden and his flowers. These were very lovely; in colour and scent delicious to one who had been long ill. John lay looking at them and at her, as if, oblivious of past and future, his whole life were absorbed into that one exquisite hour.
For me--where I sat I do not clearly know, nor probably did any one else.
"There," said Miss March to herself, in a tone of almost childish satisfaction, as she arranged the last hyacinth to her liking.
"They are very beautiful," I heard John"s voice answer, with a strange trembling in it. "It is growing too dark to judge of colours; but the scent is delicious, even here."
"I could move the table closer to you."
"Thank you--let me do it--will you sit down?"
She did so, after a very slight hesitation, by John"s side. Neither spoke--but sat quietly there, with the sunset light on their two heads, softly touching them both, and then as softly melting away.
"There is a new moon to-night," Miss March remarked, appositely and gravely.
"Is there? Then I have been ill a whole month. For I remember noticing it through the trees the night when--"
He did not say what night, and she did not ask. To such a very unimportant conversation as they were apparently holding my involuntary listening could do no harm.
"You will be able to walk out soon, I hope," said Miss March again.
"Norton Bury is a pretty town."
John asked, suddenly--"Are you going to leave it?"
"Not yet--I do not know for certain--perhaps not at all. I mean," she added, hurriedly, "that being independent, and having entirely separated from, and been given up by, my cousins, I prefer residing with Mrs. Jessop altogether."
"Of course--most natural." The words were formally spoken, and John did not speak again for some time.
"I hope,"--said Ursula, breaking the pause, and then stopping, as if her own voice frightened her.
"What do you hope?"
"That long before this moon has grown old you will be quite strong again."
"Thank you! I hope so too. I have need for strength, G.o.d knows!" He sighed heavily.
"And you will have what you need, so as to do your work in the world.
You must not be afraid."
"I am not afraid. I shall bear my burthen like other men. Every one has some inevitable burthen to bear."
"So I believe."
And now the room darkened so fast that I could not see them; but their voices seemed a great way off, as the children"s voices playing at the old well-head used to sound to me when I lay under the brow of the Flat--in the dim twilights at Enderley.
"I intend," John said, "as soon as I am able, to leave Norton Bury, and go abroad for some time."
"Where?"
"To America. It is the best country for a young man who has neither money, nor kindred, nor position--nothing, in fact, but his own right hand with which to carve out his own fortunes--as I will, if I can."
She murmured something about this being "quite right."
"I am glad you think so." But his voice had resumed that formal tone which ever and anon mingled strangely with its low, deep tenderness.
"In any case, I must quit England. I have reasons for so doing."
"What reasons?"
The question seemed to startle John--he did not reply at once.
"If you wish I will tell you; in order that, should I ever come back--or if I should not come back at all, you who were kind enough to be my friend will know I did not go away from mere youthful recklessness, or love of change."
He waited, apparently for some answer--but it came not, and he continued:
"I am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, while I stay here, I cannot get free from or overcome. I do not wish to sink under it--I had rather, as you said, "Do my work in the world" as a man ought. No man has a right to say unto his Maker, "My burthen is heavier than I can bear." Do you not think so?"
"I do."
"Do you not think I am right in thus meeting, and trying to conquer, an inevitable ill?"
"IS it inevitable?"
"Hush!" John answered, wildly. "Don"t reason with me--you cannot judge--you do not know. It is enough that I must go. If I stay I shall become unworthy of myself, unworthy of--Forgive me, I have no right to talk thus; but you called me "friend," and I would like you to think kindly of me always. Because--because--" and his voice shook--broke down utterly. "G.o.d love thee and take care of thee, wherever I may go!"
"John, stay!"
It was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. But he heard it--felt it. In the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his love for evermore. At once all was made clear between them; for whatever the world might say, they were in the sight of heaven equal, and she received as much as she gave.