A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
asked the old man by his side, lifting his sad eyes and looking steadfastly at his nephew’s good-looking face. He was wondering what his life had been; how the last decade of his thirty years had passed. Not in riotous living he told himself, for John Temple’s features bore no marks of dissipation nor sin. His eyes were clear and resolute, his whole bearing that of a man who had led at least a fairly good life.
“He looks honest,” thought the squire, and then he sighed, thinking of his dead boy, and all the fond hopes which lay buried in his untimely grave.
“I might tire of it,” answered John, smiling in reply to his uncle’s question, “if I never had any change, for I think we all want change. It is human nature, part of our heritage, to desire it.”
Again the old man sighed.
“You must marry now, John,” he said, and as he spoke a flush rose to his nephew’s face.
“I think not,” he answered.
“You will think differently I hope, some day,” continued the squire. “But here we are at Woodside; it is a pretty spot.”
It was indeed a pretty spot; a long, low, white house, standing amid a large old-fashioned garden, with trim box-borders, and fruit trees laden with their ripening crops. They approached the house from the front, but at the rear the squire pointed out with some pardonable pride the new and expensive outbuildings.
“I wish every farm on the property was in such good order,” he said. “But we will go into the garden, and I dare say will find the farmer somewhere about, or perhaps his daughter can tell us where he is.”
As he spoke the squire opened the garden gate and passed down the walks, accompanied by John Temple and followed by two dogs. A little summer house stood on the path, and a moment later a pretty scrimmage ensued. A very handsome gray kitten was disporting itself at the entrance of the summer house, and at the sight of the avowed enemies of its race, the kitten prepared for battle. With tail erected and every hair on end, it stood to receive the charge it evidently expected. The dogs saw it, and with vicious yells ran forward, and the brave kitten’s moments had been numbered had not its mistress with a cry sprang forward from the interior of the summer house and caught it to her breast. The squire and John called back the dogs; the Mayflower protected her kitten, and then stood smiling and blushing to receive her visitors at the entrance of the summer house.
“Oh, Mr. Temple, your dogs frightened me so!” she said, as the squire offered her his hand.
“I am very sorry,” he answered, “but they have not touched your kitten, have they?”
“In another instant they would,” smiled the Mayflower, holding her pet tightly in her arms.
“What a pretty creature it is,” said John Temple, now stroking the kitten’s striped head, whose large eyes were wide open with terror.
“Yes, isn’t he a beauty?” answered the Mayflower. “Poor Jacky! and would the naughty dogs have eaten you?”
Jacky looked as if he decidedly thought that they would, and clung to his mistress’ white frock, who soothed and comforted him. The Mayflower certainly was a lovely creature as she stood thus, with her fair head uncovered. She had been sewing in the summer house; trimming a white straw hat, and ribbons and flowers lay strewn about, and as a man of taste John Temple found it impossible not to admire so pretty a picture.
“Is your father in the house?” now asked the squire.
“He was in the garden five minutes ago, looking at the apple trees,” replied the Mayflower. “Shall I call him, Mr. Temple?”
But at this moment Mr. Churchill, the farmer, was seen advancing toward them, as he had heard in another part of the garden the squire and John Temple calling back their dogs, and now came to see what was the matter. He took off his low-crowned hat when he recognized the squire, but Mr. Temple held out his thin hand to his favorite tenant.
“Well, Mr. Churchill, how are you?” he said. “I have brought my nephew to see you; my nephew—and now my heir.”
His voice faltered a little as he said the last few words, and a look of respectful sympathy passed over the farmer’s brown face.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, looking at John Temple with a pair of very intelligent gray eyes.
Altogether he was a good-looking man, and was, moreover, an excellent farmer. He had gone with the times, and instead of grumbling at the price of corn and foreign competition, grew on his land the crops he found to sell best. He was a great breeder of horses also, and his stud was quite a famous one. He was also a keen man at a bargain, and prosperous. He had married a lady in a superior social position to himself, whom he had won by his good-looking face, and he had given his only daughter Margaret Alice Churchill (the Mayflower) an excellent education. Mrs. Churchill had died two years ago, but as yet he had taken no second wife, so May, as she was always called at the farm, was the mistress of the house.
He had two other children, both schoolboys, and Willie Churchill (the second boy) had been one of the players in the fatal game of football when poor Phil Temple, the little heir of Woodlea, had met his death. The squire knew this fact, but no particular blame had been laid on the boy. A rush had taken place, and the little heir had fallen, and it was said to be impossible to tell who had given the actual kick or blow that had destroyed Phil Temple’s life.
“I think it will interest my nephew to have a look at your stud,” continued the squire; “he’s lived mostly in towns, and knows nothing of farming, I dare say, but horses interest nearly all men.”
“To be sure,” answered Mr. Churchill. “But won’t you come in, gentlemen, and rest awhile first, and have a glass of claret, or a taste of our home-brew or cider?”
The squire accepted the farmer’s offer, and said he would have a glass of the home-brewed ale, as he knew it of old. He therefore walked on toward the house, accompanied by Mr. Churchill; and May Churchill, still carrying her kitten, followed the two, with John Temple by her side.
“I was quite glad when my uncle proposed to come here to-day, Miss Churchill,” he said; “I wanted to see your pretty home.”
“You are very welcome,” answered the Mayflower, with such a charming grace of manner that John Temple could not help wondering where she could possibly have acquired it.
“You must show me your fernery,” he continued; “and,” he added hastily, for they were now nearing the house, “will you come one day to Fern Dene, and let me try to find some rare ones for you? Will you come to-day—this afternoon?”
May blushed to her pretty white brow.
“This afternoon?” she repeated with hesitation.
“Yes, why not? It is fine; promise to come?”
“Very well,” said May, and as she spoke her father turned round and addressed her.
“May, my dear,” he said, “give me the cellar keys.”
“At three o’clock,” remarked John Temple in a low tone, but May had heard the words.
She hurriedly entered the flower-festooned porch of the house, which opened into a long low hall with windows on either side of the door, which also were filled with flowers.
The whole place, indeed, had an air of comfort and refinement, and the dining-room into which Mr. Churchill ushered the squire and John Temple was not only substantially but handsomely furnished. A rich turkey carpet lay on the polished oak floor, and the sideboard and mantel-piece were of carved oak. John Temple looked around with astonishment. He had pictured a tenant-farmer’s house to be so very different. For, from the silver flagon in which a neat hand-maiden bore the home-brewed ale, to the fair young daughter, everything at Woodside was of the very best.
May Churchill lingered in the room a few minutes, and then when the squire began