we strolled about together,
that underneath this stack had been her hermitage, her sanctuary, when
she was a child; how she used to bring her book to study there, or her
work, when she was not wanted in the house; and she had now evidently
gone back to this quiet retreat of her childhood, forgetful of the clue
given me by her footmarks on the new-fallen snow. The stack was built
up very high; but through the interstices of the sticks I could see her
figure, although I did not all at once perceive how I could get to her.
She was sitting on a log of wood, Rover by her. She had laid her cheek
on Rover's head, and had her arm round his neck, partly for a pillow,
partly from an instinctive craving for warmth on that bitter cold day.
She was making a low moan, like an animal in pain, or perhaps more like
the sobbing of the wind. Rover, highly flattered by her caress, and
also, perhaps, touched by sympathy, was flapping his heavy tail against
the ground, but not otherwise moving a hair, until he heard my approach
with his quick erected ears. Then, with a short, abrupt bark of
distrust, he sprang up as if to leave his mistress. Both he and I were
immovably still for a moment. I was not sure if what I longed to do was
wise: and yet I could not bear to see the sweet serenity of my dear
cousin's life so disturbed by a suffering which I thought I could
assuage. But Rover's ears were sharper than my breathing was noiseless:
he heard me, and sprang out from under Phillis's restraining hand.
'Oh, Rover, don't you leave me, too,' she plained out.
'Phillis!' said I, seeing by Rover's exit that the entrance to where
she sate was to be found on the other side of the stack. 'Phillis, come
out! You have got a cold already; and it is not fit for you to sit
there on such a day as this. You know how displeased and anxious it
would make them all.'
She sighed, but obeyed; stooping a little, she came out, and stood
upright, opposite to me in the lonely, leafless orchard. Her face
looked so meek and so sad that I felt as if I ought to beg her pardon
for my necessarily authoritative words.
'Sometimes I feel the house so close,' she said; 'and I used to sit
under the wood-stack when I was a child. It was very kind of you, but
there was no need to come after me. I don't catch cold easily.'
'Come with me into this cow-house, Phillis. I have got something to say
to you; and I can't stand this cold, if you can.
I think she would have fain run away again; but her fit of energy was
all spent. She followed me unwillingly enough that I could see. The
place to which I took her was full of the fragrant breath of the cows,
and was a little warmer than the outer air. I put her inside, and stood
myself in the doorway, thinking how I could best begin. At last I
plunged into it.
'I must see that you don't get cold for more reasons than one; if you
are ill, Holdsworth will be so anxious and miserable out there' (by
which I meant Canada)—
She shot one penetrating look at me, and then turned her face away with
a slightly impatient movement. If she could have run away then she
would, but I held the means of exit in my own power. 'In for a penny,
in for a pound,' thought I, and I went on rapidly, anyhow.
'He talked so much about you, just before he left—that night after he
had been here, you know—and you had given him those flowers.' She put
her hands up to hide her face, but she was listening now—listening
with all her ears. 'He had never spoken much about you before, but the
sudden going away unlocked his heart, and he told me how he loved you,
and how he hoped on his return that you might be his wife.'
'Don't,' said she, almost gasping out the word, which she had tried
once or twice before to speak; but her voice had been choked. Now she
put her hand backwards; she had quite turned away from me, and felt for
mine. She gave it a soft lingering pressure; and then she put her arms
down on the wooden division, and laid her head on it, and cried quiet
tears. I
that underneath this stack had been her hermitage, her sanctuary, when
she was a child; how she used to bring her book to study there, or her
work, when she was not wanted in the house; and she had now evidently
gone back to this quiet retreat of her childhood, forgetful of the clue
given me by her footmarks on the new-fallen snow. The stack was built
up very high; but through the interstices of the sticks I could see her
figure, although I did not all at once perceive how I could get to her.
She was sitting on a log of wood, Rover by her. She had laid her cheek
on Rover's head, and had her arm round his neck, partly for a pillow,
partly from an instinctive craving for warmth on that bitter cold day.
She was making a low moan, like an animal in pain, or perhaps more like
the sobbing of the wind. Rover, highly flattered by her caress, and
also, perhaps, touched by sympathy, was flapping his heavy tail against
the ground, but not otherwise moving a hair, until he heard my approach
with his quick erected ears. Then, with a short, abrupt bark of
distrust, he sprang up as if to leave his mistress. Both he and I were
immovably still for a moment. I was not sure if what I longed to do was
wise: and yet I could not bear to see the sweet serenity of my dear
cousin's life so disturbed by a suffering which I thought I could
assuage. But Rover's ears were sharper than my breathing was noiseless:
he heard me, and sprang out from under Phillis's restraining hand.
'Oh, Rover, don't you leave me, too,' she plained out.
'Phillis!' said I, seeing by Rover's exit that the entrance to where
she sate was to be found on the other side of the stack. 'Phillis, come
out! You have got a cold already; and it is not fit for you to sit
there on such a day as this. You know how displeased and anxious it
would make them all.'
She sighed, but obeyed; stooping a little, she came out, and stood
upright, opposite to me in the lonely, leafless orchard. Her face
looked so meek and so sad that I felt as if I ought to beg her pardon
for my necessarily authoritative words.
'Sometimes I feel the house so close,' she said; 'and I used to sit
under the wood-stack when I was a child. It was very kind of you, but
there was no need to come after me. I don't catch cold easily.'
'Come with me into this cow-house, Phillis. I have got something to say
to you; and I can't stand this cold, if you can.
I think she would have fain run away again; but her fit of energy was
all spent. She followed me unwillingly enough that I could see. The
place to which I took her was full of the fragrant breath of the cows,
and was a little warmer than the outer air. I put her inside, and stood
myself in the doorway, thinking how I could best begin. At last I
plunged into it.
'I must see that you don't get cold for more reasons than one; if you
are ill, Holdsworth will be so anxious and miserable out there' (by
which I meant Canada)—
She shot one penetrating look at me, and then turned her face away with
a slightly impatient movement. If she could have run away then she
would, but I held the means of exit in my own power. 'In for a penny,
in for a pound,' thought I, and I went on rapidly, anyhow.
'He talked so much about you, just before he left—that night after he
had been here, you know—and you had given him those flowers.' She put
her hands up to hide her face, but she was listening now—listening
with all her ears. 'He had never spoken much about you before, but the
sudden going away unlocked his heart, and he told me how he loved you,
and how he hoped on his return that you might be his wife.'
'Don't,' said she, almost gasping out the word, which she had tried
once or twice before to speak; but her voice had been choked. Now she
put her hand backwards; she had quite turned away from me, and felt for
mine. She gave it a soft lingering pressure; and then she put her arms
down on the wooden division, and laid her head on it, and cried quiet
tears. I
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