A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
that is our village beauty,” he said; “they call her the Mayflower.”
CHAPTER III.
A SAD FLIRT.
John Temple was too much interested on the subject to be content with such crude information.
“The Mayflower,” he repeated, smiling. “What a pretty name for a pretty girl! But I suppose that is not her real name?”
“No, her real name, for I christened her, and so should know, is Margaret Alice Churchill, but she was born in May, and that is how she got her pet name, I suppose.”
“She has a lovely face.”
“Yes, yes, she is well-favored, and is a good girl, too, I believe—a very good girl. They say young Henderson, of the Grange, wants to marry her, but this may be just gossip.”
“And who is he?”
“Oh, he’s a well-to-do young man, very well-to-do. His father died about a year ago, and he came into the family property. It’s not a large estate, but a snug bit of land, and the old man had saved money.”
“Quite an eligible young man then,” said John Temple, a little mockingly.
“Yes, Miss Margaret might do worse. And he’s a nice lad, too; fond of sport and that kind of thing. But you’ll be meeting him, for I suppose now we will often see you at the Hall?”
Mr. Layton looked at John Temple with slight curiosity in his mild face as he said this, for he was remembering the lecture his wife had given him on the subject of the Hall.
“I do not know, I am sure,” answered John; “of course nothing has been said yet on any such subject.”
“Still, Mr. Temple, you are the direct heir, you know, to the squire after poor young Phil is gone. I always understood the Woodlea property was strictly entailed by the squire’s father, on the surviving children of his sons, and you are now the only surviving child, I believe?”
“I believe there was some such arrangement,” said John, rather repressively. He considered it too soon to speak of heirs or heirships, and he was getting rather tired also of the vicar’s company.
“I think I must be going on my way,” he added; “good-day, Mr. Layton,” and he touched his hat.
But the vicar was somewhat loth to be shaken off.
“We will meet again at dinner-time; the squire has asked me to dinner; it’s a sad occasion, but these things must be.”
It was not only a sad occasion, but a very tiresome occasion, John thought, some hours later, when he did meet the vicar again at the squire’s table. And not only the vicar, but Mrs. Layton also, who dined unasked at the Hall. She had indeed spent the day there, and was not a woman to know there was a meal going on in her son-in-law’s house without joining it. She, therefore, took her daughter’s place at the head of the table, also unasked, and talked a good deal to John Temple.
She was a brisk little woman, with a small thin face, and a sharp tongue. She might have been pretty once perhaps, when her eyes were not so hard, if that ever had been. Now she was certainly not pretty, nor sweet with any womanly grace. She had an eager, watchful look, as though always on the alert. She was watching John Temple, as she sat at the squire’s table, and talked to him; watching and speculating as to what he would do after the squire was gone.
“How is Mrs. Temple?” asked John, in a low tone, while the vicar was prosing on to the poor squire.
“Poor dear, what can I say?” answered Mrs. Layton; “she was wrapped up in him; yes, wrapped up. I consider it wrong myself, Mr. Temple, to make an idol of anything; all may go, all may go! My dear squire, may I trouble you for a little more of that salmon? It’s delicious.”
Mrs. Layton got her salmon, and ate her green peas with relish, and all the time went on enlarging about her daughter’s grief. She also tried to extract some information from John as to his past life, but here she signally failed. John was reticent and repressive, and probably, as she remarked afterward to her husband, “he had good reason to be.”
“And the vicar tells me you met Margaret Churchill to-day,” she said, presently. “Well, she’s a pretty girl, but I fear a sad flirt, a very sad flirt.”
“Pretty girls often get that character,” answered John, “because men naturally admire them.”
Mrs. Layton shook her head.
“But Margaret really goes too far,” she said. “Now there’s young Henderson of Stourton Grange, an excellent match for her, and far beyond what she might expect. Yet after letting him run after her for months, and encouraging him in every way, I’m told she’s actually refused him.”
“She may not like him.”
“But then why did she seem to like him, Mr. Temple? Her encouragement was marked, positively marked. And then there’s our curate, Mr. Goodall—certainly he is not much in anyway, and has nothing to offer her, but still she flirts with him. I consider it unwomanly, degrading in fact, to make so little of herself as to take up with everyone, yet this is what Margaret Churchill does.”
“You are very hard on the pretty Mayflower.”
“Yes, now look at that—Mayflower indeed! Such an absurd name. And I’m told she always likes to be called May, but I make a point of addressing her always as Margaret, the name she was christened by.”
“If ever I have the privilege I shall call her Miss May.”
“It’s a privilege you will share with a good many young men, I’m afraid, Mr. Temple. Yes, Margaret Churchill, to my opinion, is a very indiscreet young woman.”
“She’s very handsome, at all events.”
“Yes, in a way; everything depends on taste, you know. James,” this was to the footman, “hand me the stewed chicken again. Try this entree, Mr. Temple; it’s excellent.”
John Temple was exceedingly glad when the dinner was over. Mrs. Layton wearied him to death. She went into small parish details and squabbles, and gave the minutest description of her wrongs.
“A clergyman’s wife has many trials, Mr. Temple, but I try to bear them, and it is such a poor parish, too. My husband and I have toiled here for over thirty-nine years, and we barely can live, and certainly the laborer is worthy of his hire.”
“Certainly,” said John, with a laugh.
“And talking of labor, I do not know what the working classes are coming to,” continued Mrs. Layton, with extraordinary rapidity; “I assure you, Mr. Temple, I can not get a man—just a common working man—to plant and dig my little bit of potato ground, under half a crown a day! I’ve tried a shilling, which I consider fair, eighteen pence, two shillings, all in vain. It’s absurd.”
Thus Mrs. Layton talked on, and then, after having taken two glasses of port wine, she finally withdrew, “to see after my poor dear,” she said, alluding to her daughter. After she was gone John asked leave to go out on the terrace to smoke, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself alone.
The terrace ran round one side of the house, and below it were the gardens. The haze of evening was lying over the glowing flower-beds, and the dew upon the grass. It was all so still; the drone of a late reveler returning from the flowers, the rustle of a bird’s wing among the trees, were the only sounds.
Up and down walked John, thinking of many things. “If this had only happened ten years ago,” he was reflecting; “happened when I was young.”
He did not look very old in the soft light, with the evening breeze stirring