I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door where John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certain embarrassment.

“What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any way?”

“Indeed, no.”

“Why did he go away?”

But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put, involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it; while, at the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises or prevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and very frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly:

“I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer telling you himself.”

“As he pleases,” returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in her usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods and about Norton Bury. I answered them freely—my only reservation being, that I took care not to give any information concerning ourselves.

Soon afterwards, as John did not return, I took leave of her, and went to our own parlour.

He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who met him on the common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return till dinner-time. Dinner-time came, but I had to dine alone. It was the first time I ever knew him break even such a trivial promise. My heart misgave me—I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search of him, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlour. Better, when he did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth and—me.

Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years better than anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? Fate had taken the sceptre out of my hands—I was utterly powerless; I could neither give him comfort nor save him pain any more.

What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has felt likewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over a brother, many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Let those who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot; let those who win hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt the new bond cruelly in the face of the old.

Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as right to say, I will no more allude to the subject.

In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach-and-four, resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door; I knew it well, and so did all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady Caroline’s own maid—so I heard afterwards—sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline’s own black-eyed Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concluded was for Miss March.

I was glad that John was not at home; glad that the coach, with all its fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before John came in.

He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long fingers stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. At first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen shining ever so far.

“What a bright blaze!— Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope?— Tea—yes, that’s far better; I have had such a long walk, and am so tired.”

The words were cheerful, so was the tone. TOO cheerful—oh, by far! The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend’s heart, like the piping of soldiers as they go away back from a newly-filled grave.

“Where have you been, John?”

“All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there—such expansive views. As Mrs. Tod informed me, quoting some local ballad, which she said was written by an uncle of hers:

“‘There you may spy

Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.’

Remarkable fact, isn’t it?”

Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly talking. It was enough to make one weep.

After tea I insisted on his taking my arm-chair; saying, that after such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold.

“Not the least—quite the contrary—feel my hand.” It was burning. “But I am tired—thoroughly tired.”

He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weariness of body and soul that was written on his face!

“Why did you go out alone? John, you know that you have always me.”

He looked up, smiling. But the momentary brightness passed. Alas! I was not enough to make him happy now.

We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time; but the gates of his heart were close locked. It seemed as if he dared not open them, lest the flood should burst forth and overwhelm us.

At nine o’clock Mrs. Tod came in with supper. She had always something or other to say, especially since the late events had drawn the whole household of Rose Cottage so closely together; now, she was brim-full of news.

She had been all that evening packing up for poor dear Miss March; though why she should call her “poor,” truly, she didn’t know. Who would have thought Mr. March had such grand relations? Had we seen Lady Caroline Brithwood’s coach that came that day? Such a beautiful coach it was!—sent on purpose for Miss March—only she wouldn’t go. “But now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She is leaving tomorrow.”

When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, to fasten the heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the bolt, motionless, till the good woman was gone. Then he staggered to the mantelpiece, and leaned on it with both his elbows, his hands covering his face.

But there was no disguise now—no attempt to make it. A young man’s first love—not first fancy, but first love—in all its passion, desperation, and pain—had come to him, as it comes to all. I saw him writhing under it—saw, and could not help him. The next few silent minutes were very bitter to us both.

Then I said gently, “David!”

“Well?”

“I thought things were so.”

“Yes.”

“Suppose you were to talk to me a little—it might do you good.”

“Another time. Let me go out—out into the air; I’m choking.”

Snatching up his hat, he rushed from me. I did not dare to follow.

After waiting some time, and listening till all was quiet in the house, I could bear the suspense no longer and went out.

I thought I should find him on the Flat—probably in his favourite walk, his “terrace,” as he called it, where he had first seen, and must have seen many a day after, that girlish figure tripping lightly along through the morning sunshine and morning dew. I had a sort of instinct that he would be there now; so I climbed up the shortest way, often losing my footing; for it was a pitch-dark night, and the common looked as wide, and black, and still, as a midnight sea.

John was not there; indeed, if he had been I could scarcely have seen him; I could see nothing but the void expanse of the Flat, or, looking down, the broad river of mist that rolled through the valley, on the other side of which twinkled a few cottage lights, like unearthly beacons from the farthest shore of an impassable flood.

Suddenly I remembered hearing Mrs. Tod say that, on account of its pits and quarries, the common was extremely dangerous after dark, except to those who knew it well. In a horrible dread I called out John’s name—but nothing answered. I went on blindly, desperately shouting as I went. At length, in one of the Roman fosses, I stumbled and fell. Some one came, darting with great leaps through the mist, and lifted me up.

“Oh! David—David!”

“Phineas—is that you? You have come out this bitter night—why did you?”

His tenderness over me, even then, made me break down. I forgot my manhood, or else it slipped from me unawares. In the old Bible language, “I fell on his neck and wept.”

Afterwards I was not sorry for this, because I think my weakness gave him strength. I think, amidst the whirl of passion that racked him it was good for him to feel that the one crowning cup of life is not inevitably life’s sole sustenance; that it was something to have a friend and brother who loved him with a love—like Jonathan’s—“passing the love of women.”

“I have been very wrong,” he kept repeating, in a broken voice; “but I was not myself. I am better now. Come—let us go home.”

He put his arm round me to keep me warm, and brought me safely into the house. He even sat down by the fire to talk with me. Whatever struggle there had been, I saw it was over, he looked his own self—only so very, very pale—and spoke in his natural voice; ay, even when mentioning HER, which he was the first to do.

“She goes tomorrow, you are sure, Phineas?”

“I believe so. Shall you see her again?”

“If she desires it.”

“Shall you say anything to her?”

“Nothing. If for a little while—not knowing or not thinking of all the truth—I felt I had strength to remove all impediments, I now see that even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse—a knave. I will be neither—I will be a man.”

I replied not: how could one answer such words?—calmly uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his heart.

“Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly this morning?”

“She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself.”

“I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth—save one thing. She need never know that.”

I guessed by his broken voice what the “one thing” was;—which he counted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would have counted worth everything—the priceless gift of a good man’s love. Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a lifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry—ay, even sorry for Ursula March.

“Do you not think I am right, Phineas?”

“Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge.”

“It is right,” said he, firmly. “There can be no possible hope for me; nothing remains but silence.”

I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young man, only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love could be absolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John Halifax. But as things now stood I deemed it best to leave him altogether to himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through HIS will, would happen: for me to interfere either way would be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some sense, exceedingly wrong.

So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence.

John broke it—talking to himself as if he had forgotten I was by.

“To think it was she who did it—that first kindness to a poor friendless boy. I never forgot it—never. It did me more good than I can tell. And that scar on her poor arm—her dear little tender arm;—how this morning I would have given all the world............