A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
anything but what she ought to be.”
So she interfered in the sad arrangements, and she saw John Temple, the new heir, arrive with jealous eyes. She admitted, however, that he was good-looking, “which makes it worse,” she mentally added. She saw also the squire receive him, and introduce him to the funeral guests as “my nephew,” with a certain sad emphasis on the words that Mrs. Layton fully understood.
All the gentlemen in the neighborhood had been invited, and nearly all arrived at the Hall to follow poor young Phillip Temple to his grave. The squire of Woodlea was universally respected, and the guests looked at his bowed gray head, and grasped his thin trembling hand with deep sympathy. It was a truly affecting sight as the slim coffin was borne into the churchyard followed by the childless old man. As on the day of the poor lad’s death the sun was shining brightly, and in the pretty spot where they laid him, green trees were dappling the green grass.
Groups of the villagers stood around to watch the sad procession, and talk of the dead boy. They had all known him; he had grown up in their midst, and the tragic accident that had ended in his death had occurred in a field close to the churchyard.
John Temple stood by his uncle’s side during the service, and he noticed just at its close a girl dressed in white, and wearing white ribbons, step forward and approach the open grave.
She was carrying a large white wreath, and her eyes were full of tears, and she hesitated as if she did not like to go through the group of mourners around the grave. She was close to John Temple, and he turned round and addressed her.
“Do you wish to place that wreath in the grave?” he said, kindly.
“Yes, but I—” faltered the girl.
“Shall I place it for you?” asked John Temple.
“Oh, thank you, if you would,” she answered, gratefully.
He took it from her hands, and laid it gently and reverently on his young cousin’s coffin. There were many other flowers, and as John Temple placed hers, the girl took courage and went up close to the grave and looked in.
“He was so fond of flowers,” she said in a low tone, and her tears fell fast.
“Poor boy,” answered John Temple, and then he looked at the girl and wondered who she was.
But the service was over and the mourners turned away, and John went with them. He glanced back and saw that the girl in the white frock was still standing by the grave. Others, too, had now approached it; gone to take a last look at the young heir.
The funeral guests did not return to the Hall, except John Temple, who drove there with his uncle. The squire was deeply affected, and John not unmoved.
“He—he was everything to me,” faltered the squire.
“I feel the deepest sympathy for you,” answered John Temple, and his words were actually true.
It was a short but dreary drive, and when they reached the Hall the squire asked John Temple to excuse him until dinner time.
“I feel I am unfit company for anyone,” he said, “but make yourself quite at home in the house that will be yours some day,” he added, with melancholy truth.
Thus John was at liberty to pass the time as best he could. He went to the Hall door, and looked out on the green park. It was a tempting vista. His uncle’s words not unnaturally recurred to his mind. So this was his inheritance; this wide wooded domain, this stately mansion house. The son of a younger son, he had been brought up in a very modest home, and he remembered it at this moment. It was certainly a great change, and John Temple thought of it more than once as he walked straight across the park, and finally reached a long country lane scented with meadow-sweet, and its hedges starred with the wild rose.
Temple lit a cigarette, and sat down on a rustic stile. The whole scene was so rural it half-amused John. The hayfield near; the cows standing in another field beneath some trees for shelter from the sun; the distant gurgle of a brook.
“It only wants the pretty milkmaid,” thought John, with a smile.
This idea had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw advancing down the lane the same girl in the white frock that he had seen by his young cousin’s grave. She was gathering the roses from the hedge rows, and placing them in a small basket whenever she saw one that struck her fancy. She was intent on her task, and never saw Temple seated on his stile until she was quite close to him. Thus, he had an opportunity of watching her, as she stretched out her hands to pluck the flowers.
It was a charming face, fresh, young, and beautiful, and Temple was half sorry when, with a little start and a blush, she perceived how near she was to him. He rose and raised his hat, and the girl looked at him half-shyly, and then addressed him.
“You are the gentleman, are you not,” she said, “who so kindly placed my wreath in dear Phil Temple’s grave?”
“Yes,” answered John Temple, “it was very kind of you to bring one.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl, quickly, “we knew him so well, you know. He was the dearest boy, and—and his death was so dreadfully sad.”
“Most sad, indeed; I am truly sorry for his poor father.”
“Oh! it is terrible; terrible for every boy that was playing in the field.”
“How did it happen?” asked Temple.
“They were running after the ball, all the boys at Mr. Carson’s school, and Phil, they think, fell, and there was a rush of boys, and someone must have struck his head with his foot. No one will say they did, but some one must. My young brother was playing, but no one seems to be able to say how it happened. But he never spoke again; he was unconscious from the first.”
“It must have cast quite a gloom over the neighborhood.”
“It has been dreadful for everyone; everyone loved him, and to think now—”
“Well, his sufferings are over.”
The girl raised her beautiful eyes with a look of surprise to John Temple’s face.
“But life is not suffering,” she said. “His life was all brightness—but you did not know him?”
“Yes, I did, slightly; he was a fine boy, and I was very sorry indeed to hear of his death. I am his cousin, John Temple.”
“I did not know; I heard the squire’s nephew was coming—but of course I did not know—”
“And you? Do you live near here?”
“Yes, at Woodside Farm; that white house there, yonder in the fields.”
She pointed as she spoke to a long, low house standing some half a mile distant. As she did so John Temple looked again at her lovely face. Never in all his wanderings, he was telling himself, had he seen one half so fair. The coloring and features were alike perfect. Perhaps his gaze was too steadfast, for she dropped her eyes and suddenly turned away.
“I must be going now,” she said; “I came to get those roses to make another wreath—good-morning.” And she bowed and turned away.
Her manner was so simple and dignified that John Temple felt it would be a liberty to follow her, or try to detain her. Therefore he turned his footsteps once more in the direction of the Hall, and on his way thither he encountered Mr. Layton, the vicar of Woodlea, who had read the service over poor young Phillip’s grave.
The vicar had noticed John Temple among the mourners; he was a connection of the family, and he stopped.
“I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Temple?” he said.
“Yes,” answered John, touching his hat.
“I am the vicar here; my daughter married your uncle. Ah—this has been a sad affair.”