A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
girl he had seen and admired in the country lane.
“So she is a little flirt, is she?” he thought, with a smile. “The pretty Mayflower.”
The name pleased him almost as much as the girl’s beauty had done. She reminded him of the roses he had seen her gather from the hedge. She was so fresh and sweet, he thought, and it amused him to hear of her lovers.
“Of course she has lovers—what girl worth looking at has not?—but I wonder if she has ever loved,” he reflected.
By and by he began thinking of another woman, and as he did so he frowned. He began to whistle to distract his thoughts, and then suddenly remembered how lately this had been the house of death. He felt sorry for the poor mother, with her fresh grief, upstairs; sorry for the gray-haired old man.
“I suppose I should go in and talk to him,” he said, and he did. He found the squire alone.
The vicar had gone home with his wife, and there was no one in the dining-room but the desolate old man.
John tried to talk to him, but he found it very difficult. When two lives have run in completely different grooves, the conversation is apt to be strained. The squire had always lived in the country, John Temple always in towns. They spoke a little on politics, and John easily perceived his uncle’s opinions were opposed to his own. But he did not intrude this on his attention, and it was a subject at least to converse on.
They parted on friendly terms for the night, and the next morning the squire called his nephew into the library, and spoke to him seriously of his change of position.
“It is only right that you should have an allowance out of the estates now, John,” he said, “when you will probably so soon inherit them.”
“Please do not speak of such a thing,” answered John, with an earnest ring in his voice which pleased the squire.
“I must both speak of it and think of it,” he said. “My poor boy’s death has been a great shock to me, and shocks at my age are not easily thrown off. I wish to feel to you, and treat you now as my heir, and I wish you to be quite open to me as regards your affairs. Like most young men I suppose you have debts?”
“No,” smiled John, “I have none.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered the squire, “though I was quite prepared to pay them if you had. I also propose to allow you one thousand a year out of the property, and I hope you will look on this house in the future as your home.”
“You are most kind and generous, uncle.”
“I am simply just; this house, you know, and the Woodlea property are entailed on you. I have other property which came to me through my first poor wife.” And here the squire sighed.
“But why speak of things which must be distressing to you so soon?”
“Things of this kind are always best settled—life is so uncertain—look at my dear boy.”
“That was a very exceptional case.”
“No doubt, but still I wish everything to be arranged between you and me. I am sorry we have not seen more of each other, but it is not too late. For the present you will stay on here, at least for a time?”
“If you wish it, yes.”
“I do wish it;” then the squire went into further business details, and John Temple knew that he would be a richer man some day than he had ever dreamed of. The squire had saved out of his large rental, and he had not been communicative to his wife’s family as to the real extent of his income. He disliked Mrs. Layton exceedingly, and was barely civil to her for his wife’s sake. If she had known the extent of his wealth her encroachments would have been even greater than they were, and Mr. Temple considered he had quite enough of Mrs. Layton as it was.
During this conversation the uncle and nephew were mutually pleased with each other. And after it was over John Temple went out for a stroll, and with a smile at his own folly, turned his footsteps in the direction of the country lane where he had met “the Mayflower.”
But no pretty girl was to be seen. The lane somehow looked very empty to John, though the roses were still blooming on the hedge-rows, and the meadow-sweet scenting the air. He therefore walked on and on. He saw a belt of trees in the distance, and he determined to walk until he reached them.
He found when he did so a wooded hillside with a gurgling streamlet at its foot. A rustic narrow bridge spanned the rivulet, and ferns grew on either side of it in great luxuriance. It was a pretty shady spot, with a winding dell on one side of the little bridge. Along this John Temple had proceeded a few yards when he caught a glimpse of something white beneath one of the trees. He looked again and saw it was a girl sitting on a camp-stool reading. He drew nearer; the girl heard his approaching footsteps, even on the mossy turf. She looked up. It was the Mayflower, and John Temple felt he had not had his walk in vain!
He stopped when he reached her, and took off his cloth traveling-cap.
“Forgive me addressing you, Miss Churchill,” he said, smilingly; “but I have lost my way.”
The Mayflower smiled, too.
“You are a long way from the Hall,” she said.
“I wanted a good walk, and now will you tell me where I am?”
“This place is called Fern Dene, and the wood beyond, up the hill there, is called Fern Wood. It is famous for its ferns, and there are some very rare kinds growing about here, and there are also some rare kinds of moths, but I never can bear to catch them.”
“No, it’s better to let them have their lives in peace.”
“Yes, and they look so beautiful fluttering about. But I admit I steal the ferns. This is part of the squire’s property, so you must not tell him.”
“You would doubtless be arrested as a poacher.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” laughed the Mayflower; “indeed, I think he knows. Dear Phil Temple,” and her expression changed, “often came here with me to help me to collect them, for I have a fernery at Woodside of which I am very proud.”
“I wonder if we could find some now?” asked John. “I know something about ferns, and can tell the rare ones.”
The Mayflower did not speak; in truth she was considering whether it would be quite proper for her to go fern hunting with a young man of whom she knew so little.
Perhaps John Temple saw, or thought he saw, the reason of her hesitation. He smiled; he looked in her bright fair face, and then he condescended to a subterfuge.
“I feel quite tired with my walk,” he said. “I wonder if you would think me rude or lazy if I were to sit down on the turf?”
Still the girl did not answer, but she smiled.
“May I?” asked John, emboldened by the smile.
“The turf is not mine, but the squire’s,” answered the Mayflower, still smiling; upon which John flung himself on the mossy grass not far from her feet.
“I call this luxury,” he said, stretching out his long limbs. “Fern Dene—so this is Fern Dene? Do you often come here, Miss Churchill?”
“Yes, very often; it’s a nice walk from home.”
“And you read here. May I ask what you were reading when I interrupted you?”
“A novel, of course,” answered the Mayflower, with a blush.
“Yes, of course; that is only natural.”
The Mayflower looked quickly down at the good-looking brown face raised to hers, as John Temple said this, for something in his tone made her think he was amusing himself at her expense.
“Yes, it is only natural,”