Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August Nemo
again recrossed the boundary-line, and entered the Tod country.
All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burnt brightly, and a cricket sang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans overhead were stilled, but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps crept down-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and Miss March.
We ought to have left the kitchen: I think John muttered something to that effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door; but — I don’t know how it was — we stayed.
She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for many hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to this paleness.
“I think he is better, Mrs. Tod — decidedly better,” said she, speaking quickly. “You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. I hope you told Mr. — Oh —”
She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend.
John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; but no — he was thinking too little of himself for that. His demeanour — earnest, gentle, kind — was the sublimation of all manly courtesy.
“I hope, madam”— young men used the deferential word in those days always —“I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to retire until we had heard.”
“Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind,” said Miss March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes.
“Indeed he is kind,” broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. “He rode all the way to S— — his own self, to fetch the doctor.”
“Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse.”
“Oh! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father is better? Is there nothing else I can do for you?”
His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his years, softened too with that quiet deference which marked at once the man who reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood — seemed entirely to reassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of character, made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a young lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on unacknowledged neutral ground, perfect strangers, or knowing no more of one another than the mere surname.
Nature, sincerity, and simplicity conquered all trammels of formal custom. She held out her hand to him.
“I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I wanted help I would ask you; indeed I would.”
“Thank YOU. Good-night.”
He pressed the hand with reverence — and was gone. I saw Miss March look after him: then she turned to speak and smiled with me. A light word, an easy smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often pitied out of the fulness of her womanly heart.
Soon I followed John into the parlour. He asked me no questions, made no remarks, only took his candle and went up-stairs.
But, years afterwards, he confessed to me that the touch of that hand — it was a rather peculiar hand in the “feel” of it, as the children say, with a very soft palm, and fingers that had a habit of perpetually fluttering, like a little bird’s wing — the touch of that hand was to the young man like the revelation of a new world.
Chapter 12
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The next day John rode away earlier even than was his wont, I thought. He stayed but a little while talking with me. While Mrs. Tod was bustling over our breakfast he asked her, in a grave and unconcerned manner, “How Mr. March was this morning?” which was the only allusion he made to the previous night’s occurrences.
I had a long, quiet day alone in the beech-wood, close below our cottage, sitting by the little runnel, now worn to a thread with the summer weather, but singing still. It talked to me like a living thing.
When I came home in the evening Miss March stood in front of the cottage, with — strange to say — her father. But I had heard that his paroxysms were often of brief continuance, and that, like most confirmed valetudinarians, when real danger stared him in the face he put it from him, and was glad to be well.
Seeing me coming, Miss March whispered to him; he turned upon me a listless gaze from over his fur collar, and bowed languidly, without rising from his easy chair. Yes, it was Mr. March — the very Mr. March we had met! I knew him, changed though he was; but he did not know me in the least, as, indeed, was not likely.
His daughter came a step or two to meet me. “You are better, I see, Mr. Fletcher. Enderley is a most healthy place, as I try to persuade my father. This is Mr. Fletcher, sir, the gentleman who —”
“Was so obliging as to ride to S— — last night, for me? Allow me to thank him myself.”
I began to disclaim, and Miss March to explain; but we must both have been slightly incoherent, for I think the poor gentleman was never quite clear as to who it was that went for Dr. Brown. However, that mattered little, as his acknowledgments were evidently dictated more by a natural habit of courtesy than by any strong sense of service rendered.
“I am a very great invalid, sir; my dear, will you explain to the gentleman?” And he leaned his head back wearily.
“My father has never recovered his ten years’ residence in the West Indies.”
“‘Residence?’ Pardon me, my dear, you forget I was governor of —”
“Oh, yes! — The climate is very trying there, Mr. Fletcher. But since he has been in England — five years only — he has been very much better. I hope he will be quite well in time.”
Mr. March shook his head drearily. Poor man! the world of existence to him seemed to have melted lazily down into a mere nebula, of which the forlorn nucleus was — himself. What a life for any young creature — even his own daughter, to be bound to continually!
I could not help remarking the strong contrast between them. He, with his sallow, delicately-shaped features — the thin mouth and long straight nose, of that form I have heard called the “melancholy nose,” which usually indicates a feeble, pensive, and hypochondriac temperament; while his daughter — But I have described her already.
“Mr. Fletcher is an invalid too, father,” she said; so gently, that I could feel no pain in her noticing my infirmity; and took gratefully a seat she gave me, beside that of Mr. March. She seemed inclined to talk to me; and her manner was perfectly easy, friendly, and kind.
We spoke of commonplace subjects, near at hand, and of the West Indian island, which its late “governor” was apparently by no means inclined to forget. I asked Miss March whether she had liked it?
“I was never there. Papa was obliged to leave me behind, in Wales — poor mamma’s country. Were you ever in Wales? I like it so! Indeed, I feel as if I belonged altogether to the mountains.”
And saying this, she looked the very incarnation of the free mountain spirit — a little rugged, perhaps, and sharply outlined; but that would soften with time, and was better and wholesomer than any tame green level of soft perfection. At least, one inclined to think so, looking at her.
I liked Miss March very much, and was glad of it.
In retiring, with her father leaning on her arm, to which he hung trustingly and feebly as a child, she turned abruptly, and asked if she could lend me any books to read? I must find the days long and dull without my friend.
I assented with thanks; and shortly afterwards she brought me an armful of literature — enough to have caused any young damsel to have been dubbed a “blue,” in those matter-of-fact days.