Many a time in our walks he and I had passed it,and stopped to listen to the drowsy fall of the miniature Niagara,or watch the incessant turning--turning of the great water-wheel.Little we thought he should ever own it,or that John would be pointing it out to his own boys,lecturing them on "undershot,"and "overshot,"as he used to lecture me.
It was sweet,though half-melancholy,to see Enderley again;to climb the steep meadows and narrow mule-paths,up which he used to help me so kindly.He could not now;he had his little daughter in his arms.
It had come,alas!to be a regular thing that Muriel should be carried up every slight ascent,and along every hard road.We paused half-way up on a low wall,where I had many a time rested,watching the sunset over Nunneley Hill--watching for John to come home.Every night--at least after Miss March went away--he usually found me sitting there.
He turned to me and smiled."Dost remember,lad?"at which appellation Guy widely stared.But,for a minute,how strangely it brought back old times,when there were neither wife nor children--only he and I!This seat on the wall,with its small twilight picture of the valley below the mill,and Nunneley heights,with that sentinel row of sun-set trees--was all mine--mine solely--for evermore.
"Enderley is just the same,Phineas.Twelve years have made no change--except in us."And he looked fondly at his wife,who stood a little way off,holding firmly on the wall,in a hazardous group,her three boys."I think the chorus and comment on all life might be included in two brief phrases given by our friend Shakspeare,one to Hamlet,the other to Othello:''Tis very strange,'and ''Tis better as it is.'""Ay,ay,"said I thoughtfully.Better as it was;better a thousand times.
I went to Mrs.Halifax,and helped her to describe the prospect to the inquisitive boys;finally coaxing the refractory Guy up the winding road,where,just as if it had been yesterday,stood my old friends,my four Lombardy poplars,three together and one apart.
Mrs.Tod descried us afar off and was waiting at the gate;a little stouter,a little rosier--that was all.In her delight,she so absolutely forgot herself as to address the mother as Miss March;at which long-unspoken name Ursula started,her colour went and came,and her eyes turned restlessly towards the church hard by.
"It is all right--Miss--Ma'am,I mean.Tod bears in mind Mr.
Halifax's orders,and has planted lots o'flower-roots and evergreens.""Yes,I know."
And when she had put all her little ones to bed--we,wondering where the mother was,went out towards the little churchyard,and found her quietly sitting there.
We were very happy at Enderley.Muriel brightened up before she had been there many days.She began to throw off her listlessness,and go about with me everywhere.It was the season she enjoyed most--the time of the singing of birds,and the springing of delicate-scented flowers.I myself never loved the beech-wood better than did our Muriel.She used continually to tell us this was the happiest spring she had ever had in her life.
John was much occupied now.He left his Norton Bury business under efficient care,and devoted himself almost wholly to the cloth-mill.
Early and late he was there.Very often Muriel and I followed him,and spent whole mornings in the mill meadows.Through them the stream on which the machinery depended was led by various contrivances,checked or increased in its flow,making small ponds,or locks,or waterfalls.We used to stay for hours listening to its murmur,to the sharp,strange cry of the swans that were kept there,and the twitter of the water-hen to her young among the reeds.Then the father would come to us and remain a few minutes--fondling Muriel,and telling me how things went on at the mill.
One morning,as we three sat there,on the brick-work of a little bridge,underneath an elm tree,round the roots of which the water made a pool so clear,that we could see a large pike lying like a black shadow,half-way down;John suddenly said:
"What is the matter with the stream?Do you notice,Phineas?""I have seen it gradually lowering--these two hours.I thought you were drawing off the water.""Nothing of the kind--I must look after it.Good-bye,my little daughter.Don't cling so fast;father will be back soon--and isn't this a sweet sunny place for a little maid to be lazy in?"His tone was gay,but he had an anxious look.He walked rapidly down the meadows,and went into his mill.Then I saw him retracing his steps,examining where the stream entered the bounds of his property.
Finally,he walked off towards the little town at the head of the valley--beyond which,buried in woods,lay Luxmore Hall.It was two hours more before we saw him again.
Then he came towards us,narrowly watching the stream.It had sunk more and more--the muddy bottom was showing plainly.
"Yes--that's it--it can be nothing else!I did not think he would have dared to do it.""Do what,John?Who?"
"Lord Luxmore."He spoke in the smothered tones of violent passion.
"Lord Luxmore has turned out of its course the stream that works my mill."I tried to urge that such an act was improbable;in fact,against the law.
"Not against the law of the great against the little.Besides,he gives a decent colouring--says he only wants the use of the stream three days a week,to make fountains at Luxmore Hall.But I see what it is--I have seen it coming a whole year.He is determined to ruin me!"John said this in much excitement.He hardly felt Muriel's tiny creeping hands.
"What does 'ruin'mean?Is anybody making father angry?""No,my sweet--not angry--only very,very miserable!"He snatched her up,and buried his head in her soft,childish bosom.
She kissed him and patted his hair.
"Never mind,dear father.You say nothing signifies,if we are only good.And father is always good.""I wish I were."
