John Halifax [67]
like their meals best under a decent roof-tree. I should not wonder if this were not one of Mr. March's vagaries."
"Don't say vagaries--he is an old man."
"Don't be reproachful--I shall say nought against him. Indeed, I have no opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the house."
Sure enough they were--Miss March helping her father across the uneven bit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely at that gate we all four met.
"'Tis useless to escape them," whispered I to John.
"I do not wish--why should I?" he answered, and held the gate open for the father and daughter to go through. She looked up and acknowledged him, smiling. I thought that smile and his courteous, but far less frank, response to it, would have been all the greeting; but no! Mr. March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened up. He stopped.
"Mr. Halifax, I believe?"
John bowed.
They stood a moment looking at one another; the tall, stalwart young man, so graceful and free in bearing, and the old man, languid, sickly, prematurely broken down.
"Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I detected something more than curiosity--something of the lingering pensiveness with which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John--as if the lad reminded him of some one he knew. "Sir, I have to thank you--"
"Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are better to-day?"
Mr. March assented: but John's countenance apparently interested him so much that he forgot his usual complainings. "My daughter tells me you are our neighbours--I am happy to have such friendly ones. My dear," in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, "I think your poor brother Walter would have grown up extremely like Mr.--Mr.--"
"Mr. Halifax, papa."
"Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there--my daughter's suggestion--she is so fond of rurality. Will you give us the pleasure of your company? You and"--here, I must confess, the second invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's--"your friend."
Of course we assented: I considerably amused, and not ill-pleased, to see how naturally it fell out that when John appeared in the scene, I, Phineas, subsided into the secondary character of John's "friend."
Very soon--so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure out of the Arabian Nights--we found ourselves established under the apple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into red chestnut colour the hair of the "nut-browne mayde," as she sat, bareheaded, pouring into small white china cups that dainty luxury, tea. She had on--not the grey gown, but a white one, worked in delicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew in such clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they were still growing, in her fair maiden bosom.
She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our domains for her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather incoherent answer from John about being "quite welcome."
He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there. It struck me as strange, that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind, to me than to him. Also, I noted, that while she chatted gaily with me, John almost entirely confined his talk to her father.
But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to every word that was said. I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was once unloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not that he was one of your showy conversationalists; language was with him neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for thought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his ideas were clothed. His conversation was never wearisome, since he only spoke when he had something to say; and having said it, in the most concise and appropriate manner that suggested itself at the time, he was silent; and silence is a great and rare virtue at twenty years of
"Don't say vagaries--he is an old man."
"Don't be reproachful--I shall say nought against him. Indeed, I have no opportunity, for there they both are coming hither from the house."
Sure enough they were--Miss March helping her father across the uneven bit of common to the gate which led to the field. Precisely at that gate we all four met.
"'Tis useless to escape them," whispered I to John.
"I do not wish--why should I?" he answered, and held the gate open for the father and daughter to go through. She looked up and acknowledged him, smiling. I thought that smile and his courteous, but far less frank, response to it, would have been all the greeting; but no! Mr. March's dull perceptions had somehow been brightened up. He stopped.
"Mr. Halifax, I believe?"
John bowed.
They stood a moment looking at one another; the tall, stalwart young man, so graceful and free in bearing, and the old man, languid, sickly, prematurely broken down.
"Sir," said the elder, and in his fixed gaze I fancied I detected something more than curiosity--something of the lingering pensiveness with which, years ago, he had turned back to look at John--as if the lad reminded him of some one he knew. "Sir, I have to thank you--"
"Indeed, no thanks are needed. I sincerely hope you are better to-day?"
Mr. March assented: but John's countenance apparently interested him so much that he forgot his usual complainings. "My daughter tells me you are our neighbours--I am happy to have such friendly ones. My dear," in a half audible, pensive whisper to her, "I think your poor brother Walter would have grown up extremely like Mr.--Mr.--"
"Mr. Halifax, papa."
"Mr. Halifax, we are going to take tea under the trees there--my daughter's suggestion--she is so fond of rurality. Will you give us the pleasure of your company? You and"--here, I must confess, the second invitation came in reply to a glance of Miss March's--"your friend."
Of course we assented: I considerably amused, and not ill-pleased, to see how naturally it fell out that when John appeared in the scene, I, Phineas, subsided into the secondary character of John's "friend."
Very soon--so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure out of the Arabian Nights--we found ourselves established under the apple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into red chestnut colour the hair of the "nut-browne mayde," as she sat, bareheaded, pouring into small white china cups that dainty luxury, tea. She had on--not the grey gown, but a white one, worked in delicate muslin. A bunch of those small pinky-white roses that grew in such clusters about our parlour window nestled, almost as if they were still growing, in her fair maiden bosom.
She apologized for little Jack's having "stolen" them from our domains for her--lucky Jack! and received some brief and rather incoherent answer from John about being "quite welcome."
He sat opposite her--I by her side--she had placed me there. It struck me as strange, that though her manner to us both was thoroughly frank and kind, it was a shade more frank, more kind, to me than to him. Also, I noted, that while she chatted gaily with me, John almost entirely confined his talk to her father.
But the young lady listened--ay, undoubtedly she listened--to every word that was said. I did not wonder at it: when his tongue was once unloosed few people could talk better than John Halifax. Not that he was one of your showy conversationalists; language was with him neither a science, an art, nor an accomplishment, but a mere vehicle for thought; the garb, always chosen as simplest and fittest, in which his ideas were clothed. His conversation was never wearisome, since he only spoke when he had something to say; and having said it, in the most concise and appropriate manner that suggested itself at the time, he was silent; and silence is a great and rare virtue at twenty years of