LITMIR.BIZ

      A week slipped by. We had grown familiar with Enderley Hill — at least I had. As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, being absent five days out of the seven; riding away when the morning sun had slid down to the boles of my four poplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out over their heads at night. It was hard for him; but he bore the disappointment well.

      With me one day went by just like another. In the mornings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, and there lay a little under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny shelter, watching the ants running in and out of the numerous ant-hills there; or else I turned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywhere hereabouts; for the common, so far from being barren, was a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare flowers. Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty and variety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate for a full hour.

      My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the Enderley villagers, or the Tod children, who were a grade above these, and decidedly “respectable,” would appear and have a game of play at the foot of the slope, their laughter rising up to where I lay. Or some old woman would come with her pails to the spring below, a curious and very old stone well, to which the cattle from the common often rushed down past me in bevies, and stood knee-deep, their mouths making glancing circles in the water as they drank.

      Being out of doors almost all day, I saw very little of the inhabitants of our cottage. Once or twice a lady and gentleman passed, creeping at the foot of the slope so slowly, that I felt sure it must be Mr. March and his daughter. He was tall, with grey hair; I was not near enough to distinguish his features. She walked on the further side, supporting him with her arm. Her comfortable morning hood was put off, and she had on her head that ugly, stiff thing which ladies had lately taken to wearing, and which, Jael said, was called a “bonnet.”

      Except on these two occasions, I had no opportunity of making any observations on the manners and customs of our neighbours. Occasionally Mrs. Tod mentioned them in her social chatter, while laying the cloth; but it was always in the most cursory and trivial way, such as “Miss March having begged that the children might be kept quiet — Mrs. Tod hoped their noise didn’t disturb ME? but Mr. March was such a very fidgety gentleman — so particular in his dress, too — Why, Miss March had to iron his cravats with her own hands. Besides, if there was a pin awry in her dress he did make such a fuss — and, really, such an active, busy young lady couldn’t look always as if she came trim out of a band-box. Mr. March wanted so much waiting on, he seemed to fancy he still had his big house in Wales, and his seven servants.”

      Mrs. Tod conversed as if she took it for granted I was fully acquainted with all the prior history of her inmates, or any others that she mentioned — a habit peculiar to Enderley folk with strangers. It was generally rather convenient, and it saved much listening; but in this case, I would rather have had it broken through. Sometimes I felt strongly inclined to question her; but on consulting John, he gave his veto so decidedly against seeking out people’s private affairs in such an illicit manner that I felt quite guilty, and began to doubt whether my sickly, useless, dreaming life, was not inclining me to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are accustomed — I know not why — to insult the other sex by describing as “womanish.”

      As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct, so that we could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbours, save upon the neutral ground of Mrs. Tod’s kitchen; where, however I might have felt inclined to venture, John’s prohibition stopped me entirely.

      Thus — save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on his mare’s back, and led me far away, over common, and valley, and hill, for miles, only coming back at twilight — save those two blithe days, I spent the week in dignified solitude, and was very thankful for Sunday.

      We determined to make it a long, lovely, country Sunday; so we began it at six a.m. John took me a new walk across the common, where — he said, in answer to my question — we were quite certain NOT to meet Miss March.

      “Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calculate her paths with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know you have been out most mornings?”

      “Morning is the only time I have for walking, you know, Phineas.”

      “Ah, true! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I almost wish we could go home.”

      “Don’t think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home.”

      I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest; that whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was the one uppermost in his mind.

      “Well, we’ll stay — that is, if you are happy, John.”

      “Thoroughly happy; I like the dashing rides to Norton Bury. Above all, I like coming back. The minute I begin to climb Enderley Hill, the tan-yard, and all belonging to it, drops off like an incubus, and I wake into free, beautiful life. Now, Phineas, confess; is not this common a lovely place, especially of a morning?”

      “Ay,” said I, smiling at his energy. “But you did not tell me whether you had met Miss March again.”

      “She has never once seen me.”

      “But you have seen her? Answer honestly.”

      “Why should I not? — Yes, I have seen her — once or twice or so — but never in any way that could annoy her.”

      “That explains why you have become so well acquainted with the direction of her walks?”

      He coloured deeply. “I hope, Phineas, you do not think that — that in any way I should intrude on or offend a lady?”

      “Nay, don’t take it so seriously — indeed, I meant nothing of the kind. It would be quite natural if a young man like you did use some pains to look at such a ‘cunning piece of Nature’s handiwork’ as that apple-cheeked girl of seventeen.”

      “Russet apple. She is brown, you know — a real ‘nut-brown mayde,’” said John, recovering his gay humour. “Certainly, I like to look at her. I have seen many a face that was more good-looking — never one that looked half so good.”

      “Sententious that;” yet I could not smile — he spoke with such earnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would have walked half-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why not he?

      “But, John, you never told me that you had seen her again!”

      “Because you never asked me.”

      We were silent. Silent until we had walked along the whole length of a Roman encampment, the most perfect of the various fosses that seamed the flat — tokens of many a battle fought on such capital battleground, and which John had this morning especially brought me to look at.

      “Yes,” I said at last, putting the ending affirmative to a long train of thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments; “yes, it is quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quite natural, and not unlikely either, if she —”

      “Pshaw!” interrupted he. “What nonsense you are talking! Impossible!” and setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, he kicked it down into the ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had fallen before it in ages gone by.

      The impetuous gesture — the energetic “impossible,” struck me less than the quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressed thought — carrying it to a greater length than I myself had ever contemplated.

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