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diff --git a/old/63202-8.txt b/old/63202-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 96401cb..0000000 --- a/old/63202-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17607 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Margaret Maliphant, by Alice Carr - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Margaret Maliphant - -Author: Alice Carr - -Release Date: September 14, 2020 [EBook #63202] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET MALIPHANT *** - - - - -Produced by Fay Dunn, Fiona Holmes and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by the babel.hathitrust.org. - - - - - - -Transcriber's Notes. - -Differences in hyphenation of specific words and missing punctuation -have been rectified where applicable. - -Other changes made are noted at the end of the book. - - - - -MARGARET MALIPHANT - -A Novel - -BY - -MRS. COMYNS CARR - -AUTHOR OF "PAUL CREW'S STORY" ETC. - -NEW YORK - -HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE - -1889 - - - - -PROLOGUE. - - -It is twilight upon the marsh: the land at the foot of the hill lies -a level of dim monotony, and even the sea beyond is lost in mystery. -In the middle of the plain one solitary homestead, with its clump of -trees, stands out just a little darker than anything else, and from -afar there comes to me the sound of the sea, sweetly lulling, as it has -come to me ever since I was a little child. A chill breeze creeps up -among the aspens on the cliff, and for a moment there steals over me -the sense of loneliness of ten years ago, and I seem to see once more -a tall, dark figure thread his way down among the trees, and disappear -forever onto the wide plain. But this is only for a moment; for as -I look, the past lies stretched, as the plain is stretched, before -me--vivid, yet distant as a dream. The white mill detaches itself upon -the dark hill-side, the cattle rest upon the quiet marsh; and still -the sound of the sea comes to me, tenderly murmuring, as it did when I -was a happy child, and tells me of a present that is wide and fair as, -above the lonely land, the coming night is blue and vast. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -My sister Joyce is older than I am. At the time of which I am thinking -she was twenty-one, and I was barely nineteen. We were the only -children of Farmer Maliphant of Knellestone Grange, in the county -of Sussex. The Maliphants were an old family. Their names were on -the oldest tombstones in the graveyard of the abbey, whose choir and -ruined transepts were all that was left standing of a splendid church -that had been the mother of a great monastery, and of many other -churches in the popish days, when our town was a feature in English -history. I am not sure that our family dated as far back as that. I -had read of knights in helmets and coats of mail skirmishing beneath -the city wall, of which there were still fragments standing, and -of gallant captains bringing the King's galleys to port in the bay -that had become marsh-land, and I hoped that there might have been -Maliphants too, riding up and down the hill under the gate-ways that -were now ivy-grown; but I am afraid that, even if the family had been -in existence at the time, they would only have been archers, shooting -their arrows from behind the turrets on the hill. - -At all events--to leave romancing alone--Maliphants had owned or rented -land upon the Udimore hills and the downs of Brede for more than three -hundred years, and it must have been nearly as long as that that they -had lived in the old stone house overlooking the Romney Marsh. For -almost all our land had been a manor of the old abbey, and had been -granted to my father's family at the dissolution of the monasteries -in 1540, and it was not much more than a century since the Maliphants -had been obliged to sell most of it to the ancestors of him who was -now squire at the big house. But they had never left the old home, -renting the land that they had once owned, and tilling the soil that -they had once been lords of. Our house was the oldest house in the -place, antiquaries testifying to the fact that it was built of the same -foreign stone that fashioned the walls of the old abbey; and our name -was the oldest name, a fact which my father, democrat as he was, never -really forgot. But we were not so well-to-do as we had once been, even -in the memory of living folk. - -Family portraits of ladies in scanty gowns and high waists, and of -gallants in ruffled shirts, made pleasant pictures in my fancy, -and there were whispered stories of kegs of spirits stored at dead -of night in the old cellars beneath the house in my grandfather's -time, and of mother's old Mechlin lace having been brought, at the -risk of bold lives, in the merry little fishing-smacks that defied -the revenue-cutters. But smuggling was a dead art in our time, and -respectable folk would have been ashamed to buy smuggled goods. We -lived the uneventful life of our neighbors, and were no longer the -great people that we had been even in my grandfather's time; for -farming was not now so lucrative. - -My sister Joyce was very handsome. I have not seen much of the world, -but I am sure that any one would have said so. She was tall, taller -than I am, and I am not short, and she was slight, and fair as a rose. -There was a sort of gentle Quaker-like dignity about Joyce which I have -never seen in one so young. She had it of our mother. Both women were -very tall, and both bore their height bravely. Sometimes, it is true, -when Joyce walked along the dark passages of the old Grange, her arms -full of sweet-scented linen, and bending her little head to pass under -the low door-ways, or when she made the jam in the kitchen, or pats -of butter in the dairy, she stooped just a little over her work; but -when--of a June evening--she would come across the lawn with her hands -full of guelder-roses and peonies for the parlor, no one could have -said that she was too tall, so erect and gracefully did she seem to -flit across the earth. - -Of course I did not consciously notice these things when I was -nineteen; but as I think of her again now, I can see that it was not -at all to be wondered at that the country-folk used to talk of Joyce -Maliphant as a poor slip of a thing, not fit to be a countryman's -wife. There was an over-sensitiveness about her--a sort of tremulous -reserve--that marked her as belonging to a different order of beings. -It was not that she was weak either in mind or in body. Joyce would -often surprise one by her sudden purposes; and as for fatigue, that -slender figure could work all day without being tired, and though the -cheek was as dainty as the petal of a flower, it had nothing frail -about it: it told of health, just as did the clearness of the blue eye -and the wealth of the rippling auburn hair. - -Joyce kept her complexion, partly because she was less out-of-doors -than I was; but if I had known that I could have had her lovely -skin instead of my own freckled face, I do not believe that I would -have changed with her. No doubt mother was right, and I might have -kept that--my one good point--if I had cared to. Red-haired people -generally do have fresh skins, and my hair is just about the color -of Virginia-creeper leaves in autumn, or of the copper kettle in the -sunlight. I was very much ashamed of it in those days. - -Luckily, I gave little heed to my appearance. I was quite content -to leave the monopoly of the family beauty to my sister, if I might -have freedom to scour the marsh-land with Taff, the big St. Bernard; -and so long as my father treated me like a boy, and let me help him -superintend the farm, he might banter as much as he liked about -"Margaret's gray eyes that looked a different color every day," and -even rail at me for heavy eyelids that didn't look a bit as if I led a -healthy out-door life. But I did: when there was neither washing nor -baking nor butter-making to help with, I was out-of-doors from morning -to night. When I was a child it was with Reuben Ruck the shepherd, and -his black collie Luck, who was the best sheep-dog in the country. - -Reuben taught me many things--where to find the forms of the hares upon -the marsh-land, the nests of the butcher-birds and yellow-hammers and -wheat-ears that were all peculiar to our home; he taught me to surprise -the purple herons upon the sands or by the dikes at eventide, to find -the pewits' eggs upon the shingle, to tame the squirrels in the Manor -woods, to catch gray mullet in the Channel, to spear eels in the dikes, -to know when every bird's brood came forth, to welcome the various -arrivals of the swifts and martins and swallows. - -At the time of which I write, Reuben had had to give up his shepherd's -duties, owing to ill health, and used to do odd jobs about the house -and garden; but he had bred the love of the country in me, and now it -was useless for mother to bemoan my wandering habits, or even for our -old nurse, Deborah, to take me to task for not caring more about the -home pursuits in which my sister so brilliantly excelled. Whatever -related to a bird or a beast I would attend to with alacrity; but as -for household duties, I only got them over as quickly as I could, that -I might the sooner be out in the air. I knew every hill's crest inland, -every headland out to sea, every shepherd's track across the marsh, -every plank across the channels. The shepherds and the coast-guards -were all my friends alike, and I think there was not one of them -who would not have braved danger rather than I should come to harm, -although I do not suppose that I ever exchanged more than six words' -conversation with any of them in all my life. Words were not necessary -between us. - -"Farmer Maliphant's little miss" had always been a favorite, and -"Farmer Maliphant's little miss" was always his youngest daughter. I -like to remember the title now; I like to remember that if Joyce was -mother's right hand in the house, I was father's companion in the -fields. I was very fond of father; I was very fond of any praise of -his. I did not get on so well with mother. I suppose daughters often do -not get on so well with their mothers. For though Joyce was a fresh, -neat, deft girl, just after mother's own heart, and I know that she -thought there was none to equal her, they never got on well together. -I was always fighting her battles. She was too gentle, or too proud--I -was never sure which--to fight them for herself. A cross word, only -spoken in the excitement of a domestic crisis--which meant worlds to a -woman to whom house-keeping was an art--would shut Joyce up in an armor -of reserve for days, and I often laughed at her even while I fought for -her. - -As for me, I used to think I could manage mother. I wish I had the dear -old days back again! It's little managing I would care to do. It came -to very little good. I believe that every quarrel I had for Joyce only -did her harm with mother; I was such a headstrong girl that it took a -deal to set me down, and I am afraid that she got some of the thrusts -that were meant for me in consequence. - -One of the special, though tacit, subjects of difference between -mother and myself was upon the choice of a husband for my sister. I -quite agreed with the country-folk, that she was not suited to be a -countryman's wife, but I did not agree with mother's idea of a suitable -husband for her. - -Mother was a very ambitious woman. She wanted us to rise in the world; -she wanted us to hold once more something of the position she knew the -family had once held. She was not a highly educated woman herself, but -she was a shrewd woman. She had had us educated to the best of her -abilities, a little better than other farmers' daughters; if she had -had her way, she would have sent me, as the cleverer, to school in -London. But father would have none of it. He never denied her a whim -for herself, but he did not hold with boarding-school learning. - -I was left to finish my education by living my life. But mother was -none the less ambitious for us, and being an old-fashioned woman, her -ambition aspired to good marriages for us. And I--foolish girl that I -was--chose to think that the particular man whom she hoped that Joyce's -beauty would secure was a very commonplace lover, and not at all worthy -of her. In the first place, he occupied a better position in the world -than she did, and would probably consider that he was raising her by -the marriage, which my pride resented. For, after all, it was only -what the world considered a better position; he owned the land that we -worked. But the land had only been bought by his ancestors; whereas our -forefathers had owned it for more than two hundred years before that, -so that we considered that we were of the finer stock. - -As I set this down now in black and white I smile to myself; it -represents so very badly the real relations that existed between our -two families, for the man of whom I speak has always been to us the -best and stanchest of friends, and even at that time there was hearty -simple intercourse between us that was quite uninfluenced by difference -of rank or party-spirit. But the words express a certain side of our -feelings, especially a certain side of my own particular feelings, and -therefore they shall stand. - -The man whom mother hoped Joyce might marry was Squire Broderick. Ever -since we girls could remember, he had been squire at the big house, for -his father had died when he was scarcely twenty-one, and from that time -he had been master of the thousand rooks that used to fly across the -marsh at even, to their homes in the beeches and elms that sheltered -the Manor from the sea-gales. - -I remember thinking when I was a child that it was very strange the -rooks should always fly to Squire Broderick's trees rather than to -ours. For we had trees too, although not so many nor so big, and our -house only stood at the other end of the hill, that sloped down on both -sides into the marsh. His house was large and square and regular--a red -brick Elizabethan house--and had a great many more windows and chimneys -than ours had, and a great many more flower-beds on the lawn that -looked out across the marsh to the sea. - -But although the Grange had been often added to in the course of its -history, and was therefore irregular in shape and varied in color, -according to the time that the stone had stood the weather, or to the -mosses and ivy that clung to its gray walls, I am sure that it was just -as fine an old structure in its way, with its high-pitched tiled roof -and the lattice-windows, that only looked like eyes in the empty spaces -of solid stone. - -We certainly had a better view than the squire. From the low windows -of the front parlor we could see the red-roofed town rise, like a -sentry-tower out of the plain, some three miles away; and, beyond -the ruin of the round stone fortress, lying like a giant asleep in -the tawny marsh-land, we looked across the wide stretch of flat -pasture-land to the storms and the blue of the sea in the distance. - -I do not suppose that I was conscious of the strange beauty of this -marsh-land as I am conscious of it now; but I know that I loved -it--though people do say that country-folk have no admiration of -nature--and I know that I was glad that we saw more of it than they did -from the Manor, where a belt of trees had been allowed to grow up and -shut out the view. But the rooks loved that lordly belt of trees, and I -think that, as a child, I envied the squire the rooks. If I did, it was -the only thing I ever did envy him. - -As the child of the squire's tenant, and proud of my family pride, it -was born in me rather to dislike him than otherwise for his fine old -house and his many acres. But this was only when something occurred to -remind me of these sentiments--to wit, mother's desire for a marriage -between my sister and the village big-wig. Otherwise I did not think of -him in this light at all, but rather as the provider of the only treats -that ever came our way in that quiet life; for it was he who would make -up a party to take us to the travelling shows in the little town when -they came by, or even sometimes to the larger seaport ten miles off. I -can still remember the school feasts at the Manor when we were little -girls, and the squire had but just come into his own; and how, when the -village tea and cake had been handed round, he would take us two all -over the grounds alone, and give us lovely posies of hot-house flowers -to take back to the Grange parlor. - -I can even recollect a ride on his back round the field when I tried -to catch the pony, and how wildly I laughed all the time, making the -meadows ring with my merriment; but that must have been when I was -scarcely more than five years old. Since then he had been a husband and -a father, and now he was a widower, and in my eyes quite an old man; -although, I suppose, he can have been little more than five-and-thirty. - - -I do not remember Mrs. Broderick. I asked mother about her once, and -she told me that she had died when I was scarcely ten years old. And -from our old servant, Deborah, I had further gleaned that it was in -giving birth to a little son, who had died a year after her, and that -mother could not bear to speak of it, because it was just at the same -time that we lost our little brother John. Both children had died of -scarlet-fever, and mother had nursed the squire's motherless boy before -her own. I suppose that was why the squire was always so tender and -reverential to her. - -I know I was sorry for the squire; for it seemed hard he should have no -heir to all his acres, and should have to live in that big house all -alone. But he did not seem to mind it much: he was always cheery; his -fair, fresh face always with a smile on it; his frank, blue eyes always -bright. It did one good to see him; it was like a breath of fresh air. -I think everybody felt the same thing about him. It was not only that -he was generous, a just landlord, "always as good as his word"--there -was something more in it than that; there was something that made -everybody love him, apart from anything that he did. And as I look back -now to the past, I can see that the squire can have had no easy time of -it among the people. He had a thorn in the flesh, and that thorn was my -father. - -The squire was an ardent Conservative, and father was--well, -whatever he was, he was opposed to the squire; and as he was one of -those people who have the rare gift of imparting their convictions -and their enthusiasms to others, he had great influence among the -working-classes, and his influence was not favorable to the squire's -party. And yet father was no politician. I knew nothing about shades -in these matters at that time, and because father was not a Tory -I imagined that he must be a Liberal. But he was not a Liberal, -still less was he a Radical, in the party sense of the word. As I -have said, he belonged to no party. The reforms that he wanted were -social reforms, and they could only be won by the patient struggles -of the people who required them. That was what he used to say, and I -suppose that was why he devoted all his strength to encouraging the -working-classes, and cared so little for their existing rulers. But I -did not understand this at the time; it was not till long afterwards -that I appreciated all that my father was. Then it occurred to me to -wonder how he had come by such advanced ideas living in a quiet country -village, and I remembered of a sudden some words that he had said to me -one day when I had asked him about a little crayon sketch that always -hung above the writing-table in his business-room. It was the portrait -of a young man with a firm square chin, a sensitive mouth, liquid, -fiery eyes. He wore his hair brushed back off his broad forehead, and -had altogether a foreign air. It was a fascinating face. - -"That, Meg," he had said, "was a great man--a man who made war against -the strong, who helped the poor and down-trodden, and fought for the -laws of justice and liberty. He gave his affections, his goods, his -brains, and his life to the service of others. He died poor, but was -rich. He was a real Christian. His name was Camille Lambert." - -He said no more, and I never liked to broach the subject again; for -mother had told me afterwards that he had had a romantic friendship -for the young Frenchman shortly after her engagement to him, and that -he could never bear to speak of him after the time when he laid him to -rest under the shadows of the old abbey church. - -Mother could tell me little about him beyond the fact that he was some -years older than father, and that his parents had belonged to the -remnants of that colony of French refugees who had inhabited our town -during the last century, and still left their names to many existing -houses. Indeed, I thought no more of it at the time; but when long -afterwards I remembered the matter, I hunted up a little manuscript -pamphlet in father's handwriting, telling the story of his friend's -life. - -Camille Lambert was a disciple of St. Simon, who had died when my -father was yet but a lad. Of an eager and romantic temperament, his -enthusiasm had been early fired by those exalted doctrines, and he had -given all his substance to the great "school," which had just opened -its branch houses in the provinces. - -In all the works connected with it, Camille Lambert had taken an active -part; and when financial troubles and dissensions between the leaders -led popular ardor to cool and the scheme to be declared unpractical, -he broke his heart over the failure of his hopes, and came home to the -little English village to die. - -As I read those pages in after years, I felt that it was no wonder that -such an enthusiasm should have kindled a kindred flame in the heart of -a man so just and so tender as I knew my dear father to be. I love to -think of that friendship now; it explains a great deal to me which has -sometimes been a puzzle, when I have looked at my father's character -with the more mature eyes of my present years. But in those days I did -not think deeply enough for anything to be a puzzle. I was proud of my -father's influence among the country-folk; I liked to hear the shouts -of applause with which he was greeted when he stood up to speak at -winter evening assemblies in the old town-hall. I knew that the crusade -he preached was that of the poor against the rich; and a confusion had -arisen in my mind as to our attitude towards the squire. I fancied I -noticed a restive feeling in father towards the man to whom he paid the -rent of his land; and when I guessed at that secret hope in mother's -heart, I began to class the squire with "the rich" against whom he -waged war in theory, and forgot the many occasions in which they were -one at heart in the performance of kindly and generous actions. - -My mood did not last long, for the old habit of a lifetime was stronger -than a mood, and the squire was our friend, but for the moment that -was my mood. The squire belonged to an antagonistic class; perhaps, -even worse than that in my eyes, he was a middle-aged man, and Joyce -must not marry him. Mother never spoke of her hopes to me. It was old -Deborah who sometimes discussed them; she always did discuss the family -concerns far more freely than any one else in the house. She was with -us when Joyce was born, and it was natural she should talk most of what -mattered to those whom she loved most in the world. But Deborah could -not be expected to enter into the delicacy of such a situation, and I -felt sure that on me fell the duty of fighting to the death before my -beautiful sister should be sacrificed to commonplace affluence, instead -of shining in the world of romance that I loved to fancy for her. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Captain Forrester was the hero of the romance that I had fashioned -in my head for Joyce. One bright, frosty winter's day I had driven -her into town to market. The sky was blue, the air was sharp, the -little icicles hung glittering from the trees and hedge-rows as we -drove down the hill; the sea lay steely and calm beyond the waste of -white marsh-land that looked so wide in its monotony. The day was -invigorating to the spirits, and it had the same effect on father's new -mare as it had on us; the road, besides, was as hard as iron and very -slippery. - -Joyce was nervous in a dog-cart, and she had her doubts of the new -purchase. For the matter of that, so had I. The mare pulled very hard. -However, we got into town well enough, and in the excitement of her -purchases Joyce forgot her uneasiness. It was a long time before she -was quite suited to her mind in the matter of soap, and ham, and -kitchen utensils; and just as we were leaving I remembered that mother -had told me to bring her some tapes and needles. - -"I've forgotten something, Joyce," said I. "Get in a minute and take -the reins. I'll call a boy to hold the horse's head." - -She got in, and I beckoned a lad hard by, who went to the animal's -head. But before I had been in the shop a moment a cry from Joyce -called me back. The mare was rearing. Whether the lad had teased her or -not I do not know, but the mare was rearing, and at her head, instead -of the lad I had called, was Captain Forrester. We did not know what -his name was then; we merely saw a tall, good-looking man in smarter -clothes than were usually worn by the dandies of the neighborhood, -soothing the restless animal, who soon showed that she recognized a -friend. Joyce was as white as a sheet; but when the young man turned to -me and said, raising his hat, "Miss Joyce Maliphant, I believe," she -blushed as red as a poppy. - -It was strange that he should know her name so well. - -"No," said I, "I am not Joyce; I am Margaret Maliphant. My sister's -name is Joyce." - -I waved towards her as I spoke. Perhaps I was a little off-hand; -folk say I always am. I suppose I must have been, for he muttered a -half-apology. - -"I should not have ventured to intrude," said he, "but that I know the -nature of this animal. Strangely enough, she belonged to me once. She -is not suitable for a lady's driving." - -"Why," said I, puzzled and half doubtful, "father bought her only last -week from Squire Broderick." - -"Exactly," smiled he, and I noticed what a pleasant, genial smile he -had. "I sold the mare to Squire Broderick myself. I know him very well." - -"Oh!" ejaculated I, I am afraid still far from graciously. - -He was still standing by the horse, stroking its neck. - -"Yes," he repeated, and his tone was not a jot less pleasant because I -had spoken so very ungraciously. "She used to belong to me. She has a -bit of a temper." - -"I like a horse with a little temper," answered I. "A horse that has a -hard mouth is dull driving." - -I said it out of pure intent to brag, for I had been offended at its -being supposed I could not drive any horse. As I spoke, I put my -foot on the step to mount the dog-cart. As soon as the mare felt -the movement behind her she reared again slightly. Captain Forrester -quieted her afresh, but still there was no doubt about it, she had -reared. - -"Oh, Margaret," sighed Joyce, "I'm sure we shall never get home safely!" - -"Nonsense!" cried I, impatiently. - -I hated to have Joyce seem as though she mistrusted my power of -managing a restive horse, and I hated equally to have her show herself -off as a woman with nerves. I had already got up into my place, and I -now took the reins from her hands and prepared to give the mare her -head. - -"I think I shall walk, Margaret," said Joyce, in a voice which I knew -meant that there would be no persuading her from her purpose. She was -not generally obstinate, but when she was frightened she would not -listen to any reason. - -Rather than have a scene, I knew it would be best to give in. - -"Very well; then we will both walk," said I. "You had better get down, -and I will drive on and put the cart up at the inn. Reuben will have to -walk out this evening and take it home." - -I know I spoke crossly; it was wrong, but I was annoyed. However, -before Joyce had had time to get down I saw that our new friend had -gone round to the other side of the dog-cart and was talking to her. - -"Miss Maliphant," said he--and I could not help remarking what a -charming manner he had, and what a fascinating way of fixing his -wide-open light-brown eyes full in the face of the person to whom -he was speaking, and yet that without anything bold in the doing of -it--"Miss Maliphant, will you let me drive you and your sister home? I -know how uncomfortable it is to be nervous, and I don't think you would -be frightened if I were driving, for, you see, I understand the mare -quite well." - -Joyce blushed, and I bit my lip. It certainly was very mortifying to -have a perfect stranger setting himself up as a better whip than I was. - -Joyce answered, "Oh, thank you, I don't think we could trouble you to -do that," she said, with a bend of her pretty head. - -"It would be no trouble," replied he, looking at her. "I am going in -your direction." He did not say it eagerly, only with a pleasant smile -as though his offer were made out of pure politeness. - -I looked at him. He was young and handsome, and he was most certainly -a gentleman, for he had the most perfect and easy manners that I had -ever met with in any man; and he was looking at Joyce as I fancied a -man might look at the woman whom he could love. Suddenly all my offence -at his want of respect to my powers of driving evaporated; for a -thought flashed across my mind. Might this be the lover of whom I had -dreamed for my beautiful sister? He had learned her name beforehand; -therefore he must have seen her, and also have been sufficiently -attracted by her to wish to find out who she was. - -Why was it not possible that he had fallen in love with her at first -sight, and that he had sought this opportunity of knowing her? Such -things had been known to happen, and Joyce was certainly beautiful -enough to account for any ardor in an admirer. I stood a moment -undecided myself. A young man from the shop where I had made my little -purchase came out and put the parcel in the dog-cart. He held another -in his hand. - -"This is for the Manor, captain," said he. "Shall I put it in the -carriage?" - -"No, no, thank you," answered our new friend. "The squire will be -driving over one of these days and will fetch it." - -This settled the question for me. - -"Captain!" - -There was something so much more romantic about a captain than about -a plain mister. And such a captain! I had met captains before at the -Volunteer ball, but not like this one. It did not occur to me for a -moment that if the gentleman was a friend of the squire's he must needs -belong to the class which I thought I abhorred, and therefore should -not be a suitable lover for my sister. I was too much fascinated by the -individual to remember the class. Joyce looked at me for help. - -"I don't know what to say, I'm sure," murmured she. - -The horse began to fidget again at being kept so long standing. There -could be no possible objection to a friend of the squire's driving us -over. - -"Thank you," said I, trying to be cool and dignified and not at all -eager. "If you would be so kind as to drive us, I shall be very much -obliged to you." And turning to the shop-boy I added, "Put the parcel -into the carriage." - -I do not know what the captain must have thought of my sudden change of -manner; I did not stop to consider. I jumped to the ground before he -had time to help me, and began to let down the back seat of the cart. - -"No, no; don't leave the horse," cried I, as he came round to the back -to help me. "I know how to do this perfectly well. Do get up. Joyce is -so very nervous." - -"As you like," said he, still smiling; and he got up beside Joyce. - -In a moment I had fixed the seat and jumped into it, and we started -off at a smart trot down the village street. Joyce was not entirely -reassured, although vanity prevented her from openly expressing her -alarm, as she would have done if I had been at her side. She sat -holding on to the cart, with lips parted and eyes fixed on the horse's -ears. I had turned round a little on the seat so that I could see her, -and I thought that she looked very lovely. I thought Captain Forrester -must be of the same mind; but I think he had not much time to look -at her just then--the mare kept his hands full. We rattled down the -hill over the cobble-stones and out of the town. Soon its red roofs, -crowned by the square tower of the ancient church at its summit, were -only a feature in the landscape, which I watched gradually mellowing -into the white background as I sat with my back to the others. Before -long I was lost in one of what father would have called my brown -studies, and quite forgot to notice whether the two in front of me were -getting on well together or not. The vague dream that I had always -had about my sister's future was beginning to take shape--it unrolled -itself slowly before me in a sweet and delightful picture, to which -the fair scene before me imparted life and brilliancy as the sense -of it mingled imperceptibly with my thoughts. I had never known what -it really was that I desired for my sister's lot. To be the wife of -a country bumpkin she was far too beautiful; and yet I thought that -nothing should have induced me to help towards mating her with one of -the gentry who crushed the people's honest rights. Sir Walter Scott's -"Fair Maid of Perth," which I had just finished reading, had lent -wings to my youthful imagination; but there were no burghers in these -days who held the honorable positions of those smiths and glovers, -although no doubt at that time there had been many such living in the -very town where we had just been to market, and which was in days of -old one of the strongholds of his Majesty's realm. If there had been -any such suitors, I think I would have given our "Fair Maid" to one -of them; but there was all the difference between the man who owned -the linen-draper's shop--even if he did not measure off yards of stuff -behind the counter--and the man who fashioned the goods with his own -hand and took a pride in making them beautiful. And nowadays there were -no men who made armor--there were no men who needed it. War had become -a very brutal thing compared to what it was then, when it really was a -trial of individual strength; nevertheless, of the professions of which -I knew anything, it was still to my mind the finest, and it seemed -to me that a fine profession was the only thing between a countryman -and a landed proprietor such as Squire Broderick. I wonder if I -should have thought all this out so neatly if the fine, handsome, and -gentlemanly young man who had come across our path had not borne the -title of "Captain?" Anyway, it had struck my fancy, as he had struck my -fancy--for Joyce. - -There was something fresh and brave and bright about him, with those -wide-open brown eyes, that he fixed so intently upon one's own. I -felt sure that he was full of enthusiasm, full of courage and of -loyalty--every inch a soldier. He was the first man I had ever seen -who impressed me by his personality; and yet with all that, he was so -simple, so light and easy. - -As I look back now upon my first impression of Captain Forrester, I -do not think it was an unnatural one; I think that he really had a -rare gift of fascination, and it was not to be wondered at that I said -to myself that this was the noble hero of whom I had dreamed that he -should carry off the lily nurtured in the woodland shade. He was just -the kind of man to fit in with my notion of a gallant and a hero--a -notion derived solely from those old-fashioned novels of father's -library which I devoured in the secrecy of my bedchamber when I could -snatch a moment from household darning, and mother was not by to pass -her scathing remarks upon even such profitable romance-reading as the -works of Sir Walter Scott and Jane Austen. - -As I sat there in the midst of the snow-plain, with the ocean beyond -it, and the weather-worn old town the only human thing in the wide -landscape, I fixed my thoughts upon that one little spot with all the -concentration of my nature, and fell to weaving a romance far more -brilliant than anything I had read, or than anything that had yet -suggested itself to me in my quiet every-day life. The days of gay -tournaments, and fierce hand-to-hand combats, and warriors clad in -suits of mail, were no longer; but still, to fight for one's country's -fame, to win one's bread by adventure and glory, to kill one's -country's foes and save the lives of her sons, was the grandest thing -that could be, I thought; and this Captain Forrester did. - -As I dreamed, my eyes grew dim thinking of the wife who must send her -lover from her, perhaps forever--even though it be to glorious deeds; -and as I dreamed, the dog-cart gave a jolt over a stone, and I awoke -from my foolish fancies to see that Captain Forrester's hard driving -had taken all the mischief out of the mare, and that she was trotting -along quite peaceably, while he let the reins hang loose upon her neck, -and turned round to talk to my sister Joyce. And as we passed the clump -of tall elms at the foot of the cliff, and began slowly to climb the -hill towards the village, I looked out across the cold expanse of white -marsh-land to the calm sea beyond, and wondered whether it were true -what the books said that the peace of a perfect love could only be won -through trouble and heartache. Anyway, the trouble must be worth the -reward, since we all admired those who fought for it, and most of us -entered the lists ourselves. But no doubt the trouble and the fighting -was always on the man's side, and as I caught a glimpse of Joyce's -blushing profile and of the Captain's eager gaze, I said to myself that -Joyce was beautiful, and that Joyce was sweet, and that Joyce would -have a lover to whom no trouble in the whole world would be too much -for the sake of one kiss from her lips. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -I had jumped down as we ascended the hill, and had walked by the side -of the cart. Captain Forrester had turned round now and then to say -a word to me, making pleasant general remarks upon the beauty of the -country and the healthiness of the situation. But he did it out of mere -politeness, I knew. When we reached the top of the hill, he gave the -reins to Joyce and got down. - -"You'll be all right now, won't you?" said he, helping me in. "I won't -come to the door, for I'm due at home;" and he nodded in the direction -of the Manor. - -Then he must be staying in our village. - -I said aloud, laughing, "Well, we could hardly get into trouble between -this and our house, could we?" - -"Hardly," laughed he back again, looking down the road to the right, -which led to the ivied porch of our house. - -How well he seemed to know all about us! Was he the squire's guest as -well as his friend? If so, Joyce would see him again. - -"Won't you come in and see my father and mother?" said I. - -I was not sure whether it was the thing to do in good society, such as -that to which I felt instinctively that he belonged, but I knew that -it was the hospitable thing to do, and I did it. Joyce seconded my -invitation in an inarticulate murmur. - -I think we were both of us considerably relieved when he said with that -same gay smile, and speaking with his clear, well-bred accent: "Not -now, thank you. But I will come and call very soon, if I may." - -He added the last words turning round to Joyce. She blushed and looked -uncomfortable. We were both thinking that mother might possibly not -welcome this stranger so cordially as we had done. However, I was not -going to have this good beginning spoiled by any mistake on my part, -and I hastened to say: "Oh yes, pray do come. I am sure mother will be -delighted to welcome any friend of Squire Broderick's." - -He gave a little bow at that, but he did not say anything. He held out -his hand to me, and then turned to Joyce. I fancied that hers rested in -his just a moment longer than was necessary; but then I was in the mood -to build up any romance at the moment, and no doubt I was mistaken. But -anyhow, I turned the dog-cart down rather sharply towards the house, -and Captain Forrester had to stand aside. I was not going to have the -villagers gossiping; and such a thing had not been seen before, as -Farmer Maliphant's two daughters talking with a stranger at the corner -of the village street. - -"I wonder whether he is staying at the Manor," said I, as we drove up -the gravel. - -And Joyce echoed, "I wonder." - -But she had plenty to do when she got in, showing her new purchases to -mother, and telling her the market prices of household commodities, and -I do not suppose that she gave a thought to her new admirer for some -time. At all events, she did not speak of him. Neither did I. I did not -go in-doors. - -I always was an unnatural sort of a girl in some ways, and shopping and -talk about shopping never interested me. I preferred to remain in the -yard, and discuss the points of the new mare with Reuben. But all the -time, I was thinking of the man whom we had met in town, and wondering -whether or not he would turn out to be Joyce's lover. As I have said -before, Reuben and I were great friends. He was a gaunt, loose-limbed -old fellow, with a refined although by no means a handsome face, thin -features, a fair pale skin, with white whiskers upon it. In character -he was simple, obstinate, and taciturn, and had a queer habit of -applying the same tests to human beings as he did to dumb animals. -In the household--although every one respected his knowledge of his -own business--I think that he was regarded merely as an honest, loyal -nobody. It was only I who used sometimes to think that it was not all -obtuseness, but also a laudable desire for a quiet life, which led -Reuben to be such an easy mark for Deborah's wit, and apparently so -impervious to its arrows. - -"She pulled, did she?" said he, with a smile that showed a very good -set of teeth for an old man. "Ah, it takes a man to hold a mare, -leastways if she's got any spirit in her." - -"She didn't pull any too much for me," answered I, half vexed. "What -makes you fancy so?" - -"I seed the young dandy a-driving ye along the road," said he. "I can -see a long way. She pulled at first, but he took it out of her." - -If there was any secret in our having driven out of town with Captain -Forrester, Reuben had it. - -"Joyce was frightened, and he had driven the mare at the squire's," -said I. "She reared a bit in town, but I don't think he drove any -better than I could have done." - -Reuben took no notice of this remark. "She's a handsome mare," said -he. "The handsomer they be, the worse they be to drive. Women are the -same--so I've heard tell; though, to be sure, the ugly ones are bad -enough." - -Deborah was not handsome; but then, had Reuben ever tried to drive her? -Oh, if she could have heard that speech! She came up the garden cliff -in front of us as I spoke, with some herbs in her arms--a tall, strong -woman, with a wide waist and shoulders, planting her foot firmly on the -ground at every step, and swaying slightly on her hips with the bulk of -her person. When she was young she must have had a fine figure, but now -she was not graceful. - -"Yes, she's a beauty," said I, stroking the mare's sleek sides, and -alluding to her and not to Deborah. "When we are alone together we'll -have fine fun." The mare stretched out her pretty neck to take the -sugar that I held in my hand. She was beginning to know me already. - -"Yes, Miss Joyce is nervous," said Reuben, meditatively. "Most like she -_would_ have more confidence in a beau. Them pretty maids are that way, -and the beaux buzz about them like flies to the honey. But the beasts -be fond of you, miss," he added, admiringly, watching me fondling the -horse. - -It was the higher compliment from Reuben, and it was true that every -animal liked me. I could catch the pony in the field when it would let -no one else get near it. I could milk the cow who kicked over the pail -for any one but Deborah. I could coax the rabbits to me, and almost -make friends with the hares in the woods. The cat slept upon my bed, -and Taff watched outside my door. - -I laughed at Reuben's compliment; but Deborah strode out of the back -door just then, to hang linen out to dry, and Reuben never laughed when -she was by. She gave me a sharp glance. - -"You've got your frock out at the gathers again," said she. She did not -often trouble to give us our titles of "miss." - -"Have I?" replied I, carelessly. - -"Yes, you have; and how you manage it is more than I can tell," -continued she, tartly. "Now you're grown up, I should think you might -have done with jumping dikes, and riding horses without saddles, and -such-like." - -"Why, Deb," cried I, laughing, "I haven't jumped a dike since I was -fourteen. At least, not when any one was by," added I, remembering a -private exploit of two days ago. - -"Yes; I suppose you don't expect me not to know where that black mud -came from on your petticoat last night," remarked she, sententiously. -"Anyhow, I'd advise you to mend your frock, for the squire's in the -parlor, and your mother won't be pleased." - -"The squire!" cried I. "Is he going to stay to dinner?" - -"Not as I know of," answered the old woman. "But you had better go and -see. Joyce let him in, for I hadn't a clean apron, and I heard him say -that he had come to see the master on business." - -"Well, so I suppose he did," answered I. - -Deborah smiled, a superior sort of smile. She did not say anything, but -I knew very well what she meant. She was the only person in the house -who openly insisted that the squire came to the Grange after Joyce. -Mother may have thought it; I guessed from many little signs that she -did think it, but she never directly spoke of it. But Deborah spoke of -it, and spoke of it frankly. - -It irritated me. I pushed past her roughly to reach the front parlor -windows. I wanted to see the squire to-day, for I wanted to find out -whether our new friend was staying at the Manor. - -"You're never going in like that?" cried she. - -"Certainly," replied I. "What's good enough for other folk is good -enough for the squire. The squire is nothing to me, nothing at all." - -"That's true enough," laughed Deborah. "I don't know as he is anything -to you. But he may be something to other folk all the same. And look -here, Miss Spitfire, there may come a day, for all your silly airs, -when you may be glad enough that the squire is something to some of -you, and when you'd be very sorry if you'd done anything to prevent it. -You go and think that over." - -I curled my lip in scorn. "You know I refuse to listen to any -insinuations, Deborah," said I. "The squire comes here to visit my -father, and we have no reason to suppose that he comes for anything -else." - -This was quite true. The squire had certainly never said a word that -should lead us to imagine that he meant anything more by his visits -to the Grange than friendship for an old man laid by from his active -life by frequent attacks of gout; but if I had been quite honest, I -should have acknowledged that I, too, entertained the same suspicion as -Deborah did. - -"The women must always needs be thinking the men be coming after them," -muttered Reuben, emerging from the darkness of a shed to the left with -an axe over his shoulder. - -If I had been less preoccupied I should have laughed at the audacity of -this remark, which he would certainly not have dared to make unless it -had been for the support of my presence. - -"It don't stand to reason," went on Deborah, scorning Reuben's remark, -"that a gentleman like the squire would come here and sit hours long -for naught but to hear the gentry-folk abused by the master. It is a -wonder he stands it as he do, for master is over-unreasonable at times. -But, Lord! you can't look in the squire's eyes and not know he's got a -good heart, and it's Miss Joyce's pretty face that'll get it to do what -she likes with, you may take my word for it. The men they don't look to -the mind so much as they look to the face, and the temper--and Joyce, -why, her temper's as smooth as her skin; you can't say better than -that." - -This was true, and Deborah was right to say it in praise, although I -do believe in her heart she had even a softer spot for me and my bad -temper than for Joyce and her gentle ways. - -"Birds of a feather, I suppose." - -"You seem to think that it's quite an unnatural thing for two men -to talk politics together, Deborah," said I, with a superior air of -wisdom. "But perhaps the squire is wiser than you fancy, and thinks -that at his time of life politics should be more in his way than pretty -faces." - -Deborah laughed, quite good-humoredly this time. - -"Hark at the lass!" cried she. "The time may come when you won't think -a man of five-and-thirty too old to look at a woman, my dear." - -"Oh, _I_ don't mind how old a man is!" laughed I, merrily, recovering -my good-humor at the remembrance of that second string I had to my bow -for my sister. "The men don't matter much to me--they never look twice -at me, you know well enough. But Joyce is too handsome to marry an old -widower, and I dare say if she waits a bit there'll come somebody by -who'll be better suited to her." - -"Well, all I can say is, I hope she may have another chance as good," -insisted the obstinate old thing, shaking out the last stocking -viciously and hanging it onto the line. "But she hasn't got it yet, you -know; and if folk all behave so queer and snappish, maybe she won't -have it at all. But you must all please yourselves," added she, as -though she washed her hands of us now. And then giving me another of -her sharp glances, she said, in conclusion, "And you know whether your -mother will like to see you with a torn frock or not." - -I went in with my head in the air. I thought it was very impertinent -of Deb to talk of "good chances" in connection with my sister. I have -learned to know her better since then. - -Her desire for that marriage was not all ambition for Joyce. But at -that time I little guessed what she already scented in the air. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -It was a quarter of an hour before I reached the parlor, for I did -mend my frock in spite of my bit of temper. The cloth was laid for -dinner--a spotless cloth, for mother was very particular about her -table-linen--and the bright glass and the dinner-ware shone in -the sunlight. I can see the room now: a long, low room, with four -lattice-windows abreast, and a seat running the length of the windows; -opposite the windows a huge fireplace, across which ran one heavy oaken -beam bearing the date and the name of the Maliphants, and supported -by two stout masonry pillars, fashioned, tradition said, out of -that same soft stone of which a great part of the abbey was built. -Two high-backed wooden chairs, with delicate spindle-rails, highly -polished, and very elegant, stood close to the blaze. There was also -a pretty inlaid satinwood table in the far corner that had belonged to -mother's grandfather, and had been left to her; but the rest of the -furniture was plain dark oak, and had been in the house ever since -the Maliphants had owned it. It was a sweet, cosey room, and if the -windows, being old-fashioned and somewhat small, did not admit all the -sunlight they might, they also did not let in the wind, of which there -was plenty, for the parlor faced towards the sea, and the gales in -winter were sometimes terrific. - -We had another best-parlor, looking on the road, where were the piano -and the upholstered furniture, covered in brown holland on common days; -but though the pale yellow tabaret chairs and curtains looked very -pretty when they were all uncovered, we none of us ever felt quite -comfortable excepting in the big dwelling-room that looked over the -marsh. How well I remember it that day when we were all there together! -Father sat by the fire with his boots and gaiters still on. He had been -out for the first time after a severe attack of his complaint, and he -was very irritable. I thought Joyce might have helped him off with the -heavy things, but no doubt he had refused; any offer of help was almost -an insult to him. They used to say I took after father in that. He -was bending over the fire that day, stretching out his fingers to the -blaze--a powerful figure still, though somewhat worn with hard work and -the sufferings which he never allowed to gain the upper-hand. But his -back was not bent--an out-door life, whatever other marks it may leave, -spares that one; his head was erect still--a remarkable head--the gray -hair, thick and strong, sticking up in obstinate little tufts without -any attempt at order or smoothness. It was not beautiful hair, for the -tufts were quite straight, but at least it was very characteristic; I -have never seen any quite like it. It was in keeping with the bushy -eyebrows that had just the same defiant expression as the tufts of -hair. The brow was high and prominent, the eyes keen and quick to -change, the jaw heavy and somewhat sullen. At first sight it might not -have been called a lovable face; it might rather have been called a -stern, even an unbending one; but that it was really lovable is proved -by the sure love and confidence with which it always inspired little -children. They came to father naturally as they would have gone to the -tenderest woman, and smiled in his face as though certain beforehand -of the smile that would answer theirs in return. But father's face was -sullen sometimes to a grown-up person. It looked very sullen as he sat -by the fire that day. I knew in a moment that something had ruffled -him. - -Mother seemed to be doing her best, however, to make up for the ill -reception which her husband was giving his guest; and mother's best -was a very pretty thing. She was a very pretty woman, and she looked -her prettiest that day. She was tall--we were a tall family, I was the -shortest of us all--and her height looked even greater than it was in -the straight folds of the soft gray dress that suited so well with her -fair skin. She had a fresh white cap on; the soft fluted frills came -down in straight lines just below her ears, framing her face; and the -bands of snow-white hair, that looked so pretty beside the fresh skin, -were tucked away smoothly beneath it. Mother's face was a young face -still--as dainty in color as a little child's. Joyce took her beauty -from her. - -Mother was standing up in the middle of the room talking to the squire, -who apparently was about to take his leave. Joyce was putting the last -touches to the dinner-table. She looked up at me in an appealing kind -of way as I came in, and I felt sure that there had been some sort of -difference between father and the squire. They often did have little -differences, though they were the best of friends in reality; but I -always secretly took father's side in every argument, and I never liked -to see mother, as it were, making amends for what father had said. Yet -it was what she was doing now. "I'm sure, Squire Broderick," she was -saying, "we take it very kindly of you to interest yourself in our -affairs. Laban is a little tetchy just now, but it's because he ain't -well. He feels just as I do really." - -Father made an impatient sound with his lips at this, but mother went -on just the same. - -"I'm quite of your mind," she declared, shaking her head. "I've often -said so to Laban myself. We can't go against Providence, and we must -learn to take help where we can get it, though I know ofttimes it's -just the hardest thing we have to do." - -What could this speech mean? I was puzzled. I glanced at father. He sat -quite silent, tapping his foot. I glanced at Joyce. There was nothing -in her manner to show that the subject under discussion had anything -whatever to do with her. The squire had turned round as I came into the -room, but mother kept him so to herself that he could do no more than -give me a smile as I walked across and sat down in the window-seat. - -"I know it would be the best in the end," mother went on, with a -distressed look on her sweet old face. - -It rather annoyed me at the time, simply because I saw that she was -siding with the squire against father; but I have often remembered -that, and many kindred looks since, and have wondered how it was that -I never guessed at the anxiety of that tender spirit that labored so -devotedly to cope with problems that were beyond its grasp. - -"However," added mother, with the pretty smile that, after all, I -remember more often than the knitted brow, "he'll come round himself in -time. He always does see things the way you put them after a bit." - -She said these words in a whisper, although they were really quite -loud enough for any one to hear. I saw father smile. He was so fond of -mother, and the words were so far from accurate, that he could afford -to smile; for there were very few instances in which he came round to -the squire's way of seeing things at that time, although he was very -fond of the squire. The squire himself laughed aloud. He had a rich, -rippling laugh; it did one good to hear it. - -"No, no, ma'am," he said, "I can't agree to that; and no reason why it -should be so either." He held out his hand to mother as he spoke. - -"I must be off now," he added. "I ought to have gone long ago. We'll -talk it over again another time." - -"Oh, won't you stay and have a bit of dinner with us, squire?" cried -mother, in a disappointed voice. "It's just coming in. I know it's not -what you have at home, but it is a fine piece of roast beef to-day." - -"Fie, fie, Mrs. Maliphant! don't you be so modest," said the squire, -with his genial smile, buttoning up his overcoat as he spoke. - -He always had a gay, easy manner towards the mother--something, I used -to fancy, like what her own younger brother might have had towards her, -or even her own son, although at that time I should have thought it -impossible for a man as old to be mother's son at all. I suppose it was -in consequence of that sad time in the past that he had grown to love -her as I know he did. - -"I don't often get a dinner such as I get at your table," added he; -"but I can't stay to-day, for I'm due at home." - -Just the words that young man had used at the foot of the village -street. I was determined to find out before the squire left whether -that young man was staying at the Manor or not. - -"Perhaps Mr. Broderick has visitors, mother," I suggested. - -I glanced at Joyce as I spoke. Her cheeks were poppies. - -"What makes you think so?" asked the squire, turning to me and frowning -a little. - -"We met a gentleman in town," said I, boldly, although my heart beat a -little; "he helped us with the mare when she reared, and he said he was -a friend of yours." - -Mother looked at me, and Joyce blushed redder than ever. Certainly, -for a straightforward and simple young woman who had no more than her -legitimate share of vanity, Joyce had a most unfortunate trick of -blushing. I know it was admired, but I never could see that folk must -needs be more delicate of mind because they blushed, or more sensitive -of heart because they cried. The squire frowned a little more and bit -his lip. - -"Ah, it must have been Frank," said he. "He did say he was going to -walk into town this morning. My nephew," added he, in explanation, -turning to mother. "Captain Forrester." - -"Your nephew!" exclaimed mother, quite reassured. "He must be but a -lad." - -"Oh, not at all; he's a very well-grown man, and of an age to take care -of himself," answered the squire, and it did not strike me then that he -said it a little bitterly. "My sister is a great deal older than I am." - -"Of course I have seen Mrs. Forrester," said mother, "and I know she's -a deal older than you are, but I never should have thought she had a -grown-up son--and a captain, too!" - -"Oh yes, he's a captain," repeated the squire, and he took up his -hat and stick from the corner of the room and put his hand on the -door-knob. "Good-bye, Mr. Maliphant," cried he, cheerily, without -touching any more on the sore subject. - -Father did not reply, and he turned to me and held out his hand. -"Good-bye," he said, more seriously than it seemed to me the subject -required. "I'm sorry the mare reared." - -"See the squire to the door, Joyce," said the mother. And Joyce, -blushing again, glided out into the hall and lifted the big latch. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -I was dying to hear what had been the subject of the difference -between Squire Broderick and father, for that it was somehow related -to something more closely allied to our own life than mere politics, I -was inwardly convinced. I came up to the fireplace and began toasting -my feet before the bars. I hoped father would say something. But he -did not even turn to me, and Deborah coming in with the dinner at that -moment, mother took her place at the head of the table, and father -asked a blessing. Mother did not look sad; she looked very bright and -pretty, with the sunshine falling on her silvery hair, and on her -white dimpled hands, lovely hands, that were wielding the carvers so -skilfully. I thought at the time that she did not notice father's -gloomy face, but I think it is far more likely that she did notice it, -but that she thought it wiser to leave him alone; those were always her -tactics. - -"Father," began she, as soon as she had served us all and had sat down, -"the girls mustn't drive that mare any more if she rears; it isn't -safe." - -"No, no, of course not," assented father, absently. Then turning to me, -"What made her rear, Meg?" - -"I don't know, father," answered I. "I was in a shop when she did, and -a boy was holding her. I suppose he teased her. But it's not worth -talking about; it would have been nothing if Joyce hadn't been so -easily frightened." - -"I couldn't help it," murmured Joyce. "I know I'm silly." - -"Well, to be sure, any old cart-horse would be better for you than a -beast with any spirit, wouldn't it?" laughed I. - -"Well, Margaret, the animal must have looked dangerous, you know," said -mother, "for no strange gentleman would have thought of accosting two -girls unless he saw they were really in need of help." - -I laughed--I am afraid I laughed. I thought mother was so very innocent. - -"I hope you thanked him for his trouble," added she. "Being the -squire's nephew, as it seems he was, I shouldn't be pleased to think -you treated him as short as you sometimes treat strangers. You, -Margaret, I mean," added mother, looking at me. - -"Oh yes, we were very polite to him," said I. And then I grew very -hot. Of course I knew I was bound to say that Captain Forrester had -driven us home. I hoped mother would take it kindly, as she seemed well -disposed towards him, but I did not feel perfectly sure. - -"We asked him to come in, didn't we, Joyce?" added I, looking at her. - -"Yes, we did," murmured my sister, bending very low over her plate. - -"Asked him to come where?" asked mother. - -"Why, here, to be sure," cried I, growing bolder. "He drove us home, -you know." - -Mother said nothing, for Deborah had just brought in the pudding, and -she was always very discreet before servants at meal-times. But she -closed her lips in a way that I knew, and her face assumed an aggrieved -kind of expression that she only put on to me; when Joyce was in the -wrong, she always scolded her quite frankly. There was silence until -Deborah had left the room. She went out with a smile on her face which -always drove me into a frenzy, for it meant to say, "You are in for -it, and serve you right;" and I thought it was taking advantage of her -position in the family to notice any differences that occurred between -mother and the rest of us. - -When Deborah had gone out, shutting the door rather noisily, mother -laid down her knife and fork. She did not look at me at all, she looked -at Joyce. That was generally the way she punished me. - -"You don't mean to say, Joyce, that you allowed a strange gentleman -to get into the trap before all the townsfolk!" said she. "You're the -eldest--you ought to have known better." - -I could not stand this. "It isn't Joyce's fault," said I, boldly; "I -thought we were in luck's way when the gentleman offered to drive us. -He knew the mare, and of course I felt that we were safe." - -"It will be all over the place to-morrow," said mother, pathetically. - -"Well, the gentleman is the squire's nephew, and everybody knows what -friends you are with the squire," answered I, provokingly. - -"You might see that makes it all the worse," answered mother. "I don't -know how ever I shall meet the squire again. I'm ashamed to think my -daughters should have behaved so unseemly. But the ideas of young women -in these days pass me. Such notions wouldn't have gone down in my day. -Young women were forced to mind themselves if they were to have a -chance of a husband. Your father would never have looked at me if I had -been one of that sort." - -Father was in a brown-study. I do not think he had paid much attention -to the affair at all, but now he smiled as mother glanced across at -him, seeming to expect some recognition. She repeated her last remark -and then he said, bowing to her with old-fashioned gallantry, "I think -I should have looked at you, Mary, whatever your shortcomings had -been. You were too pretty to be passed over." - -And he smiled again, as he never smiled at any one but mother; the -smile that, when it did come, lit up his face like a dash of broad -sunshine upon a rugged moor. - -"But mother's quite right, lassies," added he; "a woman must be modest -and gentle, not self-seeking, nor eager for homage, or she'll never -have all the patience she need have to put up with a man's tempers." - -He sighed, and the tears rose to my eyes. A word of disapproval from -my father always hurt me to the quick, and I felt that in this case it -was not wholly deserved, as, however mistaken I might have been, I had -certainly not been self-seeking or eager for homage. - -"I'm very sorry," said I, but I am afraid not at all humbly; "I didn't -know I was doing anything so very dreadful. Anyhow, it wasn't I who was -afraid of the horse, and it wasn't for me that Captain Forrester took -the reins." - -This was quite true, but I had no business to have said it. I wished -the words back as soon as they were spoken. Joyce blushed scarlet -again, and mother looked at me for the first time. I felt that she was -going to ask what I meant, but father interrupted her. - -"There, there," said he, not testily, but as though to put an end to -the discussion. "You should not have done it, because mother says so, -and mother always knows best, but I dare say there's little harm done. -A civil word hurts nobody; and as for the mare, you needn't drive her -again." - -So that was all that I had got for my pains. I opened my mouth to -explain and to remonstrate, but father rose from the table and said -grace, and I dared not pursue the subject further. For the matter of -that, the look of pain in his face, as he moved across the room and sat -down heavily in the chair, was quite enough to chase away my vexation -against him. "Meg, just take these heavy things off for me, I'm weary," -said he. I knelt down and unfastened the gaiters, and unlaced the heavy -boots, and brought him his slippers. He lay back with a sigh of relief. - -"The walk round the farm has been too much for you, Laban," said -mother, sitting down in the other high-backed chair near him. - -"Let be, let be," muttered he. - -"Nay, I can't let be, Laban," insisted mother. "I must look after your -health, you know. I can see very well that it is too much for you -seeing after the farm as it should be seen after. And that's why I -don't think the squire's notion is half a bad one." - -I stopped with the spoons and forks in my hand that I was taking off -the table. Father made that noise between his teeth again. I always -knew it meant a storm brewing. - -"Anyhow, I hope you won't bear him a grudge for what he thought fit to -advise," mother went on. "He did it out of friendship, I'm sure. And -the squire's a wise man." - -Father did not answer at first. He had risen and stood with his back to -the fire. His jaw was set, his eyes looked like black beads under the -overhanging brows. - -"Of course I know you'll say he just wants to get a job for his -friend's son," continued mother. "And no doubt he mightn't have thought -of it but for this turning up. But he wouldn't advise it if he didn't -think it was for our good. The squire has our interests at heart, I'm -sure." - -"D--n the squire," said father at last, slowly and below his breath. -Mother laid her hand on his arm. - -"Hush, Laban, hush; not before the girls," said she, in her gentle -tones. - -"Well, well, there," said he, "the squire's a good man and an honest -man, but I say neither he nor any one else has a right to come and -teach a man what to do with his own." - -"He doesn't do it because of any right," persisted mother. "He does it -because he's afraid things don't work as well as they used to do, and -because he's your friend." - -"And what business has he to be afraid?" retorted father. "I say the -land's my own, though I do pay him rent for it, and it's my business -to be afraid. Does he think I shall be behind-hand with the rent? I've -been punctual to a day these last twenty years. What more does he want, -I should like to know?" - -"Now, Laban, you know that isn't it," expostulated mother. "He knows he -is safe enough for the rent, but he's afraid you ain't making money so -fast as you might. And of course if you aren't, it's clear it's because -you're not so strong to work as you were, and you haven't got a son of -your own to look after things for you." - -Mother sighed as she said this, but I am afraid I looked at her with -angry not sympathetic eyes. - -"The squire takes a true interest in us all," repeated she for the -third time, her voice trembling a little. - -"Well, then, let him take his interest elsewhere this time, ma'am, -that's all I've got to say," retorted father, in no way appeased. "If -things were as they should be, there'd be no paying of rent to eat up -a man's profits on the land, but what he made by the sweat of his brow -would be his own for his old age, and for his children after him. And -if we can only get what ought to belong to the nation by paying for it, -then all I bargain for is--let those who get the money from me leave -alone prying into how I get it together." - -I had stood perfectly still all this time, with the spoons and forks in -my hand, listening and wondering. Father's last speech I had scarcely -given heed to. I had heard those opinions before, and they had become -mere words in my ears. I was entirely engrossed with wondering what was -the exact nature of the squire's suggestion, and with horror at what I -feared. I was not long left in doubt. - -"Well, you make a great mistake in being angry with Squire Broderick, -Laban, indeed you do," reiterated mother, shaking her head, and -without paying any attention to his fiery speech. She never did pay -any attention to such speeches. She always frankly said that she did -not understand them. "If the squire recommends this young Mr. Trayton -Harrod to you, it is because he knows him and thinks he would work with -you, and not be at all like any common paid bailiff, I'm sure of that." - -"Well, then, mother, all I can say is--it's nonsense--that is what it -is. It is nonsense. If a man is a paid bailiff, the more like one he is -the better. And I don't think it is at all likely I shall ever take a -paid bailiff to help me to manage Knellestone." - -With that he strode to the door and opened it. - -"Meg, will you please come to me in my study in a quarter of an hour?" -said he, turning to me as he went out. "There are a few things in the -farm accounts that I think you might help me with." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -I went into the sunlight and stood leaning upon the garden-hedge -looking out over the glittering plain of snow to the glittering blue -of the sea beyond. The whole scene was set with jewels of light, and -even the gray fortress in the marsh seemed to awaken for once out -of its sleep; but I was in no mood to laugh with the sunbeams, for -my heart was beating with angry thoughts. A bailiff, a manager for -Knellestone--and Knellestone that had been managed by nobody but its -own masters for three hundred years! It was impossible! Why, the very -earth would rise up and rebel! From where I stood I could see our -meadows down on the marsh, our fields away on the hills towards the -sunset, the pastures where our shepherds spent cold nights in huts -at the lambing-time, the land where our oxen drew the plough and our -laborers tilled the soil and harvested the ingatherings. Would the men -and the beasts work for the manager as they worked for us? Would the -land prosper for a stranger and a hireling, who would not care whether -the cattle lived or died, whether the seasons were kind or cruel, -whether the trees and the flowers flourished or pined away, who would -get his salary just the same, though the frost nipped the new crops, -though the wheat dried up for want of rain or rotted in the ear for -lack of sun, though the cows cast their calves and the lambs died at -the birth? How absurd, how ridiculous it was! Did it not show that it -had been suggested by one who took no interest in the land, but who let -it all out to others to care for? Of course this was some spendthrift -younger son of a ruined gentleman's family, or some idiot who had -failed at every other profession, and was to be sent here to ruin other -people without having any responsibility of his own--somebody to whom -the squire owed a duty or a favor. Perhaps a man who had never been on -a farm in his life, maybe had not even lived in the country at all. -In my childish anger I became utterly unreasonable, and gave vent in -my solitude to any absurd expressions that occurred to me. I smile to -myself as I remember the impotent rage of that afternoon. Indeed, I -think I hated the squire most thoroughly that day. It was the idea, -too, that I was being set at naught that added to my anger. Hitherto -it was I who had transmitted father's orders to the men whenever he -was laid by or busy; and, as I have said before, he often trusted me -to ride to the bank with money, and even to take stock of the goods -before sales and fairs came on. Of course I know now that I was worse -than useless to him. I was a clever girl enough, and dauntless in -the matter of fatigue or trouble, but I was entirely ignorant of the -hundred little details that make all the difference in matters of that -kind, and pluck and coolness stood me in poor stead of experience. -But at that time I was confident, and as I stood there looking at -the brightness that I did not see, tears came into my eyes--tears -of mortification, that even the squire should have considered me so -perfectly useless that I could be set aside as though I did not exist. -How often I had wished to be a boy! How heartily I wished it that -afternoon! If I had been a boy there would never even have been a -question of getting a paid manager to help father. I should have been a -man by this time, nearly of age, and no one would have doubted that I -was clever enough and strong enough to see after my own. - -Father called from the window, and I went in. He was sitting by the -table, surrounded by papers, his foot supported on a chair. - -"Sit down, Meg," said he. "I want you to help me remember one or two -things in the books that I don't quite understand--I think you can." - -He spoke quite cheerfully. I had been setting down things in the book -while he had been ill, and paying the wages to the men, and it was -quite natural he should want to see me about it. I sat down, and we -went over the books item by item. We had had a very sound education, -though simple, quite as good as most girls have, and I had been -considered more than usually smart at figures. But that day I think I -was dazed. I could not remember things; I could not tell why the books -were not square; my wits were muddled on every point. Father was most -patient, most kind. I think he must have seen that I was over-anxious, -but his kindness only made me more disgusted with myself; for I knew -that that dreadful question was in his mind the whole time, as it was -in mine. - -Whenever I told him anything that was not satisfactory in the conduct -of affairs, or anything that had failed to turn out as he expected, I -knew that it was in his mind, although he did not think I saw it. - -"We can't expect old heads to grow on young shoulders," said he at -last, patting mine gently, a thing most rare for him to do. "It takes -many a long day to learn experience, my dear. And sometimes we don't do -so much better with it than we did without it." He put the books away -as he spoke, and leaned back in his chair. "That'll do now, child," he -added; "to-morrow I shall be able to see the men myself. I am well and -hearty again now--thank the Lord--and a good bit of work will do me -good." - -"You mustn't begin too soon, father," said I, timidly; "you know the -weather is very cold and treacherous yet." - -"Oh, you women would keep a man in-doors forever for fear the wind -should blow in his face," cried he, testily. "But there's an end to -everything. When I'm ill you shall all do what you like with me, but -when I'm well I mean to be my own master." - -"But I shall still be able to help you, father, as I have done -before, sha'n't I?" added I, still, singularly, without my accustomed -self-confidence. - -"Why, yes, child, of course," he replied. "And you and I will be able -to get on yet awhile without a stranger's help, I'll warrant." It was -the only allusion he had made to the horrible subject during the whole -of our interview. It was the only allusion he made to it in my presence -for many a long day. He rose from his chair as he spoke the last words, -and walked across to the window. - -The afternoon was beginning to sink, and the sun had paled in its -splendor. The lights were gray now over the whiteness of the marsh, and -the snow looked cold and cruel. Something made my heart sink, too, as -I noticed how gray was father's face in the scrutinizing light of the -afternoon. I had not noticed before that he had really been ill. I left -the room quickly, and went out again. The stinging March air struck a -chill into my bones, and yet it was scarcely more than four o'clock. -Two hours of daylight yet! How was it possible that any man but the -strongest should work as a man must work whose farm should prosper? And -was father really a strong man? I was sick with misgivings. What if, -after all, the squire were right? But I would not believe it. Father -had had the gout; it was always the strongest men who had the gout. - -I turned to go in-doors. A laugh greeted my ears from the library. I -passed before the window. Yes; it was father who was laughing as he -shook hands with a man who had just entered the room. I looked. The -man was a tall, blond, spare fellow, with a sanguine complexion, very -marked features, small gray eyes, and a bald head. I knew him to be a -Mr. Hoad, father's solicitor in town. He was well dressed in a black -suit and gray trousers. He was a very successful man for his time of -life, people said. I knew that father liked him, and I was glad that -father should have a visitor who cheered him to-day. But for my own -part, I knew no one who filled me with such a peculiar antipathy. I -could not bear the sight of the man. Yet he was a harmless kind of -fellow, and very polite to ladies. Joyce often used to take me to -task for my excessive dislike to him. If it was because I did not -consider him on equal terms with us, from a social point of view--for -I must confess I was ridiculously prejudiced on this score, and where -I had learned such nonsense I do not know--then the ship-owners and -other people of that class to whom I could give "good-day" in town -were much less so. But I could not have told why I disliked him so -particularly; I could not have told why I wondered that father could -have any dealings with him--why I was always on the watch for something -that should prove that I was in the right in my instinct. And somehow -his appearance on this particular evening affected me even more -uncomfortably than usual, and I felt that I could not go in and see -him--perhaps even have to discuss the very subject that was weighing -on my mind, when I wanted to be alone to nurse my own mortification, -and lull my fears to rest by myself. I crept into the hall quietly and -fetched a cloak and hood, and then, running round to the yard, I called -the St. Bernard. He came, leaping and jumping upon me, this friend with -whom I was always in tune. I opened the gate gently, and together we -went out upon the road. - -I think Taff and I must have walked three miles. The roads were stiff -and slippery, the air was like a knife; but I did not care. The quick -movement and the solitude and the quiet of the coming night soothed -me. We got up upon the downs where lonely homesteads stud the country -here and there, and came back again along the cliffs that crown the -marsh-land. There I stood a long while face to face with the quiet -world upon which the moon had now risen in the deep blue of a twilight -sky. It looked down upon the wide, white marsh upon whose frozen bosom -gray vapors floated lightly; it looked down upon the dark town that -rose yonder so sombre and distinct out of the mystery of the landscape; -the channel that flows to the sea lay cold and blue and motionless at -the foot of the hill like a sheet of steel. It made me shudder. There -was not a ripple upon its deathly breast. The snow around was far more -tender. For the first time in my life I felt the sadness of the world; -I realized that there was something in it which I could not understand; -I remembered that there was such a thing as death. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -I did not escape Mr. Hoad by my walk. He had stayed to tea. I do not -think that he was a favorite of mother's, but she always made a great -point of welcoming all father's friends to the house, and I saw that -she had welcomed him to-night. He sat in the place of honor beside -her, and there were sundry alterations on the tea-table, and a pot of -special marmalade in the middle. - -It was very late when I came in. I took off my things in the hall and -went in without smoothing my hair. I thought I should have been in -disgrace for coming in late, and for having my hair in disorder when a -guest was present; but mother had forgotten her displeasure, and smiled -as she pushed my cup towards me. She never made any allusion to by-gone -differences--her anger never lasted long. - -The mood that I had brought with me from without was still upon me, and -when I saw that father's face had lost its gray pallor, that his eyes -shone with their usual fire, and that his voice was strong and healthy, -I sighed a sigh of relief and told myself that I was a fool, and that -Mr. Hoad must really be a good fellow if he could so soon chase away -the gloom from my parent's brow. - -"Your husband looks wonderfully well again, Mrs. Maliphant," he was -saying; "it's quite surprising how soon he has pulled round. When I met -the doctor the other day driving from town, and stopped to ask after -him, he said it would be weeks before he could be about again. But he -has got a splendid constitution--must have. Not that I would wish to -detract from your powers of nursing. We all have heard how wonderful -they are." - -Mr. Hoad smiled at mother, but she did not smile back again. There were -people whom she kept at arm's-length, even though carefully civil to -them. I don't suppose she knew this, for she was a shy woman, but I -recollect it well. - -"We can all nurse those we are fond of," she said. "I'm sure I'm very -pleased to think you should find Mr. Maliphant looking better." - -"Better! Nonsense!" exclaimed father. "I'm as well as I ever was in my -life. Don't let's hear any more about that, wife, there's a dear soul." - -"Nay, you shall hear no more about it than need be from me, Laban, I -can promise you that," smiled mother, pouring out the tea, while Joyce, -from the opposite side of the table, where she was cutting up the -seed-cake that she had made with her own hands the day before, asked -the guest after his two daughters. - -"They are very busy," answered Mr. Hoad. "A large acquaintance, you -know--it involves a great deal of calling. I'm afraid they have been -remiss here." - -"Oh, I pray, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Hoad," exclaimed mother, -hastily. "We don't pay calls ourselves. We are plain folk, and don't -hold with fashionable ways." - -Mr. Hoad smiled rather uncomfortably. - -"And we have not much to amuse them with," I put in. "We do nothing -that young ladies do." - -I saw mother purse up her lips at this, and I was vexed that I -had said it, but father laughed and said: "No, Hoad, my girls are -simple farmer's daughters, and have learned more about gardening and -house-keeping than they have about French and piano-playing, though Meg -can sing a ballad when she chooses as well as I want to hear it." - -I declared my voice was nothing to Miss Hoad's; and Joyce, always -gracious, looked across to Mr. Hoad and said: "I wonder whether Miss -Jessie would sing something for us at our village concert?" - -"I'll ask her," said Mr. Hoad, a little diffidently. "I'm never sure -about my daughters' engagements. They have so many engagements." - -"We shall be very pleased to see them here any afternoon for a -practice, sha'n't we, mother?" added Joyce. - -"The young ladies will always be welcome," replied mother, a little -stiffly; and I hastened to add, I fear less graciously: - -"But pray don't let them break any engagements for us." - -Mr. Hoad smiled again, and then father turned to him and they took up -the thread of their own talk where they had left it. - -"You certainly ought to know that young fellow I was speaking of," -Mr. Hoad began. "I was struck with him at once. A wonderful gift of -expressing himself, and just that kind of way with him that always wins -people--one can't explain it. Handsome, too, and full of enthusiasm." - -"Enthusiasm don't always carry weight," objected father. "It's rather -apt to fly too high." - -"Bound to fly high when you have got to get over the heads of other -folks," laughed Mr. Hoad. - -Father looked annoyed. "I wasn't joking, I wasn't joking," said he. -"If men want to go in for great work, they can't afford to take it -lightly." And then he added with one of his quick looks, "But don't -misunderstand me, Hoad. Enthusiasm of the right kind never takes things -lightly. It's the only sort of stuff that wins great battles, because -it has plenty of courage and don't know the meaning of failure. Only -there's such lots of stuff that's called enthusiasm and is nothing but -gas. I should like to see this young man and judge for myself. God -forbid I should think youth a stumbling-block. Youth is the time for -doing as well as for dreaming." - -Father sighed, and though I could not tell why at the time, I can guess -now that it was from the recollection of that friend of his who must -have been the type of youthful enthusiasm thus to have left his memory -and the strength of his convictions so many years in the heart of -another. - -"Well, you can see him easily enough," said Mr. Hoad. "He's staying in -your village, I believe. He's a nephew of Squire Broderick's." - -"What! Captain Forrester?" cried I. - -"Ah, you know him of course, Miss Maliphant. Trust the young ladies for -finding out the handsome men," said Mr. Hoad, turning to me with his -most irritating expression of gallantry. I bit my lips with annoyance -at having opened my mouth to the man, especially as he glanced across -at Joyce with a horribly knowing look, at which of course she blushed, -making me very angry. - -"I fancy the squire and he don't get on so extra well together," said -Mr. Hoad. "Squire don't like the look of the lad that'll step into his -shoes, if he don't make haste and marry and have a son of his own, I -suppose." - -"I should think this smart captain had best not reckon too much on the -property," said mother, stiffly, up in arms at once for her favorite. -"The squire's young enough yet to marry and have a dozen sons." - -"Yes, yes, ma'am, only joking, only joking," declared Mr. Hoad. "I -shouldn't think the lad gave the property a thought." - -"If he's the kind of man you say, he can't possibly care about -property," said I, glibly, talking of what I could not understand. -Father smiled, but smiled kindly, at me. Mr. Hoad laughed outright and -made me furious. - -"I see you're up in all the party phrases, young lady," said he. - -"How did you come to know the young man, Hoad?" asked father, without -giving me time to reply. "You seem to have become friends in a very -short time." - -"He came to me on a matter of business," repeated Hoad, evasively. "I -fancy he's pretty hard up. Only got his captain's pay and a little -private property, on his father's side, I suppose, and no doubt gives -more than he can spare to these societies and things." - -Father was silent. Probably he knew, what I had no notion of, that -there was another branch to Mr. Hoad's profession besides that of a -solicitor. Evidently he did not like to be reminded of the fact, for he -knitted his brow and let his jaw fall, as he always did when annoyed. - -"I don't know how we came to talk politics," Hoad went on, "but we did, -and I thought to myself, 'Why, here's just the man for Maliphant.' -I never knew any one else go as far as you do; but this young -fellow--why, he nearly beat you, 'pon my soul he did!" - -"Politics!" echoed father, frowning more unmistakably than ever; "what -have they got to do with the matter?" - -"Come, now, Maliphant, you're not going to keep that farce up forever," -cried Mr. Hoad, in his most intimate and good-natured fashion. Oh, how -I resented it when he would treat father as though he were on perfect -equality with him! For my father's daughter I was intolerant; but then -Mr. Hoad patronized, and patronizing was not necessary in order to be -consistent. - -"What do you mean?" asked father. - -"It was all very well for you to swear you would have nothing to do -with us before," continued Mr. Hoad. "You did not think we should ever -get hold of a man who looked at things as you do. But now we have. -And if you really have the Radical cause at heart, as you say, you -will be able to get him in for the county. He has got everything in -his favor--good name, good presence, good-breeding. Those are the men -to run your notions; not your measly, workaday fellows--they have no -influence with the masses." - -Father rose from the table. His eyebrows nearly met in their -overhanging shagginess, and his eyes were small and brilliant. - -"I don't think I understand you, Hoad," said he. "We seem to be at -cross-purposes. Do you mean to say that this young man wants to get -into Parliament?" - -"Oh, no plans, no plans whatever, I should say," said Hoad. "He -merely asked me who was going to contest the Tory seat; and when I -asked him if he was a Radical, he aired a few sentiments which, as I -tell you, are quite in your line. But I should think we might easily -persuade him--he seemed so very eager. If you would back our man, -Maliphant, we should be safe whoever he was, I do believe," added the -solicitor, emphatically. "He has a really wonderful influence with the -working-classes, that husband of yours, ma'am," he finished up, turning -to mother. - -"Yes," said she, proudly; "Laban's a fine orator. When I heard him -speak at the meeting the other day he fairly took my breath away, that -he did." - -Mother looked up at father with a pleased smile, for she loved to hear -him praised, but for my own part I knew very well that he was in no -mood for pleasant speeches. - -"I have always told you, Hoad, that it's no part of my scheme to go in -for politics," said he, in a low voice, but very decisively. "I see no -reason to change my mind." - -"Well, my dear fellow, but that's absurd," answered Mr. Hoad, still in -that provokingly friendly fashion. "However do you expect to get what -you want?" - -"Not through Parliament, anyhow," said father, laconically. "I never -heard of any Act of Parliament that gave bread to the poor out of the -waste of the rich. I'll wait to support Parliament till I see one of -the law-makers there lift up a finger to right the poor miserable -children who swarm and starve in the London streets, and whose little -faces grow mean and sharp with the learning to cheat those who cheat -them of their daily bread." - -I can see him now, his lip trembling, his eye bright, his hands -clinched. It was the cry with which he ended every discourse; this -tender pity for the many children who must needs hunger while others -waste, who must needs learn sin while others are shielded from even -knowing that there is such a thing; those innocent sinners, outcasts -from good, patient because hopeless, yet often enough incurably happy -even in the very centre of evil--they were always in his heart. It was -his most cherished hope in some way to succor them, by some means to -bring the horror of their helplessness home to the hearts of those who -had happy children of their own. - -I held my face down that no one should see my tears, and I knew that -father took out his big colored pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose -very hard. Mr. Hoad, however, was not so easily affected. - -"Ah, you were right, Mrs. Maliphant," said he, in a loud, emphatic -voice. "Your husband would make a very fine orator. All the more reason -it's a sin and a shame he should hide his talents under a bushel. Now, -don't you agree with me?" - -"Oh, Laban knows best what he has got to do," answered mother. "I think -it's a great pity for women to mix themselves up in these matters. They -have plenty to do attending to the practical affairs of life." - -Mr. Hoad burst into a loud fit of laughter. "Ah, you've got a clever -wife, Maliphant," cried he. "She's put her finger upon the weak joint -in your armor! Yes, that's it, my boy. They're fine sentiments, but -they aren't practical; they won't wash. But you would soon see, when -you really got into the thing, that the best way to make the first step -towards what you want is not to ask for the whole lot at once. The thin -edge of the wedge--that's the art. And I should be inclined to think -this young fellow was not wanting in tact." - -"Anyhow," answered father, quietly, "if Squire Broderick's nephew were -minded to oppose the Tory candidate for this county, I should certainly -not wish--as Squire Broderick's old friend--to support him in his -venture." - -"Ah, you're very scrupulous, Maliphant," laughed Mr. Hoad. But then, -seeing his mistake, he added, quickly, "Quite right, perfectly right of -course, and I don't suppose the young man has any intention of doing -anything of the kind." - -"No doubt it was rather that the wish was father to the thought in you, -Hoad," answered father, frankly. - -"Ah, well, you may be as obstinate as you like, Maliphant," said the -solicitor, trying to take father's good-tempered effort as a cue for -jocoseness, "but we can get on very well without you if the young -ladies will only give us their kind support. I hope you won't be such -an old curmudgeon as to forbid that; and I hope," added he, turning -to Joyce with that sugary smile of his, "that the young ladies will -not withdraw their patronage if, after all, a less handsome man than -Captain Forrester should be our Radical candidate." - -"Oh, thank you," said Joyce, blushing furiously, and looking up with -distressed blue eyes; "indeed, we scarcely know Captain Forrester at -all. We couldn't possibly be of any use to you." - -"Of course not," cried I. "Whoever were the candidate we should not -canvass. We never canvass. We are not politicians." - -I wonder that nobody smiled, but nobody did. Father was too busy with -his thoughts, and perhaps Mr. Hoad was too much astonished. But as -though to cover my priggishness, Joyce said, sweetly, when Mr. Hoad -rose to go: "You won't forget the concert, will you? And, please, will -you tell Miss Bessie that I shall be very glad to do what I can to help -her with her bazaar work?" - -He promised to remember both messages, and shook hands with her in a -kind of lingering way, which I remember was a manner he always had -towards a pretty girl. I thought mother took leave of him a little -shortly. Father alone accompanied him out into the hall, and saw him -into the smart little gig that came round from the stable to pick him -up. I went to the pantry for the tray to clear the tea-things. When I -came back again into the parlor Joyce had gone up-stairs, and father -and mother were alone. I do not know why it was, but as soon as I came -in I felt sure that the discussion with Hoad, eager as it had been at -the time, was not occupying father's mind. I felt sure that mother -had alluded to that more important matter hotly spoken of after the -squire's visit. She was standing by the fire, and father held her hand -in his. He asked me to bring a lamp into his study, and went out. I -glanced at mother. - -"What does father want to go to work for so late?" said I. "Why don't -he sit and smoke his pipe as usual?" - -Mother did not answer; her back was turned towards me, but there was -something in its expression which made me feel sure that she was crying. - -"But he seems much better to-night, mother," I added, coming up behind -her; "he was quite himself over that argument." - -"Yes, dear, yes; he can always wake up over those things," answered -she, and sure enough there was a tremble in her voice, and every trace -of the dignity that she had used towards me since the scene at the -dinner-table had entirely disappeared. - -"Dear mother, why do you fret?" said I, softly. "I'm sure there's no -need." - -"No, no, of course there's no need," she repeated. "But, Margaret," -added she, hurriedly, as though she were half ashamed of what she were -saying, "if he could be brought to see that plan of the squire's in -a better light, I'm sure it would be a good thing. I don't think his -heart has ever been in farm-work, and I can't a-bear to see him working -so hard now he is old. It would have been different, you see, if--if -little John had lived." - -I kissed her silently. The innocent slight to my own capacities, which -had so occupied my mind an hour ago, passed unnoticed by me. And as -father that night at family prayers rolled forth in his sonorous voice -the beautiful language of the Psalms, the words, "He hath respect unto -the lowly, but the proud he knoweth afar off," sank into my heart, and -I thought that I should never again want to set myself up above my -betters. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -I lay awake quite half an hour that night, and I made up my mind--just -as seriously as though my feelings were likely to prove an important -influence--that I would in no way try to bias my father in his decision -about taking a bailiff. But real as was my trouble about this matter -that to me was so mighty, it was all put to flight the next morning -by an occurrence of more personal and immediate interest. Such is the -blessed elasticity of youth. The occurrence was one which not only -brought the remembrance of Captain Forrester, and my romantic dreams -for Joyce, once more vividly to my mind, but it also gave no small -promise of enjoyment to myself. It consisted in the sudden appearance -of a groom from the Manor, who delivered into my hands a note for -mother. - -It was morning when he came; mother was still in the kitchen with -Deborah, and Joyce and I had not finished making our beds and dusting -our room. But I do not think there was any delay in the answering of -that door-bell. I remember how cross I was when mother would insist on -finishing all her business before she opened the note; she went into -the poultry-yard and decided what chickens and what ducks should be -killed for the week's dinners, she went into the dairy to look at the -cream, she even went up herself into the loft to get apples before -she would go and find her spectacles in the parlor. And yet any one -could have imagined that a note from the squire meant something very -important. And so, indeed, it did. It contained a formal invitation to -a grand ball to be given at the Manor-house. The card did not say a -"grand" ball, but of course we knew that it would be a grand ball. We -were fairly dazed with excitement. Actually a ball in our quiet little -village. Such a thing had not been known since I had been grown up, -and I had not even heard of its having occurred since the days when -young Mrs. Broderick had come to the Manor as a bride. Of course we -had been to dances in town once or twice--once to the Hoads', and once -to a county ball, got up at the White Hart Inn, but I think these were -really the only two occasions on which I had danced anywhere out of the -dancing academy. Joyce, being a little older, could count about three -more such exciting moments in her life. The card was passed round from -hand to hand, and then stuck up on the mantle-shelf in front of the -clock, as though there were any danger that any of the family would -be likely to forget on what day and at what hour Squire Broderick had -invited us to "dancing" at the Manor. - -"I wonder what has made the squire give a ball now," said mother. "I -suppose it's the prospect of the elections. He thinks he owes it to the -county." - -"Why on earth should he owe the county a ball because of the -elections?" cried I. "He is not going to stand, and I don't think he -can suppose that a ball would be likely to do the Farnham interests -much good, if that's the only man they have got to put forward on the -Conservative side." - -"I don't think it's a young girl's business to talk in that flippant -way, Margaret," said the mother. Father was not present just then. "I -don't think it's becoming in young folk to talk about matters they -can't possibly understand." - -I was nettled at this, but I did not dare to answer mother back. - -"You never heard your father talk like that of Mr. Farnham, I'm sure," -added mother. "He likes him a great deal better than he does Mr. -Thorne, although Mr. Thorne is a Radical." - -"Well, I should think so! Mr. Thorne is a capitalist, and father -doesn't think that men who have made such large fortunes in business -ought to exist," cried I, boldly, applying a theory to an individual -as I thought I had been taught. "It is no use his being a Radical, nor -giving money to the poor, because he oughtn't to have the money. It's -dreadful to think of his having bought a beautiful old place like the -Priory with money that he has ground out of his workpeople. No, nobody -will ever like Mr. Thorne in the neighborhood." - -"I know squire and he don't hold together at all," answered mother. -"Though they do say Mr. Thorne bought the property through that -handsome young spark of a nephew of the squire's. The families were -acquainted up North." - -"Who told you that, mother?" asked I, quickly. - -"Miss Farnham said so when she called yesterday," replied mother. "And -she said it was Mr. Thorne was going to contest the seat with her -brother, so I don't know how Mr. Hoad could have come suggesting that -young captain to your father as he did yesterday. A rich man like the -manufacturer would be sure to have much more chance." - -I was silent. I was a little out of my depth. "I don't believe Mr. Hoad -knew anything at all about it," I said. "How could a man be going to -contest a seat against the candidate that his own uncle was backing? -It's ridiculous. Mr. Hoad has always got something to say." - -"Margaret, you really shouldn't allow yourself to pass so many opinions -on folk," repeated mother. "First Mr. Farnham, and then Mr. Thorne, and -now Mr. Hoad. It's not pretty in young women." - -"Very well, mother, I won't do it again," said I, merrily. "At all -events Parliament doesn't matter much, father says so; and anyhow, -squire's going to give us a ball, and nothing can matter so much as -that." - -Nothing did matter half so much to us three just then, it is true. -Mother was just as much excited as we were, and we all fell to -discussing the fashions with just as much eagerness, if not as much -knowledge, as if we had been London born and bred. - -"You must look over your clothes and see you have got everything neat. -Joyce, I suppose you will wear your white embroidered 'India'?" said -the mother. And from that it was a very natural step to go and look at -the white muslin, and at the other clothes that our simple wardrobes -boasted, so that we spent every bit of that morning that was not taken -up with urgent household duties in turning over frocks and laces and -ribbons, and determining what we should wear, and what wanted washing -before we did wear it. Yes, I think I thought of my dress that day -for the first time in my life. There was no need to think of Joyce's, -because she was sure to be admired, but if there was any chance of my -looking well it could only be because of some happy thought with regard -to my costume; and so when mother suggested that she should give me her -lovely old sea-green shot silk to be made up for the occasion, my heart -leaped for joy. I was very much excited. For Joyce, because I had quite -made up my mind that it was Captain Forrester who had persuaded the -squire to give this ball; and for myself, because it was really a great -event in the life of any girl, and I was passionately fond of dancing. -I spent the afternoon washing my old lace ruffles, and pulling them out -tenderly before the fire, and all the time I was humming waltz tunes, -and wondering who would dance with me, and picturing Joyce to myself -whirling round in the arms of Captain Forrester. I thought of Joyce and -her lover so much that it was scarcely a surprise to me when, just as -the light was beginning to fade and tea-time was near, I heard a sharp -ring at the front door, and running to the back passage window with my -lace in my hand, I saw that Squire Broderick was standing in the porch, -and with him his nephew Captain Forrester. I heard Joyce fly through -the hall to the kitchen. I think she must have seen the two gentlemen -pass down the road, and then she ran back again into the parlor, and -Deborah went to the door. - -"Mrs. Maliphant at home?" said the squire's cheery voice; and scarcely -waiting for a reply, he strode through to the front room. - -I threw down my lace, turned down my sleeves, and without any more -attention to my toilet I ran down-stairs. Mother had gone to do some -little errands in the village and had not come in; Joyce stood alone -with the visitors. She had her plain dark-blue every-day gown on, but -the soft little frills at her throat and wrists were clean. I remember -thinking how fortunate it was that they were clean. She was standing in -the window with Captain Forrester, who was admiring our view over the -marsh. - -"It's a most beautiful country," said he. And his eyes wandered from -the plain without that the shades of evening were slowly darkening to -the face at his side that shone so fair against the little frilled -muslin curtain which she held aside with her hand. - -The squire sat at the table; he had taken up the morning paper, and I -supposed that the frown on his face was summoned there by something -that he read in the columns of this the Liberal journal. Captain -Forrester left Joyce and came towards me as soon as I entered the room. - -"Miss Maliphant, I am delighted to meet you again," said he, with his -pleasant polished manner that had the art of never making one feel -that he was saying a thing merely to be agreeable. "After our little -adventure of the other day, I felt that it was impossible for me to -leave the neighborhood without trying to make our acquaintance fast." - -"Oh, are you leaving the neighborhood?" said I--I am afraid a little -too anxiously. - -"Well, not just yet," smiled Captain Forrester. "I think I shall stay -till over the ball." - -"Nonsense, Frank," said the squire, rising and pushing the paper away -from him. "Of course you will stay over the ball." Then turning to me, -he said, merrily, "No difficulty about you young ladies coming, I hope?" - -"I don't know, Mr. Broderick," answered I. "You must wait and ask -mother. It's a very grand affair for two such simple girls as Joyce and -me." - -"Oh, Margaret, I think we shall be allowed to go," put in Joyce, in her -gentle, matter-of-fact voice. "You know we went to a very late ball -last Christmas in town." - -Considering that we had been sitting over frocks all the morning, this -would have been nonsense, excepting that Joyce never could see a joke. - -"I think I shall have to take Mrs. Maliphant in hand myself if she -makes any objection," said the squire, "for we certainly can't spare -you and your sister." - -Joyce blushed, and Captain Forrester turned to her and was going to -say something which I think would have been complimentary, when father -entered the room. He had his rough, brown, ill-cut suit on, and his -blue handkerchief twisted twice round his neck and tied loosely in -front, and did not look at all the same kind of man as the two in -front of him. I noticed it for the first time that evening. I was not -at all ashamed of it. If I had been questioned, I should have said -that I was very proud of it, but I just noticed it, and I wondered if -Captain Forrester noticed it too. It certainly was very odd that it -never should have occurred to me before, that this lover whom I had -picked out for Joyce belonged to the very same class as the squire, -whom I thought so unsuitable to her. I suppose it was because Captain -Forrester was not a landed proprietor, and that any man who belonged to -the noble career of soldiering atoned for his birth by his profession. - -"How are you, Maliphant?" said the squire, grasping him by the hand -as though there had been no such thing as any uncomfortable parting -between them. "I'm glad to see you are none the worse for this cursed -east wind. It's enough to upset many a younger and stronger man." - -Father had taken the proffered hand, but not very cordially. I am not -sure that he ever shook hands very cordially with people; perhaps it -was partly owing to the stiffness in his fingers, but I believe that -he regarded it as a useless formality. I imagine this because I, too, -have always had a dislike to kissings and hand-shakings, when a simple -"good-day" seemed to me to serve the purpose well enough. - -"Pooh!" said father, in answer to the squire's remark. "A man who has -his work out-doors all the year round, Squire Broderick, needs must -take little account whether the wind be in the east or the south, -except as how it'll affect his crops and his flock." - -The squire took no notice of this speech. It was so very evident that -it was spoken with a view to the vexed question. - -"I've brought my nephew round," said he, and Captain Forrester left -Joyce's side as he said it, and came forward with his pleasant smile -and just the proper amount of deference added to his usual charming -manner. "He wanted to see the Grange," added the squire, again with -that frown upon his brow that I could not understand, but which no -doubt proceeded, as he had affirmed, from the effect of the east wind -upon his temper. - -"I'm very glad to see you, sir," said father, shortly. "I hear you -rendered my daughters some assistance the other day." - -Captain Forrester smiled. "It could scarcely be called assistance," -he said. "Your daughter"--and he looked at me to distinguish me from -Joyce--"would have been capable of driving the horse, I am sure." - -"Oh, I understood the mare reared," answered father. - -"Well, she is not a good horse for a lady to drive," allowed Captain -Forrester, as though the confession were wrung from him; and I wondered -how he guessed that it annoyed me to be thought incapable of managing -the mare. "But some women drive as well as any man." - -The squire took up the paper again. I did not think it was good-manners -of him. - -"What a splendid view you have from this house," continued Captain -Forrester. "I think it's much finer than from our place." - -The squire's shoulders moved with an impatient movement. The article he -was reading must decidedly have annoyed him. - -"Yes," answered Joyce; "but you should come and see it in summer or in -autumn. It's very bleak now. The spring is so late this year." - -"Ay; I don't remember a snowfall in March these five years," said -father. - -"But it has a beautiful effect on this plain," continued the young man, -moving away into the window again. And then turning round to Joyce, he -added, "Do you sketch, Miss Maliphant?" - -"No, no," answered father for her. "We have no time for such things. We -have all of us plenty to do without any accomplishments." - -"Miss Margaret can sing 'Robin Adair,'" put in the squire, "as well as -I want to hear it, accomplishments or not." - -"Indeed," said Captain Forrester, with a show of interest. "I hope she -will sing it to me some day." - -He said it with a certain air of patronage, which I found afterwards -came from his own excellent knowledge of music. - -"Are you fond of singing?" said I, simply. I was too much of a country -girl to think of denying the charge. I was very fond of good music; -it was second nature to me, inherited, I suppose, from some forgotten -ancestor, and picking out tunes on the old piano was the only thing -that ever kept me willingly in-doors. Father delighted in my simple -singing of simple ditties, and so did the squire; I had grown used to -thinking it was a talent in me, my only one, and I was not ashamed of -owning up to it. "I'll sing it to you now if you like." - -"That's very kind of you," said the young man, with a little smile. -And I sat down and sang the old tune through. I remember that, for the -first time in my life, I was really nervous. Captain Forrester stood by -the piano. He was very kind; I don't know that any one had ever said so -much to me about my voice before, but in spite of it all I knew for the -first time that I knew nothing. I felt angrily ashamed when Joyce, in -reply to pressing questions about her musical capacity, answered that -I had all the talent, and began telling of the village concerts that I -was wont to get up for the poor people, and of how there was one next -week, when he must go and hear me sing. - -"Certainly I will," he answered, pleasantly, "and do anything I can to -help you. I have had some practice at that kind of thing." - -"Why don't you say you are a regular professional at it, Frank?" put in -the squire, I fancied a little crossly. "He's always getting up village -concerts--a regular godsend at that kind of thing." - -Frank laughed, and said he hoped we would employ him after such a -character, and then he asked what was our programme. Joyce told him. -I was going to sing, and Miss Hoad was going to sing--and she sang -beautifully, for she had learned in London--and then I would sing -with the blacksmith, and Miss Thorne would play with the grocer on -the cornet, and glees and comic songs would fill up the remainder. -The smile upon Captain Forrester's face clouded just a little at the -mention of Miss Thorne. - -"Miss Thorne is not very proficient on the piano," said he. "Have you -already asked her to perform?" - -"Do you know Miss Thorne?" asked Joyce, surprised. - -"Yes," answered the captain; "she lived in the village where I was -brought up as a boy--not far from Manchester. Her father was a great -manufacturer, you know." - -"Yes; we know that well enough." And I glanced uneasily at father; for -if he knew that this young fellow was a friend of the Thornes, I was -afraid it would set him against him. Luckily, he was busy talking to -the squire. - -"She's a very nice girl," said Joyce, kindly, wanting to be agreeable, -although indeed we knew no more of Mary Thorne than shaking hands with -her coming out of church on a Sunday afternoon. - -"Charming," acquiesced the captain; "but she's not a good musician, and -I shouldn't ask her to perform unless you're obliged to." - -We said we were not obliged to; but Joyce said she wouldn't like to do -anything unkind, and she was afraid Mary Thorne wanted to be asked to -perform. And then they two retired into the window again, discussing -the concert and the view, and I soon saw proudly that they were talking -as though they had known one another for years. It generally took -a long while for any one to get through the first ice with Joyce, -but this man had an easy way with him; he was so sympathetic in his -personality--so kind and frank and natural. - -"That's a most ridiculous article in the _Herald_," said the squire to -father. "I wonder Blair can put in such stuff. He's a sensible man." - -"I wonder you'll admit even that, squire," answered father, with a -little laugh. The paper, I need not say, was the Liberal organ. - -"Oh, well," smiled the other, "I can see the good in a man though I -don't agree with him. But I think _that_"--pointing to the print--"is -beneath contempt." - -"I don't hold with it myself," answered father; "the man has got no -pluck." - -"Oh no, of course--doesn't go far enough for you, Maliphant," laughed -the squire; and at that moment mother came in or I do not know what -father would have answered. She came in slowly, and stood a moment in -the door-way looking round upon us all. Joyce blushed scarlet, and came -forward out of the recess. The squire rose and hastened towards her. - -"We have been invading your house while you have been away, Mrs. -Maliphant," said he. "That wasn't polite, was it? But you'll forgive -me, I know." - -Mother's eyes scarcely rested on him; they travelled past him to -Captain Forrester, who stood in the window. - -"My nephew, Frank Forrester," said the squire, hastily following her -look. The captain advanced and bowed to mother. He could do nothing -more, for she did not hold out her hand. - -"I am very glad to see any friend of yours, squire," said she. And then -she turned away from him, and unfastened her cloak, which I took from -her and hung up in the hall. - -"Joyce, lay the cloth," said she. "We'll have tea at once." I left the -room with sister. - -"Never mind," whispered I, outside, as we fetched the pretty white -egg-shell cups that always came out when we had any company; "mother -doesn't mean to be queer. She is just a little cold now, because she -wants Captain Forrester to understand it wasn't with her leave we let -him drive us home. But she isn't really cross." - -"Cross! Oh, Margaret, no--of course not," echoed Joyce. She was taking -down a plate from under a pile of cups, and said no more at the moment. -I was ashamed and half vexed. That was the worst of Joyce. Sometimes -she would reprove one when one was actually fighting her battles. - -"Of course we ought not to have done it," continued she, setting the -cups in order on the tray. "I felt it at the time." - -"Then, why in the world didn't you say so?" cried I. - -"I didn't know how to say so; you scarcely gave me a chance," -answered she. "Of course, I know you did it because I was so stupidly -frightened, but it makes me rather uncomfortable now." - -"Oh, I thought you seemed to get on very well with Captain Forrester, -just now," said I, huffily, kneeling down to reach the cake on the -bottom shelf. "You seemed quite civil to him, and you didn't look -uncomfortable." - -"Didn't I? I'm glad," answered Joyce, simply. "Of course one wants to -be civil to the squire's friends in father's house. And I do think he -is a very polite gentleman." - -She took up the tray and moved on into the parlor, and I went across -into the kitchen to fetch the urn. I had never been envious of Joyce's -beauty up to the present time. Nothing had happened to make me so, and -I was fully occupied in being proud of it. But if her beauty was of -such little account to her that she had not even been pleased by this -handsome man's admiration of it--well, I thought I could have made -better use of it. - -When I went into the parlor again the groups were all changed. Father -stood by the fire and the squire had risen. Father had his hands -crossed behind his back and his sarcastic expression on, and the squire -was talking loudly. Joyce was laying the cloth, and mother stood by the -window where sister had stood before; Captain Forrester was talking to -her as if he had never cared to do anything else. I could not hear what -they were saying, the squire's voice was too loud; but I could see that -mother was quite civil. - -"I never liked that man Hoad," the squire was saying, and I felt -a throb of satisfaction as I heard him. "I don't believe he's -straightforward. Do anything for money, that's my feeling." - -"He's a friend of mine," said father, stiffly. - -"Oh, well, of course, if he's a friend of yours, well and good," -answered Mr. Broderick, shortly. "You probably know him better than I -do. But I don't like him. I should never be able to trust him." - -"Perhaps that is because you do not know him," suggested father. - -"No doubt, no doubt," answered the squire. - -"I hear he has turned Radical now," added he, coming to the real core -of the grievance. "He used to call himself a Liberal, but now I hear he -calls himself a Radical, and is going to put up some Radical candidate -to oppose us." - -"Yes, I know," answered father, too honest to deny the charge. - -"Oh, do you know who it is?" asked the squire, sharply. - -"No, I don't," answered father, in the same way. - -The squire paused a moment, then he said, unable to keep it in, "Are -you going to support him too?" - -The color went out of father's face; I knew he was angry. - -"Well, Mr. Broderick, I don't know what sort of a candidate it'll be," -said he, in a provoking manner. "There's Radicals and Radicals." - -The squire smacked his boot with his walking-stick and did not answer. -Captain Forrester came forward, for mother had gone to the table to -make the tea. - -"Did I hear you say that you were a Radical, Mr. Maliphant?" asked the -young man, looking at father. - -"I am not a Tory," answered father, without looking up. I thought his -tone was cruelly curt. - -"Well, I am a Socialist," answered Frank Forrester, with an air that -would have been defiant had it not been too pleasant-spoken. Father -smiled. The words must have provoked that--would have provoked more if -the speaker had not been so good-tempered. - -"Ah, I know what you young fellows mean by a Socialist," he murmured. - -"I should say I went about as far as most men in England," said Frank, -looking at him in that open-eyed fixed way that he used towards men as -well as towards women. - -"I should say that you went farther than you can see," said the Squire, -laconically. - -Frank laughed, good-humoredly. "Ah, I refuse to quarrel with you, -uncle," said he, taking hold of the squire's arm in a friendly fashion. -It was said as though he would imply that he could quarrel with other -people when he liked, but his look belied his words. - -"If you will let me, I'll come in and have a chat one of these days, -Mr. Maliphant," continued he. "When uncle is not by, you know." He said -the words as though he felt sure that his request would be granted, -and yet with his confidence there was a graceful deference to the elder -man which was very fascinating. Why did father look at him as he did? -Did he feel something that I felt? And what was it that I felt? I do -not know. - -"I am a busy man and haven't much time for talk, sir, but you're -welcome when you like to call," answered father, civilly, not warmly. - -The squire had sat down again while his nephew and father were -exchanging these few words. He crossed one knee over the other and sat -there striking his foot with his hand--a provoking habit that he had -when he was trying to control his temper. - -"There'll be a nice pair of you," said he, trying to turn the matter -off into a joke. "It's a pity, Frank, that you have no vote to help Mr. -Maliphant's candidate with." - -"I don't know that any so-called Radical candidate would or could -do much in Parliament to help the questions that I have at heart," -said Captain Forrester. "As Mr. Maliphant justly observed, there are -Radicals and Radicals, and the political Radical has very little in -common with those who consider merely social problems." - -Father did look up now, and his eyes shone as I had seen them shine -when he was talking to the working-men, for though I had not often -heard him--the chief of his discourses being given in the village -club--I had once been to a large meeting in town where he had been the -chief speaker. - -"One never knows where to have any of you fellows," laughed the squire, -rather uncomfortably. "You always led me to believe, Maliphant, that -you would have nothing to do with political party spirit. You always -said that no party yet invented would advance the interests of the -people in a genuine fashion, and now, as soon as a Radical candidate -appears, you talk of supporting him." - -"I am not aware that I talked of supporting him," said father. - -"But you won't return a Radical," continued the squire, not hearing -the remark. "The country isn't ripe for that sort of thing yet, -whatever you may think it will be. You're very influential, I know. -And if you're not with us, as I once hoped you might be, you'll be a -big weight against us. But with all your influence you won't return a -Radical. The Tories are too strong; they're much stronger than they -were last election, and then Sethurst was an old-fashioned Liberal and -a well-known man in the county besides. You won't return a Radical. I -don't believe there's a county in England would return what you would -call a Radical, and certainly not ours." - -"I don't believe there is," said father, quietly. - -"Then why do you want to support this candidate?" - -"I don't," answered father. "I'm a man of my word, Squire Broderick. -I told you long ago I'd have nothing to do with politics, and no more -I will. If I am to be of any use, I must do it in another way--I must -work from another level. The county may return what it likes for all I -shall trouble about it." - -"Well, 'pon my soul," began the squire, but at that moment mother's -voice came from the tea-table. She saw that a hot argument was -imminent, and she never could abide an argument. I think that father, -too, must have been disinclined for one, for when she said, "Father, -your tea is poured out," he took the hint at once. The squire looked -disappointed for a moment, but I think he was so glad that father's -influence was not going to take political shape against his candidate -that he forgave all else. - -Mother was just making Captain Forrester welcome beside her as the -newest guest, when Deborah opened the door and ushered in Mr. Hoad. -I had quite forgotten that father had invited him. He stood a moment -as it were appraising the company. His eyes rested for less than an -instant on Squire Broderick, on Captain Forrester, and then shifted -immediately to mother. - -"Oh, I am afraid that I intrude, Mrs. Maliphant," said he. - -"Not at all, not at all, Hoad," declared father. "Come in; we expected -you." - -Mother rose and offered him her hand. Then Captain Forrester, who had -been looking at him, came forward and offered his too in his most -genial manner. It was not till long afterwards that I found out that he -made a special point of always being most genial to those people whom -he considered ever so little beneath him. - -"Oh, how are you, Hoad?" said he. "I thought I recognized you, but I -wasn't quite sure. I didn't expect to meet you here." - -"No; nor I you!" exclaimed Hoad, gliding with ready adaptability into -the position offered him--a quality which I think was perhaps his chief -characteristic. "Delighted to see you." - -Forrester gave up his place next mother, and sat down beside Joyce. -The squire just nodded to Mr. Hoad, and then the conversation became -general till the squire and his nephew left, very shortly afterwards. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Three weeks had passed since the day when Captain Forrester drove -us out from town. Winter was gliding slowly into spring. The winds -were still cold and piercing, and the bright sun and keen air sadly -treacherous to sensitive folk, but the snow had all melted and the -grass sprung green upon the marsh, throwing the blue of the sea -beyond into sharp contrast; the cattle came out once more to feed; -yellow-hammers and butcher-birds began to appear on the meadows; and -over earth and sea, soft gray clouds broke into strange shapes upon the -blue. - -I remember all this now; then I was only conscious of one thing--that, -in spite of the east wind, I was happy. - -Father was well again; he rode over the farm on his cob just as he used -to do, and mother had forgotten the very name of a poultice. Joyce and -the captain showed every sign of playing in the romance that I had -planned for them; no one had mentioned the subject of a bailiff for -Knellestone from that day to this; and the squire's ball was close at -hand. - -How was it possible that I should be otherwise than happy? - -It was the very night before the dance. Jessie Hoad, who had consented -to sing for our village concert, had been over and we had been having -a practice under Captain Forrester's directions. She was a fashionably -dressed, fashionably mannered, fashionably minded young woman, and -quite content with herself; she generally resented directions, but she -had submitted with a pretty good grace to his. - -Miss Thorne had also been in. Joyce in this had shown one of those -strange instances of obstinacy that were in her. Mary Thorne had -asked to come, and she should not be refused. I remember noticing -that Captain Forrester and that particularly gay-tempered young lady -seemed to be very intimate together; just, in fact, as people who had -known one another from childhood would be. They took the liberty of -telling one another home-truths--at least Mary Thorne did (I fancied -Frank responded less promptly), and did it in a blunt fashion that was -peculiar to her. But I liked blunt people. I liked Mary Thorne very -much. - -Although she was an heiress to money that had been "sucked from the -blood of the people"--to money made from a factory where girls and -little children worked long hours out of the sunlight and the fresh -air--although she lived in a great house that overlooked acres of land -that belonged to her--and although my father could scarcely be got to -speak to hers--I liked Mary Thorne. She was so frank and jolly, and -took it so as a matter-of-course that we were to be friends, that I -always forgot that she rode in a carriage when I walked, and that she -and I ought, by rights, not to be so much at ease. - -That day she was particularly jolly, and she and I and Captain -Forrester laughed together till I was quite ashamed to see that I had -left Joyce all the entertaining of Miss Hoad to do in the mean time. -For the captain had not paid so much attention to Joyce on that day as -on most others; I suppose he thought it was more discreet not to do so -before strangers. - -Both our lady visitors had left, however, by half-past five o'clock, -and Captain Forrester stood on the garden terrace now with Joyce alone, -while I had returned to the darning of the family socks. It was close -upon sunset, and they were looking at the lilacs that were beginning -to swell in the bud. Joyce wore a lilac gown herself, I remember. The -captain had once admired it, and I had noticed that she had put it on -very often since then. - -I watched them from the parlor window where I sat with my work. For the -first time I was half frightened at what I had done. I wondered what -this romance was like that I had woven for Joyce. I felt that she was -gliding away out of my ken, into an unknown world where I had driven -her, and where I could not now follow her. Was it all happiness in that -world? - -Although the light was fading, and I wanted it all for my work, I moved -away from the window-seat farther into the room. It seemed indelicate -to watch them; although, indeed, they were only standing there side -by side quietly, and what they were saying to one another I could not -have heard if I had wished to do so. But it was my doing that they were -alone at all. Joyce had stockings to darn too, but I had suggested that -the parlor posy wanted freshening, and that there were some primroses -out on the cliff. - -Mother was out; she had gone to assist at the arrival of a new -member of the population, and such an event always interested her -so profoundly that she forgot other things for the moment. Such an -opportunity might not occur again for a long time, and I was not going -to miss it--otherwise those two had not been alone together before. At -least not to my knowledge. - -Once Joyce had gone out into the village marketing by herself, and when -she had come home she had run straight up into her room instead of -coming into the parlor. I had gone up to her after a little while, as -she did not come down, and had found her sitting by the window with her -things still on, looking out to the sea with a half-troubled expression -on her face. I had asked her what was the matter, and she had smiled -and said, "Nothing at all," and I had believed her. - -However, even in the most open way in the world, Captain Forrester had -managed to get pretty well acquainted with Joyce by this time, for he -had come to the Grange almost every day since the squire had brought -him to pay that first call. He came on the plea of interest in father's -views; and though mother, I could see, had taken a dislike to him, -simply because he was a rival to the squire, and took every opportunity -of saying disparaging things about him to us girls when he was not -present, even she felt the influence of the friendly manner that -insisted on everything being pleasant and friendly in return, and did -not seem somehow to be able to deny him the freedom which he claimed -so naturally, of coming to the house whenever the fancy seized him. -Certainly it would have been very difficult to turn Captain Forrester -out. - -Although it was evident enough to every one but father, in his dreamy -self-absorption, that the young man came to see my beautiful sister, -and was quickly falling hopelessly in love with her, still he was far -too courteous to neglect others for her--he was always doing something -for mother, procuring her something that she wanted, or in some way -helping her; and as for me, he not only took all the burden of the -village concert off my shoulders, the musical part of which always fell -to my lot, but he also taught me how to sing my songs as I had no idea -of how to sing them before, and took so much interest in my voice and -in my performance that he really made me quite ambitious for the time -as to what I might possibly do. And however much mother might have -wished to turn the captain out, there were difficulties attending this -course of action. - -In the first place, he was the squire's nephew, and she could not very -well be rude to the squire's nephew, however much she may have fancied -that the squire would, in his heart, condone it; and then father had -taken such an unusually strong fancy to the young man, that it would -have been more than mother had ever been known to do to gainsay it. -This friendship between an old and a young man was really a remarkable -thing. - -Father was not at all given to marked preferences for people; he was -a reserved man, and his own society was generally sufficient for him. -Even in the class whose interests he had so dearly at heart--his -own class he would have called it, although in force and culture he -was very far above the typical representatives of it--he was a god -to the many, rather than a friend to the individual. And apart from -his friendship with the squire, which was a friendship rather of -custom than of choice, I do not remember his having a single intimate -acquaintance. For I do not choose to consider that Hoad ever really was -a friend in any sense of the word. - -I have always fancied that father's capacity for friendship was -swallowed up in that one romantic episode of his youth, that stood side -by side with his love for our mother, and was not less beautiful though -so different. - -At first I think Forrester's aristocratic appearance, his knowledge of -hunting and horse-flesh, and music and dancing, and all the pleasures -of the rich and idle, his polished manners, and even his good coat, -rather stood in his light in the eyes of the "working-man;" but it was -only at first. Forrester's genuine enthusiasm for the interests that -he affected, and his admiring deference for the mind that had thought -the problem out, were enough to win the friendship of any man; for I -suppose even at father's age one is not impervious to this refined sort -of flattery. - -Those were happy days in the dear old home, when we were all together, -and none but the most trivial cloud of trouble or doubt had come to mar -the harmony of our life. - -I never remember father merrier than he was at that time. He and Frank -would sit there smoking their pipes, and laughing and talking as it -does one's heart good to remember. There was never any quarrelling -over these discussions, as there used to be over the arguments with -the squire. Not that the young man always agreed at once about things. -He required to be convinced, but then he always was convinced in the -end. And his wild schemes for the development of the people and the -prevention of crime, and the alleviation of distress, all sounded -so practical and pleasant, as set forth in his pleasant, brilliant -language, full of fire and enthusiasm, and not at all like the same -theories that father had been wont to quarrel over with the squire in -his sullen, serious fashion. - -Everything that the captain proposed was to be won from the top, by -discussions and meetings among the great of the land. He could shake -hands on terms of equality with the poorest laborer over his pot of -beer, but it was not from the laborer that the reform would ever be -obtained; and he quite refused to see the matter in the sombre light in -which father held it, who believed in no reform--if reform there could -be--that did not come from the class that needed it, and that should -come without bitter struggles and patient, dogged perseverance. And in -the end he convinced--or seemed to convince--Frank that this was so. - -I noticed how, imperceptibly, under the influence of father's earnest, -powerful nature, the young man slowly became more earnest and more -serious too. He talked less and he listened more; and truly there was -no lack of food. - -The great subjects under discussion were the nationalization of land -and the formation of trade corporations for the protection of the -artisan class. These corporations were to be formed as far as possible -on the model of the old guilds of the Middle Ages; they were to have -compulsory provident funds for widows, orphans, and disabled workmen; -they were to prevent labor on Sundays, and the employment of children -and married women in factories; they were to determine the hours of -labor and the rate of wages, and to inquire into the sanitary condition -of workplaces. - -There were many other principles belonging to them besides these that -I have quoted, but I cannot remember any more, though I remember -clearly how father and Frank disagreed upon the question of whether the -corporations were to enjoy a monopoly or not. I suppose they agreed -finally upon the point, for I know that Frank undertook to air the -matter at public meetings in London, and seemed to be quite sure that -he would be able to start a trial society before long. I recollect how -absolutely he refused to be damped by father's less sanguine mood; and -best of all, I remember the smile that he brought to father's face, and -the light that he called back to his drooping eye. - -There was only one blot: the squire did not come to see us. No doubt -I should not have allowed at this time that it was any blot, and when -mother remarked upon it, I held my tongue; but I know very well that I -was sorry the squire kept away. - -On this evening of which I am thinking, however, the squire did not -keep away. I am afraid I had hurried a little over the darning of -father's socks, that I might get to the making up of my own lace -ruffles for the great event of the next night, and as I was sitting -there in the window, making the most of the fading daylight, he came -in. I heard him ask Deborah for father in the hall, and when she -answered that she thought he was still out, he said he would wait, and -walked on into the parlor. He was free to come and go in our house. I -fancied that he started a little when he saw me there alone; I suppose -he expected to find the whole party as usual. - -"Oh, how are you?" said he, abruptly, holding out his hand without -looking at me. "Is your mother out?" - -I explained that mother had gone to the village to see a neighbor. - -"I'll just wait a few minutes for your father," said he. "I want -particularly to see him to-night." - -"Is it about that young man?" asked I. - -I do not know what possessed me to ask it. It was not becoming behavior -on my part, but at his words the recollection of that Mr. Trayton -Harrod, whom he had recommended to father as a bailiff, had suddenly -returned to me. No mention having been made of him again, I had really -scarcely remembered the matter till now, the excitement of the past -three weeks had been so great. - -He knit his brows in annoyance, and I was sorry I had spoken. - -"What young man?" asked he. - -"That gentleman whom you recommended to father for the farm," said I, -half ashamed of myself. - -"Oh, Trayton Harrod!" exclaimed the squire, with a relieved expression. -"Oh no, no, I shall not trouble your father again about that unless he -speaks to me. I thought it might be an advantageous thing, for I have -known the young man since he was a lad, and he has been well brought -up--a clever fellow all round. But your father knows his own business -best. It might not work." - -It was on my lips to say that of course it would not work, but I -restrained myself, and the squire went on: - -"I'm so delighted to see your father himself again," he said. "There's -no need for any one to help him so long as he can do it all himself; -and of course you, I know, do a great deal for him," added he, as -though struck by an after-thought. "I saw you walking round the mill -farm this morning." - -"Did you?" answered I. "I only went up about the flour. I didn't see -you." - -"No," he said. "I was riding the other way." - -He walked up to the window as he spoke, and looked out over the lawn. - -Somehow I was glad that I had just seen Joyce and Captain Forrester go -down the cliff out of sight a few minutes before the squire arrived. - -"Everybody out?" asked he. - -"Yes," answered I. "Everybody." - -He did not ask whether his nephew had been there. He drew a chair up to -the table and began playing with the reels and tapes in my work-basket. -Mother and Joyce would have been in an agony at seeing their sacred -precincts invaded by the cruel hand of man, but it rather amused me to -see the hopeless mess into which he was getting the hooks and silks and -needles. My basket never was a miracle of orderliness at any time. - -"Is Miss Joyce quite well?" said he at last, trying to get the scissors -free of a train of cotton in which he had entangled them. - -I felt almost inclined to laugh. Even to me, who am awkward enough, -this seemed such an awkward way of introducing the subject, for of -course I had guessed that he had missed her directly he had come into -the room. - -"Yes, quite well, thank you," answered I. And then I added, laughing, -and seeing that he had got hold of a bit of my lace, "Oh, take care, -please, that's a bit of my finery for to-morrow night." - -He dropped it as if it had burned him. "Oh dear, dear, yes, how clumsy -I am!" cried he, pushing the work-basket far from him. "I hope I have -spoiled nothing." - -"Why, no, of course not," laughed I. "I oughtn't to have spoken. -But you see I have only got that one bit of lace, and I want it for -to-morrow night." - -"Oh yes; I suppose you young ladies are going to be very grand indeed," -smiled he. - -"Oh no, not grand," insisted I, "but very jolly. We mean to enjoy -ourselves, I can tell you." - -"That's right," said he; "so do I." - -But he could not get away from the subject of Joyce. - -"Has your sister gone far?" asked he, in a minute. - -"I don't know," I answered, quite determined to throw no light upon the -subject of where she was and with whom. - -A direct question made it difficult now to keep to this determination. - -"Do you know if my nephew has been here this afternoon?" was the -question. - -I looked down intently at my work. - -"Yes, he came," answered I. "He sat some while with father, till father -went out." - -I did not add any mention of where he had been since. It was a -prevarication of course, but I thought I did it out of a desire to -spare the squire's feelings. He asked no more questions. He sat silent -for a while. - -"Your father and Frank seem to be great friends," observed he, -presently, and I fancied a little bitterly. - -"Yes," I replied, "Captain Forrester has quite picked father's spirits -up. He has been a different man since he had him to sympathize with -over his pet schemes." - -I felt directly I had said the words that they were inconsiderate -words, and I regretted them, but I could not take them back. - -Squire Broderick flushed over his fair, white brow. - -"Yes; my nephew professes to be as keen after all these democratic -dodges as your father himself," he said, curtly. - -"Oh, it's not that," cried I, anxious to mend matters. "Father doesn't -need to have everybody agree with him for him to be friends with them." - -"No, I quite understand," answered the squire, beginning again on the -unlucky basket. And after a pause he added, as though with an effort, -"Frank is a very delightful companion, I know, and when he brings his -enthusiasm to bear upon subjects that are after one's own heart, it is -naturally very pleasant." - -"Yes," I agreed. "That's just it, he is so very enthusiastic. He would -make such a splendid speaker, such a splendid leader of some great -Democratic movement." - -The squire left my work-basket in the muddle in which he had finally -put it, and stuck his hands into his pockets. - -"Do you think so?" he said. - -"Oh yes, I'm sure of it," continued I, blindly. "And I am sure father -thinks so too." - -"Indeed!" answered the squire, I thought a little scornfully. "And, -pray, how is my nephew going to be a great Democratic leader? Is he -going into Parliament? Is he going to contest the county at the next -election?" - -"Why, how can you think he would do such a thing, Mr. Broderick," -exclaimed I, "when he knows that you are supporting the opposite side?" - -"Oh, that would be no objection," said the squire, still in the same -tone of voice. "The objection would be that a Radical stands such a -small chance of getting in." - -"Besides," added I, collecting myself, "I am sure he has no wish to go -into Parliament. Father and he both agree that a man can do a great -deal more good out of Parliament than in it. They say that the finest -leaders that there have been in all nations have been those who have -got at the people straight--without any humbug between them." - -"Pooh!" said the squire. Then controlling himself, he added, "Well, and -does Frank think that he is going to get at the people that way? Does -he suppose it will cost him nothing?" - -"Oh no; I suppose it will cost money," assented I. - -"Ah!" said the squire, in the tone of a man who has got to the bottom -of the question at last. "Well, then, I think it's only fair that your -father should know that there is very little chance of Frank's being -of any use to him. If he is pinning his faith on Frank as a possible -representative of his convictions, he is making a mistake, and it is -only right that he should be warned. Frank has no money of his own, -no money at all. He has nothing but his captain's pay, and that isn't -enough for him to keep himself upon." - -The squire spoke bitterly. Even I, girl as I was, could see that -something had annoyed him to the point of making him lose control over -himself. - -"I don't think father has pinned his faith on Captain Forrester," said -I, half vexed. "I don't think there has been any question between them -such as you fancy. I think they are merely fond of discussing matters -upon which they agree. At all events, I am sure it has never entered -father's head to consider whether Captain Forrester had money or not." - -"Well, I think, for several reasons, it is just as well there should be -no mistake about the thing," repeated the squire, vehemently, walking -up and down the room in his excitement. "Frank has no money and no -prospects, excepting those which he may make for himself. I sincerely -hope that he may do something better than marry an heiress, which is -his mother's aim for him, but meanwhile he certainly has very little -property excepting his debts." - -A light suddenly broke upon me. The words "marry an heiress," had -suddenly flashed a meaning on Squire Broderick's strange attitude. -He was afraid that Captain Forrester was winning Joyce's affections. -He was jealous. I would not have believed it of him; but perhaps, of -course, it was natural. I was sorry for him. The remembrance of the sad -bereavements of his youth made me sorry for him. - -After all, though I did not then consider him a young man, it was sad -to have done with life so early, to have no chance of another little -heir to the acres that he owned, instead of that poor little baby of -whom mother had told us. For, of course, there was no chance of that, -and Captain Forrester would finally inherit them. I had not thought of -that before. No wonder he was bitter, and I was sorry for him. He spoke -no more after that last speech. He came and stood over me where I was -working. - -"But after all," said he, presently, in his natural genial tones, "I -don't know why I troubled you with all that. You are scarcely the -person whom it should interest. I beg your pardon." - -I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. - -The squire moved to the window, and I put down my work and followed -him. The daylight had gone; there was no more sewing to be done that -evening without a lamp. As I came up I saw the tall, slight figure of -Captain Forrester standing up against the dim blue of the twilight sky, -and holding out his hand to help my sister up the last, steepest bit of -the ascent to our lawn. I glanced at the squire. His face was not sad -nor sorry, but it was angry. He turned away from the window, and so did -I, and as we faced round we saw mother standing in the door-way. She -had her bonnet and cloak still on; she must have come in quietly by the -back door, as she had a habit of doing, while we were talking. How much -had she heard of what the squire had said? - -He went up to her and bade her good-day and good-bye in one breath. -He said he would not wait longer to see father. He went out and away -without meeting his nephew. I was very glad that he did, for thus -mother went up-stairs at once to take off her things, and being in a -garrulous frame of mind, from her experiences of the afternoon with -the new-born baby, she stayed up-stairs some time talking to Deborah, -and did not come down to the parlor again till after Captain Forrester -had taken his leave. So she never knew anything of that long half-hour -spent upon the garden cliff at the sun-setting. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -I think I saw the dawn that day on which the ball was to be. Whether I -did or not, the morning was still very gray and cold when I crept out -of my bed and stole to the wardrobe to look at our two dresses. There -they hung, carefully displayed upon shifting pegs such as were used in -old-fashioned presses: one soft white muslin; the other of that pale -apple-green shot silk which had belonged to mother in the days of her -youth, and which I had been allowed to make up for the occasion. We had -worked at them for days. - -Joyce was clever at dress-making: she was clever at all things that -needed deftness of fingers. She had fitted me with my frock, and we -had both worked together. But now the dresses were finished, the last -ruffle had been tacked in; there was nothing more to do, and the day -wore away very slowly till evening. - -At last the hour came when it was time to dress, and such a washing of -faces and brushing of hair as went on in that little attic chamber for -half an hour no one would believe. - -Joyce insisted on "finishing" me first. She coiled up my hair at the -back of my head, brushing it as neatly as she could, and laying it in -two thick bands on either side of my temples. It never will look very -neat, it is such vigorous unruly hair, this red hair of mine, and to -this day always has tendrils escaping here and there over forehead and -neck. But she did her best for it, and I was pleased with myself. I was -still more pleased with myself when I got on the green shot silk with -the lace ruffles. Joyce said she was surprised to see what a change it -made in me. So was I. - -My skin was very pink and white wherever it was not spoiled by -freckles, and the green of the frock seemed to show it up and make the -red lips look redder than ever. It is true that my neck and arms were -frail still with the frailness of youth, but then my figure was slim -too, and my eyes were black with excitement, and shone till they were -twice their usual size. I thought, as I looked in the glass, that I was -not so very plain. Yes, I was right when I had begged the shot silk. -Joyce could wear anything, but I, who was no "fine bird" by nature, -needed the "fine feathers." - -I was pleased with myself, and I smiled with satisfaction when Joyce -declared again that she was quite surprised to see what a good -appearance I had. "If you would only keep yourself tidy, Margaret, you -have no idea how much better you would look," said she. - -It was what Deborah was always saying, but I did not resent it from -Joyce--she was gentle in her way of saying it; and I remember that I -promised I would brush my hair smooth in future, and wear my collars -more daintily. I do not believe that I kept to my resolution, but that -evening I was not at all the Margaret of every-day life as I surveyed -myself in the glass. - -"But come," said I, hurriedly--half ashamed of myself, I do -believe--"we shall be late if we don't make haste. Do get on, Joyce." - -Joyce began brushing out her long golden hair--real gold hair, not -faint flaxen--and coiled the smooth, shining bands of it round her -little head. It was a little head, such as I have seen in the pictures -of the Virgins painted by Italian painters of long ago. - -"I sha'n't be long," said she. - -I sat down and watched her. She would not have let me help her if I -had wanted to do so. She would have said that I should only disarrange -myself, and that I should be of no use. Certainly nothing was wanted -but what she did for herself, and she did it quickly enough. When she -stood up before the mirror--tipped back to show the most of her person, -for we had no pier-glasses at the Grange--I do not believe that any one -could have found a thing to improve in her. Her figure looked taller -and slenderer than ever in the long white dress, and the soft little -folds of the muslin clung tenderly around her delicate shape, just -leaving bare her neck and arms, that were firm and white as alabaster. -Her face was flushed as a May rose; her lips were parted in her anxiety -to hasten, and showed the little even white teeth within. Her blue eyes -were clear and soft under the black lashes. - -She moved before the glass to see that her dress was not too long, and -bent back her slender throat, upon which she had just clasped mother's -delicate little old-fashioned gold necklace with the drops of yellow -beryl-stone. It was the only bit of good jewellery in the family, and -Joyce always wore it, it became her so well. - -"Come now, Meg," said she, "I am quite ready. Let's go and see if we -can do anything to help mother." - -We went down-stairs. Deborah was there in mother's room waiting to -survey us all. She had just fastened mother's dove-colored satin gown -that had served her for every party she had been at since she was -married. Mother had just the same shaped cap on that she always wore; -she never would alter it for any fashion, but that night the frill -of it was made of beautiful old lace that she kept in blue paper and -lavender all the rest of the year. I thought she looked splendid, but -Joyce was not so easily pleased. - -"Dear mother, you really must have another gown before you go anywhere -again," said she, shaking out the skirt with a dissatisfied air. "This -satin has lost all its stiffness." - -Mother looked at it a little anxiously herself, I remember, when Joyce -said this. We considered Joyce a judge of dress and the fashions, -and of course the squire's ball was a great occasion. But she said -she thought it did very well for an old lady, and indeed so did I, -although that may perhaps have been because I was very anxious to be -off. - -Dear mother! I do not think she gave much thought to herself; she was -taken up with pride in us. Yes, I do believe that night she was proud -even of me. - -She smiled when Deborah, with her hand on the door-knob, said, -patronizingly, that although she did not hold with bare arms and necks -for modest females, she never would have thought that I should have -"dressed up" so well. Mother bade her begone, but I think she was -pleased. - -"Dear me!" said she, looking at me. "I recollect buying that silk. -It must have been in '52, when father took me up to town to see the -Exhibition. It was cheap for the good silk it is. It has made up very -well." - -She turned me all round. Then she went to her jewel-case, unlocked it, -and took out a row of red coral beads. - -"That's what you want with that dress," said she, fastening them round -my throat. "And you shall have them for your own. Red-haired women -ought to wear coral, folk say. Though for my part, I always thought it -was putting on too many colors." - -How well I remember my pleasure at that gift! Joyce wanted to persuade -me not to wear them; she said the pale green of the frock was prettier -without the red beads. But I wouldn't listen to her; I was too pleased -with them, and I do not believe that it was entirely owing to gratified -vanity; I think a little of it was pleasure that mother thought my -appearance worth caring for. - -I should not have thought it worth caring for myself two days ago, and -I should not have cared whether mother did or not. But something had -happened to me. Was it the sight of Joyce and her lover that had made -me think of myself as a woman? I cannot tell. All I know is that when -we walked into the squire's ball-room a quarter of an hour afterwards, -I felt my face flame as I saw his gaze rest upon me for a moment, and -I longed most heartily to be back again in my high-necked homespun -frock, with no corals round my throat at all. So inconsistent are we at -nineteen! - -Fortunately my awakening self-consciousness was soon put to flight by -other more engrossing emotions. There was a fair sprinkling of people -already when we got into the room, and more were arriving every moment. -Mr. Farnham and the maiden sister with whom he lived were going busily -about welcoming the squire's guests almost as though they were the -host and hostess themselves: he was the Conservative member. A quiet, -inoffensive old gentleman himself, who would have been nothing and -nobody without the squire; but blessed with a most officious lady for -relative, who took the whole neighborhood under her wing. - -She rather annoyed me by the way she had of trading on the squire's -support of her brother. He supported her brother because he was a -Conservative, not at all because he was Mr. Farnham, or even Miss -Farnham's brother. - -Poor Mr. Broderick, I dare say, if the truth had been known, he must -often heartily have longed to get rid of them. But the old thing was -a good soul in her way, if it _was_ a dictatorial, loud-voiced way, -and was very active among the poor, although it was not always in the -manner which they liked. - -She and mother invariably quarrelled over the advantages of -soup-kitchens and clothing clubs; for mother was every bit as obstinate -as Miss Farnham, and being an old-fashioned woman, liked to do her -charity in a more personal fashion. - -I looked with mingled awe and amusement upon their meeting to-night. -Miss Farnham had an aggressive sort of head-dress, with nodding -artificial flowers that seemed to look down scornfully upon mother's -old lace and soft frills. She had not seen me for some time, and when -mother introduced me as her youngest daughter, she took my hand firmly -in hers, and held it a while in her uncompromising grip while she -looked at me through and through. - -"Well, I never saw such a thing in my life!" exclaimed she presently, -in a loud voice that attracted every one's attention. - -I blushed. I was not given to blushing, but it was enough to make any -one blush. I thought, of course, that she was alluding to my attire, in -which I had felt so shy and awkward from the moment that I had entered -the ball-room, from the moment that I had felt the squire's glance rest -upon my neck and arms. - -She dropped my hand. - -"The very image of him," said she, turning to my mother. - -"Yes, she is very like her father," agreed the mother. - -"Why, my dear, the very image of him," repeated the aggravating -creature. "Got his temper too?" asked she, turning to me again. - -"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure," answered I, half amused, but still -more annoyed. "I dare say." - -"Oh, I'll be bound you have, and proud of it too," declared she, -shaking her head emphatically. "Girls are always proud to be like their -fathers." - -"I don't suppose it'll make any very particular difference who I'm -like," said I. "Things will happen just the same, I expect." - -Miss Farnham laughed and patted me boisterously on the back. - -I do not think she was an ill-natured woman, although she certainly had -the talent of making one feel very uncomfortable. - -"Well, you're not so handsome as your sister," added she. "But I don't -know that you hadn't better thank your stars for that." - -With that she turned away from me and sat down beside mother, arranging -her dress comfortably over her knees as though she meant to stay there -the whole evening. - -The people kept coming fast now. The squire stood at the door shaking -hands as hard as he could. There was the old village doctor with his -pretty granddaughter, and the young village doctor who had inherited -the practice, and had just married a spry little wife in the hope of -making it more important. - -And then there was the widow of an officer, who lived in a solid brick -house that stood at the corner of the village street, and had two sons -in the ship business in town. And there was the mild-eyed clergyman -with his delicate young wife, who had more than enough babies of her -own, and was only too thankful to leave the babies of the parish to -Miss Farnham or any one else who would mother them. - -She was a sweet little woman, with a transparently white face and -soft silky hair, and she wore her wedding-dress to-night, without the -slightest regard to the fact that it was made in a somewhat elaborate -fashion of six years back, and was not exactly suited to her figure at -that particular moment. She sat down between mother and Miss Farnham, -and must have been considerably cheered by that lady's remark to the -effect that she looked as if she ought to be in her bed, and that if -she did not retire to it she would most likely soon be in her grave. - -I left mother and went up to greet Mary Thorne, who had just come in -with her father. He was a great, strong, florid man, rather shaky about -his _h's_, but very much the reverse of shaky in any other way; shrewd -and keen as a sharp knife or an east wind. - -I don't know that I ever spoke to him but this once in my life. Father -had such an overpowering aversion to him that we were not allowed to -keep even the daughter's acquaintance long after this, but he made that -impression on me: that there was only one soft spot in him, and that -for the motherless girl, who was the only person allowed to contradict -him. - -She contradicted him now. - -The squire had gone up to receive them bluntly enough, even I could -see; but the squire might be allowed to have an aversion to the man who -was going in as a Radical to contest his Conservative's long-occupied -seat, though indeed I believe his dislike to the manufacturer was -quite as much, because he had bought up one of the old places in the -neighborhood with money earned in business. I fancy the Thornes were -only invited that night as old friends of Frank Forrester's, and I -don't think Frank was thanked for the necessity. - -"You must have had a rare job, Broderick, lighting this old place up," -he was saying as I came up; "all this dark oak, so gloomy looking!" - -"Oh, papa, how can you!" laughed his daughter. "Why, it's what -everybody admires; it's the great sight of the whole neighborhood." - -"Yes, yes; I know, my dear," answered Mr. Thorne; "you mean to say that -we should like to live here ourselves. Well, yes, I should have bought -the place if it had been in the market, but--" - -"But you would have done it up," broke in the squire, bristling all -over; "whereas there's been nothing new in the Manor since--" - -He stopped. - -I fancied that he was going to say, "Since I brought my bride home;" -but he said, after a pause, "since my father died." - -"Well, to be sure, I do like a bit of brightness and color," -acknowledged Thorne, whose fine house, although in excellent taste, -was decidedly ornate and splendid; "and it is more suited to festal -occasions." - -"There, papa, you know nothing about it," declared Mary, emphatically. -"I declare I never saw the Manor look better. Those flags and garlands -are beautiful." - -"Oh, my nephew Frank did all that," answered the squire, carelessly; -"he likes that sort of thing." - -"Captain Forrester?" repeated the girl, with just a little smile on her -frank, fresh face. "Well, it does him credit then. It isn't every one -would take so much trouble." - -"He likes taking trouble," said I. "Just look at the trouble that he -has taken over our concert." - -"He likes playing first-fiddle," laughed Miss Thorne, gayly, her rosy -face--that was too rosy for prettiness, although not too rosy for the -perfection of health--flushing rosier than ever as she said it; "I -always tell him so." - -I did not answer. Mr. Thorne and his daughter moved on, and I looked -round the room in search of the captain. The place did look very -beautiful, although I do not think that I should like now to see its -severe proportions and splendid wood wainscoting disfigured by flags -and garlands. We were dancing in what used long ago to be the monks' -refectory. The house had been built on the site of a part of the -monastic buildings belonging to the abbey, and this portion of the old -edifice had been retained, while the remainder of the house was in -Tudor style. I heard the squire explaining it to the new parson, who -had lately come to the next parish. I had heard him explain it before, -or I do not suppose that I should have known anything at all about it. - -"I suppose you consider it shocking to be dancing in any part of the -monastery?" I could hear him say, laughing; "but it isn't so bad as a -friend of mine who gives balls in what used to be the chapel." - -The parson was a young man, with a sallow, shaven face and very refined -features; the expression of his mouth was gentle, almost tremulous, but -his eyes were dark and penetrating. - -"I'm not quite so prejudiced as that," he said, laughing also, -"although I do wear the cloth." - -"That's right," said the squire, heartily. "We have the remains of a -thirteenth-century chapel of the purest period in the grounds, and we -don't desecrate that even by a school-feast. You must come and see it -in the day-time." - -Father came up at that moment. He was dreadfully like a fish out of -water, poor father, in this assembly, and looked it. The squire, in -a hasty fashion, introduced him to the Rev. Cyril Morgan, and passed -on to shake hands with a portly wine-merchant, who had lately retired -from business in the neighboring town, and had taken one of the solid -red-brick houses that were the remnants of our own town's affluence. - -This gentleman introduced his wife, and she had to be introduced to -the company, and the host's hands were full. Father moved away with -the parson. He looked rather disgusted at first, but the young man -looked at him with a smile upon his gentle mouth and in his dark -eyes, and said, diffidently, "I have heard a great deal of you, Mr. -Maliphant--the whole neighborhood rings with your name. I am proud to -meet you." - -Of course, I liked that young man at once, and as I went to sit down -again beside the mother and Joyce, I was pleased to see across -the room that father and the Rev. Cyril Morgan had entered upon a -conversation. But, to tell the truth, I soon forgot him; I was too busy -looking about me. - -I could not help wondering where Captain Forrester could be, and I -was quite angry with Joyce for being so dignified and seeming to care -so little. She seemed to be quite engrossed with the Hoad girls, -who sailed in, followed by their father, just late enough to be -fashionable, and to secure a good effect for their smart new frocks. - -I am afraid I was not gracious to the Hoads. I could not be so gracious -as Joyce, who took all their patronizing over the concert in the utmost -good faith. I turned away from them, and continued my search for -Joyce's admirer. I disliked them, and I am afraid that I showed it. - -But they passed on, Bella, who was the better-looking of the two, -pursued by two town-bred youths asking for a place on her card; Jessie, -the elder, talking with an old lady of title from the seaport town, who -wished her to sing at a charity concert. - -They seemed to be very much engrossed; nevertheless, when presently the -band struck up the first waltz, they, as well as many other people in -the room, turned round to look who was dancing it. They put up their -long-handled eye-glasses and fairly stared; for, as soon as the music -began, the squire had walked up to my sister and had asked her to open -the ball with him. - -Mother blushed with pleasure and triumph; her dear blue eyes positively -shone. She did not say a word, but I know that if she had spoken she -would have said that she was not surprised. - -I was not surprised either, but I was very much annoyed, and I was -not at all in a good temper with Captain Forrester when, two minutes -afterwards, he appeared coming out of the conservatory with Mary -Thorne upon his arm. What had he been about? No wonder that his face -clouded when he saw that he was too late. But it was his own fault; -I was not a bit sorry for him. Mary Thorne was laughing and looking -up half-defiantly in his face. She looked as if she were saying one -of those rough blunt things of which she was so fond; and she might -well say one at this moment to Captain Forrester, although I scarcely -supposed it could be on the topic on which he deserved it. - -Could she possibly be chaffing him on having missed the first dance -with my sister? No; for she had had no opportunity of noticing his -devotion to her. She dropped his arm and nodded to him merrily, as -much as to bid him leave her--as much as to say that she knew there -might be better sport elsewhere. And after a word in reply to what she -had said, he did leave her and came across to me. - -There was a troubled, preoccupied look on his bright face, which was -scarcely accounted for by the fact that he had missed a dance with -Joyce. He greeted me and sat down beside me without even asking after -father. We sat and watched Joyce float round in the strong grasp of the -squire, but I do not think that we were either of us quite so pleased -at the sight as was mother, upon whose face was joy unalloyed. - -She was simply genuinely proud that the squire should have opened the -ball with her daughter. I think she would have been proud of it had -there been no deeper hopes at the bottom of her heart. But there were -deeper hopes, and as I watched Joyce that night I remembered them. - -In the excitement of watching the romance that I had fancied developing -itself more quickly and more decisively than I had even hoped, I had at -first quite forgotten my fears about the squire wanting to marry Joyce. -They had not occurred to my mind at all until that afternoon two days -ago, when he had talked so vehemently about Frank's position. But now, -as I watched him with her, the notion which I had rather refused to -entertain at all before took firmer shape. - -I was afraid that the squire really did mean something by this very -marked attention to his tenant's daughter. It must needs excite a -great deal of comment even among those who knew our rather particular -position in the village, and the unusual intimacy between two families -of different social standing. Would he have courted that comment merely -for the sake of gratifying his old friend? What if he should propose to -Joyce--if he should ask our parents' consent to the marriage at once? -Would Captain Forrester, the unknown stranger, have any chance beside -the friend of years? Would the soldier, who had nothing but what he -earned by his brave calling, have a chance against the man who could -give her as fine a home as any in the county? - -Not with mother; no, I felt not for an instant with mother. But with -father? - -I knew very well that father, whatever his respect for the man, would -never see a marriage between the squire and his daughter with pleasure, -and I even thought it likely that he would downright forbid it. But -what would be his feelings with regard to the captain? Would they be -any different because, belonging by birth to another class, he yet -desired to work for the interest of the class that was ours? I could -not tell. - -I was roused from my dream by the voice of Captain Forrester at my -side. He was asking me for a dance--this very next one. There was -something in the tone of his voice that puzzled me--a harsh sound, as -though something hurt him. Of course I gave him the dance. I was only -too delighted. - -My feet had begun to itch as soon as I had heard the music, and when I -had seen Joyce sailing round, and no one had come to ask me, I had felt -very lonely. We stood up, even before the squire had brought Joyce back -to mother--we stood up, and with the first bars of the new waltz we set -forth. I soon forgot all thought of Joyce, or any one else, in the pure -joy of my own pleasure. - -I did love dancing. I did not remember that it was Captain Forrester -with whom I was dancing, I only knew that it was a man who held me -firmly, and whose limbs moved with mine in an even and dreamy rhythm as -we glided across something that scarcely seemed to be a floor, to the -slow lilt of magic music. I was very fond of dancing. I suppose Captain -Forrester guessed it, for he never paused once the whole dance through. - -When we stopped, just pleasantly out of breath, as the last chords died -slowly away, he said, with his eyes on my face in that way that I have -described, "Why, Miss Maliphant, you are a heavenly dancer. Where did -you learn it?" - -"I had six lessons at the academy in the town," answered I, gravely; -and I wondered why he burst out laughing, "but Joyce gets out of breath -sooner than I do, although she had twelve lessons." - -The laughter faded out of his face as I mentioned Joyce's name. - -"I don't mean to say that Joyce doesn't dance beautifully," I added, -hastily, "she dances better than I do, because she is so tall and -slight, but she does get out of breath before the end of a waltz." - -He did not make any remark upon this. He only said, "Shall we go back -to your mother?" - -We got up and walked across the room. Miss Thorne was talking to -mother, and a clean-shaven, fresh-colored young officer was inscribing -his name on Joyce's programme. - -Captain Forrester just shook hands with Joyce, and then he came and -sat down beside mother and began talking away to her in his most -excited fashion, telling her all about the waxing of the floor and the -hanging of the banners and the trimming of the evergreen garlands, and -how the gardener would put the Union Jack upside down, until she was -forced to be more gracious with him than was her wont. - -Joyce's sweet mouth had the look upon it that I knew well when mother -and she had had an uncomfortable passage, but I could not imagine why -she should wear it to-night. I could look across upon her programme, -and I could see that there were names written nearly all the way down -it, although I could not read whose names they were, and especially -after my one taste of the joy of waltzing, I was beginning to think -that no girl could have cause for sadness who had a partner for every -dance. Alas! I had but one, and my spirits were beginning to sink very -low. I had forgotten love affairs; I wanted to waltz. - -"There is a dreadful lack of gentlemen," said Jessie Hoad, who had come -up beside us, putting up her eye-glass and looking round the room. -"That unfortunate man must have his hands full." - -"Do you mean Squire Broderick?" asked Miss Thorne. "I don't think he -considers himself unfortunate. He looked cheerful enough just now, -dancing with Miss Maliphant." - -Miss Hoad vouchsafed no reply to this; she moved off to where her -father was talking to mine in a corner, and passing her arm within -his, walked him off without the slightest ceremony to be introduced to -the old lady with the handle to her name who had come over from our -fashionable seaport. - -I thought it was very rude, but Mr. Hoad was not quite as affable -himself to-night as he was in the privacy of our own Grange parlor. - -"I hate that kind of thing," said Miss Thorne to me, in her out-spoken -way. "When are there ever men enough at a country dance unless you get -in the riffraff from behind the shop counters? We come to meet our -friends, not to whirl round with mere sticks." - -I thought it was very nice of Miss Thorne, but I wished there were just -men enough to dance with me. - -The music struck up again and Joyce went off with her partner. I felt -as though life indeed were altogether a disappointment; and it did -not give me any pleasure to hear Miss Thorne commenting upon Joyce's -beauty, nor laughing in her frank, good-natured way about the squire's -attentions, any the more than it amused me to hear fragments of the -gay descriptions with which Captain Forrester was making the time pass -for mother. - -But, after all, I began to despair too soon; it was only the fourth -dance of the evening. Before it was over the squire came up to me. - -"I have been so busy," said he, "I haven't been able to come before, -but I hope you haven't given all your dances away?" - -Although I was new to the ways of the world, an instinct within taught -me to say, coolly, "Oh no, not all." - -"What can you give me?" asked he. And he quoted three numbers further -on in the evening. "I think, being old friends, we might dance three -dances together," added he, with a smile. - -"Oh yes," cried I. "I should like to dance them with you." - -The squire was a beautiful dancer, although he was not a young man; -or rather, although he was not what I then considered a young man. -I fancied he did not smile at my enthusiastic reply. He even looked -rather grave. I was too simple to think of not giving him my programme. -I saw him glance at it and then at me. From that moment I did not lack -partners, and as far as the company could provide them, good ones. - -To be sure I jostled round the room with a raw youth or two, and guided -a puffing gentleman through the maze, and let my toes be trodden upon -by a tall gentleman with glasses on his nose, who only turned round -when he thought of it; but on the whole I enjoyed myself, and it was -all thanks to my host. I scarcely knew a man when I went into the -room, and certainly, save for that one wild, delightful waltz, Captain -Forrester had taken no account of me, although he had sat close to me -half the evening, and one would have thought he would have noticed that -I was not dancing. But then, of course, he was preoccupied. I could not -make him out at all. All the evening I could not once catch him even -talking to Joyce, and I am quite sure that when I went in to supper he -had not asked her to dance once. - -If I had been enjoying myself less I might have thought more of it, but -I was too happy to remember it until the breathing-time came, when I -went into the dining-room. Then, when I saw Captain Forrester sitting -in one of the best places with that horrid old Miss Farnham, and Joyce -at a side-table, with scarcely room to stand, and no one but my pet -aversion, Mr. Hoad, even to get her something to eat, my blood boiled, -and I could scarcely speak civilly to him. - -And he seemed so interested too, so wrapped up in what the silly -creature was saying, with that nodding old topknot of hers! I -was thankful when he rose and took her outside to finish their -discussion about the poor-laws in the seclusion of some corner of the -drawing-room. I was very angry with him. - -I looked suspiciously at the squire, who had taken mother in to supper -and sat at the head of the table with her. Mother was smiling happily: -she was proud of the honor that the squire was doing to her and hers. -But I could not look kindly at the squire. It was infamous if, out of -mere jealousy, he had tried to spoil two lives. Instead of being proud -that he had done my sister the honor of opening the ball with her, -instead of being grateful to him for his kindness to me, and pleased to -see all the attention that he was paying to our mother amid the county -magnates whom he might have preferred, I was eaten up with this new -idea, and felt my heart swell within me as Joyce passed me presently -with that calm and yet half-tired look on her beautiful face. - -Midnight was long past, and it was nearly time to go home. In fact, -father had said that it was time to go home long ago. He had made a -new friend in the young parson, and seemed to have passed an hour -happily with him, but the parson had left, and he had exhausted every -argument that he would consent to discuss with the people whom he met -in ordinary society and had been persuaded by Mr. Hoad to speak a civil -word on commonplace subjects to his pet aversion Mr. Thorne, and now he -was thoroughly sick of the whole thing, and would have no more to do -with it. - -He came up to mother and begged her to come home, but mother had heard -the squire ask Joyce for another dance later on, and I knew very well -that she would not leave till that was through; besides, she was -the most unselfish old dear in the world, for all her rough words -sometimes, and would never have consented to deprive us of an inch of -pleasure that she could procure us. - -Personally I was very grateful to her. I had a dance left with the -squire myself, and besides the pleasure of it, I had been arranging -something that I wanted to say to him. I was standing alone in the -entrance to the conservatory when he came to claim it. I was looking -for Joyce. I had missed her ever since supper. I had thought--I had -hoped--that she was with Captain Forrester, but when Miss Thorne -told me he was talking politics with Mr. Hoad in the drawing-room, I -believed her, and was at a loss to understand my sister's absence. -Could she be unwell? But I did not confide my doubts to the squire. He -put his arm around me and swept me off onto that lovely floor, and I -thought of nothing else. - -I remember very clearly how well the squire looked that night--fresh -and merry, with bright keen eyes. - -"That's a pretty frock, Miss Margaret," said he, as we were waltzing -round. - -"Oh, I'm so glad you like it," answered I. "I was afraid it wasn't -suitable." - -In the excitement of the ball I had entirely forgotten all about my -appearance, but now that the squire remarked upon it, I remembered how -uncomfortable I had felt in it at first. - -"Why not suitable?" asked he. - -"Mother bought it at the great Exhibition in '52," said I. - -But the real cause of the awkwardness of my feeling had arisen from the -fact that I felt unlike myself in a "party frock," and not at all from -any fear that the frock might be old-fashioned. - -"Oh! and Miss Hoad considers that an objection, I suppose," smiled he. -"Well, I don't. There's only one thing I don't like," added he, in his -most downright manner. "I don't like the trinkets. You're too young for -trinkets." - -He had felt it. He had felt just what I had felt--that it was -unsuitable for a girl like me to be dressed up. - -"You mean the corals," said I; and my voice sank a little, for I was -proud of the corals too, and pleased that mother should have given them -to me. - -"Yes," he answered. "They are very pretty; but," he added, gently, "a -young girl's neck is so much prettier." - -We waltzed round two turns without speaking. Then he said abruptly, -"Perhaps, by-the-way, I ought not to have said that, but I think such -old friends as we are may say anything to one another, mayn't we?" - -"Why, of course," said I, rather surprised. - -The speech was not at all like one of the squire's. I had always -thought that he said just whatever he liked to any of us. But to be -sure, until the other evening, he had never spoken very much to me at -all. - -I laughed--a little nervous laugh. I was stupidly nervous that night -with the squire. "I think we should be very silly if we didn't say -whatever came into our heads," said I. "I don't think I like people -who don't say what they think. Although, of course, it is much more -difficult for me to say things to you than for you to say them to me." - -"Why?" asked he. - -"Well, of course, because you're so much older," answered I. - -He was silent. For a moment the high spirits that I had so specially -noticed in him seemed to desert him. - -"Well, what do you want to say to me that's disagreeable?" said he -presently, with a little laugh. - -"Oh, nothing disagreeable," declared I. "It's about your nephew, -Captain Forrester." - -"Oh!" said he. - -His expression changed. It was as though I had not said what he had -expected me to say. But his brow clouded yet more, only it was more -with anger than sadness--the same look of anger that he had worn the -other afternoon. He certainly was a very hot-tempered man. - -"I don't think you are fair to him," said I, boldly. - -He looked at me. He smiled a little. - -"In what way not fair to him?" said he. - -"Well, if it had been any one else but me," answered I, "and you had -said all that you did say the other day in the Grange parlor, I think -the person would have been set against Captain Forrester. Of course it -made no difference to me, because I like him so much." - -He winced, I fancied. - -"You don't understand, my dear young lady," said he. "I merely wished -that there should be no misunderstandings." - -"I don't think there were any misunderstandings," answered I. "We -always knew that Captain Forrester was not a man of property. He told -us so himself." - -"Well, then, that's all right," said the squire. - -"We liked him rather the better for it," concluded I, prompted by a -wicked spirit of mischief. - -The squire did not reply to this. Of course there was nothing to reply -to it. It was a rude speech, and was better taken no notice of. He -merely put his arm round my waist again, and asked if we should finish -the waltz. I was sorry for my discourtesy before we had done, and tried -to make up for it. - -Although the weather was still very treacherous in spite of the clear -sky, couples had strayed out through the conservatory onto the broad -terrace outside. I suggested to the squire that we should do the same. -He demurred at first, saying it was too cold; but as I laughed at this, -and ran outside without any covering over me, he came after me--but he -passed through the entrance-hall on his way and fetched a cloak, which -he wrapped round me. In spite of my naughtiness, he had that care for -the daughter of his old friends. - -The moon was shining outside. It made dark shadows and white lights -upon the ivied walls and upon the slender gray pillars of the ruined -chapel; within, beneath the pointed arches, black patches lay upon the -grass, alternated with sharp contrasts of lights where the moonbeams -streamed in through the chancel windows. - -The marsh was white where the silver rays caught the vapors that -floated over it, and dark beyond that brilliant path-way; there was a -track of light upon the sea. We stood a moment and looked. Even to me -it seemed strange to leave the brightness of within for this weird, -solemn brightness of the silent world without. I think I sighed. I -really was very sorry now for having made that speech. - -We walked round the terrace outside the chapel. We scarcely spoke five -words. When we came to the wood that shades the chapel on the farther -side we stopped. The path that led into it lost itself in blackness. - -"It's quite a place for ghosts, isn't it?" said I. - -"Yes; it's not the place for any one else," laughed the squire. "Any -one less used to dampness would certainly catch their death of cold." - -"Oh, you mustn't laugh at ghosts," answered I. "I believe in ghosts. -And I'm sure this wood must be full of ghosts--so many wonderful people -must have walked about in it hundreds of years ago." - -"So long ago as that?" said he. - -He was determined to treat my fancy lightly. But his laugh was kindly. -We turned back to the white moonlight, but not before I had noticed a -tall, white figure in the black depths, which I should have been quite -sure was a ghost if I had not been equally sure of the contrary. The -figure was not alone. If it had been, I should have accosted it. As it -was, I took the squire's arm and walked away quickly in the direction -of the house. The music had struck up again. The swing of an entrancing -Strauss waltz came floating out on the night wind. - -"We must go in-doors," said the squire, not at all like a man who was -longing to dance to that lovely air; "I'm engaged for this to Miss -Thorne." - -Poor man! No doubt he had had nearly enough by that time of playing the -host and of dancing every dance; he wanted a few minutes' rest. - -I too was engaged, but not to a very delightful partner. After one turn -round the room with him, I complained of the heat, and begged him to -take me outside. Of course we went towards the ruin. - -Of the few couples who had come out, all had gone that way, because -from that point there was a break in the belt of trees, and one could -see to the marsh and the sea. But we went round the chapel to the wood -on the other side. - -"I say, it looks gloomy in there, doesn't it?" said the young man at my -side. - -"Yes," answered I, but I was not looking into the wood now. - -I had glanced into the interior of the ruin as we had passed, and I had -seen a tall black figure leaning up in the deep shadow against the side -of the central arch that stood up so quietly against the soft sky. I -felt quite sure that the "ghost," whom I had seen a few minutes before, -was close by. I was nearly certain that I saw a white streak that was -not moonlight beyond the bend of the arch. - -I turned round and went down the lawn a few steps, my companion -following. He began to talk to me, but I did not know what he said. I -was listening beyond him to another voice. It fell sadly upon my ear. - -"I've no doubt the girl was right," it said. "I'm sure she was right. -I had never noticed it before, but his leading you out to-night before -every one was very significant." - -It was my sister's voice that answered, but she must almost have -whispered the words, for I could not hear them at all. - -The man spoke again. - -"Yes; that's not very likely," answered he, with a soft laugh. "Of -course, how could he help it? Oh, I ought to have gone away," he added; -"I ought to have gone away as soon as I had seen you. But I couldn't. -You see even to-night, when I have tried to keep away from you, you -have made me come to you at last. And I didn't think that I was doing -you any harm till now." - -He emphasized the word "you." I did not notice it then, but I recollect -it now. - -Again my sister's voice said something; what, I could not hear. - -"Do you mean that, dearest? do you mean that?" said he, softly. "That -you would not marry him if you could help it, although he would make -such a lady of you? Ah, then I think I can guess something!" - -A fiery blush rose to my cheek. I was glad that in the white moonlight -my companion could not see it. I ran quickly down the slope of grass -onto the gravel walk. It was dreadful, dreadful that I should have -listened to these words which were meant for her ear alone. - -"Come," I called to the lad, who loitered behind; "come, it's cold, we -must go in." - -He followed me slowly. - -"I believe there were a man and a girl spooning behind that wall," he -said, with a grin. - -How I hated him! I have never spoken to him from that day to this, and -yet, was it his fault? - -We went back into the ball-room. The waltz was over. I had a partner -for the last one, but I did not care to dance it. I was watching for -Joyce, and when I saw her presently floating round with her hand on -Captain Forrester's arm, I thought I was quite happy. - -But mother was not happy. She had thought that Joyce would dance the -last dance with Squire Broderick. She said that father was tired, and -that she wanted to go. And indeed his face looked very weary, and his -heavy lips heavier than ever. - -No doubt we were all tired, for the squire too had lost the cheerful -look that he had worn all through the evening. - -I sat and waited for Joyce, and I wondered to myself whether any one -would ever make love to me with his heart in his voice. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Time dragged heavily on my hands after the excitement of the squire's -ball was over. It was not only that I had to go back to the routine -of every-day life--for there was still the concert to look forward -to, which gave us plenty of interest--but it was that during a whole -fortnight I had been looking for news from Joyce, and that Joyce had -said never a word. No; she had rather been more silent than usual, -constrained and unlike her own serene and happy self; and I had been -frightened, frightened at sight of the torrent that I had let loose, -and doubtful whether, in spite of all his democratic theories, this -handsome, courtly, chivalrous knight, who was my embodiment of romance, -was really a fit mate for the humble damsel nurtured in the quiet shade. - -Well, anyhow the torrent rolled on, whether it was really I who had -set it free or not, and I was forced to stand aside and watch its -course without more ado. - -There had been plenty to watch. The village concert had come and gone; -it had taken place a week after the squire's ball. Captain Forrester -had worked us very hard for it towards the end. We had had practisings -every afternoon, and I had rehearsed my solos indefatigably; but, save -for singing in the glees and playing an accompaniment now and then, -Joyce had taken no active part in the musical performance, and I had -fancied that she had kept out of the way a great deal more than she -need have done. - -I could not understand her at all. She would not give Frank the ghost -of a chance of saying a word to her alone; she shunned him as she -shunned me. - -On the night of the concert he was, of course, too much excited until -the performance was over, to remember even Joyce at first; for he was -one of those natures who throw themselves ardently into whatever they -take up; and he was just as eager over this entertainment, of which he -had accepted the responsibility, as though it were going to be given -before a select company instead of before a handful of country bumpkins. - -Well, he was rewarded for his pains. The concert was voted a brilliant -success, and by a long way the best that had ever been given in the -village. - -"When stars are in the quiet skies," and "Robin Adair," which I sang -"by request," as an _encore_, were greatly applauded, as were also -the glees that we had so patiently practised; and though, of course, -the crowning point of the evening was Captain Forrester's own song, -poured forth in his rich, mellow barytone, we had none of us reason to -complain of the reception that we got; and the stone walls of the old -town-hall, that had stood since the days when the headsman was still an -institution, responded to the clapping of the people. - -To be sure, they wanted father to stand up and give them a speech, but -he would have nothing to do with that on this occasion; he said it was -one of relaxation and not of work; and he always refused to touch upon -things that were sacred to him, for mere effect, or in anything but the -most serious spirit. He wished them all good-night, and told them so. - -I remember a curious incident that occurred that night. One of the -American oil-lamps that lighted the hall took fire; a panic arose in -the little crowd; the women pressed to the door. But Captain Forrester, -calling out to the people in strong, reassuring tones to keep their -seats, seized the lamp, carried it burning above the heads of the -throng, and threw it down into the little court-yard without. - -When the fright was over I missed father and Joyce. Him I found -at once, sitting on the steps with two sobbing little ones on his -knees--two little ones whose sisters had run out without them, and -whose little hearts had been numbed with fear. Father would generally -neglect any grown-up person in preference to a child. But Joyce I could -not see. - -I felt sure that she must have gone to look after Captain Forrester; -but when presently he came back with his hand bandaged, and said that -he had seen nothing of Joyce, I was really frightened. I discovered her -sitting down in a dark corner of the court-yard, crying. - -She said that she had been terrified by the accident, and had run out -for safety before any one else. But her manner puzzled me. And for a -whole week after that her manner continued to puzzle me. - -Frank Forrester came every day to the Grange to see father. They had -a new scheme on hand, an original scheme, a pet scheme of my dear -father's--the scheme of all his schemes which he held most dear, and -one which I know he had had for years, and had never dared hope would -find favor with any one. It was a scheme for the succor of those poor -children who had either no parents, or whose parents were anxious to -get rid of them. - -Of course I did not understand the workings of it at the time, it not -being possible that I should understand the requirements of the case; -but from what I can recollect, gleaned from the scraps of talk that -fell from father and Captain Forrester, I think it was intended to -pick up cases which were not provided for in the ordinary foundling -hospitals, and to rescue those poor wretched little creatures whose -parents were willing to part with them, from a life of sin and -degradation. - -The children were to be taught a trade, and were to be honorably placed -in situations when they left the home. - -Of course it was a vast scheme--how vast I am sure father cannot have -grasped at the time; but although he must have had grave doubts of the -possibility of its success, he was carried away for the moment by Frank -Forrester's wild enthusiasm upon the subject, and was persuaded by him -to try and put it into immediate practice. - -I think he was more drawn to Frank than ever by this. I think he was -drawn to every one who cared for children. But although the captain was -very enthusiastic over this scheme, he found time to look at Joyce and -to sigh for a word from her, for a chance of seeing her alone, and she -would not give it him. - -For a whole fortnight after that memorable evening of the squire's ball -she had kept him sighing; at least, I think that she had, and I was -very sorry for him. - -To be sure, mother's eyes were vigilant--it needed some bravery to -elude mother's eyes but then I thought that if one wanted a thing very -much one would be brave. - -Was Joyce cold-hearted? Was that why her face was so calm and so -beautiful. - -But one day, at last, the squire and his nephew came and went away -together, and mother, thinking the visit was over for the day, had gone -out on household errands. I was coming in from taking a parcel of poor -linen to the Vicarage when Deborah met me in the hall. - -"That there captain's in with Miss Joyce in the parlor," said she. -"They didn't want no light, they didn't. But I've took 'em in the lamp -just this minute." - -She said this with grim determination, and went off grumbling. - -Deborah wanted Joyce to marry the squire, and I fancy she suspected me -of furthering her acquaintance with the captain. - -I did not go in as Deborah suggested, not until close upon the time -when I was afraid mother would come home. - -Joyce was sitting in the big arm-chair with her hands clasped across -her knees, gazing into the fire. - -Captain Forrester sat at the old spinet--our best new piano was in -the front parlor--and touched its poor old clanging keys gently, and -sang soft notes to it in his soft, mellow voice. They were passionate -love-songs, as I now know; but the words were in foreign tongues, and -I did not understand them; no doubt Joyce did. He rose when I came in, -and asked what o'clock it was. - -I told him, and he laughed his gay, sympathetic laugh, and declared -that at the Grange he never knew what the time was; he believed we kept -our clocks all wrong. Then he said that he could not wait any longer -for father that evening, but would come to see him in the morning. He -went up to Joyce, and held out his hand. She shook herself, as though -to rouse herself from a dream, and rose. This time it was no mistake of -mine. Captain Forrester held Joyce's hand a long while. - -"Good-bye--till to-morrow morning," said he, in a low voice. - -She did not answer, and he turned to me. - -"Good-night, Miss Margaret," he said, and there was a ring in his -voice--an impressiveness even towards me--which seemed to say that -something particular had happened. - -When he was gone, I felt that I must know what it was. This barrier of -reserve between two sisters was ridiculous. - -"Joyce," said I, half impatiently, "have you nothing to tell me?" - -She looked up at me. A flush spread itself all over her neck and face, -her short upper lip trembled a little--it always did with any emotion. - -"Yes," answered she, simply; "Captain Forrester wants to marry me." - -I did not reply. Now that it had come to this pass as I wished, I was -frightened, as I have said. - -But Joyce was looking up at me with an appealing look in her eyes. I -stooped down and kissed her. - -"You dear old thing," I said; "I'm so glad. I hoped he had--I have -hoped all along he would." - -"I thought you wished it," she said, with child-like simplicity. - -I laughed. - -"Of course I knew from the very beginning that he would fall in love -with you," I said. - -"Oh, Margaret, don't say that!" pleaded she. And then, after a pause, -with a little sigh she added, "I should have thought he would have been -wiser than to fall in love with a country girl, when there must be so -many town girls who are better fitted to him." - -"Nonsense!" cried I. "The woman who is fitted to a man is the woman -whom he loves." - -"Do you think so?" murmured she, diffidently. - -"Why, of course," I cried, warming as I went on, and forgetting my own -doubts in laughing at hers. "A man doesn't marry a woman for the number -of languages that she speaks, and that kind of thing--at least not a -man like Captain Forrester. I don't know how you can misjudge him so. -Don't you believe that he loves you?" - -"Oh yes," she murmured again; "I think that he loves me." - -I said no more for a while. Joyce's attitude puzzled me. That she -should speak so diffidently of the adoration of a man who had -addressed to her the passionate words which I had overheard, passed my -comprehension. - -I fell to wondering what was her feeling towards him. More than ever I -felt that she had passed beyond me into a world of which I knew only in -dreams. I had risen now, and stood over the fire. - -"I always dreamed of something like that for you, Joyce," said I. "I -always felt that you weren't a bit suited to marry a country bumpkin, -but I never pictured to myself anything so good as this for you. Mother -had grand ideas for you, I know. Oh yes; and you know she had, now," -added I, in answer to a deprecatory "Oh, don't!" from my sister. "But I -should have hated what she wanted; and I don't believe you would ever -have consented. But Captain Forrester is not a landed proprietor; he -cares for the rights of the people as father does. He is a fine fellow; -and then he is young, and has never loved any one else," added I, -dropping my voice. - -I suppose I said this in allusion to the squire's first wife. - -She did not say anything, and I kneeled down beside her. "Dear Joyce," -I whispered--and I do believe my voice trembled--"I do want you to be -happy. And though I shall feel dreadfully lonely when you have gone -away and left me, I sha'n't be sorry, because I shall be so glad you -have got what I wanted you to have." - -She squeezed my hand very tight. - -"Oh, but I sha'n't be married, dear, not for ever so long yet," said -she. "Why, you forget, we don't know what father and mother will say." - -"Why, father and mother can only want what is best for you," answered -I. And I believed it. Nevertheless, what father and mother, or at all -events what mother thought best, was not what I thought best. - -When Captain Forrester came the next morning, I knew before he passed -into father's business-room that he was not going to receive a very -satisfactory answer. He was expected; his answer was prepared, and I -was to blame that it was. - -That evening, after the captain's proposal to Joyce, the squire sent -down a message to ask whether father would be disengaged; and if he -were, whether he might come down after supper to smoke a pipe with him. -We were seated around the meal when Deborah brought in the message. - -"Certainly," answered father. "Say that I shall be pleased to see Mr. -Broderick." But when she was gone out, he added, gruffly: "What the -deuce can the squire want to see me for? I don't know of anything that -I need to talk to him about." - -He looked at mother, but mother did not answer. She assumed her most -dignified air, and there was a kind of suppressed smile on her face -which irritated me unaccountably. As soon as the meal was over, she -reminded us that we had the orange marmalade to tie up and label, and -we were forced to leave her and father together. - -I went very reluctantly, for I wanted to hear what they had to say, -and Deborah was in a very inquisitive mood--asking us how it was that -the squire had not invited us up to supper at the Manor these three -weeks, and when this fine gentleman from London was going to take -himself back again to his own home. - -I left Joyce to answer her, and found an excuse to get back again to -the parlor as fast as I could. Father and mother sat opposite to one -another in their high-backed chairs by the fire. Father had not been -well since that night of the ball. I think he had caught a chill in the -east wind and was feeling his gout again a little. I think it must have -been so, or he would scarcely have remained sitting. Knowing him as I -did, I was surprised; for I knew by his face in a moment that he was in -a bad temper, and he never remained sitting when he was in a bad temper. - -"Nonsense, Mary, nonsense!" he was saying. "I'm surprised at a woman -of your good-sense running away with such ideas! Mere friendship, mere -friendliness--that's all." - -"Well," answered mother, stroking her knee, over which she had turned -up her dress to save it from scorching at the fire, "it was not only -his taking Joyce out to dance first before all the county neighbors, -but he took me into supper himself--and, I can assure you, was most -attentive to me." - -"Well, and I should have expected nothing less of him," said father. -"The man is a gentleman, and you have been a good friend to him. No -man, squire or not, need be ashamed of taking my wife into supper--no, -not before ten counties!" - -Mother smiled contentedly. - -"Every one can't be expected to see as you do, Laban," said she. "I -think it was done with a purpose." - -"Oh! And, pray, what purpose?" asked father, in his most irritating and -irritated tone. - -Mother was judicious; perhaps even she was a little frightened. She -did not answer just at first. I had slid behind the door of the -jam-press in the corner of the room, and now I began putting the rows -of marmalade pots in order. She had not noticed me. - -"I think the squire wishes to marry our eldest daughter," said she, -slowly; and then she reached down her knitting from the mantle-piece -and began to ply her needles. - -There was a dreadful silence for a minute. - -"I have thought so for a long time," added mother. "I have felt sure -that he must have some other reason for coming here so often besides -mere friendship for two old people." - -Father leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it, -as though about to rise, but not rising. - -"Well, then, if he has any other reason, the longer he keeps it to -himself the better," said he, in a voice that he tried to prevent from -becoming loud. "But we have no right to judge him until we know," -added he. "You've made a mistake, mother. The squire isn't thinking of -marrying again. He's no such fool." - -"I don't see that he'd be such a fool to wish to marry a sweet girl -that he has known all his life," remonstrated mother. - -"He can marry no girl of mine, at least not with my consent," declared -father, loudly, his temper getting the better of him. "My girls must -marry in their own rank of life, or not at all. I have no need of the -gentry to put new blood into our veins. We are good enough and strong -enough for ourselves, any day. But come, old lady, come," he added, -more softly, trying to recover himself, "you've made a mistake. It's -very natural. Mothers will be proud of their children, and women must -always needs fancy riches and honors are the best things in the world." - -"Oh, I don't fancy that, I'm sure, Laban," answered mother. "But I -can't think you would really refuse such a true and honest man for -Joyce." - -"Well, then, Mary, look here; you be quite sure that I shall never -consent to my daughter marrying a man who must come down a peg in the -eyes of the world to wed her," began he, raising his voice again, and -speaking very slowly. - -He looked mother keenly in the face, but he got no further than that, -for I emerged from the jam-cupboard with a pot in my hand; and at the -same time Deborah flung open the door and announced Squire Broderick. -Mother put down her skirt quickly and father sank back in his chair. -There was an anxious look upon the squire's face which puzzled me, but -he tried to laugh and look like himself as he shook hands with us. - -"You mustn't speak so loud, Maliphant, you mustn't speak so loud, if -you want to keep things a secret," laughed he. "Marrying? Who is going -to be married, if you please?" - -Mother blushed, and even father looked uncomfortable. - -"We were only talking of possibilities, squire, very remote -possibilities," said he. "The women are fond of taking time by the -forelock in such matters, you know. But now we'll give over such -nonsense, and bring our minds to something more sensible. You wanted to -see me?" - -"Yes," answered the squire. "And I have only a few minutes. My nephew -leaves to-morrow, and we have some little affairs to attend to." - -"Your nephew leaves to-morrow!" cried I, aghast. They all turned round -and looked at me, and I felt myself blush. - -"He never said so when he was here this afternoon," I added, hurriedly, -with a little nervous laugh. - -"No, I don't suppose he knew it when we were here," answered the -squire, evidently ignorant of the captain's second visit alone. "He had -a telegram from his mother this evening, begging him to return home at -once." - -I said no more, and Squire Broderick turned to father. "Can you give me -a few minutes?" asked he. - -Father rose. It vexed me to see that he rose with some difficulty. He -was evidently sadly stiff again, and it vexed me that the squire should -see it. Without uttering a word, he led the way to his business-room. - -I remained where I was, with the jam-pot in my hand, looking at mother, -who sat by the fire knitting. There was a little smile upon her lips -that annoyed me immensely. - -"I think I ought to tell you, mother, that I was behind the -jam-cupboard door while you and father were talking, and that I heard -what you said," said I, suddenly. - -"Well, of course I did not expect you to come intruding where you were -not wanted, Margaret," said mother; "but I don't know that it matters. -I'm not ashamed of what I said." - -"Of course not," answered I; "and I've guessed you had that notion in -your head these months past." - -"I don't know, I'm sure, what business you had to guess," said mother. -"It wasn't your place, that I can see." - -"And I may as well tell you that I'm quite sure Joyce would never think -of the squire if he did want to marry her," continued I, without paying -any attention to this remark. I paused a moment before I added, "She -couldn't, anyhow, because she's in love with another man." - -Mother looked at me over her spectacles. She looked at me as though she -did not see me, and yet she looked me through and through. - -"Margaret," said she, at last, loftily, "I consider it most unseemly of -you to say such a thing of your sister. A well brought up girl don't go -about falling in love with men in that kind of way." - -"A girl must fall in love with the man she means to marry, mother; at -least, so I should think," said I. - -And I marched off into the kitchen with the jam-pot that wanted a -label, and did not come out again till I heard the study door open, and -the squire's voice in the hall. - -"Well, you'll come to dinner on Thursday, anyhow, and see him," he was -saying; "it need bind you to nothing." - -Father grumbled something as he hobbled across, and I noticed again how -lame he was that day. The squire, seeing mother upon the threshold of -the parlor door, stopped and added, pleasantly, "Maliphant has promised -to bring you up to dine at the Manor, so mind you hold him to his -word." Mother assured him that she would, and the squire went out. - -"Well?" asked she, turning to father with a questioning look on her -face, which was neither so hopeful nor so happy as it had been ten -minutes ago. - -"Well?" echoed he, somewhat crossly. Then his frown changing to a -smile, he patted her on the arm, and said, merrily, "No, mother, no. -Wrong this time; wrong, old lady, upon my soul. The time hasn't come -yet when we are to have the honor of having our daughters asked in -marriage by the gentry." - -"Hush, Laban, hush," cried mother, vexed; for the kitchen door stood -open, and Joyce was within ear-shot. And then, following him into the -parlor, whither I had already found my way, she added, "Maybe I'm -not quite such a fool as you think, and the time will come one day, -although it's not ripe just yet." - -"A fool! Who ever called you a fool, Mary? Not I, I'm sure," declared -father. "No, you're a true, shrewd woman, and as you are generally -right in such matters, I dare say you may prove right now; but all I -want to make clear to you is that whatever time the squire's question -comes--if it be a question of that nature--his answer will always be -the same." - -Mother said no more. She was a wise woman, and never pursued a vexed -question when there was no need to do so. I, who was not so wise, -thought that I now saw a fitting opportunity for putting in my own -peculiar oar amid the troubled waters. - -"I don't think you need trouble your head about it, father," I said. -"Joyce will never marry Squire Broderick, even if he were to ask her. -She's in love with Captain Forrester." - -Father turned round with the pipe he was filling 'twixt his finger and -thumb and looked at me. - -"Margaret," said mother, "didn't I tell you just now that that was a -most strange and unseemly thing to say?" - -I did not answer, and father still looked at me with the pipe between -his finger and thumb. - -"In love with Captain Forrester, indeed!" continued mother, scornfully. -"And pray, how do you know that Captain Forrester is in love with -Joyce?" - -"Well, of course," answered I, with a toss of my head, "girls don't -fall in love with men unless the men are in love with them first. Who -ever heard of such a thing? Of course he's in love with Joyce." - -"Stuff and nonsense!" said mother, emphatically, tapping the floor -with her foot, as she was wont to do when she was annoyed. "Captain -Forrester and your sister haven't met more than half a dozen times in -the course of their lives. I wonder what a love is going to be like -that takes the world by storm after three weeks' acquaintance." - -"There is such a thing as love at first sight," answered I, with what -I know must have been an annoyingly superior air. It did not impress -mother. - -"A wondrous fine thing I've been told," was all that she said. - -I turned to father, who had not spoken. "Well, anyhow, they're in love -with one another," I repeated. "I know it as a fact, and he's coming -here to-morrow morning to ask your leave to marry her." - -"The devil he is!" ejaculated father, roused at last. - -Mother dropped her knitting. I do believe her face grew white with -horror. - -"I always thought, Laban, it was a pity to have that young man about so -much when we had grown-up girls at home," moaned she, quite forgetting -my presence. "But you always would be so sure he was thinking of -nothing but those politics of yours." - -"To be sure, to be sure," murmured father. - -"And he was always so pleasant to all of us," she went on, as though -that, too, were something to deplore in him; "but I never did think -he'd be wanting to marry a farmer's daughter. And I should like to -know what he has got to marry any one upon," added she, after a pause, -turning to me indignantly, as though I knew the captain's affairs any -better than she did. - -"His captain's pay," answered I, glibly, although I had been chilled -for a moment by this remark. "And why should you consider him a -ne'er-do-well because he earns his living in a different way to what -you do? He kills the country's enemies, and you till the country's -land. They are both honorable professions by which a man gets his bread -by the sweat of his brow." - -I looked at father; all through I had spoken only to him. He smiled and -began to light his pipe. It was a sign that his mind was made up. Which -way was it made up? - -"Joyce is just the girl men do fall in love with," said I, wisely; "and -as for her--well, you can't be surprised at her falling in love with a -man whom you like so much yourself." - -"Ay, I do like the young man," agreed father, stanchly. "I can't help -it. They're precious few such as he whose heads are full of aught but -seeking after their own pleasure." - -"Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants to -marry Joyce?" asked I, boldly. - -"I did not say that I was sorry, lass," said father, calmly. - -My heart throbbed with pleasant triumph, but the battle was not over -yet. - -"Well, Laban, I don't suppose you can say that you're glad," put in -mother, almost tartly, "after what I've heard you say about girls -marrying out of their own class in life." - -"Captain Forrester is not rich and idle," said I. - -"No," answered mother, scornfully, "he is not rich, you're right enough -there; but he is a good sight more idle than many men who can afford to -keep a wife in comfort. I know your sort of play soldiers that never -see an enemy." - -"He's rich enough for a girl of mine," replied father. "As to his being -idle, I hope maybe he's going to do better work saving the lives of -innocent children than he could have done slashing at what are called -the nation's foes." - -"Yes, yes," said mother, a trifle impatiently. "I make no doubt you're -right. I've nothing against the young man, but I can't believe, Laban, -as you really mean to say that you'd give your girl to him willingly." - -"Well," answered father, "I'm bound to say I'm surprised at the news; -but we old folk are apt to forget that we were young once; and when I -was a lad I loved you, Mary, so we mustn't be hard on the young ones. -It's neither poverty nor riches, nor this nor that, as makes happiness; -it's just love; and if the two love one another, we durstn't interfere." - -"I don't understand you, Laban; indeed I don't," cried poor mother, -beside herself with anxiety. "It's not according to what you were -saying a few minutes ago, and you can't say it is." - -Father was silent. I suppose he could not help knowing in his heart -that the objections to Captain Forrester must be practically the same -as those to Squire Broderick, with the additional one that he was -almost a stranger to us. But his natural liking for the young man -obscured his vision to plain facts. Father and I were very much alike; -what we wanted to be must be. But when I look back at that point in -our lives, I pity poor mother, who was really the wisest and the most -practical of us all. - -"Well, mother, the lass must decide for herself," said father. "She's -of age; she should know her own mind." - -"Joyce knows her own mind well enough," said I. "She has told Frank -Forrester that she will marry him subject to your approval." - -"I wonder she took the trouble to add so much as that," said mother at -last. "Young folk nowadays have grown so clever they seem to teach us -old folk." - -There was a tremor in her voice, and father rose and went across to -her, laying his hand on her shoulder. - -"Meg, go and tell your sister to come here," said he in a moment. "You -need not come back." - -I was hurt at the dismissal, and I waited in the passage till Joyce -came out from the interview; but her face was very white, and all that -she would say was: "Oh, Margaret, let them settle it. I don't want to -have any will of my own." - -I was very much disappointed, and was fain to be agreeably surprised, -when on the following morning I heard that, after mature deliberation, -our parents had decided to allow the captain a year's probation. - -I had been afraid that mother would entirely override all father's -arguments; she generally did. - -The affair was not to be called an engagement--both were to be -perfectly free to choose again; but if at the end of that time both -were of the same mind, the betrothal should be formally made and -announced. - -Mother must, however, have been very hard in her terms; for the young -folk were neither to meet nor to write to one another, nor to have any -news of one another beyond what might transpire in the correspondence -that father would be carrying on with Frank on outside matters. - -Frank told me the conditions out in the garden, when I caught hold -of him as he came out of father's study. The whole matter was to be -a complete secret, shut closely within our own family. This mother -repeated to me afterwards, I guessed very well with what intent. But -although Frank must have guessed at a possible rival in his uncle, he -absolutely refused to be cast down. - -The thought even crossed my mind that I should have liked my lover to -have been a little more cast down. But no doubt he felt too sure of -himself, even after the slight shock of surprise that it must have been -to him to find his suit not at once accepted. - -Nevertheless, as he passed out of the room where he had taken leave of -Joyce alone, he bent forward towards me as I stood in the hall, and -said, gravely, "Miss Margaret, I trust her to you. Don't let her forget -me." - -My heart ached for him, and from that moment it was afire with the -steadfast resolve to support my sister's failing spirits and preserve -for her the beautiful romance which had so unexpectedly opened out -before her. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Joyce and I sat in the apple orchard one May afternoon. It was not -often we sat idle; but Joyce was going away on the morrow on a visit to -Sydenham, and we wanted a few minutes' quiet together. - -There was no quiet in-doors; mother was in one of her restless moods, -and Mr. Hoad was with father. I supposed he was still harping on that -subject of the elections, for I could not tell why else he should come -so often; but I could have told him that he might have spared his -pains, for that father never altered his mind. - -However, on this particular occasion I was glad that he came, -for I thought that it might save father from missing Frank too -much--although, to be sure, they did not seem to get on so well as -before Frank's coming; and I fancied that there was even the suspicion -of a cloud on father's face when he closed the door after his man of -business. - -Who could wonder? Who would like Hoad after Frank Forrester? For my -own part, I always avoided him, and that was why I had taken Joyce -out-of-doors. - -An east wind blew from the sea, and the marsh was bleak, though -the lengthening shadows lay in soft tones across its crude spring -greenness. The sun shone, and the thorn-trees that were abloom by -the dikes made white spots along their straightness--softer memories -of the snow that had so lately vanished, kindly promise of spring to -come. Under the apple-trees, heavy with blossom, the air was blue -above the vivid emerald of the springing grass, and all around us -slenderly sturdy gray trunks and angular boughs, softened by a wealth -of rose-flushed flower, made delicate patterns upon the sky or against -the glittering sea-line beyond the marsh. - -But a spring scene, with its frank, passionless beauty, its tenderness -that is all promise and no experience, its arrogance of coming life, -does sometimes put one out of heart with one's self, I think, although -it should not have had that effect on one who stood in the same -relation to life as did the spring to the year. Anyhow, I was not in -my most cheerful frame of mind that day--not quite so arrogant and -sanguine myself as was my wont. - -Since the day when Captain Forrester had left the village three weeks -ago, things had not gone to my liking. In the first place, I was not -satisfied with this engagement of a year's standing, that was to be -kept a profound secret from every one around. I thought it was not fair -to Joyce. And then, and alas! I fear an even more active cause in my -depression of spirits--Mr. Trayton Harrod had been engaged as bailiff -to Knellestone farm! - -Yes; never should I have expected it. It was too horrible, but it was -true. Father and mother had gone up to meet him at dinner at the Manor -two days after the captain's departure, and father had been forced to -confess that he was a quiet, sensible, straightforward fellow, without -any nonsense about him, and that there was no doubt that he knew what -he was about. - -It was very mortifying to me to hear father speak of him in that way, -when I had quite made up my mind that he was sure not to know what he -was about. But it seems that I was curiously mistaken upon this point. - -Far from being a mere amateur at the business, he had been carefully -educated for it at the Agricultural College at Ashford. His father -had been of opinion that his own ventures had failed because of a too -superficial knowledge of the subject--a knowledge only derived from -natural mother-wit and practical observation, and he wished his son to -labor under no such disadvantages. - -I fancy Mr. Harrod's father had been, as the country-folk say, "a cut -above his neighbors" in culture and social standing, and had taken to -farming as a speculation when other things had failed. But of course -this was no reason why his son should not make a good farmer, since he -had been carefully educated to the business. - -He was not wanting in practical experience either. He had done all -he could to retrieve the fortunes of his father's farm, but the -speculation was too far gone before he took the reins; and the elder -Harrod had died a ruined man, leaving his son to shift for himself. - -All this I had gleaned from talk between my parents and the squire in -our own house; but it was mortifying, even though I had not guessed at -that time that there was any real danger of his coming to Knellestone. -For that had only been settled two days ago, and I could not help -fancying that Mr. Hoad was partly to blame. - -Of course there was no denying that father had been ill again--not so -seriously ill as in the winter, but incapacitated for active life. -He had not been able to mount his horse nor to walk farther than the -garden plot at the top of the terrace for over a fortnight. - -The doctor had suggested a bath-chair; but the idea of a farmer being -seen in a bath-chair was positively insulting, and I would rather -have seen him shut in-doors for a month than showing himself to the -neighbors in such a plight. The idea was abandoned; but gradually, and -without any sign, his mind came round to the plan which he had at first -so violently repudiated--that of a bailiff for Knellestone. - -I do not know whether it was really Mr. Hoad who had anything to do -with his decision. He certainly had influence over father, and had -been very often at the Grange of late, but it may have been merely the -effect which Mr. Harrod himself produced. Anyhow, a fortnight or so -after the dinner at the Manor, father announced to us abruptly at the -dinner-table that he had that morning written to engage "that young man -of the squire's" to come to Knellestone. His manner had been so queer -when he said it that nobody had questioned him further on the matter; -and as for me, I had been so thoroughly knocked down by the news that I -do not think I had spoken to father since! - -If my sister's departure had not been arranged--and in a great measure -arranged by me--before this news had come, I am sure that I should not -have suggested it; for it was the first time in our lives that we had -been parted, and, reserved as I was, I felt that I wanted Joyce to be -there during this family crisis. - -She at least never allowed herself to be ruffled, and though this -characteristic had its annoying side, there was comfort in it; and -just at that particular moment we needed a soother, for the family was -altogether in a somewhat ruffled condition. - -Father was cross because of what he had been driven into doing with -regard to the bailiff. Mother was cross because the squire had not -proposed for Joyce, and Captain Forrester had. And I was cross--more -cross than any one--because I was an opinionated young woman, and -wanted to have a finger in the management of every pie. - -It was a good thing that Joyce took even her own share in these matters -more quietly than I took it for her. Nevertheless, even she was a -little dismal that evening. How was it possible that she could be happy -parted, without even the solace of correspondence, from the man whom -she loved? I believe in my secret soul I set Joyce down as wanting -in feeling for not fretting more than she did; but she _was_ out of -spirits, and mother had agreed with me that Joyce was pale, and had -better choose this time for a visit to Aunt Naomi, which had been a -promise for a long time. And now it was impossible to put it off. - -Joyce came back from a dream with a little sigh, and turned towards me. - -"Well, did you see Mr. Trayton Harrod this morning, Margaret?" asked -she. "Deborah says he was here to see father. When does he come for -good?" - -"I don't know," answered I, shortly. "I know nothing at all about Mr. -Trayton Harrod." Joyce sighed a little. "Deborah says he is a plain -kind of man," continued she--"very tall and broad, and very short in -his manners." - -"He can't be too short in his manner for me," answered I. "He'll find -me short too." - -Joyce stretched out her hand and laid it on mine. It was a great -deal for her to do. In the first place, we were not given to outward -demonstrations of affection; and in the second place, Joyce knew that I -abhorred sympathy, and that from my earliest childhood I had always hit -out at people who dared to pity me for my hurts. - -"Dear Margaret," said she, "I want you not to be so much set against -this young man. Father said he was a straightforward, good sort of -fellow, you know; and you can't be sure that he will be disagreeable -until you know him." - -"I don't suppose he is going to be disagreeable at all," declared I. -"He may be the most delightful man in the world; I've no doubt he is. -I only say that he is nothing to me. I shall have nothing to do with -him, and I sha'n't know whether he is delightful or not." - -"Well, if you begin like that, it _will_ be setting yourself against -him," said Joyce, bravely. She paused a moment, and then added, "I'm in -hopes it will be a good thing for father. I've often thought of late -that the work was too hard for him. Father's not the man he was." - -"Father's all right," insisted I. "It's always the strongest men who -have the gout. You'll see father will walk the young ones off the -ground yet when it comes to a day's work. A man can work for his -own--he works whether he be tired or not; but a hireling--why should a -hireling work when he hasn't a mind to? It's nothing to him; he gets -his wage anyway." - -This theory seemed to trouble Joyce a bit, for she was silent. - -"No," said I, "it'll be no go. He won't understand anything at all -about it, and all he will do will be to set everybody by the ears." - -"I don't see why that need be," persisted Joyce. "The squire says that -he has been brought up to hard work, and that he has quite a remarkable -knowledge of the country." - -"Yes, what good did his knowledge of the country do him?" asked I, -scornfully. "He managed his father's farm in Kent, and his father died -a bankrupt. I don't call that much of a recommendation." - -I had been obliged to come down from my high horse as to this friend of -the squire's being one of his own class, an impoverished gentleman who -wanted a living, for there was no doubt that he had been born and bred -on a farm, and had been, moreover, specially educated to his work, but -I had managed to find out something else in his disfavor nevertheless. - -My sister was puzzled as to how to answer this. - -"I did not know that that was so," said she. - -"Of course it is so," repeated I. "That's why he must needs take a job." - -"Poor fellow!" murmured Joyce. - -"Nonsense!" cried I. "He ought to have been able to save the farm from -ruin. It's no good pitying people for the misfortunes they bring upon -themselves. The weak always go to the wall." - -I did myself injustice with this speech. It did not really express my -feelings at all, but my temper was up. - -Joyce looked pained. "Perhaps the affairs of the farm were too bad to -be set right before he took up the management," suggested she. "At all -events, I suppose father knows best." - -"I can't understand father," exclaimed I, hastily. "He seems to me to -take much more interest in plans for saving pauper children than he -does in working his own land." - -"Oh, Margaret! how can you say such a thing?" cried Joyce, aghast. "You -know that father is often laid by, and unable to go round the farm." - -"Yes, yes, I know," I hastened to answer, ashamed of my outburst, and -remembering that I was flatly contradicting what I had said two minutes -before. "Nobody really has the interest in the place that father has, -of course. That's why I don't want him to take a paid bailiff. When he -is laid by he can manage it through me." - -"I'm afraid that never answers," said Joyce, shaking her head; "I'm -afraid business matters need a man. People always seem to take -advantage of a woman." - -I tried to laugh. "I wonder what Deborah would say to that?" I said, -trying to turn the matter into a joke. - -"Deborah doesn't attempt anything out of her own province," answered -Joyce. - -It was another of her quiet home-thrusts. She little guessed how they -hurt, or she would never have dealt them--she who could not bear to -hurt a fly. - -"Margaret," began she again, her mind still set on that conciliatory -project which she had undertaken, "do promise me one thing before I go. -I don't like going away, and it makes me worse to think you will be -working yourself up into a fever of annoyance at what can't be helped. -Do promise me that you won't begin by being set against the young man. -It'll make it very uncomfortable for everybody if you are, and you -won't be any the happier. You can be so nice when you like." - -I looked at her, surprised. It was so very rarely that Joyce came out -of her shell to take this kind of line. It showed it must have been -working in her mind for long. - -"Yes, dear, yes," said I, really touched by her anxiety, "I'll try and -be nice." - -"You do take things so hard," continued she, "and it's no use taking -things hard. Now, if you liked you might help father still, with Mr. -Harrod, and he might be quite a pleasant addition to your life." - -"That's ridiculous, Joyce," I answered, sharply. "You must see that -he and I could never be friends. All I can promise is not to make it -harder for him to settle down among the folk, for it'll be hard enough. -However clever the squire may think him, he won't understand this -country, nor this weather, nor these people at first, there's no doubt -of that. He'll make lots of mistakes. But there, for pity's sake don't -let's talk any more about him," cried I, hastily. "I'm sick of the man; -and on our last evening too, when I've such a lot to say to you." - -"What have you to say to me?" asked my sister, looking round suddenly, -and with an uneasy look in her face. - -"Oh, come, you needn't look like that," laughed I. "It's nothing horrid -like what you have been saying to me. It's about Captain Forrester." - -Her face grew none the less grave. "What about him?" asked she, in a -low voice. - -"Well, I'm going to fight for you, Joyce, while you're away," said I. -"I don't think you've been over-pleased about having to go to Aunt -Naomi, and perhaps you have owed me a grudge for having had a finger in -settling it. It will be dull for you boxed up with the old lady and her -rheumatism, but you must bear in mind that I shall be working for you -here, better than, maybe, I could if you were by." - -"Why, Meg, what do you want to do?" asked my sister, aghast. - -"I'm going to get mother to make your engagement shorter," said I, -getting up and standing in front of her, "and I'm going to make her -allow you and Frank to write to one another." - -"Oh, Meg, how can you?" gasped Joyce. - -"Well, I'm going to," repeated I, doggedly. She did not reply. She -clasped her hands in her lap with a nervous movement, and dropped her -eyes upon them. - -"Mother said that the year's engagement was so that you and Captain -Forrester should learn to be quite sure of yourselves. Now, how are you -to be any surer of yourselves than you are now if you don't get to know -one another any better? And how are you going to know one another any -better if you never see one another, and never write to one another?" - -Joyce paused before she replied. She lifted her eyes and fixed them on -the channel, of which the long, tortuous curves, winding across the -marsh to the sea, were blue now with an opaque color in the growing -grayness of the evening. - -"Perhaps mother don't wish us to know one another any better. Perhaps -she wishes us to forget one another," said she at last, slowly. - -"I know mother wants you to forget one another, because she wants you -to marry the squire," said I, bluntly, "but father doesn't." - -"Oh, Meg, don't," whispered Joyce. - -"Well, of course you know it," laughed I, a little ashamed of myself, -"and you know that I know it. But you never would have married him, -dear, so mother is none the worse off if you marry Captain Forrester, -and you are not going to forget him because they want you to." - -"No," murmured she. "But oh, Meg," she added, hastily rising too, and -taking my hand, "I don't want you to say anything to them about it. -It's settled now, and it's far best as it is. I had far rather let it -be, and take my chance." - -"What do you mean by taking your chance?" cried I. "You mean to say -that you can trust to your lover not to forget you? Well, I suppose -you can. He worships you, and I suppose one may fairly expect even a -man to be faithful one little year. But, meanwhile, you will both of -you be unhappy instead of being comparatively happy, as you would be -if you could write to one another and see one another sometimes. Now, -that seems to me to be useless, and I don't see why it need be. At all -events, I shall try to prevent it." - -"You're a good, faithful old Meg, as true as steel," said Joyce, -tenderly, taking my hand; "and I suppose you can't understand how I -feel, because we are so different. But I want you to believe that I -would much rather wait. Indeed, I would much rather wait." - -I gazed at her in silence. Once more there stole over me a strange -feeling of awe, born of the conviction that Joyce had floated slowly -away from me on the bosom of a stream that was to me unknown. Whither -did it lead, and what was it like? What was this "being in love," of -which I had dreamed of late--for her if not for myself? I laughed -constrainedly. - -"Well, I never was in love," said I, "and perhaps I never shall be. But -I feel pretty sure that when a girl loves a man and he loves her, being -parted must be like going about without a piece of one's own self. No, -Joyce, you can't deceive me. I know that you want to see him every hour -and every minute of your life, and that when you don't something goes -wrong inside you all the while." - -Joyce sighed gently, and drew her shawl around her. "You're so -impetuous," sighed she. "Liking one person doesn't make one forget -every one else." - -"_Liking_, no," said I, and then I stopped. - -The marsh-land had grown dark with a passing cloud, and the aspens on -the cliff shivered in the rising wind. A window opened in the house -behind, and Deborah's voice came calling to us across the lawn. - -"Well, whatever you two must needs go catching your deaths of cold out -there for, I don't know," cried she, as we came up to her. "And not so -much as a young man to keep you company! Oh, there's two dismal faces!" -laughed she, as I pushed past her. "Well, I was wiser in my time. The -men never gave me no thoughts--good nor bad." - -"No, you never got any one to mind you then as Reuben minds you now," -cried I. - -But Joyce stopped the retort by asking what we were wanted for. - -"There's company in the parlor," answered she, speaking to me still. -"The squire's come to bid Miss Joyce good-bye, and there's your friend -Mr. Hoad." - -I made no answer to this thrust, but as we passed through the passage, -the door of father's room opened, and the voice of Mr. Hoad said, -with a laugh: "No, I'm afraid you will never get any good out of him. -A brilliant talker, a charming fellow, but no backbone in him. I was -deceived in him myself at first, but he's no go. I should think the -less any one reckoned on him for anything the better." - -"You don't understand him," began father, warmly; but he stopped, -seeing us. - -My cheeks flushed with anger. There was a grin on Deborah's face, but -my sister's was serene. - -She could not have understood. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Joyce had been gone a week before Mr. Trayton Harrod arrived. I had -preserved my gloomy silence on the subject of his coming, although I -was dying to know all about it; and as father had given in to my mood -by telling me no particulars, it so happened that I did not even know -the exact day of his arrival. - -It was a Monday and baking-day. There was plenty to do now that -Joyce was gone, and I did not do her work as she did it. Mother was -constantly reminding me of the fact. It did not make me do the work any -quicker, or like doing it any better; but, of course, it was natural -that mother should see the difference, and remark on it. - -At last, however, the baking and mending and dusting was all done, and -mother gave me leave to take a little basket of victuals to an old -couple who lived down by the sea. I had been very miserable, feeling -pitiably how little I had done at present towards fulfilling my promise -to Joyce of trying to make things pleasant, and sadly conscious that I -was not in mother's good books, or for that matter, in father's either, -for which I am afraid I cared more. He had scarcely spoken a word to me -all the week. - -Poor father! Why did I not remember that it was far worse for him -than it was for me? But as I ran across the lawn, with Taff yelping -at my heels, I do not believe that I gave a thought to his anxieties, -although I must have seen his dear old head bending over the farm -account-books through the study window as I passed. I was so glad to -have done with the house-keeping that I forgot everything else in the -tender sunshine of a May afternoon that was flecking the marsh with -spots of light, shifting as the soft clouds shifted upon the blue sky. -How could any troubles matter, either my own or other people's, when -there was a chance of being within scent of the sea-weed and within -taste of the salt sea-brine? - -I whistled the St. Bernard, and we set off on a race down the cliff. My -hat flew off, I caught it by the strings; all the thickness of my hair -uncoiled itself and rippled down my back. I felt the hair-pins tumble -out one by one, and knew that a great curly, red mass must be floating -in the wind; but I had a hundred yards to run yet before I came to the -elms at the foot of the hill--and Taff was hard to beat. - -Alongside the runnels that hemmed the lane, a ribbon, bluer than the -sea or sky, ran bordering the green; it was made up of thousands of -delicate veronica blossoms, opening merry eyes to the sun, and the red -campion dotted the bank under the cliff, and the cuckoo flowers nodded -their pale clusters on edges of little dikes. But I did not see the -flowers just then; I ran on and on, jumping the gate that divides the -marsh from the road almost as Taffy jumped it himself--on and on along -the dike, without stopping, till I came to the first thorn-tree that -grows upon the bank; and there, at last, I was fain to throw myself -down to rest, out of breath and trembling. - -What a run it was! I remember it to this day. It drove away all my -ill-temper; and as I sat there twisting up my hair again, and laughing -at Taff, who understood the joke just as if he were a human being, I -had no more thought of anything ajar than had the white May-trees that -dotted the marsh all along the brown banks of the dikes, and lay so -harmoniously against the faint blue of the sky, where it sank into the -deeper blue of the sea beyond. - -Dimly, beyond the flaxen stretch of plain that was slowly flushing -with the growing green, one could see the little waves rippling out -across the yellow sands, with the sunlight flashing upon their crests; -over the meadows red and white cattle wandered, and little spotless -lambs played with their mothers on the fresher banks; tufts of tender -primroses grew close to my hand, fish leaped in the still gray waters -of the dike, birds sang in the belt of trees under the Manor-house, -lapwing made strange bleating and chirping sounds amid the newly -sprouting growth of the rushes that mingled softly with the faint gold -of last year's mown crop; the cuckoo's note came now and then through -the air. The spring had come at last. - -I tied on my hat again and jumped up. I began to sing, too, as I -walked. I was merry. What with Captain Forrester, and what with the -trouble about the bailiff, and what with Joyce's departure, and the -household duties falling upon me, I had not been out among my favorite -haunts for a long time, and the sight of the birds and the beasts and -the flowers was new life to me. I noted the marks of the year's growth -as only one notes them who knows the country by heart; I knew that the -young rooks were already on the wing, that the swifts and the swallows -had built their nests, that the song-thrush was hatching her brood, -and that a hunt along the sunny, sandy banks under the lea of the hill -would discover the round holes where the little sand-martin would be -laboriously scooping her nest some two feet deep into the soft ground. - -I promised myself a happy afternoon when next I should have leisure, -searching for plovers' eggs along the banks of the dikes where the -moor-hen and lapwing make their homes; but to-day I dared not loiter, -for the old couple for whom I was bound lived under the shadow of the -great rock, where the marsh ends and the land swells up into white -chalk-cliffs fronting the sea; and that was four good miles from where -I now was. Taff and I put our best legs foremost, vaulting the gates -that separated the fields, and crossing the white bridges over the -water, until at last we came to where the dike meets the sea, and the -Martello towers stud the coast. - -I confess we had not always walked quite straight. Once my attention -had been caught by the hovering of a titlark in the vicinity of a bank -by the way-side, and I had not been able to resist the temptation -of climbing a somewhat perilous ascent to look for the nest, whose -neighborhood I guessed. It was on the face of a curious sort of -cliff that lay across the marsh; one side of it sloped down into the -pasture-land, but the other presented a gray, rugged front to the -greensward below, and told of days when the sea must have lapped about -its massive sides, and eaten its way into the curious caves where now -young oaks and mountain-ash clove to the barren soil. - -About half-way up the nethermost bank of this cliff I found the nest of -the titlark beneath a heather bush. But in it sat a young cuckoo alone -and scarcely fledged, while lying down the bank, about a foot from the -margin of the nest, lay the two little nestlings of the parent bird. -I picked them up and warmed them in my hand, and put them back in the -nest, where they soon lifted their heads again. Then I stood a moment -and watched. The young cuckoo began struggling about till it got its -back under one of them, and, blind as it still was, hitched it up to -the open part of the nest, and shoved it out onto the bank. Once more I -picked the poor little bird up and put it back into its mother's nest. -Then seeing that the cruel little interloper seemed to have made up -its mind to try no more ejecting for the moment, I slid down the bank -again and went on, promising myself, however, to look in upon this -quarrelsome family on my way home. - -This little adventure delayed us, but we ran a great part of the -remainder of the way to make up for it, and reached old Warren's -cottage somewhat out of breath, and I with red cheeks and hair sorely -dishevelled by the journey. However, as we were old friends, we were -soon restored by the kindly welcome that we got. Taffy lay down on the -hearth with the great Persian cat, and I took my seat in the chimney -corner, Mrs. Warren insisting on preferring the bed for a seat. - -It was a funny little hut, nestled away under the shadow of the -towering cliff, with the sea lapping or roaring within fifty yards of -it, and the lonely marsh stretching away miles and miles to the right -of it. No one knew why Warren had built it, but some fancied that he -still had smuggled goods hidden away in the caves of the cliffs, and if -so, he naturally chose a dwelling-place hard by, and not too much under -the eye of man. It was a poor hovel, better to die in than to live in, -one would have thought; but old Warren seemed to be of a contented -disposition, and to enjoy his life well enough, although as much could -not apparently be said of his wives, of whom he had had three already. -The present one had lasted the longest, the former two having been -killed off in comparatively early life (according to Warren) by the -loneliness of their life and the terrors of the elements which they had -witnessed. - -Warren was a dramatic old fellow, and could tell many a story of -shipwreck and disaster, and even (when pressed) of encounters between -the revenue-cutters and the smugglers' boats, of dangerous landings -on this dangerous bit of coast, and of nights when it was all the -"boys" could do to get their kegs of spirits safely ashore and buried -in the sand before morning. This afternoon he was in particularly -good spirits. Something in the color of the land and the sea and in -the direction of the wind had reminded him of a day when the fog had -come up suddenly and had caused disaster, although, to my eye, the -heavens were clear and fair as any one could wish. I soon drew from -him the account of a terrible struggle between the Government officers -and the smugglers, when the fog had given the latter a miraculous and -unexpected triumph, and this led on to the tale--oft-repeated but never -stale--of the wreck of the Portuguese "merchant," when the "lads" -picked up the wicker bottles that floated ashore, and drank themselves -sick with eau-de-cologne in mistake for brandy. - -This was my favorite story; but it was hard to know whether to -laugh or to cry when Mrs. Warren number three would shake her head -sympathetically at the tearful account of the demise of Mrs. Warren -number two, who "lay a-dying within, while the lads drank the spirits -without," and old Warren was forced to take a drain himself to help him -in his trouble. - -The time always passed quickly for me with the funny old couple in -their funny old hovel under the cliff, and it was late afternoon before -I got out again onto the beach. Warren's memories had not been awakened -by mere fancy; his prophecy was right. There was a heavy sea-fog over -the marsh, blown up by a wind from the east. I gathered my cloak around -me and set off walking as fast as I could. The mist was so thick that -the dog shook himself as he ran on in front of me; the damp stood in -great drops on the bristles of his shaggy coat and of my rough homespun -cloak; it took the curl even out of my curly hair, which hung down in -dank masses by the side of my face. - -I could not see the sea, though I could hear it lapping on the shore -close by; I could not even see the dike at my left, and yet it was -not thirty yards away. I knew the way well enough, however, and the -fog only made an amusing variety to an every-day walk. I started off -merrily, avoiding the road, which was not the shortest way, and making, -to the best of my belief, a straight line across the marsh, as I had -done hundreds of times before. But a mist is deceptive, and I could not -have been walking more than a quarter of an hour when I felt the ground -suddenly give way beneath me, and I found myself disappearing into one -of the deep ditches that intersect the marsh between the broader dikes. - -I knew that there was brackish water at the bottom of the ditch, and -though I did not mind a ducking, I did not care for a ducking in dirty -water, and so far from home. By clutching onto the docks and teasels on -the bank, I managed to hold myself up and get my heels into the soil, -and then, with one spring, I landed myself on the opposite bank. My -petticoats would not escape Deborah's notice, but my feet were dry, and -even my skirts would not attract immediate attention. - -But how had I got to the ditch? and where was I now? Yes, I must have -borne farther to the left than I had intended; but it did not much -signify--one way across the marsh was as good as another to me, and -I had better keep to this side now, and go home under the lea of the -hill. There would be the advantage that I might be able to find my -little titlark again. I whistled, for I could not see the dog, and -presently my call was answered by a loud barking close in front of me, -and lifting up my face, I vaguely saw Taff chasing some larger object -before him into the mist. - -I knew at once that in coming to this side of the ditch I had landed -myself among a herd of the cattle that had now taken up their summer -quarters upon the marsh. I was not afraid of the cattle; I had seen -them there ever since I had been a child, browsing in the warm weather; -they were part of the land. But I wondered just where I had got to, and -I stopped to think where the sea was, and where the dike. Without these -two landmarks I was somewhat bewildered. The cattle closed around me. -They, too, seemed to be doubtful about something, but they kept their -eyes on me. I wished Taff would not bark so. - -I turned round, and once more began walking briskly in the direction -which I thought was the right one. A great brown beast stood just in -front of me. I had not noticed him before, but he had come up over -a mound of the uneven marsh-land and stood staring at me with head -gently rocking. Up till now I had not had a moment's uneasiness, but I -began to wonder whether the marsh cattle were always safe. I moved, and -the bull moved too. Taff barked louder than ever, and the bull began -to bellow softly. I was never so cross with the dog in my life, and I -could not punish him, for I dared not take my eyes off the brown beast. - -I moved forward till I had passed the place where the bull stood. -But now it was worse than ever. The mist was so thick, and I had so -entirely lost my way, that I dared not retreat backward for fear of -falling into an unseen dike, and some of the dikes were deep at this -time of the year. I began to run gently, but my heart failed me as -I heard behind me the bull following, still bellowing softly. If I -were only on the right road there must be a gate soon, but I feared -I was not on the right road. Taff kept running round in front of me, -hindering my speed. I felt that the creature was gaining on me. I -don't think I was ever so frightened before. I don't remember that my -presence of mind ever so entirely failed me as it did on that day. -But my legs seemed as though they were tied together. I stood still, -waiting, and then I think I must have fallen to the ground. - -I knew that the bull must be close upon me, and it was no more than -what I expected when I felt myself suddenly lifted up by the waist -and flung to what seemed to me an immense distance through the air. -For a moment I lay stunned. The bellowing of the bull, the barking of -the dog, the murmur of the sea--all mingled in my ears in one great -booming sound. Then slowly I became conscious that there was a human -presence beside me in the fog. I opened my eyes. I was lying close -under a five-barred gate. The bull was on the other side of it; Taffy -lay whining beside me, and over me stood a big, tall man, looking down -at me quietly. - -"Are you hurt, miss?" said he. - -I struggled into a sitting posture, and pulled myself up on my feet by -the help of the gate. - -"No; no, thank you," answered I. But my head was dizzy, and my arm -ached dreadfully. - -"I'm afraid I flung you over rather hard," said he. "But there wasn't -time to do it nicely." - -"You flung me over!" cried I, aghast. - -"To be sure," answered he, "Did you think it was the bull?" - -He gave a short laugh, scarcely a laugh, it was so very grim and quiet. -But when he laughed his smile was like a white flash--I remember -noticing it. I gazed at him. Angry as I was--and I was absurdly, -childishly angry--I could not help gazing at this man, who could take -me up like a baby and fling me over a five-barred gate in a twinkling. - -He was very broad and strong, his eyes were dark brown, his hair was -black and curling, and so was his beard. He had neither a pleasant face -nor a handsome face--until he smiled. I was not conscious at the time -of any of these details; but there in the fog I thought he looked very -imposing. - -"I'm afraid if it had been the bull he would have flung you farther, -and hurt you more," said he. "You lay there very handy for him." - -How I hated myself for having fallen to the ground! - -"Come, Taff," said I, giving the dog a little kick, "get up." - -The dog sprang to his feet with his tail between his legs. No wonder -he was frightened and surprised. I had never done such a thing to him -before. But I had a vague feeling that if he had not hindered me I -should have got over the gate alone, and I was savage at the idea of -having needed help from a man. - -"Good-evening to you," said I, curtly, nodding my head in the direction -of the man, but without looking at him again. - -"Good-evening," answered he, raising his hat. "I hope you'll be none -the worse for your fall." - -I vouchsafed no answer to this speech, but strode on down the track as -fast as my aching limbs and dizzy head would allow me to do. The sea -murmured on the beach at my right. I could not see it for the fog, but -I could hear it. After a while I think it must have lulled my anger to -rest. The sea has always been a good friend to me, in its storms as in -its calm. I like to see it rage as I dare not rage, and I like to see -it calm as I cannot be calm. The restless sea has taught me as many -things as the quiet marsh; they are both very wide. And that day I am -sure it lulled my irritable temper. - -Before long I began to think that I, to say the least of it, had -treated my deliverer with scant courtesy. When I got to the farm -that divides the marsh from the beach I turned round to see if he -were following. The fog was beginning to lift. The distant hills of -the South Downs rose out of the sea of vapor, and were as towering -mountains in the mystery, lying dim and yet blue against the struggling -light of the sunset behind. The white headland that I had left detached -itself boldly against the sea-line--for the mist was only on the level -land now, where it lay like a sheet a few feet above the marsh, so that -the objects on the ground itself shone, illumined by the slanting rays -of the sun, till each one had a value of its own in the scene. Through -the golden spray of the sunlit vapor the red and the white cattle shone -like jewels upon the brown land, where every little line of water was -like a snake in the vivid light; and as I turned and looked towards -the gray cliff, where I had climbed the bank after the bird's-nest -an hour ago, the long line of hill behind, dotted with fir-trees and -church-steeples and little homesteads, lay midway in the air through -the silver veil. - -I stood a while looking back. I do not know that I was conscious of -the wonder of the scene, but I remember it very vividly. At the time I -think I was chiefly busy wishing the stranger to come up that I might -rectify my lack of courtesy. I saw him at last. He came in sight very -slowly, and stood a long while leaning against the last gate lighting -his pipe. I watched him several minutes, and he never once looked along -the path to see if I was there. Why was I annoyed? I had dismissed him -almost rudely. He did but do as he was bid. And yet I do believe I was -annoyed; I do believe I was unreasonable to that point. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -When I came into supper that evening my friend of the fog was standing -beside father on the parlor hearth-rug. Directly I saw him, I wondered -how I could have been such a fool as not to have guessed at once that -that was Mr. Trayton Harrod. But it had never occurred to me for a -moment; and when I recognized in the man to whom I had promised to be -friendly, also the person who had presumed to take me by the waist and -pitch me over a gate, all my bad temper of before swelled up within me -worse than ever, and I felt as though it would be quite impossible for -me even to be civil. And yet I had since promised somebody, even more -definitely than I had promised Joyce, that I would do my best to make -matters run smoothly. - -On that very evening father had made an appeal to my better feelings. -It seems that, while I had been out, Reuben Ruck and mother had had a -real pitched battle. Mother had told him to do something in preparation -for the arrival of the bailiff, which he had refused to do; and upon -that mother had gone to father, and had said that it was absolutely -necessary that Reuben should leave. - -When I came home I had found father standing on the terrace in the -sunset. It was a very unwise thing for him to do, for the air was -chill. I wondered what had brought him out, and whether he could be -looking for me. The little feeling of estrangement that had been -between us since he had settled for the bailiff to come to the farm had -given me a great deal of pain, and a lump rose in my throat as I saw -him there watching me come up the hill. It was partly repentance for -the feelings I had had towards him, partly hope that he was going to -want me again as he used to do. - -"Where have you been, lass?" said he, when I reached him. "You look -sadly." - -I laughed. The tears were near, but I laughed. My arm hurt me very -much, and my head ached strangely; but I was so glad to hear him speak -to me again like that. - -"The mist has taken my hair out of curl," said I; "that's all. I have -been down to the cliffs to take old Warren some tea. Did you want me?" - -"Yes," answered he; "I want to have a talk with you." - -"Well, come in-doors then," said I. "You know you oughtn't to be out so -late." - -We went into the study. Mother and Deb were getting supper ready in the -front dwelling-room. There was no lamp lit; we sat down in the dusk. - -"Your mother and Reuben have had a row, Meg," began father, with a kind -of twinkle in his eye, although he spoke gravely. - -"A row!" echoed I; "what about?" - -"About Mr. Trayton Harrod," answered father; "she wants me to send -Reuben away." - -"Send Reuben away!" cried I, aghast. "Why, it wouldn't be possible. -There would be more harm done by the old folks going away than any good -that would come of new folks coming; that I'll warrant." - -"That's not the question," said father, tapping the table with his -hand. "Mr. Harrod has got to come, you know, and if the old folks don't -like it, why, they'll have to go." - -"There's one thing certain," added I, "Reuben wouldn't go if he were -sent away fifty times." - -Father laughed; the first time I had heard him laugh for a fortnight. - -"Well, he'll have to be pleasant if he does stay," said he. - -"Oh, you none of you understand Reuben," said I. "He's not so stupid as -you all think. He'll be pleasant if he thinks it's for our good that he -should be pleasant. He wishes us well. But he'll want convincing first. -And," I added, with a little laugh, "maybe I want convincing myself -first." - -And it was then that father appealed to my better feelings. - -"Yes, Meg," said he, "I know that. I've seen that all along, and maybe -it's natural. We none of us like strangers about. But I thought fit to -have Mr. Harrod come for the good of the farm, and now what we all have -to do is to treat him civilly, and make the work easy for him." I was -silent, but father went on: "And what I want you to do, Meg, is to help -me make the work easy for him. It won't be easier to him than it is to -us. If his father had not died beggared I suppose he would have had his -own by now. It is a hard thing for children when their parents beggar -them." It being dark, I could not see his face, but I heard him sigh, -and I saw him pass his hand over his brow. "Mother is right," he added. -"We ought to make him feel it as little as we can, and as Joyce is -away, you're the daughter of the house now, Meg. I want you to remember -that. I want you to do the honors of the house as a daughter should. -What a daughter is at home a wife will be when she is married." - -"I shall never marry," said I, with a short laugh. "But I'll behave -properly, father, never fear." - -"That's right, my lass," said father, who seemed to take this speech as -meaning something more conciliatory than it looks now as I set it down. -"He is coming to-night to supper. Mother means to ask him to come every -night to supper. She would have liked to give him house-room, but that -don't seem to be possible. So we mean to make him welcome to our board." - -"All right," said I. "I suppose mother knows best." - -"Yes," echoed father; "mother always knows best. She's a wise woman, -that's why every one loves her." - -Again I promised to do what I could to resemble mother--to conciliate -Reuben, and to make myself agreeable to our guest. And yet, alas! in -spite of all that, I could not conquer my petty feelings of ill-temper -when I came into the parlor and found that the man to whom I intended -to be polite was the man who had offended me by being polite to me. -What a foolish girl I was! As I look back upon it now I am half -inclined to smile. But I was only nineteen. - -Mr. Harrod had his back towards me when I came into the room. But I -could not have failed to recognize the broad, strong shoulders and the -very black curly hair. I must have been the more changed of the two, -for I had brushed and braided my locks, which curled all the merrier -for the wetting, and I had put on another dress. Nevertheless, his eyes -had scarcely rested upon me before his mouth broke again into that -smile that showed the strong white teeth. - -"I hope you're none the worse, miss," said he. "I was afraid you had -got a bad shaking." - -Deborah, who was bringing in the supper, looked at me sharply. Mother -had not yet come in, and father was in a brown-study, but the remark -had not escaped old Deb. She could not keep silence even before a -stranger. - -"I thought you looked as if you had been up to some mischief again," -said she. "Your face is a nice sight." - -I flushed angrily. I think it was enough to make any girl angry. -It was bad enough to know that I was disfigured by a scratch on my -cheek without having a stranger's attention attracted to it, and -running a risk besides of a scolding from mother, who came in at the -moment. Luckily she did not hear what Deborah had said. She was too -much engaged in welcoming her guest, which she did with that gentle -dignity that to some might have looked like a want of cordiality, but -to me seems, as I look back upon it, to be just what a welcome should -be--hospitable without being anxious. But when we were seated at the -supper-table she noticed the mark on my face. - -"It's only a fall that I got on the marsh," said I, in answer to her -inquiry. "It isn't of the slightest consequence." - -She said no more, neither did Mr. Harrod. I must say I was grateful to -him. He saw that I wished the matter to be forgotten, and he respected -my desire; but I have often wondered since, what construction he -put upon my behavior. If he thought about me at all, he must have -considered me a somewhat extraordinary example of a young lady, but I -do not suppose that he did consider me at all. Of course I was nothing -but a figure to him; he had plenty to do feeling his level in the new -life upon which he had just entered. - -I am sure that Mr. Harrod was a very shy and a very proud man. When -mother said that she should expect him every evening to sup at the -Grange, he refused her invitation with what I thought scant gratitude, -although the words he used were civil enough; and when father spoke -of his friendship with the squire, he said that he was beholden to -the squire for his recommendation, but that he should never consider -himself a friend of a man who was in a different station of life to -himself. - -I think in my heart I admired him for this sentiment, and father should -also have approved of it; but if I remember rightly, mother made -some quiet rejoinder to the effect that it was not always the people -who were on one's own level that were really one's best friends. I -recollect that she, who was wont generally to sit and listen, worked -hard that evening to keep up the conversation. - -Dear mother! whom with the arrogance of youth I had never considered -excellent excepting as a housewife or a sick-nurse. County news, the -volunteer camp, the drainage of the marsh, the scarcity of well-water, -the want of enterprise in the towns-people, the coming elections--dear -me, she had them all out, whereas father and I, who had undertaken, -as it were, to put our best legs foremost, sat silent and glum. To do -myself justice, I had a racking headache, and for once in my life I -really felt ill, but I might have behaved better than I did. - -Mr. Harrod began to thaw slowly under the influence of mother's -kindness. She had such a winning way with her when she chose, that -everybody gave way before it; and I noticed that even from the very -first, when he was certainly in a touchy frame of mind towards these, -his first employers, Mr. Harrod treated mother with just the same -reverential consideration that every one always used towards her. - -In spite of it all that first evening was not a comfortable time. -Father and Mr. Harrod compared notes upon different breeds of cattle -and upon different kinds of grains; but there was a restraint upon us -all, and I think every one was glad when mother made the move from the -table and father lit his pipe. I have no knowledge of how they got on -afterwards over their tobacco; when I rose from the table the room swam -around me, and if it had not been for Deborah, who, entering on some -errand at the moment, took me by the shoulders and pushed me out of the -door in front of her, I am afraid I should have made a most unusual and -undignified exhibition of myself in the Grange parlor. As it was I had -to submit to be tucked up in bed by the old woman, and only persuaded -her with the greatest difficulty not to tell mother of my accident, -some account of which, as was to be expected, she wrung from me in -explanation of Mr. Harrod's words in the parlor. - -"I'd not have been beholden to him if I could have helped it," were the -consoling words with which she left me; and as I lay there, aching and -miserable, I became quite convinced that any comradeship between myself -and my father's bailiff had become all the more impossible because of -the occurrence of the afternoon. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -I got up the next morning just as usual. Nothing should have induced -me to confess that there was anything the matter with me, although my -arm was so stiff that it was with the greatest pain that I carried in -the breakfast urn, and my head ached so from my fall that it was hard -enough to put a good face upon it when mother remarked again upon the -disfigurement that I had upon my cheek. But although I gave no sign, I -was not used to being ill, and it did not improve my temper. - -Things were not comfortable in the house, and I did nothing to make -them better. To be sure, I kept my promise of talking to Reuben, but -I'm afraid that I did not even do that in a manner to be of any use. I -met Mr. Harrod as I passed out into the stable-yard, and he asked me -how I did? That alone put me out. - -To have been asked how I did by any one that morning would have annoyed -me, but to be asked how I did by the man who was somehow connected -with my doing ill annoyed me specially. I fancied it would have been -in better taste if he had not remarked upon a body's appearance when -she was looking her worst; and anyhow it seemed to me an unnecessary -formality. I feel really ashamed now to write down such nonsense, but -there is no doubt that such were my feelings at the time. I do not -think that I even answered him by anything more than a "good-morning," -but passed on as though I had the affairs of the world on my shoulders. - -I found Reuben rubbing down the mare who was to go into town with -father. She neighed as I came in, and stretched out her neck. I had no -sugar, but she licked my hand nevertheless; and I remembered Reuben's -compliment to me about my ability to win the love of beasts. It -consoled me a little at a time when I thought I should always stand -aloof, not only from the love but even from the comradeship of human -beings. And it gave me courage to say what I wanted to say to Reuben. -It was something to know that I was at least the old man's favorite. - -"Reuben," I began, plunging boldly into the matter, "whatever made you -behave so badly to father's bailiff when he came round the place?" - -There had been a special cause of complaint that very morning when -father had first taken Mr. Harrod round the farm, so I had a handle -upon which to begin. - -"Don't you know," I went on, "that this gentleman has got to be master -over you?" - -"Master!" repeated Reuben, stopping his work, and looking straight at -me; "no, miss, I knows nothing about that." - -I had used the word on purpose to draw out the whole sting at once. - -"Yes," continued I, "he's going to be father's bailiff." - -"Bailiff!" repeated Reuben, again putting on his most stolid air. "I -knows nothing about that." - -"Well," explained I, trying neither to laugh nor to be annoyed, "that -means that he is going to manage the land and give orders the same as -father, so that there'll be two masters instead of one." - -Reuben continued rubbing down the mare's coat till it began to shine -like satin. - -"I've heard tell," answered he at last, "there's something in the Book -that says a man don't have no call to serve two masters." - -This time I did laugh outright. "Oh, that's different, Reuben," said -I--"that's different; but these two masters will both be good, and both -will want you to do the same thing." - -"Do ye know that for sure, miss?" asked Reuben, again, and I had a -lurking suspicion that he did not ask in a perfectly teachable spirit. -"I've heard tell as when there be two masters, they always wants a man -to do just the opposite things." - -I paused a moment. I did not know what to answer, for it seemed to me -as though there might be a great deal of truth in this. - -But I said, bravely, "Oh no, Reuben." - -Reuben scratched his head. "Well, miss, Farmer Maliphant, he have been -my master fifteen year come Michaelmas, and he have been a good master -to me. Many another would have turned me away because o' the drink. It -was chill work at times down there on the marsh when I was with the -sheep, and the drink was a comfort. I nigh upon died o' the drink, but -Farmer Maliphant he have been patient with me, and he give me another -chance when others would have sacked me without a word. And now I be -what parson calls a reformed character." - -"Well, you are quite right to avoid drinking, Reuben," said I, chiefly -because I did not know what to say. - -"Yes; but I don't mind tellin' you, miss," continued Reuben, -confidentially, "that farmer he have more to do with making a pious man -of me than parson had; not but what I respec's the Church; but bless -you, parson wouldn't ha' given me nothing for giving up o' my bad ways, -and where's the use of doing violence to yerself if ye ain't a goin' to -get something by it?" - -Reuben wiped his brow. This long and unwonted effort of speech was -almost too much for him. - -"Nay, parson he didn't offer me no reward," added he, "but farmer -he did. He says to me, 'Reuben,' he says, 'if you give up the drink -you shall stay on as long as I'm above-ground;' and three times I -backslided, I did, and three times he give me another chance; and now -as I'm a respectable party, and a honor to any club as I might belong -to, I means to stick to my old master, and not be for going after -follerin' any other mammon whatsomever." - -I brightened up at this declaration. - -"Well, I'm glad of that, Reuben," said I. "I'm sure we none of us want -you to leave us after all these years." - -"Lord bless you, I ain't a-going to leave," answered he, simply. - -"Then that's all right," answered I. "If you have made up your mind -to do as you're bid, I know father will be true to his word, and will -never turn you off so long as he is alive." - -"Ay, the master'll be true to his word," echoed the old man, nodding -his head, "and I'll be true to mine, but I won't go follerin' after no -new masters. One master's enough for me, and him only will I serve." - -He gave the mare a smack upon her haunches, and turned her off; the -light of reason faded from his face, and I knew that it was absolutely -useless to say another word to him on the subject. I turned to go -within, and in the porch, with a bowl in her hand, stood Deborah facing -me, with an exasperating smile on her wide red face, and something more -than usually aggressive in her broad, strong figure. I looked round and -saw that the gate of the yard was open, and that Mr. Harrod, with his -heavy boots and gaiters on, ready for work, stood just behind me. I -could have cried with vexation. - -"Mr. Maliphant is waiting," said he, going up to the animal that Reuben -had just finished harnessing, and fastening the last buckle himself. -"I'll drive the cart round to the front myself." And he took the reins -and jumped up while Reuben, in gloomy silence, tightened up one of the -straps. I went and opened the gates, and with a nod of thanks to me, -Mr. Harrod dashed out. - -I cannot tell whether it was the strap that he had fastened himself, or -whether the one that had been Reuben's doing, but something galled the -mare. She reared and began to kick. Without a smile upon his face, and -without moving an inch, Reuben said, "Ay, it takes a man to hold that -mare." - -"You fool!" cried I, quite forgetting myself. "It isn't the man, it's -the harness." - -I flew down the gravel after the cart. The horse was still kicking -violently. Every muscle on Mr. Harrod's dark face was set in hard lines. - -"Leave her alone," cried he, as I approached; "don't touch her." - -Something in his voice cowed me, and apparently cowed the horse -also, for she was quiet in an instant, her sides only quivering with -nervousness. I sprang to her and unloosed the cruel strap. She turned -to me, and I held her by the bridle and patted her neck. Mr. Harrod got -down and examined the cart. Fortunately it was not materially hurt. - -"What can Reuben have been about to tighten that so," said I. "It was -enough to madden any horse." - -He did not answer. - -"I'm afraid he was angry at your giving him an order," said I. "You -must excuse him. He's an obstinate old fellow, but he is a good -servant, and he has been with us many years." - -"It's the most natural thing in the world that he should dislike me at -first," answered Trayton Harrod, with that smile of his that was such -a quick, short flash. "I rather like the sort of people who resent -interference. But I don't suppose it was his doing for a moment. I -buckled this up wrong." - -He pointed to his part of the job. Father came up, and they drove off -quietly together. I went back into the yard, musing on his words. - -"I don't believe you'll find Mr. Harrod an unjust master, Reuben," said -I. - -Reuben took no notice; but Deborah laughed, and said, grimly: - -"Well, he's a fine-grown young man, anyhow; and he'll know how to drive -a mare, I don't doubt." - -But I paid no attention to her words. I was wondering why Mr. Harrod -had said that he rather liked people who resented interference. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -A fortnight passed. I had seen little or nothing of Mr. Harrod till one -afternoon when, with a volume of Walter Scott under my arm, I had taken -my basket to get some plovers' eggs off the marsh. I had wandered a -long way far beyond that part of the dike that lay beneath the village -and was apt to be frequented by passers-by, and I had already about a -dozen eggs in my little basket, when I heard some one whistling down -behind the reeds on the opposite side of the bank. - -It might have been a shepherd. There was a track across the level here, -and none but the shepherds knew it; but somehow I did not think it was -a shepherd. I sat down upon the turf, for the bulrushes in the dike had -not yet grown to any height, and I did not want to be seen. - -"Taff!" called a voice. - -Yes, it was Mr. Harrod. I had missed the St. Bernard when I had been -coming out, and had wondered where he had gone, for I had wanted him -for a companion--Luck, the sheep-dog being out with Reuben. I wondered -how it was that Mr. Harrod could have taken him. - -I sat quite still among the rushes, where I had been looking for the -birds'-nests. I did not want to be seen, and, as far as I remembered, -there was no plank over the dike just here. But there was some one who -knew the marsh better than I did. It was the dog. As soon as he got -opposite to where I was, he began barking loudly, and then he ran back -some hundred yards and stood still, barking and wagging his tail, and -as plainly as possible inviting his companion to follow him. - -Mr. Harrod must have loved dogs almost as much as I did, for he -actually turned back, and when he came to where Taff stood he laughed. -There was evidently a plank there, and I suppose he must have guessed -that he was expected for some reason to cross over. He did so, and Taff -followed. The dog tore along the path to me, and Mr. Harrod followed -slowly. He did not seem at all surprised to see me. He came towards me -with a book in his hand. - -"I think you must have dropped this," he said, handing it to me. "We -found it just down yonder." - -He said "we." It must have been the sagacity of that wretched dog -which had betrayed me, for there was no name in the book. I took it -reluctantly; I was rather ashamed of my love of reading. Girls in the -country were not supposed usually to be fond of reading. If it hadn't -been for those good old-fashioned novels in father's library, mother -would have considered the Bible, and as much news as was needed not to -make one appear a fool, as much literature as any woman required. A -love of reading might be considered an affectation in me, and there was -nothing of which I had such a wholesome horror as affectation. - -I took the book in silence--my manners did not mend--and stooped down -to pat the dog. I wanted to move away, but I didn't quite know how to -do it. Taffy wagged his tail as if he hadn't seen me for weeks. Foolish -beast! If he was so fond of me, why did he go after strangers so easily? - -"Taff knows the marsh," said I, for the sake of saying something. - -"Famously," said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. We are -the best of friends." - -I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog? - -"Taff will follow any one," I said, roughly. - -It was not true, for Taff had never been known to follow any one -before; and even as I said it, I wondered if Mr. Harrod were one of -those whom "the beasts love," but he took no notice of my rudeness. - -"What have you got there?" asked he, looking into my basket. - -"Plovers' eggs," answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer the -beach." - -"Lapwings' eggs," corrected he, taking one in his hand. - -"Oh no! plovers' eggs," insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' eggs in -the shops in town as well as here." - -"Yes," smiled he. "They are sold as plovers' eggs all over the London -market also, but the lapwing--or the pewit, as you call it--lays them -for all that. It is a bird of the plover family, but it should not -properly be called a plover." - -I bit my lip. - -"Of course those are not all plovers' eggs," said I, taking up one of a -creamy color spotted with brown, which was quite different to the gray -ones mottled with black, that seemed to have been designed to escape -detection on the gray beach, where they are generally found. "This is a -dabchick's egg." - -"I see you know more about birds than most young ladies do," said Mr. -Harrod; "but I should call that a moor-hen's egg. And as for the gray -plover, it is a migratory bird; it does not breed in England." - -I suppose I still looked unconvinced, for he added, pleasantly, "Come, -I'll bet you anything you like; and if we can be lucky enough to find a -bird on the eggs, I'll prove it you now." - -He turned round and began walking slowly along the bank of the dike, -close to the water's edge. I gave Taff a friendly cuff to keep him -quiet, for he was rather excitable, and it was necessary that we should -be very wary if we wanted to surprise the bird sitting. - -Mr. Harrod crept cautiously along, and I followed; I was as anxious now -as he was, and by this simple means I was entrapped into a walk with my -sworn enemy. A brown bird with a long bill got up among the reeds, and -flew in a halting manner down to the water. It was a water-rail, and -Mr. Harrod said so--for these birds are rarer upon the dike than the -moor-hens and pewits, of which there are a great number, and I suppose -he imagined I would not know it. - -Something moved in the growing rushes at our feet; but it was only a -couple of black moor-hens, who took to their heels, so to speak, with -great velocity, and made little flights in the air with their legs -hanging down and their bodies very perpendicular. We stood and laughed -at them a minute, they were so very absurd out of their proper element; -but when they took to the water they were pretty enough, the little red -shields standing out upon their black foreheads as they jerked their -heads in swimming. - -I came upon a mother moor-hen presently tending her little brood; the -large flat nest, built of dried rushes, lay in the overhanging branches -of a willow-shrub, and she stood on the bank hard by. She did not fly -or run away as other birds do when frightened, but stood there croaking -as if in anger, and fluttering anxiously round the place where the six -little balls of black down showed their red heads above the edge of the -nest. - -I held Taff by the collar, to prevent his doing any mischief, and -we left the poor faithful mother undisturbed. We had not found any -plovers' eggs since we had begun to look. They are always hard to find, -being laid upon the open ground, sometimes on the very beach, where -they almost look like little pebbles themselves, and sometimes in -furrows and clefts of the earth, but always without any nest to mark -the place. I suppose I had pretty well scoured this particular reach. - -About a hundred yards farther on, however, the strange cry that -distinguishes the bird we sought fell upon our ears; a cock lapwing -flew up, his long feathery crest erect, and tumbled over and over in -the air in the manner peculiar to his kind, uttering all the while the -plaintive "cheep, cheep" that means distress and anxiety. - -Mr. Harrod held out a warning hand behind him as he crept forward -gently on tiptoe, and I was obliged to be silent, although I was -particularly anxious to speak. Presently he beckoned to me to advance, -and as I did so I saw the hen-bird running along the bank as close to -the ground as possible, while in a furrow close by my feet lay the -pretty, gray-spotted eggs that we were looking for. - -Mr. Harrod turned and looked at me with a little smile, which I chose -to think was one of triumph. "That proves nothing," said I. "I call -that bird a plover, a green plover. I can't help it if you call it -something else. Of course, I know there's another sort of plover; the -golden plover, but no one could confuse the two, for this one has got a -crest on its head which it lifts up and down when it likes." - -"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered he. "I see you know all about it. -It's only a confusion of terms." - -I flushed and stooped down to pick up the eggs. - -"No, don't," said he; "let the poor thing have them. You will see, she -will fly back as soon as we have gone away." - -We stepped back into the path, and surely, in a moment, the two parents -met in the air, tumbling over together, and still uttering their -plaintive cry. Then presently the hen-bird floated down again and -returned to her patient duty; and soon her mate followed her also, and -both were hidden among the rushes. - -I turned round with a little laugh. I had thought I was annoyed; but -the fact is, I was too happy to be annoyed. - -The panoply of a tender gray sky, fashioned of many and many soft -clouds, floating over and past one another, and lightening a little -where the sun should have been, was spread over the placid ground; the -sea was gray, too, beyond the flats, melting into the gray sky, the -white headland in the distance, and the gray towers along the shore -seemed very near and distinct; sheep wandered up and down the banks of -the dike, cropping steadily; the air was soft and kindly. My heart beat -with a sense of satisfaction that was unlike anything I had ever felt -before; and yet many was the time that I had been out on the marsh on -just such a soft day, among the birds and the beasts whom I loved. - -"Listen," said I, presently, breaking the pleasant silence, as a loud, -screaming bird's note, by no means beautiful, but full of delightful -associations, came across the marsh. "The swifts are beginning to sing; -that means summer indeed." - -A little company of the lovely black birds came towards us, flying -wildly in circles above the dike, sipping the water as they skimmed its -surface, and then away again over the meadows. - -"I wonder how it is that they are so black and glossy when they come -over to us, and so gray and dingy when they go away?" said I. - -"Have you noticed that as a fact?" asked he. - -"Oh yes," I replied; and I am sure that I was very proud to be able to -say so. "They come for May-Day, looking as smart as possible; and they -don't look at all the better for their seaside season when they leave -at the end of August." - -"I expect they moult in those other countries to which they go when -they leave us. But I haven't noticed very many swifts about here, -anyhow. Perhaps the country is too wild for them." - -"Well, we have plenty of swallows," said I, "and martins too. And I -don't know why swifts should be so much more particular than the rest -of their family. But I have a standing disagreement upon that point -with our old servant Reuben. He swears that there are only eight pairs -of swifts in the village, and that the same birds come back every year -to the same place." - -"That sounds rather incredible," said Mr. Harrod. - -"So I say," rejoined I. "But he insists that he has counted the pairs, -and that they are always the same number. And as, of course, there must -be a pair of young to every pair of old birds when they leave us, he -argues that the parent birds refuse to allow the young ones to inhabit -the same place when they return. Reuben is as positive about it as -possible," added I, laughing. "These swifts live under the eaves of the -old church; and I do believe he greets them as old friends every year." - -"I shouldn't venture to say that he was mistaken," said Mr. Harrod. -"So many curious things happen among beasts and birds, and swifts -are particularly amusing creatures. Reuben appears to be quite a -naturalist." - -I had quite forgotten my self-imposed attitude of defiance in the keen -interest of this talk; but something in the tone of this remark roused -it afresh. - -"If that means some one who knows about birds and things, yes--he is," -answered I, with a shake of my head--a foolish habit which I know I had -when I wanted to be emphatic. "Probably a much better naturalist than -people who learn only from books. He taught me all I know," added I, -proudly, and not for a moment perceiving the construction that might be -put upon this remark. "I used to be out here with him whole days when -I was a child, and we both of us got into no end of scrapes for 'doing -what we ought not to do, and leaving undone what we had to do.' Oh, but -it was fun!" added I, with a sigh. - -My companion laughed. "Delightful, I am sure," said he; "and it did you -a great deal more good than sticking to books, I'll be bound." - -He looked at me straight as he said this, as though he were taking my -measure. - -"I did stick to my books, too," cried I, quickly, anxious that he -should not think me an ignoramus. "Mother was always very particular -about that." - -"Yes, yes, of course," said he. And then he added, with what I fancied -was a twinkle of fun in his eye, "'The Fair Maid of Perth' is not every -young lady's choice." - -I blushed. Perhaps, after all, he did not think me ridiculous for -reading novels. I was half angry, half ashamed, but it never occurred -to me to wonder why I should care what this new acquaintance said or -thought. - -"We didn't read novels in lesson-time," said I, stiffly; "we didn't -read many novels at all. Father and mother don't hold with novels for -girls, and mother don't hold with poetry either, but father likes -Milton and Shakespeare." - -"I dare say they are quite right," said my companion. "But you are not -of the same mind I suppose?" - -"No," answered I, boldly, determined to be honest. "I think Sir -Walter Scott's novels are lovely; and I like poetry--all that I can -understand." - -Mr. Harrod laughed. "I don't think I should have been willing to admit -there was anything I couldn't understand when I was your age," he said. - -I looked at him surprised. He talked as though he were ever so much -older than I was, although he did not look more than six or seven and -twenty. I forgot that even then there would be years between us. I -always was forgetting that I was scarcely more than a child. - -"I think that would be silly," said I, loftily. I forgot another thing, -and that was that I had shown Mr. Harrod pretty constantly since he had -been at the Grange, that I was not fond of admitting there was anything -I could not understand, and that if there were any shrewdness in him, -he must have set it down by this time as a special trait in me. - -"Well, anyhow you understand the 'Fair Maid of Perth,'" added he. - -"Yes," answered I. "The heroine is like my sister, beautiful, and -dreadfully good." - -I was ashamed directly I had said it: praising one's sister was almost -like praising one's self. - -"Indeed," said he; "that's not a fault from which most of us suffer, -but then very few of us have people at hand ready and generous enough -to sing our praises." - -I might have taken the speech as a compliment, I suppose, but it seemed -so natural to praise Joyce that I confess it rather puzzled me. - -"You must miss your sister," added Mr. Harrod. - -"Of course I do," cried I, warmly. "Luckily she isn't going to be away -for long, or I don't know what mother would do. She's mother's right -hand in the house. I'm no use in-doors." - -"You always seem to me to be very busy," said Harrod. - -"Oh no," insisted I; "it was father I used to help." - -"Don't you help him now?" asked he. - -"No," I answered, shortly; and as I spoke the recollection of my -grievance swept over me, and brought the tears very close, "he doesn't -need me." - -Mr. Harrod did not say a word, he did not even look at me, and I was -grateful to him for that; but I was sure that he had understood, and I -grew more sore than ever, knowing that I had let him guess at my sore -place. We walked on in silence. - -"I used to love the Waverley novels when I was a lad," said he, -changing the subject kindly. - -"Don't you now?" asked I. - -"I dare say I should if I read them, but I have to read stiffer books -now--when I read at all." - -"Books on agriculture! I suppose," said I, scornfully; "but father says -a little practical knowledge is worth all the books in the world." - -It did not strike me at the moment how very rude this speech was; but -Mr. Harrod smiled. - -"Your father is quite right, Miss Maliphant," said he. "Books are -of little use till tested by practical knowledge; but after all, if -they are good books, they were written from practical knowledge, you -know, and perhaps it would take one a lifetime to reap the individual -knowledge of all that they have swept together." - -"I only know what father said," repeated I, half sullenly. - -"Perhaps you don't remember it all," said he. "I think your father -would agree with me this time; he is a very wise man, and I fancy I -have stated the case pretty fairly." - -"I should think he _was_ a wise man!" I exclaimed, and I think my pride -was pardonable this time. "All the country-side knows that." - -"I know it," he answered. "One can't go into a cottage without hearing -him spoken of with love and reverence." - -"Yes; I never saw any one so sorry for people as father is," answered -I. "I'm frightened of people who are ill and unhappy; but father--he -wants to help them--well, just as I wanted to help the beasts and -birds," I ended up with a laugh. - -As I spoke the curious twittering note of the female cuckoo sounded in -one of the trees upon the cliff, and immediately from four different -quarters, one after the other, the reply came in the two distinct notes -of the male bird. I stood still upon the path, and looked about me. The -sound, and perhaps partly what I had just said, reminded me of one of -the objects of my walk. - -"I declare I had almost forgotten," I cried, and without another word -of explanation I dashed up the bank of the cliff, Taff following. - -Mr. Harrod stood below on the path. A few minutes more were enough to -enable me to find the bush, which I had marked with a bit of the braid -off my cloak on that memorable evening a few nights ago. - -The lark's nest was still there. The cruel little cuckoo sat in it -alone, while hovering in the air, close at hand, was the foolish mother -waiting, with a dainty morsel in her beak, till I should be gone, and -she could safely feed the vicious little interloper who had destroyed -her own brood. The bodies of the little titlarks lay upon the bank. I -jumped down to the path again and told Mr. Harrod the tale. - -"I wish I had put the cuckoo out," I said. "I hate cuckoos--all the -more because every one admires them." And I remember that all the way -home I kept reverting to that distressing little piece of bird-tragedy. - -We returned by the sea-shore. It was a longer way, but I declared that -I must have a sight of the ocean on this soft, calm day. And soft it -was, and calm and gray and mild. The sun was setting, but there was no -sunset. Only behind the village on the hill the clouds lifted a little -towards the horizon, and left a line of whiter light, against which the -trees and houses detached themselves vividly; the marsh was uniform and -sober. - -When we had climbed the steep road and were at the Grange gates, Mr. -Harrod held out his hand and said, as he bade me good-night, "I don't -see why you shouldn't be of just as much use to your father as ever you -were, Miss Maliphant. Please be very sure that no one ever would or -ever could replace you to your father." - -He spoke as though it were not altogether easy for him to do so; but -there was a ring of honest kindliness in his voice that left me mute -and almost ashamed. He held my hand a moment in his strong grip, but he -did not look at me; and then he turned and almost fled down the road, -as if he, too, were almost ashamed of what he had said. - -And I had not answered a word. I stood there surprised, perplexed, and -even a little frightened, surrounded by new and curious emotions, which -I did not even try to unravel. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -I do not suppose that I had the dimmest notion at the time that this -man, whom I considered my foe, had sprung surely, and as soon as I saw -him, into that mysterious blank space that exists in every woman's -imagination, waiting to be filled by the figure that shall henceforth -bound her horizon. I do not suppose that I guessed at my real feelings -for a moment. If I had done so, I am sure that it would only have -aggravated my hostile attitude, whereas my first most unreasonable mood -was beginning slowly to lapse into one of friendly interest, and of -eager desire to be of use. - -It is poor sport keeping up an attitude of defiance towards a person -who is entirely unconscious of one's intention; and whether Mr. Harrod -was really unconscious of my intention or not, he certainly acted as -if he were, and was, as far as his reserved nature would allow, so -friendly towards me, that I could not choose but be friendly towards -him in return. Anyhow, it is true that ere three weeks had passed, -that began to happen which Joyce had so anxiously desired: Mr. Harrod -and I began to make friends over our common interests. - -A certain amount of defiance had begun to be transferred in me from -him, whose coming I had so bitterly resented, to those who shared that -resentment of mine. - -Reuben was still sadly refractory. Luckily he was not much among the -men; but where there's a will there's a way; and I'm afraid he had -influence enough to do no good. And Deborah troubled me more. Although -mother was for the bailiff, because he was the squire's friend, and -also because, I think, she was really far more anxious about father's -health than she allowed us to guess, and wanted him to be saved -work--Deborah had not really allowed herself to be convinced as she -generally was. - -She was not unreasonable; she was too clever to be unreasonable, and -she loved us all too dearly to resent any step which she chose to -believe was for the good of any of us. But I am sure she never believed -that this step was for the good of any of us. From beginning to end she -never liked Trayton Harrod. And what specially annoyed me about her at -this time was that she pretended to be trying to make me like him; and -as I innocently began to change my own feelings, so I naturally began -to resent this attitude in her. - -On the very afternoon of which I am thinking, I resented Deborah's -attitude. I had been in the kitchen making cakes (when Joyce was away -it was I who had to make the cakes), and Deborah had taken advantage of -the opportunity to follow up the line already begun by my sister, and -to beg me, for father's sake, to forget my grievance and to be gracious -to the young bailiff. As may be imagined, Deborah did not consider that -she was bound to show any consideration in the matter of what she said -to us girls. - -"I know it comes hard on you, my dear," said she. "There's lots of -little jobs you used to do afore, and no doubt did just as well, -that'll be this young man's place to do now, and he won't notice -whether you mind it or no. 'Tain't likely. But so long as he don't -interfere with what we've got to do, we'll mind our own business and -never give him a thought. You see, child, it's your father has got to -say whether the young man's a-helping or a-hindering. Maybe he'll find -out these chaps, that have learned it all on book and paper, don't know -the top from the bottom any better nor he do himself. But that's for -them to settle atween 'em, and it's none of our lookout." - -I don't know why this speech should specially have irritated me, but -it did. Even if I had begun to guess that I was growing to like Mr. -Harrod better than I had intended to like him, I certainly should not -have been glad that any one else should guess it. But the fact is that -I believe I had lived the last fortnight without any thought, and that -this speech of Deborah's roused me to an investigation of my feelings -which was annoying to me. - -"I have no intention at all of being rude, Deb," exclaimed I. "I leave -that to you. I don't think it's lady-like to be rude." - -Deb laughed. - -"Oh, come now, none of your hoighty-toightyness!" exclaimed she. "Who -carried on up-stairs and down when first squire talked about a bailiff -to master at all? I haven't nursed you when you were a baby not to know -when you're in a bad temper. It's plain enough, my dear." - -"I know I have a bad temper," said I; "but I don't see that that has -anything to do with the matter." - -I suppose something in the way I said it must have touched old Deb, -who had a soft heart for all her rough ways, for she said in her -topsy-turvy way: - -"Well, there--no more I don't see that it has. All I mean is that if -you let him alone he'll let you alone, and no harm done. You'll have -the more time for your books and for looking after your clothes a bit. -You know I've often told you you'll never get a beau so long as you go -about gypsying as you do." - -"Deborah, how dare you!" cried I, angrily. "You know very well that--" - -"That I wouldn't have a lover for anything in the world," I was going -to say, and deeply perjure myself; but at that very moment mother -opened the door and looked into the kitchen. She had her spectacles -still on her nose, and an open letter in her hand. - -"Margaret, I want you," said she, shortly, "in the parlor." - -"I can't come just now, mother," answered I. "The cakes will burn." - -"Deborah will see to the cakes," said mother, and I knew by her tone of -voice that I must do as she bade me. "I want you at once." - -I knew what it was about. Two days ago I had had a letter from Joyce. -It gave me no news; she had got on with her tapestry; she had trimmed -herself a new bonnet; Aunt Naomi's rheumatism was no better; she hoped -that father's gout had not returned--no news until the very end. Then -she said she had been to the Royal Academy of pictures in London, with -an old lady who lived close to Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met -Captain Forrester. - -Certainly this was a big enough piece of news to suffice for one -letter. But why had Joyce put it at the very end? and why did she hurry -it over as quickly as possible, making no sort or kind of comment upon -it? It was another of the things about Joyce that I could not make out. -Why was she not proud of her engagement? Why did she never care to -speak of it? I thought that if I were engaged to a man whom I loved I -should be very proud of it, whereas she always seemed anxious to avoid -the subject. - -Of course it was horrible to be parted from him, but then it should -lighten her burden to speak of it to some one who sympathized with her -as I did. But I knew well enough why it was. It all came from that -overstrained notion of duty. She had promised mother that she would not -see Frank, and would not write to Frank, and would not speak of Frank, -and she kept so strictly to the letter of this promise that she would -not speak of him even to me. - -When first I had read Joyce's letter I had been angry with her for a -cold-hearted girl, but now I was not angry with her. I admired her, -but I made up my mind that her passion for self-sacrifice should not -wreck her life's happiness if I could prevent it. Face to face it was -difficult to scold Joyce. There was a kind of gentle obstinacy about -her which took one unawares, and was very hard to deal with. But in a -letter I could speak my mind, and I would speak my mind--not only to -her, but, what was far more difficult, to mother also. So that when -mother put her head in at the kitchen door and summoned me to the -parlor, I guessed what it was about, and I knew pretty well what I was -going to say. She put the letter into my hand and sat down, looking up -at me over her spectacles as I read it, with her clear blue eyes intent -and a little frown on her white brow. It was from Aunt Naomi, and it -said that a young man named Captain Forrester had just been to call -upon Joyce; she thought she noticed a certain confusion on Joyce's part -during his presence, she therefore wrote at once to know whether his -visits were sanctioned by her parents, as she did not wish to get into -any trouble. - -Oh, what a horrid old woman she was! "How could people be narrow-minded -and selfish to such a point as that?" I said to myself. Mother watched -me, and Deborah came into the room to lay the cloth. It was just -curiosity that brought her. - -"It's a ridiculous letter," said I, roughly, throwing it down with an -ill grace, and looking defiantly, not at mother, but at the old woman, -who regarded me with reproving eyes. "Why in the world shouldn't Joyce -receive a visit from a gentleman--still more from the man she's going -to marry?" - -"She's not going to marry him, at least not with my free consent," said -mother, putting her lips together in a set curve that I knew. - -"Well, then, of course it will be a great pity, but I suppose it will -have to be without your consent," said I, rashly. - -"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated Deborah, under her breath, and looking -at me with something like remonstrance. Mother rose with dignity, and -turning to the table she said, "Deborah, would you be so kind as to -fetch in the cold ham?" - -Of course Deborah knew that she was being sent out of the room that I -might have a piece of mother's mind, and my own was a struggle between -pleasure that Deborah should for once be set down, and anger that she -should know the reason of her dismissal. She stayed a moment, setting -the forks round the table to a nicety of precision; then, as she passed -out of the room she gave me a friendly nudge, and looked at me a moment -with a sort of humorous kindliness in her shrewd gray eyes. - -Mother took up the letter again. "Do you know how Captain Forrester -knew where Joyce was staying?" asked she. - -"No, how should I know?" answered I. "Joyce told me that she had met -him accidentally at the Royal Academy. I suppose he found out where she -was. Where there's a will there's a way." - -"But he undertook not to try and see her," remarked mother, severely. -"His conduct is dishonorable." - -"Well, you might make some allowances," cried I. "It shows he loves -her; it shows she will be happy with him. And look here, mother," added -I, in a sudden frenzy of frankness, "I believe that if I were to get -the chance of doing anything to help to bring them together, I should -do it." - -Mother looked at me fixedly. "No, you wouldn't," said she at last. -"You're headstrong and mistaken, but you're honest. You've taken your -word you wouldn't interfere nor mention the matter to any one for a -year, and you'll keep your word." - -I knew very well that she was right, but I said boldly, "Joyce is my -sister, I love her, I want her to be happy, and I shall do what I can -to make her so." - -Still mother looked at me. "You forget that I want Joyce to be happy -too," said she. "If she is your sister she is also my daughter." There -was a tremble in her voice, whether of anger or distress, I did not -know. - -"Of course I know very well that you care about her and her happiness," -said I; "but perhaps you don't see what is best for it. How can old -people, whose youth is past ever so long ago, remember how young people -feel? They can't know what young folk need to be happy as well as -others of their own age can." - -"Maybe they can look ahead a bit better, though," said mother, without -deigning to argue with me. "Be that as it may, I don't think I'll ask -you to teach me what's best for my children's happiness. I may be all -wrong, of course, but I mean to try and have my own way as long as I -can, though I know very well we can't expect the duty and reverence we -used to pay our parents when I was your age." - -I felt that the rebuke was deserved, and I was silent. - -"At all events, it's no business of yours," continued mother. "If the -thing has got to be fought out, I would rather fight it out with Joyce -herself. If she insists upon marrying the young man, I suppose she can -do so. She is of age." - -I did not answer her, but I laughed. The idea of Joyce insisting upon -doing anything was too ridiculous. And, of course, mother knew this -quite well, so that it was not quite fair of her. - -Having once begun to laugh, the spell of my ill-humor was, however, -broken, and it was in a very different tone of voice that I said, -"Come, mother, you know very well that sister is far too gentle, and -loves you far too much, ever to do anything against your wish, so -that's ridiculous, isn't it?" - -Mother smiled. "Yes, yes, she's a good girl," she said. "You are -both of you good children, but you mustn't be so self-sufficient and -headstrong." - -"Well, I suppose I am headstrong," said I; "I'm sorry for it. But Joyce -isn't. I do think she ought to be put upon less than folk who are. I -believe if nobody fought Joyce's battles she'd let herself be wiped -right out." - -And sure enough, by the afternoon post there came a letter from Joyce -which satisfied mother more than it did me. It explained that Captain -Forrester had come to Sydenham uninvited and unwelcome; and it begged -mother to believe that he would never come again. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Thursday was the day for making the butter, and one Thursday in the -beginning of June of the year I am recording, I walked along the -flag-stones of the court-yard towards the dairy, that stood somewhat -detached from the house. I hummed softly to myself as I went; I was -happy. I could not have told why I was happy--for Joyce was away, and I -should have been lonely. But the June was fair and pleasant, and I was -young and strong. - -Mother had a special pride in her dairy. The broad, low pans stood in -their order on the dressers along the white-tiled walls, each of the -four "meals" in its place; the household cream set apart, and other -clean pans ready for the fresh setting. The warm summer breeze came -through the trellised shutters, that let the air in day and night, -and through the open door, around which the midsummer roses clustered -thickly and the honeysuckle twined its sweet tendrils. - -Beyond the door one could see the square of grass-plot, with the wide -border running round it, in which old-fashioned flowers stood up -against the brick wall; and over the wall one could see just a little -strip of marsh and sea in the distance. Mother had not come in yet; but -Reuben had churned before daybreak, and now Deborah stood lifting the -butter out of the churn ready for the washing and pressing. - -"Have you seen Reuben anywheres about?" said she, sharply, as I came in. - -I knew by her voice that she was annoyed. - -"Yes," said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?" - -"I want a few fagots for my kitchen fire; but nowadays there's no -getting no one to do nothing," answered she. "Reuben was never much for -brains, but he used to be handy; but now--if there's nothing, there's -always something for Reuben to do." - -"Dear me! How's that?" asked I. - -Deborah was silent. She had said already far more than was her -wont--for Deborah was not one to talk, and generally kept her -grievances to herself. - -"The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning," said -she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean." - -I was turning up my sleeves. "Dear me! Then it'll take a long time?" -said I. I hated washing the butter; it was dull work. - -"Sure enough it will," laughed Deborah, grimly. "What do you want to be -doing? You haven't half the heart in the work that your sister has!" - -"Ah no," I agreed. "I'm not so clever at it as Joyce is." - -"You can be clever enough when you choose," said the old woman, sagely. -"I dare say you could be clever enough teaching this Mr. Harrod his way -about the farm if you were wanted to." - -I looked up quickly. I think I blushed. Why did Deb say that? But why -should I blush because she had said it? - -"Indeed, I shouldn't think of trying to teach Mr. Harrod anything," -said I, trying to laugh. - -"What! Has he turned out sharp enough to please you after all?" asked -she, with that peculiar snort which it was her fashion to give when she -wanted to be disagreeable. "I thought you were of a mind that nobody -could be clever enough over this precious farm, unless you was to show -them how." - -"Fiddlesticks!" said I. - -It was very annoying of Deborah to want to put me in a bad temper when -I had come in in such a good one. - -"Have you seen your father?" asked she, presently. - -"No," replied I. "Does he want me?" - -"He was asking for you. Wanted you to go up and show this young chap -the field where he wants the turnips put." - -The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she could not -leave me and him alone? - -"Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough by this -time to find it for himself," I said. - -I did not look at Deborah, but I knew very well that her face wore a -kind of expression of defiant mischief with which I was familiar. - -"I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man," said she, -provokingly. - -But there was a very different ring in her voice when she spoke -again in a few minutes, and when I looked up I saw that an unwonted -gentleness had overspread her hard, rough features. - -"If you haven't seen your father since breakfast," she added, "maybe -you don't know as he's had another o' them queer starts at his heart." - -"No. What kind of thing?" asked I, frightened. - -"Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad. There, -you needn't be terrified," added she; "it's nothing bad much--only -lasted a minute or two. He called and asked me for a glass of water, -and I fetched the missis. He was better afore she came. But it's my -belief he's neither so young nor so well as he was." - -This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke--we were too -serious. - -"And it's my belief he's fretting over something, Margaret," added she, -gravely. "So if this here new chap saves him any bother, I suppose folk -should need be pleased." - -I wondered whether Deborah meant this as an excuse for my being -pleased, or as a rebuke for my not being pleased. I think now that she -meant it as neither, but rather as a rebuke to herself. I took it to -heart, however, and the tears rushed to my eyes. - -Had I been really anxious to save father all possible worry over this -innovation? Had I done all I could to help Mr. Harrod settle down in -his place? I was not sure. I thought I would do more, and yet I thought -I would not do more. Oh, Margaret, Margaret! were you quite honest -with yourself at that time? I took up a fresh lump of butter and began -washing it blindly. - -"Come, come, you're not going the right way about it! You'll never get -the milk out that way!" cried Deborah, coming up to me. - -"No, no--I know," answered I, impatiently; and then, incoherently, -"but, oh dear me! what is the right way?" - -Deborah laughed, but gently enough. She was a clever old woman, and she -knew that I was not alluding to the butter. - -"Well, I don't rightly know myself," said she, without looking at me. -"What you thinks the right way, most times turns out to be the wrong -way; and when you make folk turn to the right when they was minded to -turn to the left, it's most like the left would ha' been the best way -for them to travel after all. I've done advisin' long ago; for it's a -queer tract of country here below, and every one has to take their own -chance in the long-run." - -This speech of Deb's had given me time to choke down my ridiculous -tears and put on my usual face again; for I should indeed have been -ashamed to be caught crying when there was nothing in the world to cry -about; and just as she finished speaking, mother's figure came past the -window, walking slowly, Squire Broderick at her side. - -"Oh dear me! whatever does squire want at this time o' day?" cried I, -impatiently. "He shouldn't need to come so often, now Joyce is away." - -Deborah looked at me warningly. The latticed shutters, although they -looked closed, let in every sound; and indeed I don't know what -possessed me to make the speech, for I had no dislike to the squire. I -suppose I was still a little ruffled. - -"You might keep a civil tongue in your head?" grumbled Deborah, angrily. - -The squire was, I have said, a great favorite with the old woman, who -was, so to speak, on the Tory side of the camp, although she would have -been puzzled to explain the meaning of the word. - -Mother was talking to the squire in her most doleful voice--a voice -that she could produce at times, although she was certainly not by -nature a doleful woman. - -"It has upset me very much," she was saying, and I knew she was -alluding to father's indisposition. "He says it is only rheumatics, -and I hope it is; but it makes me uneasy. He's not the man he was, and -I can't help fancying at times that he has something on his mind that -worries him." - -The very same words that Deborah had used; but what father should have -specially to worry him I could not see. - -"He gives too much thought to these high-flown notions of his, Mrs. -Maliphant, that's what it is," answered the squire, testily. "It's -enough to turn any man's brain." - -"Oh, I don't think it's that. I think it cheers him up to think of the -misery of the working-classes," declared mother, simply, without any -notion of the contradiction of her speech. "I'm sure he's quite happy -when he gets a letter from your nephew about the meetings over this -children's institution. It's a notion of his own, you see, and he's -pleased with it, as we all are with what we have fancied out. Not but -what I do say it is a beautiful notion," added mother, loyally. "I pity -the poor little things myself; no one more." - -This was true. It was the only one of father's "wild notions" that -mother had any touch of. - -I noticed that the squire had frowned at the mention of Frank's name. -He always did; I thought I knew why. - -"Yes; that's all very fine, ma'am," he said, "but the trouble is that -it won't make his crops grow. No; and paying his laborers half as much -again as anybody else won't make his farm pay." - -Mother looked at the squire anxiously. - -"Do you think the farm doesn't pay?" asked she. "Do you suppose it's -that as is making Laban fidgety?" - -"How should I know, my dear lady?" answered the squire, in the same -irritable way--he was very irritable this morning--"Maliphant knows his -own affairs." - -Mother was silent. - -"Well, I hope this young fellow is going to do a deal o' good to the -farm, and to my husband too," added she, cheerfully. "I look to a great -deal from him, and I can't be grateful enough to you, Squire Broderick, -for having settled the matter for us. He's a plain-speaking, sensible -young man, and I like him very much." - -"Yes, Harrod is a thorough good-fellow," answered the squire, warmly. -"He _is_ plain-speaking, too much so to his elders sometimes; but it's -because he has got his whole heart in his work. He cares for nothing -else, and you can't say that of every man that works for another man's -money." - -They had stopped outside the window, and had stood still there, talking -all this while. I suppose mother forgot that Deb and I were bound to be -inside doing our business, and that the lattice was open. - -"I like him very much," continued she; "but I don't think Laban fancies -him much, nor yet Margaret. Margaret set her face against his coming -from the first, you see. It was natural, I dare say. She had been -used to do a good bit for her father; and when Margaret sets her face -against anything--well, you can't lead her, it's driving then. It's -just the same when she wants a thing. You may drive and drive, but you -won't drive her away from that spot. It's very hard to know how to -manage a nature like that, Mr. Broderick, especially when you've been -used to a girl that's as gentle as Joyce is. But there, they both have -their goods and their ills. Far be it from their mother to deny that." - -Squire Broderick laughed, and then mother laughed too, and they both -came forward round the corner and in at the door. Mother started a -little when she saw me, and the squire smiled curiously. But I did not -smile; I was boiling over with anger. - -"Why, Deborah, you have set to work early," said mother, without -looking at me. "Why didn't you call me?" - -"I didn't know as there was any need to call," answered Deborah, -roughly, and I believe in my heart that she was the more rough because -she didn't like mother's speech about me. "You've your work to do, -ma'am, and I've mine. I supposed as you'd come when you wanted to, but -that was no reason why Margaret and I should wait about, twirling our -thumbs." - -Mother did not reply. I felt the squire's gaze still upon me, and I -looked up and gave him a bold, angry glance. I am sure that my eyes -must have flashed, and I think that my lips were set in the hard lines -that mother used to tell me made me look so ugly. I hated the squire to -look at me, and he seemed to guess it, for he turned away at once, and -afterwards I remembered how he had done it, and that somehow his face -had looked almost tender. - -But mother did not seem to care a bit that I should have overheard what -she said; she began turning up the skirt of her soft gray gown, and -rolling up her sleeves. Mother always wore gray when she did not wear -the old black satin brocade that had belonged to her own mother, and -which only came out on high-days and holidays. She had said she would -never put on colors again when our little brother died many years ago; -and I am glad she never did, for I should not like to remember her in -anything but the soft tones that became her so well. Black, gray or -white--she never wore anything else. - -"The dairy is not what it is when Joyce is at home," said she, -deprecatingly, to the squire. - -"Well, to be sure, ma'am, I don't see what's amiss with it," declared -Deborah. "It's hard as them as go away idling should be put above them -as stay at home and work." - -I looked at Deborah in surprise. She was not wont to set Joyce down. - -"Why, the place looks as if you could eat off the floor. What more do -you want, Mrs. Maliphant?" laughed the squire, coming up and standing -beside me. "And I'm sure nobody could make up a pat better than Miss -Margaret." - -"Margaret has been more used to out-door work," said mother, at which -Deb gave one of her snorts, I did not know why, except out of pure -contradiction, for she had blamed my butter-making herself five minutes -before. - -"You seem to have plenty of cream," said the squire, walking round. - -"Yes," answered mother; "our cows are doing well now, though Daisy will -give richer cream to her pail than all the rest put together." Then she -added, without looking at me, "Margaret, you need not do any more just -now. Your father was asking for you. Go to him, and come back when he -has done with you." - -I wiped my arms silently, and turned down my sleeves. I had not said -a single word since she had come in. She looked at me, but I would -not return her glance. I was a wrong-headed, foolish girl, and when I -thought that mother had been unjust to me I tried to make her suffer -for it. - -I walked straight out of the dairy without a word to any one, and it -was not till I was outside that I saw that the squire had followed me. -He was talking to me, so I had to listen him. - -"Yes," I said, vaguely, in answer to him--for of course the remark, -although I had not entirely caught it, had been about my sister, "yes, -Joyce is very well; but she is not coming back just yet. I don't want -her to come back just yet. I think it's so good for her to be away. -When she is at home, mother wants her every minute. It isn't always -to do something, but it's always to be there. And Joyce is good. She -always seems pleased to have no free life of her own. But she can't -really _be_ pleased. _I_ couldn't. Anyhow, it can't be good for her to -be so dreadfully unselfish; do you think so?" - -In my eagerness I was actually taking the squire into my confidence. He -smiled. - -"Miss Joyce always appeared to me to be very contented, doing the -things about the house that your mother wished," said he. "You mustn't -judge every one by yourself. People generally try to get something of -what they want, I fancy. Your sister isn't so independent as you are." - -"No," agreed I, gloomily, "she isn't. She's what folk call more -womanly. I never was intended for a woman. Father always says I ought -to have been a boy." - -"I don't think women are all unwomanly because they're independent," -said the squire. And then he added, in a lower voice, "I don't think -you're unwomanly." - -We had come round by the lawn, and we stood there a moment before the -porch. The bees were busy among the summer flowers, and the scent of -roses and mignonette, of sweet-peas and heliotrope, was heavy upon -the air. The sun streamed down on our heads and upon the green marsh -beneath the cliff and upon the sea in the distance. It was a bright, -hot, June day. I was just going in-doors, when the squire laid his hand -on my arm. - -"Wait a minute, Miss Margaret, I want to say something to you," he said. - -I looked at him, surprised. Was he going to ask me to intercede with -Joyce for him? If so, he had come very decidedly to the wrong person. -But something in his face made me look away. - -"I won't keep you long," said he. - -And then he paused, while I waited with my face turned aside. - -"I don't think you'll take what I'm going to say amiss, Miss Margaret," -he went on at last. "I've known you such a long time--ever since -you were a little girl--that I don't feel as though I were taking -a liberty, as I should if you were a stranger. I don't suppose you -remember how I used to help you scramble out of the dikes when you got -a ducking on the marsh after the rainfalls, and how I used to take you -into the house-keeper's room at the Manor to have your frock dried, so -that you should not get into a scrape? But _I_ remember it very well, -and the cakes that you used to love with the blackberry jam in them, -and the rides that you used to have on my back after the school feasts." - -He paused a moment, as though for an answer. I gave him none, but I -remembered all that he alluded to very well. - -"You don't mind my speaking, do you?" repeated he again. - -"Oh no, I don't mind," answered I, with a little laugh. - -"Having known you like that all your life, I care for you so much," -continued he, "that I can't bear to see you doing yourself an -injustice." - -I looked at him now straight. I felt annoyed, after all, at what I -knew he was going to say. But the kindness and gentleness of his face -disarmed me. - -"You mean that I don't behave well to my mother," said I, the flush of -sudden vexation dying away from my face. "Mother doesn't understand me. -I can't always be of the same mind as she is. I don't see why people -need always be of the same mind as their relations; but it doesn't -follow that they're ungrateful and heartless, because they are not. -I've heard mother say that she doesn't believe that I care any more for -her than for any tramp upon the high-road; but that isn't true." - -The squire laughed. - -"No; of course it isn't true," said he, "and Mrs. Maliphant doesn't -think it." - -"Oh yes, I think she does sometimes," persisted I. "She would like me -to be like Joyce. But I shall never be like Joyce!" - -"No," assented the squire, decidedly, "I don't think you ever will be. -But it was not specially with reference to your mother that I was going -to speak to you, although what I was going to say bears, I fancy, on -what vexed her to-day." - -I bit my lip. Was he going to refer to Mr. Harrod? He paused again. - -"Your father is very much harassed and troubled, I fear, Miss -Margaret," he said next. "I have noticed, with much grief of late, how -sadly he seems to have aged." - -"Do you think so?" said I. "I don't know what he should have to be -harassed about." - -"The conduct of a farm is a very harassing thing: it takes all a man's -thought and care. And even then it doesn't always pay," said the -squire, gravely. - -I did not answer; I was puzzled. - -"Your father is getting old," continued he, "and it is hard for a man, -when he is old, to give as much attention to such things as in youth -and strength." - -"I don't think he is so very old," I said, half vexed; "but perhaps he -doesn't care so much about farming as some people do. Perhaps he cares -more about other things." - -"Perhaps," said the squire, evasively. Then starting off afresh, he -added, quickly, "I had hoped that this new bailiff would have relieved -him of some anxiety; but I am afraid there are inconveniences connected -with his presence which, to a man of your father's temperament, are -particularly galling." - -"Well, I suppose it's natural that a man who has been his own master -all his life should mind taking a younger one's advice," said I, pretty -hotly this time. - -"Of course it is," agreed the squire; "but all the same, the farm -needs a younger man's head and a younger man's heart in it before -it'll thrive as it ought. And now I'm coming to what I wanted to say, -Miss Margaret. _You_ can do more than any one else to smooth over -the difficulties. You must persuade your father to let Harrod have -his own way. He's a headstrong chap, I can see that; and he'll do -nothing, he'll take no interest, if he's gainsaid at every step. Nobody -would. There are many kinds of modern improvements that are needed at -Knellestone. Your father has always stood against them, because he -fancied it wasn't fair to the laborers; but they'll have to come, and -I know very well Harrod won't stay here long and not get them. No man -who is honest to his employer would. Now, you must be go-between," he -went on, still more earnestly, although speaking in a low voice. "You -must get your father to see things reasonably, and you must be friendly -to Harrod: show him that you take an interest in his improvements, and -persuade him that your father does also. So he will, when he sees how -they work. I can see that a vast deal depends upon you, Miss Margaret. -You're a clever girl; you can manage it--_if you will_." - -I turned my face farther aside than ever; in fact, I think I turned my -back. I did not answer--I did not know what to answer. - -"And you _will_, I know," added he, in a persuasive voice. "I quite -understand that it isn't pleasant to you at first, but it will become -so when you see that _you_ can do a great deal to make things smooth -when difficulties occur. I am sure it must be a great comfort to -you to think of how much there still is in which you can help your -father--quite as much as there used to be in the past, when you had it -more your own way. No one else can help him as you can help him." - -"Oh, I don't really think he wants help," said I--but rather by way of -saying something than from conviction. - -"Well, I think he wants more than you fancy," persisted the squire. -"I would not for worlds cast a shadow over your young life, Miss -Margaret," he went on, earnestly; "but I feel that it is the part of a -true friend that I should, in a certain measure, do so. Your mother is -a tender helpmeet and an admirable nurse, I know; but there are other -things needed for a man besides physic and poultices. The time may come -when he may turn to you for some things, and I think you should make -yourself ready for that time." - -He said no more. But after a few moments he held out his hand. - -"Good-bye," said he. "Whenever you want a friend, I don't need to tell -you that you have got one at the Manor." - -He was gone, and I had stood there with downcast head, and had -answered never a word. I did not at the time understand all that he -had said, nor what he had meant by his doubts and his fears, although -in after-years his words came back to me very vividly, as did also -other words of Deborah's; but one thing was very clear to me even then, -and that was that everybody--from Joyce and Deborah to mother and the -squire--considered that I ought to make friends with the new bailiff, -and that I had not yet done so sufficiently. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -From that time forth I gave myself up unreservedly to following the -squire's advice. Yes, I did not even shrink from any possible charge -of inconsistency. Deborah might laugh at me if she liked, Reuben might -look askance out of his stolid silence, mother might ponder; but I had -been convinced; I knew what I had to do, and I would stand Trayton -Harrod's friend. That was what I argued to myself. Was I quite honest? -At all events I was very happy. - -One morning--it must have been about a week after the squire's words to -me--I had occasion to go out onto our cliff to plant out some cuttings -that Joyce had procured and sent me from London. Reuben was in the -orchard hard by, mowing the grass under the apple-trees. He did such -work when hands were few. The orchard was only divided by a wall from -the garden, and Reuben and I kept up a brisk conversation across it. - -"I've heard say as Mister Harrod be for persuading master to have new -sorts o' hops planted along the hill-side this year, miss," Reuben was -saying. - -"Indeed," said I. "Well, I suppose ours aren't a good sort, then." - -"That's for them as knows to say," replied the old man. "The Lord have -made growths for every part, and it's ill flyin' in the face of the -Lord." - -"Well, Mr. Harrod knows," declared I. - -"Nay, miss, he warn't born and bred hereabouts. But I says to him, 'You -ask Jack Barnstaple,' says I. 'He knows,' says I." - -"You said that to Mr. Harrod, Reuben!" I exclaimed. - -"Yes, miss," he answered, "I did." - -"Well, then, I think it was very rude of you, Reuben. That's all I have -to say." - -"Nay, miss, I heard you say as how a stranger wouldn't be o' no good to -master," grinned Reuben. "They don't understand." - -"If I said that I made a great mistake," answered I, half angrily. "I -think Mr. Harrod is a great deal of use." - -"Well, miss, if he be agoing to have Goldings planted in instead of -Early Prolifics, he won't get no change out o' the ground, that's what -I say. They won't thrive for nobody, and they won't do it to please -him." - -Reuben shouldered his scythe as he said the last words, and went off to -a more distant part of the orchard, and I set to work at my planting. -I knew pretty well by this time that it was worse than waste of time -taking Mr. Harrod's side against Reuben. - -I wondered what he would have thought if he could have heard me taking -his side. But I don't think he thought much about having a "side." He -was too eager about his work. - -I set to planting my cuttings busily--so busily that I did not hear -steps on the gravel behind me, and looked up suddenly to see Mr. Harrod -on the path beside me. He did not say anything, but stood a while -watching me. At last I stood up, with the trowel in my hand, and my -face, I do not doubt, very red and hot beneath my big print sun-bonnet. - -"Did you meet Reuben just now?" asked I, rather by way of saying -something. - -"No," answered he; "I've come straight from your father's room. He -wants you." - -"Does he? Well, I can't go this minute. I must finish this job. I've -neglected it for a week. What does he want me for?" - -I kneeled down and began my work again. - -"He and I have been discussing a new scheme," said Mr. Harrod, without -answering my question. - -"What, about co-operation, and children's schools and things?" cried I, -with a smile. "Is he going to press you into it too?" - -"Oh no; about the farm," answered he. "His possessions in hops are very -small, and there's a fine and unusual chance just turned up of making -money. I want him to take on another small farm--specially for hops." - -"To take on another farm!" repeated I. - -"Yes," said he; "but he doesn't take to it. I think he must have -something else in his head. But the matter must be decided at once, for -I hear there's another man after it." - -"Where is it?" I asked, a secret glow of satisfaction at my heart to -think he should come and tell me of this as he did. - -"It's 'The Elms,'" he answered, "below the mill on the slope yonder." - -I stood up and stopped my gardening to show I took an interest in what -he was saying. "I know 'The Elms' well enough," I said, "but I didn't -know it was to let." - -"Yes," he replied. "Old Searle left his affairs in a dreadful mess -when he died, and the executors have decided to sell the crops at a -valuation, and let the place at once without waiting till the usual -term." - -"Dear me, what an odd thing!" said I. "I thought farms were never let -excepting at Michaelmas." - -"Never is a long word," smiled Mr. Harrod. "It is unusual. But I -suppose the executors don't care for the expense of putting in a -bailiff till October. Anyhow, they appear to want to realize at once; -and it's a good chance for us." - -"It's all hop-gardens at 'The Elms,' isn't it?' asked I. - -"Yes, chief part." - -"It seems to me it must either be a very poor crop, or they must want a -good price for it so late in the season," said I, not ill pleased with -myself for what I considered the rare shrewdness of this remark. - -But Mr. Harrod smiled again. "The price will be the average of what the -crops fetched during the past three years," said he. "That's law now. -I should say about £36 to the acre. Leastways, that would be the price -ready for picking, but there'll be a reduction at this time of year. -That'll be a matter for private bargain." - -"Yes," said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking." - -"Of course," said the bailiff, half testily. "But it's just about the -best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They _will_ plant -those Early Prolifics about here. I suppose it's because they can get -them sooner into the market. But they're a poor hop. Now, the plants at -'The Elms' are all Goldings or Jones." - -"But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil," said I. - -"_They_; who are _they_?" retorted Harrod. "They know nothing about it." - -"No; I dare say you're right," I hastened to say. "Only hops are always -considered risky, aren't they?" - -"Everything is risky," answered he, more gently. "But as I have an -interest in selling the crop to advantage if it turns out well, I don't -believe your father could go very far wrong over it." - -"Well, if you think it would be such a safe speculation, of course -father ought to be persuaded to go in for it," said I. - -"I really think so," answered Harrod, confidently. - -"But perhaps he doesn't think he can afford the rent of it," suggested -I, after a pause; "perhaps he hasn't the ready money." - -"I can scarcely believe that, Miss Maliphant. Your father passes for -a rich man in the county," answered he, with a smile. "No; he thinks -the property is good enough as it has stood all these years; but, as a -matter of fact, it would be a far more valuable one if it had better -hop-gardens. Hops are the staple produce of the county, and I am sorry -to say he doesn't stand as well in that line as many of the farmers -about; he wants some one to give him courage to make this venture. -Unluckily, he has not confidence enough in me, and Squire Broderick is -away in London." - -"Is the squire away?" asked I. - -"Yes; I have just inquired, by your father's wish." - -"I'll go and talk to father," said I, with youthful self-confidence, -gathering up my tools, and too happy in feeling that I was the -supporter of the man who but a fortnight ago I had sworn to treat as an -open enemy to be troubled by any misgivings. - -As I might have known, I did not do very much good. But what Mr. Harrod -had said was true--father was in some way preoccupied. I think he had -had a letter from Frank Forrester about the Children's Charity Houses -Scheme, and it had not been a satisfactory one; for when I went into -his business-room I found him busily writing to Frank, and I could not -get him to pay any attention to me until after post-time. Then he let -me speak. - -"Meg, child," he said, when I had done, "I don't feel quite sure that -you know a vast deal yourself about such things, but maybe you're right -in one item, and that is, if I engage a man to look after my property, -I ought to be willing to abide a bit by his advice. So we'll have a -drop o' tea first, and then we'll go up and have a look at these hops -of his." - -And that is what we did. Mr. Harrod didn't come into tea, but we met -him outside and walked up the hill together. It was still that bright -June weather of the week before; we never had so hot and fair a summer -I believe as that year. After our hard long winter the warmth was new -life, and the long evenings were very exquisite. The breath of the -lilac--just on the wane--of the bursting syringa, of the heavy daphne, -lay upon the air, and was wafted from behind garden walls up the -village street. - -As we passed the old town-hall and came out at the end of the road, the -white arms of the mill detached themselves against the bright sky where -the sun, sinking nearer to the horizon, rayed the west with glory. -Father stood a moment on the crest of the hill looking down into the -valley, upon whose confines the broad meads of the South Downs swelled -into rising ground again; a stream wound across the plain, that was -intersected by dikes at intervals; far to the left lay the sea--a dim, -blue line across the stems of the trees, breaking into a little bay in -the dip of the hill where the valley met the marsh. - -"The Elms" stood on the brow of the hill nearer the sea; the -hop-gardens that belonged to it lay close at our feet. We went down the -hill among the sheep and the sturdy lambs that leaped lightly still -after their dams; father walked slowly in front, Mr. Harrod and I -followed. The hop plantations covered the slopes, and swept across the -valley to the other side. We left the house to our left above us, and -went down into the valley. - -The hops, according to their sort, had grown to various heights: some -three feet, some less, and the women and girls from the village had -been out during the last month tying them, so that they were now past -the second bind. - -Father and Mr. Harrod walked in a critical way through the lines of -plants, examining them carefully. Here and there Trayton Harrod pinched -off the flower of a bine that had been left on. - -"It's very strange," said he, "that pruning and branching of the hops -used not to be done some years ago. I read in an old book that the -practice was first introduced since farmers noticed how hailstones, -nipping off the bine-tops early in the summer, made the plants grow -stronger." - -They walked on again, Harrod showing father where the Jones hops grew, -and where the Goldings, and arguing that, for purposes of early foreign -export, the Jones hops easily took the place of the Early Prolifics, -and came to a far finer, taller growth, while for later introduction -into the market the Goldings were the best grown. Father stated the -same objections that Reuben had stated--Trayton Harrod fighting each -one vigorously, and coming off victorious, as he somehow always did. - -We walked on through the gardens and then up by the house and back -along the brow of the hill. - -The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the crimson of the after-glow -lay, a lump of fire, in the purple west, and sent rays of redness far -into the heavens on every side, washing the clouds with a hundred tints -from the brightest rose to the tenderest violet, the faintest green, -the softest dove-color above our heads. Behind the village and its -houses a row of dusky-headed pines stood tall or bent their trunks, -bowed by the storm-winds, across the road; father stopped there a -moment and looked at the glowing sky from between their red stems. -The hills lay round the plain, wonderfully blue; the sunset gilded -the quiet little stream upon the marsh till it looked like a streak -of molten metal. He had not spoken a word, and now he sighed, half -impatiently, as he turned homeward. I remember that Mr. Harrod left us -at that point. He promised to be in to supper, and father and I walked -on alone. - -When we got to the dip of the road where the hill begins to go down -towards the sea-marsh, we met Mr. Hoad coming up in his smart little -gig, with his daughter Jessie at his side. I was for passing them with -merely a bow, for they showed no signs of stopping, and I desired no -conversation with either of them; but father stopped the gig. - -"Hoad, can you spare me a few minutes?" asked he. "I should be much -obliged to you. Miss Jessie, you'll come in and have a cup of tea," -added he, courteously. - -Miss Jessie said that she should be very pleased to come; but she did -not look pleased, and for the matter of that I fear neither did I. I -could not think why father should want Mr. Hoad's company again so -soon; but I supposed it must be about that letter of Frank's. He had -evidently seemed annoyed about it, although I did not know at that time -why it was. - -I took Jessie Hoad into the parlor while the two men went into the -business-room. Mother was rather flurried when I announced, in my blunt -way, that these visitors were going to stay to tea. The presence of a -strange woman always _did_ trouble mother a bit, and Jessie having been -the head of her father's house since her mother died, she considered -her in the light of a housewife. I knew that she was longing to have -her best china out and the holland covers off in the front parlor. She -was far too hospitable, however, to allow this feeling to be apparent, -and she rose at once to welcome her guest. - -"I'm very pleased to see you, Miss Hoad," said she; "I'm sorry Joyce is -away." - -"Oh, not at all; pray don't mention it, Mrs. Maliphant," declared -Jessie, in her hard, high voice, sitting down and settling her dress to -advantage. "Of course I'm sorry to miss Joyce, but I'm very glad to see -you and Margaret." - -My blood boiled to hear her call us like that by our Christian names, -and to see the way she sat there with her little smart hat and her -little nose turned up in the air, chatting away to mother in a -patronizing kind of way, and keeping the talk quite in her own hands -with all the town news she had to tell. - -"Yes, the Thornes' is a beautiful house," she was saying, "all in the -best style, and quite regardless of expense. I assure you the dessert -service was all gold and silver the other night when father and I dined -there. Of course it was a grand affair. All the county swells there. -But the thing couldn't have been done better in London, I declare." - -"Indeed!" answered mother. "I haven't much knowledge of London." - -"No, of course not," said Jessie. "But you have seen the Thornes' -house, I suppose?" - -"No," answered mother. "We don't go there. My husband and Mr. Thorne -don't hold together." - -"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Jessie; "that's a pity. He and his daughter are -the nicest people in the county. But as I was saying to Mary Thorne, -there's something very quaint in your old house, and I can't help -fancying the new style does copy some things from the old houses." - -"Oh, I can't believe that," said I, half piqued. "It wouldn't be worth -its while." - -She looked round at me, a little puzzled, I think, but any rub there -might have been between us was put a stop to by the entrance of father -and Mr. Hoad from the study. - -Mr. Hoad was, if anything, in better spirits than ever; his eyes were -bright, and he rubbed his hands as a man might do when anything had -gone to his satisfaction. Father's brow, on the contrary, was heavy. -We sat down to tea. Mr. Harrod came in a little late. He was about to -retire when he saw that we had company; but mother so insisted on his -taking his usual seat that it would have been rude to refuse, although -I could see that he did not care for the society. - -Mother introduced him to Miss Hoad, who just looked up under the brim -of her hat, and then went back to her muffin as if none of us were much -worth considering. There was altogether an air about her as though she -wanted to get over the whole affair as soon as possible. And she did. -That bland father of hers had not time for more than half the pleasant -things that he usually said to us all before she whipped him off. - -"It'll be quite too late to pay our call at 'The Priory' if we don't go -at once, papa," said she, rising, and looking at a dainty gold watch -at her waist. I suppose she did not trust the time of our old eight-day -clock that stood between the windows, yet I'll warrant it was the safer -of the two. - -She turned to mother. - -"I'm sorry to have to run away so soon," said she, with an outward -show of cordiality, "but you see it's very important to leave cards on -people like the Thornes directly after a large party. And if I don't do -it to-day I must drive out again on purpose to-morrow." - -"Have you been dining at Thorne's, Hoad?" asked father. - -"Yes," answered the solicitor. "He's a rare good-fellow, and he gave us -a rare good dinner." - -Father did not say a word, and the Hoads took their leave. - -"I'll let you have that the first thing in the morning," said Mr. Hoad, -as he shook hands with father. - -Father nodded, but otherwise made no remark. When the visitors were -gone he turned to Mr. Harrod: "I've made up my mind to rent 'The -Elms,'" said he, shortly. "We'll drive into town to-morrow and see -Searle's executors about it." - -"That's right, sir," said Harrod, cheerfully. "I feel sure it will turn -out a sound investment." - -"'The Elms!'" exclaimed mother. "Are you thinking of that, Laban?" - -"Yes," answered he. "Harrod advises it." - -"Well, of course I shouldn't like to set myself against Mr. Harrod," -said mother, half doubtfully. "But I should have thought our own farm -was enough to see after. It seems a deal of responsibility and laying -out of money." - -"There's no farm to speak of at 'The Elms,' ma'am," answered Harrod. -"It's all hop-gardens. That's why I advised Mr. Maliphant buying it." - -"Dear," said mother, nowise reassured. "Isn't that very risky? I've -always heard of hops as being riskier than cows, and I'm sure they're -bad enough, though Reuben will have it they're nothing to sheep at the -lambing." - -Harrod had frowned a little at first, but now he smiled. "There's a -risk in everything," he said. "You might break your leg walking across -the room." - -"You'll live up at the house, Harrod," put in father. "I've been sorry -there's been no better place for you up to the present time." - -"Oh, I've done very well," laughed the young man; "but it'll be best -I should go over there now. It's only a step for me to get here of -mornings." - -"Well, I'm glad of _that_ at any rate," said mother. "Father's quite -right. It wasn't fitting for you as our bailiff not to have a proper -place. And now you'll have it. Meg, you and I must go up and see as -everything's comfortable. And we must get a woman in the place to see -after him. Old Dorcas's niece might do. She's a widow--she'd want to -take her youngest with her, but you wouldn't mind that," added she, -turning again to Harrod. Her mind was full of the matter now. So was -mine. We were quite at one upon it, and discussed it the whole evening. -Nevertheless, I found time to wonder now and then how it was that it -was only after his talk with Mr. Hoad that father had made up his -mind to take on "The Elms." It rather nettled me. Mr. Hoad could not -possibly know as much about farming as did Trayton Harrod. - -However, the thing was done, that was the main thing. Mr. Harrod had -had his way, and I tried to flatter myself that I was in some way -instrumental in procuring it. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -The time was coming near when Joyce was to come home, and I had done -positively nothing in the matter in which I had promised to fight her -battle. It is true that she had begged me not to fight her battle, but -I wanted to fight it, and I was vexed with myself that I had so allowed -the matter to slide. In the one tussle that I had had with mother, I -had been so worsted that I felt, with mortification, my later silence -must look like a confession of defeat. - -The fact is that I had been thinking of other things. Trayton Harrod -and I had had a great many things to think of. He had started a new -scheme for the laying on of water. - -Our village abounded in wells; they, too, were the remnants of the -affluence of the town in by-gone days, but they were all at the foot of -the hill. - -Trayton Harrod wanted to bring the water from the spring at the top -of Croft's hill, in pipes through the valley, and up our own hill -again. He wanted to form a co-operation among the inhabitants for the -enterprise. If this was impossible, he wanted father to do it as a -private undertaking, and to repay himself by charging a rental to -those people who would have it brought to their houses. But he met with -opposition at every turn. The inhabitants of Marshlands were a stubborn -lot; they did not believe in the possibility of the thing; they did -not care for innovations; they had done very well all these years with -carts that brought the water up the hill and stored it in wells in -their gardens, and why not now? He had not gained his point yet, either -in one way or in the other, and I had been very busy fighting it for -him; that was how it had come to pass that I had forgotten Joyce's -business. - -Mother and I sat in the low window-seat of the parlor straining our -eyes over the mending of the family socks and stockings by the waning -light of the June evening. Mother had missed Joyce very much. I had -not been all that a daughter should have been to her since I had been -in sole charge; I had been preoccupied, and she had missed Joyce much -more, I knew very well, than she chose to confess. Knowing this as I -did, I thought the moment would be well chosen to speak of what should -affect Joyce's happiness; I thought her heart would be soft to her. -But on this point I was mistaken. Mother did not alter her opinion -because her heart was soft. She could be very tender, but she was most -certainly also very obstinate. - -I opened the conversation by alluding to the letter which father had -had from Captain Forrester. - -"That scheme of his for poor children doesn't seem to be able to get -started as easily as he hoped," I said. "I'm sorry. It would have been -a beautiful thing, and father will break his heart if it falls through." - -"He seems to think the young man hasn't gone the right way to work," -said mother. "I could have told him he wasn't the right sort for the -job." - -I tried to keep my temper, and it was with a laugh that I said, "Well, -if anything could be done I'm sure he would do it, if it was only for -the sake of pleasing Joyce." - -Mother said nothing. She prided herself upon her darning, and she was -intent upon a very elaborate piece of lattice-work. - -"He would do anything to please Joyce. I never saw a man so much in -love with a girl," I said. - -"Have you had great experience of that matter?" asked mother, in -her coolest manner. "Because if you have, I should like to hear of -it; girls of nineteen don't generally have much experience in such -matters." - -"I can see that he is in love well enough," said I, biting my lip. Then -warming suddenly, I added: "I don't see why, mother, you should set -your face so against the young man? You want Joyce to be happy, don't -you?" - -"Yes," said mother, quietly. "I want her to be happy." - -"Well, it won't make her happy never to see the man she loves," cried -I; "no, nor yet to have to wait all that time before she can marry him. -I've always heard that long engagements were dreadfully bad things for -girls." - -Mother smiled. "I waited three years for your father," she said, "and -I'm a hearty woman of my years." - -"Perhaps you were different," suggested I. - -"Maybe," assented mother. "Women weren't so forward-coming in my time, -to be sure." - -"I don't see that Joyce is forward," cried I. - -"No, Joyce is seemly behaved if she is let alone. She'll bide her time, -I've no doubt," said mother. - -I felt the hidden thrust, and it was the more sharply that I replied, -"You're so fond of Joyce, I should have thought you wouldn't care to -make her suffer." - -Mother gave a little sigh. She took no notice of my rude taunt. - -"The Lord knows it's hard to know what's best," said she. "But I'd -sooner see her pine a bit now than spend her whole life in misery, and -there's no misery like that of a home where the love hasn't lasted out." - -The earnestness of this speech made me ashamed of my vexation, and it -was gently that I said: "But, mother, I don't see why you should think -a man must needs be fickle because he falls in love at first sight. I -don't see how people who have known one another all their lives think -of falling in love. When do they begin?" - -"I don't know as I understand this mighty thing that you young folk -call 'falling in love,'" said mother. "I was quite sure what I was -about when I married your father." - -"Well, now, mother, I don't see _how_ you can have been quite sure -beforehand," argued I, obstinately. "You have been lucky, that's all." - -"Nay, it's not all luck," said mother. "It isn't all plain sailing -over fifty or sixty years of rubbing up and down; and they'd best have -something stouter than a mere fancy to stand upon who want to make a -good job of it." - -"I don't see what they are to have stouter than love to stand upon," -said I. "And I always thought love was a thing that came whether you -would or not, and had nothing to do with the merits of people." - -It was all a great puzzle. Did mother make too little of love, and did -I make too much? - -"That's not love," said mother; "that's a fancy. I misdoubt people who -undertake to show patience and steadiness in one thing, before they -have learned it in anything else." - -"What has Frank Forrester done, I should like to know?" asked I, -feeling that she was too hard on him. - -"Nothing, my dear," answered mother, laconically. - -And I sighed. It was very evident there would be no convincing mother, -and that if there was to be any relaxation in the hardness of the -verdict for Joyce, it must come through father, and not through her. - -She rose and moved away, for the light had waned, and we could not see -to work. - -"If I loved a man I'd take my chance," was my parting shot. - -"Then, my dear, it's to be hoped you won't love a man just yet," said -mother, as she went out of the room. - -And that was all that I got by my endeavor to further my sister's -cause with mother. I think, however, I soon forgot the annoyance that -my failure caused me; it was driven out of my head by other and more -engrossing interests. - -Mother and I had been up at "The Elms" that very day getting things in -order for Mr. Harrod. We had found a tidy widow woman to wait on him, -and mother had put up fresh white dimity curtains from her own store to -brighten up his little parlor. When he came in to supper he was full of -quiet delight. I forget what he said; he was not a man of many words; -he was always wrapped up in his business; but I recollect that, however -few they were, they were words of affectionate gratitude to mother for -a kind of care which he seemed never to have known before, and I know -that I was grateful to him for them--so sensitively responsible is one -for the actions of another who is slowly creeping near to one's heart. - -Harrod sat some time with mother on the lawn discussing the qualities -of cows; she wanted father to give her a new one, and she wanted Harrod -to find her one as good as Daisy, if such a thing were possible. He -listened with great patience to her reminiscences of past favorites, -and promised to do his best; but I could see that there was something -on his mind. - -I fell to wondering what it was. I fell to wondering whether Trayton -Harrod ever thought of anything else but the work he had to do, the -dumb creatures that came his way in the doing of it, and the fair or -lowering face of the world in which he did it. I soon learned what it -was. It was something that had been discussed many times, but it had -never been discussed as it was discussed that evening. - -Father came out with his pipe a-light; his rugged old face wore its -most dreamy and contented expression. He had evidently been thinking of -something that had given him pleasure; but I do not think it had to do -with the farm. But Mr. Harrod went to meet him, and they strolled down -the garden together, and stood for about ten minutes talking hard by -the bed where the golden gillyflowers and the purple iris bloomed side -by side. - -"Well, you know what I have told you, Mr. Maliphant," said Harrod. "You -never can make the farm pay so long as you hold these theories. Your -men work shorter hours and receive higher wages than anybody else's; -and, added to that, you absolutely refuse to have any machinery used. -It'll take you twice as long to get in your hay and your wheat as it -will take the other farmers. How can you possibly compete with them?" - -"I don't want to compete with them," said father--"not in the sense -of getting the better of them. I merely want the farm to yield me -sufficient for a modest living; I don't need riches." - -"Well, and you won't do it in the way you are going on," said Harrod, -calmly. "You won't do so, unless you allow me to stock the farm with -the proper machines, and to get the proper return of labor out of the -men." - -"What is the proper return?" asked father, his eye lighting up. "That I -should get three times the profit the laborer gets? I'm not sure of it. -My capital must be remunerated, of course; but I am not sure that that -is the right proportion." His heavy brows were knit, his hair was more -aggressive than ever, his lower lip trembled. - -Harrod stared. He had not yet heard father give vent to his theories, -and he stared. - -"And as for machines," continued father, "I don't choose to have them -used, because I consider it unjust that hands should be thrown out -of work in order that I may make money the faster. My notions may be -quixotic, but they are mine, and the land is mine, and I choose to have -it worked according to my wish." - -"Certainly, sir," answered Harrod, stiffly. "Only, as I'm afraid I -could not possibly make the farm succeed under these conditions, I -would prefer to throw up my situation." - -"Very good," said father; "that is as you wish." And he moved on into -the house. - -Mother looked at Mr. Harrod a moment as though she were about to beg -him to take no notice, and to recall his hasty resignation. Her eyes -had almost a supplicating look; but apparently she seemed to think that -her appeal would be best made to father, for she hurried after him -through the open door. - -Trayton Harrod and I were left alone on the terrace. His mouth was set -in a hard curve that was all the more apparent for his clean-shaven -chin; his eyes seemed to have grown quite small. I was almost afraid to -speak to him. He stood there a moment, with his hands in his pockets, -looking out across the marsh where the coming twilight was already -beginning to spread brown shades, although there was still a reflection -of the distant sunset upon the clouds overhead. He looked a moment, and -then he turned to go; but I could not let him go like that. - -My heart had gone down with a sudden, sick feeling when he had said he -must leave Knellestone. I can remember it now. I did not ask myself -what it meant. I suppose I thought, if I thought at all, that it was -anxiety for the welfare of the farm; but I remember very well how it -felt. - -"Oh, Mr. Harrod, you don't really mean that!" said I, hurriedly. - -"Mean what?" answered he, without relaxing a muscle of his face. - -"That you will give up your work here." - -"Indeed I do," answered he, with a little hard laugh, showing those -white teeth of his. "A man must do his work his own way, or not at all." - -I did not know what more to say. But he did not offer to go now; he -stood there, with his hands in his pockets and his back half turned to -me. - -"Do you think so?" said I, at last, doubtfully. - -"Well, if I can't do my work here so that it should be to your father's -advantage, I'm cheating him, Miss Maliphant--that's evident, isn't it? -And I have a particular wish to be an honest man." There was bitterness -in his voice. - -"I see that," said I. "Only, if you go away the work will be done much -less to father's advantage than if you stay--even though you can't do -it just as you wish." - -"That has nothing to do with me," answered Harrod, in his hardest -voice. "I should harm my reputation by remaining here." - -A wave of bitterness swept over me too at that. - -"I see," I replied, coldly. "You are considering your own interest -only. Well, we have no right to expect any more. You have only known us -a short time." - -He did not speak, and I walked forward to the palisade that hedged the -garden, and leaned my arms upon it, looking out to the sea. After a -little while he came to my side. - -"Well, you see," said he, in a softer voice, "a man is bound to -consider his own interests to that extent at least--so far as doing his -work honestly is concerned. I consider a man a thief who doesn't do -what he has to do to the best of his lights." - -"I quite understand that," answered I. "I quite understand that it -would be more comfortable for you to go away." - -"I should be very sorry to go away," replied he, simply. "I like the -place, and I like the work, and I like the people." - -"Then why do you go?" asked I, bluntly. - -"A man must have his convictions," repeated he, doggedly. - -I looked up at him now. - -"Yes," I said, firmly. "Father has his convictions too. They are not -your convictions, but he cares just as much about them. You ought to -make allowances for that." - -"I make every allowance for it," answered he; "only, I don't see how -the two lots can mix together." - -"You said just now that a man must do his work his own way, or not at -all," I went on, without heeding him. "But I don't see that." - -This time Mr. Harrod did more than smile, he laughed outright. I -suppose even in the short time that we had been friends he had learned -to know me well enough to see something amusing in my finding fault -with any one for obstinacy. But I was not annoyed with the laugh; on -the contrary, it restored my good-temper. - -"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't go a little way to meet father," -insisted I, boldly. "Of course he won't give in to you about -everything; it isn't likely he should. But you might do a great many -things that he wouldn't mind, which would make the farm better; and -then, when he saw they made it better, and that the laborers went on -just as well, maybe he would let you do a few more. I can't discuss -it," added I, seeing that Harrod was about to speak, "because I can't -understand it. But I see one thing plain, and that is that folk think -the farm wants doing something with that father doesn't do--and if so, -you're the man to do it." - -I paused. Had I not followed the squire's instructions well? Had I not -done my very best to "smooth over difficulties?" - -"I don't think that I am the only man who could do it, by any means," -answered Harrod. But he said it doubtfully--pleasantly doubtfully. - -It made me bold to retort with greater determination: "Well, _I_ think -so, then. And if you say you are comfortable here, if you say you like -the place--and the people," added I, hurriedly, "why don't you try, at -least, to stay on and help us?" - -He did not reply. We stood there what must have been a considerable -time looking before us silently. The wane of the day had fallen into -dusk, the brown had settled into gray, now that the gold of the sunset -reflections had faded; the marsh-land was very still and sweet, the -sheep were not even white blots upon it, so entirely did the tender -pall harmonize all degrees of hue, so that the kine seemed no longer as -living beings, but as mysterious shapes bred of the very land itself; -even the old castle, so grand and solid in the day-time, was now like -some phantom thing in the solitude--every curve and every circle -defined more clearly than in sunlight, yet the whole transparent in the -transparent gloaming of the air. - -The most solid thing in all this varied uniformity, this intangible -harmony, was a clump of trees in the near distance that told a shade -blacker than anything else; for the turrets of the distant town lay -only as a faint mass of purple upon the land, the little lights that -twinkled in it here and there alone betraying its nature; long, living -lines of strange clouds, that were neither violet nor gray nor white, -lay along the blue where sea and sky were one. - -"Before you came," said I, at last, in a low voice, "I used to think -that I could help father as well as any _man_. I thought that I -understood very nearly as much about farming as he did. I thought I -could do much better than a stranger, who would not understand the land -or the people. But now I think differently. I see how much more you -know than I had dreamed of. You have made me feel very foolish." - -"I am sorry for that," said he. "It was far from my intentions--very -far from my thoughts." - -He said no more, neither did I. Perhaps, to tell the truth, I was -half sorry for what I had said, half ashamed of even feeling my -inferiority, more than half ashamed of having confessed it to any one. -Ashamed, sorry--and yet-- - -Mother called us to go in-doors. - -"If your father asks me to remain, I will remain, and do my best," said -Trayton Harrod, as we walked slowly up the lawn. - -And the glow that was upon my heart deepened. It was a concession, and -wherefore was it made? - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -For two days not a word was spoken on the sore subject between father -and Mr. Harrod, and on the evening of the second day the squire -returned from town. - -Father and I had gone down on the morning after the quarrel to see the -sheep-shearing at the lower farm. By a corruption of the name of a -former owner the country-folk had come to call it "Pharisee Farm," and -Pharisee Farm it always was. It lay on the lower strip of marsh towards -the castle, with the southern sun full upon it. As we came down the -hill I heard steps behind us, and without turning I knew that Trayton -Harrod was following us. Father gave him good-day quite civilly, and I -held out my hand. I do not know why I had got into the habit of giving -my hand to Trayton Harrod; it was not a usual habit with me. - -"It has turned a bit cooler, Mr. Maliphant, hasn't it?" said Harrod. - -"Yes," answered father; "but we must be glad we have had the rain -before we had to get the hay in." - -"That we must," replied Harrod. "The hay looks beautiful." - -We were passing along through the meadows ready for the scythes; -they stretched on every side of us. Meadows for hay, pastures for -sheep, there was scarcely anything else, save here and there a blue -turnip-field or a tract of sparsely sown brown land, where the wheat -made as yet no show. The one little homestead to which we were bound -made a very poor effect in the vast plain; there was nothing but land -and sea and sky. A great deal of land, flat monotonous land, more -monotonous now in its richness and the brilliant greenness of its early -summer-time than it would be later when the corn was ripe and the -flowering grasses turning to brown: an uneventful land, relying for its -impressiveness on its broad simplicity, that seemed to have no reason -for ending or change; above the great stretch of earth a great vault -of blue sky flecked with white vapors and lined with long opal clouds -out towards the horizon; between the land and the sky a strip of blue -sea binding both together; sea, blue as a sapphire against the green of -the spring pastures. Far down here upon the level we could not see the -belt of yellow shingle that from the cliff above one could tell divided -marsh and ocean: right across the wide space it was one stretch of -lightly varied tints away to the shipping and the scattered buildings -at the mouth of the river. - -We walked on, three abreast. Our talk was of nothing in particular; -only of the budding summer flowers--yellow iris, and meadowsweet along -the dikes, crowfoot making golden patches on the meadows, scarlet -poppies beginning to appear among the growing wheat--but I don't know -how it was that, in spite of father's presence, there was a kind of -feeling in my heart as though Trayton Harrod and I were quite on a -different plane to what we had been two days ago; I don't know why it -was, but I was very happy. - -The sheep were gathered in the fold when we reached the farm, and Tom -Beale, the shepherd, was clipping them with swift and adroit hands. -Reuben and his old dog Luck were there also; they were both of them -very fond of having a finger in the pie of their former calling, but -I think there was no love lost between them all. Luck could be good -friends enough with Taff, but he never could abide that smart young -collie who followed Tom Beale's lead; and as for Reuben, he was busy -already passing comments in a low voice to father on the way in which -Beale was doing his work. - -Father humored the old man to the top of his bent--he was very fond -of Reuben--but Beale went his way all the same, and sent one poor -patient ewe after another out of its heavy fleece, to leap, amazed -and frightened, among the flock, unable to trace its companions in -their altered condition. One could scarcely help laughing, they looked -so naked and bewildered reft of their warm covering, and just about -two-thirds their usual size. - -"Ay, the lambs won't have much more good o' their dams now," chuckled -Reuben. "They're forced to wean themselves, most on them, after this, -for there are few enough that knows one another again." - -"They do look different, to be sure," laughed I. - -"You might get your 'tiver' now, Reuben Ruck," said Beale, "if you have -a mind to give a hand with this job. They're most on 'em tarred." - -The "tiver" was the red chalk with which the sheep were to be marked -down their backs, or with a ring or a half-ring round their necks, -according to the kind and the age. A shepherd had been tarring them on -their hindquarters with father's initials, each one as it leaped from -out of its fleece. - -The work went on briskly for a while, and we were all silent watching -Reuben mark the two and three and four year olds apart. - -"It's a pity there aren't more Southdowns among the flock," put in -Harrod at last. - -I turned round and looked at him warningly. It was a mistake, I -thought, that under the strained relations of the moment he should -choose to open up another vexed question. - -"Southdowns!" echoed Reuben, who was listening. "You'd drop a deal o' -master's money if you began getting Southdowns into his flocks." - -I bit my lip, furious with the old servant for his officiousness, -but to my surprise father himself reprimanded him sharply for it, -and, turning to his bailiff, led him aside a few steps and discussed -the question with him at length. My heart glowed with pleasure as I -overheard him commission Harrod to go to the fair at Ashford next week -and see if he could effect some satisfactory purchase. I was quite -pleased to note Reuben's surly looks. How sadly was I changing to my -old friends! And yet so much more pleased was I to see the honest -flush of satisfaction on Harrod's face as father left him, that I felt -no further grudge against the old man, and nodded to him gayly as I -followed father across the marsh. - -When we reached the bottom of the hill we met the squire. He was coming -down the road full tilt with the collie who was his constant companion, -and before we came within ear-shot I could see that his face was -troubled. I knew him well enough now to tell when he was troubled. - -"Why, Maliphant, what's this I hear?" said he, as he came up to us. - -Father leaned forward on his stick, looking at the squire with a -half-amused, half-defiant expression in his eyes. - -"Well, Squire Broderick, what is it?" asked he. - -"I hear in the village that you have leased 'The Elms,'" answered the -other, almost severely. - -I happened to be looking at father, and I could see that his face -changed. - -"Yes," he said, quietly, "I have. What then?" - -The squire laughed constrainedly. - -"Well," he began, and then he stopped, and then he began again. "'Tis a -large speculation. What made you think of it?" - -"Mr. Harrod advised father to take on 'The Elms,'" I put in, quickly. I -was vexed with the squire for saying anything that was a disadvantage -to Trayton Harrod in the present state of affairs. - -"Harrod!" cried the squire. He began beating his boot with his stick in -that way he had when he was annoyed. "I thought it was Hoad," he said -at last beneath his breath. - -Father's eyes were black beads. "Pray don't trouble yourself to think -who it was who advised me, squire," said he. "If it's a bad speculation -nobody is to blame but myself. I am entirely my own master. I was told -'The Elms' was to be had, and I chose to take it. My hop-gardens were -not as extensive as I wished." - -He had raised his voice involuntarily in speaking. A man passing in the -road turned round and looked at him. - -"Hush, father," whispered I. - -It was one of his own laborers, one of father's special friends. - -"Wait a bit, Joe Jenkins, I'm coming up the road. I want a word with -you," said father. - -He held out his hand to the squire, but without looking at him, and -then went on up the hill. I stayed a moment behind. The squire looked -regularly distressed. - -"Your father is so peppery," he said, "so very peppery." - -"Well, I don't understand what you mean," said I, but not in allusion -to his last remark. "Why isn't the thing a good speculation?" - -"Oh, my dear young lady, it's very difficult to tell what things are -going to turn out to be good speculations and what not," answered he. -"At all events, I'm afraid you and I would not be able to tell." - -It was very polite of him no doubt to put it like that, but I did not -like it: it was like making fun of me, for of course no one had said -that I should be able to tell. - -"I understood that you thought a great deal of Mr. Harrod's judgment," -said I, coldly. - -"So I do, so I do," repeated the squire, eagerly. "I believe it to be -most sound." - -"Well, anyhow, father won't have it much longer, sound or unsound, -unless things take a different turn," continued I, with a grim sense of -satisfaction in hurting the squire for having hurt Harrod's case with -father. - -"Why, what's up?" asked he. - -"They have had a quarrel," explained I, carelessly. "Mr. Harrod wanted -father to reduce the men's wages, and to make them work as long hours -as they do for the other farmers hereabouts, and of course father -wasn't going to do that, because he thinks it unjust." - -"I knew it would come--bound to come," muttered the squire beneath his -breath. - -"And then he wanted him to buy mowing-machines for the haymaking," -continued I, "and you know what father thinks of machines. So he -refused, and then Mr. Harrod said that if he couldn't manage the farm -his own way he must leave." - -"Dear! dear!" sighed good Mr. Broderick. And dear me, how little I -realized at the time all that it meant, his taking our affairs to heart -as he did! "This must be set straight." - -"I tried my best," concluded I. "It's no good talking to father; but -Mr. Harrod promised me that he would take back his word about leaving -if father asked him to." - -The squire looked at me sharply. "Harrod promised you that?" he asked. - -"Yes," repeated I, looking at him simply, "he promised me that." - -The squire said no more, but his brow was knit as he turned away from -me. - -"I'll go and see Harrod," said he. "Can you tell me at all where I -shall find him?" - -"He's down at Pharisee Farm at the sheep-shearing," said I. "He -and Reuben are having a quarrel over Southdowns. He wants to have -Southdowns in the flock. But if he goes away there'll be no Southdowns -needed." - -Mr. Broderick made no answer to this, he strode on down the road. But -when he had gone a few steps he turned. - -"By-the-bye, will you tell your father," he said, "that my nephew came -down with me last night? I believe he wants to see him on some affair -or other. No doubt he'll call round in the afternoon." - -He went on quickly, and I stood there wondering. Frank Forrester back -again at the Manor! Did he suppose that Joyce had returned? Did he hope -to see her? Poor fellow! He little knew mother. - -"Father," said I, as I joined him on the hill, "do you know that -Captain Forrester has come down again?" - -He stopped, he was a little out of breath; I even fancied that his -cheek was flushed. - -"You don't say so!" said he. "He gave me no idea of it in his letter. -No idea at all." - -A light had kindled in his eye. - -"When does your sister come home?" he asked. - -"She was to have come next week," answered I. "But I suppose mother -will put it off now." - -"Yes, Meg," said he, with a twinkle in his eye, "I suppose she'll put -it off. And yet the lad is a good lad, but mother knows best, mother -knows best." - -We turned up the road, and as we came to the corner of the village -street we saw two figures coming along towards us. One of them was Mary -Thorne and the other was Captain Forrester. I had not known the Thornes -were back at the Priory: they had left it for the London season. - -The two were laughing and talking gayly. She came forward cordially as -soon as she saw me and held out her hand. Her round, rosy face shone -with merriment, and her brown hair caught the sunlight. She spoke to me -first while Frank was shaking father warmly by the hand. - -"How are you, Mr. Maliphant?" cried he. "It's delightful to see you -again. You see I could not keep away. I had to come down and get a -fresh impetus, fresh instructions." - -Mary Thorne laughed. "Oh, he talks of nothing else," said she. "He's -quite crazed over this wonderful scheme, I can assure you, Mr. -Maliphant." - -Father's brow clouded, and to be sure I could not bear to hear her talk -like that, though why, I could not exactly have told. - -"And so we made it an excuse to snatch a couple of days from balls and -things, and come down here for a breath of fresh air," she continued. - -I wondered why she said "we." But Frank explained that. - -"Mr. Thorne is quite interested in the affair, I can assure you, Mr. -Maliphant," said he. "He's going to put a splendid figure to head our -subscription list." - -Father did not say a word. His shaggy eyebrows were down over his eyes. - -"Oh, well, father never is stingy with his money; I must say that for -him," said Mary. "He'll give anything to anything." Then turning to -me, she added: "We're going to squeeze in a garden-party next week, -before we run up to town again. They say one must give entertainments -this electioneering-time. At least that Mr. Hoad says so, and he seems -to have done a great deal of this kind of thing from what he says. We -did two dinners before we went up to London, but a garden-party is -jolly--it includes so many. You'll come, won't you? All of you. You're -just about the only people I care to ask, you know." - -She ran on in her frank, funny way--always quite transparent--not -noticing father's scowl and Frank Forrester pulling his mustache, and -trying to catch her eye. If she had she would have turned the matter -off; she was no fool, but what she had said was what she thought. - -Father answered before I could speak. "My eldest daughter is away, Miss -Thorne," he said, "and I'm sorry to say Margaret must refuse your kind -invitation. My girls are farmer's children, and are not used to mixing -with folk in other stations of life." - -I felt the color fly to my face, for it was a discourteous speech, and -not even perfectly honest, for Mary Thorne had met us at the squire's -house although we _were_ only farmer's daughters. It mortified me to -have father do himself injustice before Frank Forrester. - -But Mary took it charmingly. For a moment she looked astonished, then -she said, with a merry laugh: "Ah, I see what it is, Mr. Maliphant; -you're a Tory. I beg your pardon, I forgot you were the squire's -friend. I'm dreadfully stupid about politics. I'm quite ashamed of -myself." - -Father seemed about to reply, but was stopped by a merry laugh from -Frank, whom Mary, however, silenced by a pretty little astonished stare. - -"Oh, pray don't apologize," said she to father. "Only don't you try -to tell me another time that your daughters are not used to good -society. I know better," added she, smiling at me. "I know who was -voted the best dancer at the squire's ball. And as for your eldest -daughter--well, we know how many heads _she_ has turned with her -beauty." - -She glanced up teasingly at Captain Forrester as she spoke. She was a -little woman, and had to glance up a long way; but although he laughed, -his face was troubled; and I could see he was trying to catch my eye. - -"Well, good-bye," said Mary to me. "I'm sorry you mayn't come." - -I took the hand which she offered, but when she held it out afterwards -to father he only bowed with laborious politeness. I think I blushed -with annoyance as we turned away, but he made no allusion to the -meeting; only his brightened humor of five minutes ago had evaporated, -and his features were working painfully. - -"I shall go and fetch little David Jarrett, Meg," said he. "The sun is -warm now, and it'll do him good to lie a bit in the garden. Go home and -tell mother." - -I went, and a quarter of an hour later he carried the boy in--a poor -little delicate fellow, whose father had knocked him down in a drunken -fit, and who had been a cripple ever since. We had heard of the -misfortune too late to be of much use; for continued want of proper -nourishment on a sickly frame had caused the accident to set up a -disease from which the poor child was scarcely likely to recover; but -all that could be done father had had done, and he was his special -favorite among many friends in the younger portion of the community. We -spread a mattress on the garden bench and laid him there, and mother -sent me out with port-wine and strengthening broth for him, and father -spent all the afternoon beside the little fellow, reading and talking -to him. - -Beyond alluding to Captain Forrester's arrival when mother spoke of -it, he made no mention of his young friend or of what had hurt him in -the passing meeting with him. But when Frank came, as promised, in the -evening, the storm broke. - -He came in just as if he had not been away from us these two months; -just as kindly, just as interested in all we had been doing, just -as easy and charming. But when, I fancied a trifle diffidently, he -opened up the subject of the charity scheme, father suffered no -misunderstanding to abide. - -"I know Thorne is an old friend of your family's, my lad," he said, -"and I understand that you can't throw off an acquaintance of your -youth; but as to this affair, I want to make it quite clear that I'll -have no influence of his to start the school with. If I could help it -I'd have none of his money. I can't help that, and the 'big figure' -must stand; but I'll have none of him, or the likes of him, on any -committee that may be formed, not while I'm in it." - -Father always became vernacular when he was excited. - -"Very well, sir," smiled Frank. "It's your affair, and I must be led by -you. I think you're mistaken. You miss the valuable help of a large and -influential class, and why you should forbid manufacturers to remedy -an evil which they may have been partly instrumental in increasing, I -don't know. But you have your reasons, and I am in your hands." - -"Yes, I have my reasons," repeated father, laconically. - -And then the conversation became general, and Frank, with his usual -amiable courtesy, drew Trayton Harrod into it, as far as the somewhat -morose mood of the latter would allow. He seemed to have taken no fancy -to the new-comer, and responded but surlily to his interested questions -upon the country and country matters. - -Frank Forrester was always interested in everything; always seemed to -be most so in the subject which he thought interested the particular -person to whom he was speaking. But Harrod would betray no enthusiasm -on his own pursuits to an outsider. He was very surly that night. I -think he was not well. Mother taxed him with it. As I have said, she -took a motherly interest in him always. He allowed that he had a bad -headache, and rose to leave. I recollect that she went up-stairs to -fetch him some little medicament. Father, too, followed him out into -the hall. They stood there some five minutes talking, during which time -I am afraid that I tried more to listen to what they were saying than -to what Frank Forrester took the opportunity to say to me. - -I brought my mind to it, however, and told him what I could about -Joyce. There was so little to tell; there was always so little to tell -about Joyce--nothing very satisfactory to a lover in this instance. - -And I was forced to allow what he half gayly asserted--that mother was -none the more cordial to him than she had been in the past. He did not -seem to be cast down about it, he only asserted it. He did not seem to -be in any way cast down. He looked at me with those wide-open brown -eyes just as confidently and gayly as ever, and bent towards me with -his tall, slim, lissome figure, and took my two hands in his and told -me to tell Joyce that he had come hoping to see her for a moment, even -though it had been but in mother's presence. - -"She forbade me to see her against your mother's wishes," said he, "but -openly there would have been no harm." - -I felt quite sure that he loved her just as much as ever, and I -willingly promised to give his messages to her. - -But I hurried over the little interview; I wanted to get out into the -hall before Harrod left, and I shook hands with Frank hastily as I -heard mother coming down-stairs with the physic. - -I was too late, nevertheless. Frank had kept me for a last word, and -the front door closed as I came out of the room. I went up to bed in a -bad temper. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Trayton Harrod did not leave Knellestone. I think we had to thank the -squire for that. Father and he being so proud and obstinate, they would -never have come to an understanding alone, nor would either certainly -have accepted me for a mediator. - -I don't know whether Mr. Broderick persuaded father to ask his bailiff -to remain, or how the matter was arranged. I only know that a few days -after the squire's return I met Harrod down at the haymaking on the -eastern marsh, and that he told me he was not going to leave us. I -remember very well how he told it me with a smile; not that quick flash -which I have sometimes noticed before as being characteristic of him -when moved to sudden mirth, but a kind of half-smile that had something -triumphant in it. - -"Yes," he said, looking round on the meadows that were ready for the -scythe, "we shall have a mowing-machine on them before the week's out." - -That was all; but the words told me he was going to remain. I know I -looked up with an answering smile of satisfaction, but it faded as I -saw Jack Barnstaple's gloomy eye fixed on me. The very silence of a -faithful servant reproved me for my disloyalty. For in my first content -I had forgotten that satisfaction to such a speech _was_ disloyalty to -father, to the horror of machines that had always been my creed till -now. - -"I'm sorry--" I began, but then I stopped, confused. I was too honest -to tell a lie. How could I say that I was sorry he had triumphed? He -turned and said some word to the laborer, and I had time to lose my -sudden blushes. Had he noticed them? I think I scarcely cared. I was -strangely happy. - -All that day I was happy. In the eventide we followed the last wagon up -the hill. Tired horses, teased to madness by the ox-fly in the heat, -tired men shouldering their forks, tired women in curious sun-bonnets, -and girls not too tired yet to laugh with the lads, went before, and we -two followed afterwards, not at all tired of anything--at least I speak -for myself. - -A long line of flame marked the horizon behind the hill and upon the -red sky, the houses of the village, the three roofs and the square -tower of the old church, the ivied grayness of the ancient gate-way, -and the solitary pines that marked the ridge here and there, all lay -dark upon the brightness, their shapes defined and single. Close -behind us the sea was cool and fragrant. Upon the hem of the wide soft -sands that shone in sunset reflections, a regal old heron had fetched -his evening meal from out of the little pools that the sea had left, -and unfolding his huge pinions, sailed away in a queer oblique and -apparently leisurely flight to the tall trees that were his inland -home. We left the haymakers to take the road, and followed the heron -across the marsh. - -A wheat-ear's nest that I found in a furrow and carried home with its -five little dainty blue eggs gave rise to a discussion about the rarity -of these pretty little structures compared with the numbers of the -tiny builders who are so plentiful in harvesting that the shepherds -make quite a perquisite from the sale of them; an old hare that the -bailiff started from its form on the unbeaten track made him wonder at -the unusual size of these marsh inhabitants, and as we came along the -dike where the purple reeds were already growing tall, I remember his -noticing how changing was their color on the surface as they swayed in -great waves beneath the breeze, how blue one way, how silver-gray the -other; I recollect every word that we spoke. - -It was commonplace talk enough, but it was the talk that had first -begun to bind us together, and now there was beginning to be something -in it that made every word very much the reverse of commonplace to me. -What was it? - -I did not ask myself, but I knew very well that since that night when -Trayton Harrod had promised to try and remain on Knellestone, because -I had asked him to do so, that something had grown very fast, so fast -that I was conscious of a happy state of guilt, and wondered whether -old Deborah knew anything about it as she watched me bid the bailiff -good-bye at the gate while she was picking marjoram on the cliff-garden -above our heads. - -I know that at first I was angry because of her keen little dark eyes -and her short little laugh, and I loftily refused to discuss either -with her or with Reuben the advantages of Mr. Harrod's remaining on -the farm, or the indignity of having machinery at Knellestone and -Southdowns on the marsh. There was no delay about either of these -matters. Mr. Harrod was a prompt man. I recollect the very day he -bought the sheep--yes, I recollect it very well. It was a very hot -day, one of the first days of July. He had had the mare--my restive -mare--put into the gig, and had started off very early in the morning -to Ashford market. It was a long way to Ashford market, but you could -just do it and get back in the day if you started very early, and if -you had a horse like my mare to go. There was a haze over the sea and -even over the marsh; down in the hayfield, where I had been all the -morning, the heat was almost unbearable. When five o'clock came I went -in to mother in the parlor. - -"It's such a nice evening for a ride, mother," said I. "I think I'll -just take that pot of jelly over to Broadlands to old Mrs. Winter. -She'd be pleased to see me." - -Mother looked up, surprised. "I thought you didn't care for riding that -old horse," said she. - -"Well, I _can't_ have the mare, so it's no use thinking of it," I -answered. - -"You can't have her to-day, because the bailiff has got her, but you -can have her to-morrow," said mother. "And it's full late to start off -so far." - -I walked to the window and looked out. "I think I'll go to-day," said -I. "It may blow up for rain to-morrow. As likely as not we shall have a -storm. It's light now till after nine." - -"Very well," said mother; "you can please yourself. You'd better take -some of that stuff for the old body's rheumatism as well." - -So I put on my habit and set out. It was quite true that the old black -horse did not go so well as the mare, but for some reason best known to -myself I had a particular desire to ride to Broadlands that particular -afternoon. - -I let the poor beast go at his own pace, however, for the heat was -still very great; the plain was opal-tinted with it, and the long, -soft, purple clouds above the sea horizon had a thundery look. I jogged -along dreamily until I was close beneath the old market-town upon the -hill. Somehow the memory of that winter drive with Joyce, when we had -first met Captain Forrester, came back to me vividly. I don't know how -it was, but I began to think of how he had looked at her, of how he -had bent towards her hand just a moment longer than was necessary in -parting from her. I wondered if those were always the signs of love. I -wondered if a man might possibly be in love and yet give none of those -signs. - -I rode on slowly, watching the rising breeze sweep across the meadows, -swaying the long grass in a rhythmic motion like the waves of a gentle -sea. I had passed the town by this time, and had come down the little -street paved with cobble-stones, and through the grim old gate onto -the marsh again. The river ran turbidly by, between its mud banks and -across its flat pastures to the sea a mile beyond. Above the river the -houses of the town stood, in steps, up the hill, flanked by the dark -gray stone of the old prison-house, and crowned by the church with its -quaint flying-buttresses; the wall of the battlements hemmed the town; -beneath it lay the marsh and then the sea. - -This was all behind me; around and in front was the faint, gray flat -land, scarcely green under the creeping haze of heat, with the breeze -undulating over the long grass, and the light-house, the brightest spot -on the scene as it shone white through the mist, on the distant point -of beach. - -I took the shortest way, avoiding the regular road, and was soon lost -upon the grassy sea. The soft, bright monotony of the landscape was -scarcely broken by a single incident, save for the Martello towers that -stood at regular intervals along the coast, or the sheep and cows that -were strewn over the pasture-land lazily cropping and chewing the cud; -there was not a house within sight, and even the low line of the downs -had dipped here into the flatness of the marsh. - -I tried to whip the horse into a canter, but the poor beast felt the -heat as I did, and I soon let him fall again into his own jog-trot. -It was not at all my usual method of riding, but that day I did not -mind it so much; I had my thoughts to keep me busy. They were pleasant -thoughts--if so vague a dream was a thought at all--and kept me good -company. The dream was a dream of love, but I am not sure whether that -time Joyce was the heroine. I think, if I had been asked, that I should -have said that there was no heroine to my dream--that it was far too -vague, too entirely a dream to have one. - -I rode on for another hour across the hot plain before I came to the -village of Broadlands. It lay there sleepily upon the bosom of the -marsh, with scarce a tree to shelter it from the fierce midsummer sun -or the wild sea winds, and until my horse's hoofs were clattering up -the little street I scarcely saw man, woman, or child to tell me that -the place was alive. But around the Woolsacks some half-dozen men -lounged, smoking, and a fat farmer in a cart had stopped in the middle -of the road to exchange a few observations on agricultural news. It was -the inn at which Trayton Harrod must have put up in the middle of the -day for dinner. - -This farmer had evidently returned from market. I wondered how long it -would be before Trayton Harrod would also come along the same road and -stop at the Woolsacks for a drink. I don't think I deceived myself as -to there being a little hope within me that I might meet him somewhere -on the road. But I reckoned that he could not possibly be as far on -his homeward route yet a while, for he probably had had much farther -to come than the farmer in the cart, and had not reached the market so -early. - -I trotted on up the street to Mrs. Winter's cottage, which stood at -the extreme end of the village, looking out along the Ashford road. I -am afraid that all the time I was in the cottage--although I gave all -mother's messages, and inquired with due attention after every one of -the old lady's distinct pains--my eyes were ever wandering along that -dusty road and listening for horse's hoofs in the distance. - -But Mrs. Winter noticed no remissness on my part--she was too pleased -to see me, too glad to have news of mother, who had been her friend -and benefactress these many years past. I took her a pair of stockings -that I had knit for her in the long winter evenings, and I can remember -now the matter-of-fact way in which she received the gift, and how, -when I said that I hoped they would fit, she answered, with happy -trustfulness, "Oh yes, miss; the Lord he knows my size." - -We drank tea out of the white-and-gold cups that had been best ever -since I could remember, and then she kissed me and bade me be going -lest the darkness should overtake me. - -I laughed, and declared that the long twilight would more than last me -home; for I did not want to be going until I was sure that Mr. Harrod -was on my road; the vague hope that I had had of meeting him had grown -into a settled determination to wait for him if I could. But the old -lady would not be pacified by any assurances that I was not afraid of -darkness; and to be sure there was a strange shade in the air as I got -outside and mounted the black horse again. - -When I got beyond the village again I saw what it was--there was a -sea-fog creeping up the plain. Such fogs were common enough in the hot -weather, and gave me no concern at all; but I saw with some dismay that -the sun must have set some time, for the twilight was falling in the -clear space that still existed above the mist. - -I looked back upon the road. Surely he could not have passed. I could -not bear to give up the hope of this ride home with him, and yet I -scarcely dared loiter lest mother should grow anxious. I put the beast -to a gentle trot and rode forward slowly. I knew of no other way that -Harrod could have taken, and I felt sure that he had not passed that -cottage without my knowledge. - -But the mist thickened. I could not see before me or behind; it was not -until I was close upon it that I could tell where the path branched -off that led across the meadows to the town. It did not strike me at -the time that I was foolish to take it; I only wondered whether Harrod -would be sure to come that way. I only thought of whether I should -recognize the sound of the mare's trot, for that was the only means by -which I could be sure of his approach before he was close upon me. - -I rode on slowly, listening always. I rode on for what seemed to me to -be a very long time. The mist was chill after the hot day, and I had no -covering but my old, thin, blue serge habit, which had seen many a long -day's wear. - -The fog gathered in thickness, and darkened with the darkness of the -coming night. I began to think that, after all, I had made a mistake in -taking the short-cut. Perhaps Mr. Harrod had kept to the high-road, as -safer on such a night; perhaps thus I should miss him. I was not at all -afraid of the fog, but I was very much afraid of missing the companion -for whose sake I had come this long ride on a hot day. And with the -fear in my mind that I might miss him, I did a very foolish thing--I -turned back upon my steps. I put the horse to a canter, and turned back -to regain the high-road. I rode as fast as I could now, urging the -beast forward; but though I rode for a much longer distance than I had -ridden already since I left Mrs. Winter's cottage, I saw no trace of -the road. - -I stood still at last and tried to determine where I was. My heart was -beating a little. Presently--through the stillness, for the air was -absolutely lifeless--I heard the sound of voices. I listened eagerly. -But, alas! there was no sound of horse's hoofs: the wayfarers, whoever -they were, were on their feet. Mr. Harrod could scarcely be one of -them. I stopped, waiting for them to come up. They were tramps. Their -figures looked wavering and uncertain as they came towards me through -the mist. They walked with a heavy lounging gait, smoking their clay -pipes. - -"Can you tell me if I'm in the right way for the high-road?" said I, as -they came within ear-shot. - -They stopped, and one of them burst into a laugh and said something -afterwards in an undertone to his companion. - -"You're a long way from wherever it is you're bound for," said he; and -as he spoke he came up to me and took hold of the horse's bridle. - -Something in his face displeased me. I gave him a sharp cut across -it with my whip. He yelled with rage, but he let go the bridle; -and another cut across the horse's neck sent him forward with his -hind-hoofs in the air. I had never known him answer like that to the -whip before. I think he can have liked the look of the men no better -than I did. - -Before I knew that there was a dike before me, I found myself safely -landed on the other side of it; and it was only then that I pulled the -poor old beast up and looked round. Of course I could see nothing: the -mist would have been too thick, even had the growing darkness not been -sufficient to obscure any object not close at hand. But I could hear no -voices, and I felt that I was safe. - -How a girl, with nothing but a little whip in her hand, had prevailed -against two strong men--even though she was on a horse and they on -foot--I did not pause to consider. I was safe; but the little adventure -had frightened me, and I thought I would try to get home as fast as I -could. - -But how? I was absolutely uncertain where I was. I had crossed a dike, -which I should not have done; but one dike was much like another, and -that was no guide. I could see nothing, and I could hear nothing. - -Nothing? Yes; as I listened I did hear something. It was the sound of -distant waves lapping gently upon the beach. I must indeed have strayed -far from the high-road if I had come near enough to the sea to hear -the sound of its waves. I stopped and waited again. I thought I would -wait until those men had got well ahead. Then, after a while, I put the -horse across the dike again, and went forward slowly, straining every -nerve to determine whether the sound of the sea was growing louder or -less in my ears. - -I felt sure after a while that it was growing less, and yet I could not -be absolutely certain, for there was a strange feeling in my head; and -I was soon obliged to acknowledge to myself that I was getting very -sleepy. The mist, I knew, was apt to make people sleepy if they were -out long in it; but I had often been out in a sea-fog before, and I had -never felt so sleepy. I wondered what o'clock it was. I struggled on -a little longer, but I felt that unless I were to walk I should fall -off the horse, so I got down and led him on by the bridle. For another -reason it was better to walk--I was chilled to the bone. - -I turned the end of my habit up over my shoulders, and although it was -wringing wet, it served as a kind of poultice; but I cannot say that I -was either cheerful or comfortable. The night was perfectly still, the -mist perfectly dense. Once a hare, startled I suppose by the sound of -the horse's hoofs, ran across in front of me, and retreated into his -form; but I think that that was the only time I saw a living thing. - -I got so used to the silence and loneliness that when at last another -sound began to mingle with the monotonous tread of the weary beast, I -scarcely noticed it. Perhaps it was because it was only an increase of -the same sound: it was the tread of another weary beast. But whether -that was the reason, or whether it was that I was gradually growing -more and more sleepy, certain it is that the sound grew to a point, and -then began slowly to fade away again before I was quite conscious of -its existence. Then suddenly I realized what it might be, and with all -the strength of my being I shouted through the mist. - -Once--twice I shouted, and then I stood still and listened. The sound -of the hoofs and the wheels--yes, the wheels--still went on faintly. My -heart grew sick, and again I shouted into the night; this time it was -almost a cry. The wheels stopped. I shouted again, and there came back -a faint holloa that told me how much fainter still must have been my -own voice through the fog. - -I leaped onto the horse, and urged him forward as near as I could tell -in the direction of the voice. And all the time I continued shouting. - -Thank Heaven! I heard the answering cry clearer and clearer each time. -At last--at last I saw a horse and gig just discernible through the -steaming darkness. - -"Who is there?" cried a voice; and--how can I describe my -happiness?--it was the voice of Trayton Harrod. - -I don't think I answered. I think there was something in my throat -which prevented me from answering; but he must have recognized me at -once, for he gave vent to an exclamation which I had never heard him -use before--he said, "Great heavens!" Then he got down out of the gig, -and came towards me quickly. - -"Miss Margaret!" he exclaimed. "How did you ever get here?" - -I had recovered my usual voice by this time, and I replied, quietly -enough, to the effect that I had been on an errand to Broadlands, and -had lost myself coming home in the fog. - -"Lost yourself! I should think you had lost yourself," ejaculated he, -half angrily. "I was uncertain of my own road before you called, but I -know well enough that you are entirely out of the beaten track here." - -"Oh, then I'm afraid I shall have made you miss your way too," said I, -apologetically. - -I don't know what had come to me, but I was so glad to see him that I -could not bear he should be angry with me. - -"That doesn't signify in the least," said he. "It's you of whom I am -thinking. I am afraid you must be cold and tired, and I fear we shall -be a long while getting home yet." He was close to me now. "You had -better get into the gig," said he; "I'll tie the horse to it." - -He held out his hands to help me down, and I put mine in his. - -"Why, you are chilled to the bone," murmured he. "You'll take your -death of cold." - -He lifted me from the horse, for indeed I was numb with the penetrating -damp, and led me to the gig. Then he took the horse-cloth which lay -across the seat and wrapped it round me as tightly as he could. - -"Haven't you a pin?" he asked. - -I tried to laugh but I could not; something stuck in my throat. - -"I thought women always had pins," he added. - -Then I did laugh a little; but I must have been very much tired and -overwrought, for the laugh turned into a sort of sob. I could only -hope he did not notice it. He made no remark, at all events; he only -wrapped the rug as closely as he could around me, and took hold of my -hands again, as though to feel if they were any warmer. He held them in -his own a long time; he held them very fast. The blood seemed to ebb -away from my heart as I stood there with my hands in his. My face was -turned away, but I felt that his keen dark eyes were fixed upon mine, -concernedly, tenderly. A strange, new happiness filled my whole being; -I did not know what it meant, but I knew that I wanted to keep on -standing there like that, in spite of the cold and the dampness and the -dark; I knew that what I felt was sweeter than any joy that had come to -me before in my life. - -But Trayton Harrod took away his hands. He passed his arm round my -waist, and holding me by my elbows so as not to displace the plaid -which he had wrapped so carefully around me, he helped me up into the -gig. I let him do just what he liked. I, who had been so defiant and -proud before, and who thought that I scorned such a thing as a beau, I -was letting this man behave to me just as Captain Forrester might have -behaved to Joyce; I was as wax in his hands. I did not think of that at -the time; I do not know that I ever thought of it. It only strikes me -now as I write it down. - -I sat there without saying a word while Harrod fetched the horse and -tied him to the back of the gig. I was not conscious of anything, save -that I was perfectly contented, and waiting for him to come up and sit -beside me. All my fatigue had disappeared, all my desire to be home, -all my remembrance of mother's anxiety. - -But why should I dwell further upon all this? If any one ever reads -what I have written, they will understand what I felt far better than -I can describe it. Every one knows that love is self-absorbed, and, -save towards the one being for whom it would sacrifice all the world, -utterly selfish. And what I was slowly beginning to feel was love. - -We moved away into the misty night. Mr. Harrod did not speak for some -time. He was busy enough trying to find out which was the right way. We -had no clew. The sound of the sea, it is true, had grown faint in our -ears, so that we were farther inland; but, excepting for the dike which -I had crossed after my meeting with the tramps, we had no landmark to -tell us where we were. - -Harrod thought he remembered the dike; but how far it was from the -high-road that we wished to reach, we could neither of us exactly -determine. The tract of country was a little beyond our usual beat, or -we should have been less at a loss. But there was no sign or sound yet -of the market-town through or by which we must pass before we reached -our own piece of marsh-land. - -There was no doubt about it that we were lost on the marsh, and all -that we could do was to jolt slowly along, avoiding dikes and unseen -pitfalls, and waiting quietly for the day to show us our whereabouts. -Luckily, in these midsummer nights the hours betwixt dusk and dawn are -but short. Only Harrod seemed to be concerned about it; he kept asking -me whether I was warm; he kept begging me not to give up and go to -sleep. I suppose he was afraid of the fever for me. But for my own part -I felt no inconvenience; I was not cold, and I had no more inclination -to go to sleep. - -I do not remember that we talked of anything in particular; I do not -remember that we talked much at all. I think I was afraid to speak; -I think I was afraid that even he should speak; the silence was too -wonderful, and the vague sense of something unspoken, unguessed, was -sweeter than any words. It was the deepest silence I have ever felt; -there wasn't so much as the sound of a bird, or of a stirring leaf, or -of the breath of the sleeping cattle; even the gentle moaning of the -sea was hushed now in the distance; it was as though we two were alone -in the world. - -Sometimes I could see that smile of Mr. Harrod's flash out even in the -darkness as he would turn and ask if I was quite warm, and sometimes he -would merely bend over me and wrap the rug--tenderly, I fancied--more -closely around me. Ah, it was a midsummer-night's dream! But at last -nature was stronger than inclination--I was young and healthy--and I -dropped asleep. When I awoke, a promise of coming light was in the -east, the sea was tremulous with it, and long purple streaks lined the -horizon. Overhead the sky was fair, although the thick, white fog still -lay in one vast sheet all around us. Out of it rose the market-town -straight before us, dark and sombre, out of the shining sea of mist. - -We were trotting now along the beaten track towards it, and Mr. Harrod -was urging on the weary mare with one hand, while the other was round -my waist. The gig was narrow for two persons, and I suppose I should -have risked being thrown out in my unconscious state if he had not done -so. He took away his arm as soon as I stirred, and I shook myself and -looked at him. Had my head been resting on his shoulder? and if it had, -why was I so little disturbed? - -"I am afraid I have been asleep," said I. - -"Yes," answered Mr. Harrod, "you have been asleep. I hadn't the heart -to rouse you again, you were so tired. But we shall soon be at home -now." - -"Why, we've got back into the track!" I exclaimed. - -"Yes," laughed he. "When the town began to appear through the mist it -was a landmark to me, though I believe I tumbled over the path at last -by a mere chance." - -He said no more. We were soon out into the high-road again, and -climbing the street of the town. We were the only stirring people in -it, and this made me feel more conscious of my strange adventure than -all the hours that I had spent alone on the marsh with my companion. - -For the first time I began to wonder what mother would say. Once out of -the town, we sped silently along the straight, familiar road that led -towards our own village. The mist was beginning slowly, very slowly, -to clear away, and the hills upon which our farm stood loomed out of -it in the distance. In the marsh, on either side of us, the cattle -began to stir like their own ghosts in the white vapor, and gazed at us -across the dikes with wondering, sleepy eyes. - -The stars were all dead, and above the mist the quiet sky spread a -panoply of steely blue, while out above the sea the purple streaks -had turned to silver and sent rays upward into the great dome. Hung -like a curtain across the gates of some wonderful world unseen, a rosy -radiance spread from the bosom of the ocean far into the downy clouds -above that so tenderly covered the naked blue--a radiance that every -moment was more and more marvellously illumined by that mysterious -inward fire, whose even distant being could tip every hill and mountain -of cloudland with a lining of molten gold. Unconsciously my gaze clung -to the spot where a warmth so far-reaching sprung from so dainty a -border-land of opal coloring; and when at last the great flame was born -of the sea's gray breast, I felt the tears come into my eyes, I don't -know why, and a little sigh of content rose from my heart. I was tired, -for the sunrise had never brought tears to my eyes before. - -"I hope you'll be none the worse," said Harrod, glancing at me -uneasily, and urging the horse with voice and hand; "but I'm afraid -your parents will have been sadly anxious anyhow." - -Alas! I had not thought of it again. I sat silent, watching where the -familiar solid curves of the fortress upon the marsh began to take -shape out of the fog. - -"If I hadn't met you I should have been out on yonder marsh now," I -said. - -I thought he would have said something about being glad he had met me, -but he did not. He only answered, "I ought not to have allowed you to -fall asleep." - -I laughed at that. "If it had not been for you I should be asleep now -on that bank where I first heard you," I declared. "And I should have -got my death of ague by this time, I suppose." - -Still he said nothing. There was some misgiving on his mind which no -words of mine removed. I felt it instinctively. Even when I said--and -as I write it down now I marvel how I _could_ have said it--even when I -said, softly, "Well, I regret nothing. I have enjoyed myself," he did -not reply. - -I wondered at it just for a moment, but no mood of his could damp my -complete content. Even though, as I neared home, I began to be more -and more uneasy about my parents' anxiety, no cloud could rest on the -horizon of this fair, sweet dawn of day. I could not see beyond the -barrier of that ever-widening, ever-brightening curtain of glorious -light; but there it was, making glad for the coming of the blessed -sun that would soon fill the whole space of heaven's free and perfect -purity. - -The coldness of the sky and of all the world was slowly throbbing with -the wakening warmth. What was there beyond that burning edge of the -world, beyond that sea of strange, exultant brightness? - -We began to climb the hill, and on the garden terrace stood my father. -He was waiting for me just as he had waited for me on that night in May -when he had told me to be friends with Trayton Harrod. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Mother never scolded me at all for my adventure, and of course I was -much more sorry than I should have been if she had done so. - -As I stood there in the cool, gray dawn, with my wet habit, the -dew-drops still standing on the curls of my red hair, my face--I make -no doubt--pale with distress, and my gray eyes at their darkest from -the same cause, I suppose I looked rather a sorry spectacle, and one -that melted her heart; anyhow, I know that she put her arm round me and -gave me a hasty kiss before she pushed me forward to meet father. For -a moment I felt something rise in my throat, and I suppose I ought by -rights to have cried. But I did not cry; I was too happy in spite of -it all, and luckily neither father nor mother was of those people who -expect one to cry because one is sorry. - -As I have said, they neither of them said a word of rebuke. I gave my -explanation, and it was accepted; father only declared that it was a -very good thing Trayton Harrod had met me when he did; and mother only -remarked that "least said soonest mended." I suppose they were both -glad to have me safe home. And that drive with father's bailiff, which -had meant so much to me, was thus buried in sacred silence. - -It was the day that Joyce was to come home. As I dressed myself again -after the couple of hours' sleep, which I could not manage to do -without, I remembered that it was the day for Joyce to come home. How -was it that I had not thought of it? How was it that I had not thought -of it all yesterday, nor for many yesterdays before it? - -I was conscious that even my letters to my sister had been fewer and -more hurried than they were at the beginning of her absence. I was -angry with myself for it, for I would not have believed that any -length of absence could have made her anything but the first person -of importance in my life. But of course now that she was home again, -everything would be as before. - -I felt very happy to think that I was to see her again. I begged the -gig to go down to the station and meet her myself. The mare was used to -me now, so that even Joyce would not be nervous. Her face lit up with -her own quiet smile as she saw me, breaking the curves of the sweet -mouth, and depressing, ever so little, that short upper lip of hers, -that always looked as if it had been pinched into its pretty pout. She -looked handsomer than ever; I don't know whether it was because it was -so long since I had seen her, but I thought she was far more beautiful -than I had ever imagined. I pitied poor Frank more than ever for having -to wait so long for a sight of her. - -"Why, Meg," said she, as she came out with all her little parcels, "how -tanned you are! I declare your hair and your face are just upon one -color." - -I laughed aloud merrily. - -"Well, if my face is the color of my hair, it must be flame indeed," -I cried. "But I've been out haymaking, you see, all the time that -you, lazy thing, have been getting a white skin cooped up in a London -parlor. Oh, my dear! I wouldn't have been you." - -"No, you wouldn't have liked it," answered she. "I was pleased to be of -use to poor old aunt, but it was rather dull, and I must say I'm glad -to be home." - -"Everybody has missed you dreadfully," said I. "As for mother and Deb, -they can't tell me often enough that I can't hold a candle to you." - -"Oh, what nonsense, Meg!" murmured she. "You know well enough they -don't mean it." - -"My dear, I don't mind," cried I. "I know it well enough, and I can do -my own bit of work in my own way all the same. But mother has missed -you and no mistake," added I, "though as likely as not she won't let -you guess it. She wanted you home long ago, only then Captain Forrester -came down again." - -A troubled shade came over Joyce's face, as I had noticed it come once -or twice before, at mention of her lover's name. - -"He came down for a few days a week ago, you know," I added. "I told -you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had even remembered -to give that great piece of news. - -"Oh yes, you told me," replied Joyce, in a slow voice. - -"He inquired a great deal after you, of course," I went on. "He asked -me to give you a great many messages." - -She did not answer. A blush had crept up on her dainty cheek, as it -was so apt to do. But we had reached the hill, and I jumped down and -walked up it, giving her the reins to hold. And when we got to the top, -Deborah was there hanging clothes in the back garden ready to catch the -first sight of us along the road, and Reuben at the gate looking half -asleep because he had been out the best part of the night with Jack -Barnstaple, looking for me in the fog. There was no time for any more -private talk. - -Mother, it is true, did not come to the gate, that not being her way, -and when we got inside, you might have thought Joyce had been no -farther than to market from the way in which she received her; but that -meant nothing, it was only Maliphant manners, and father said no more -than, "You're looking hearty, child," before he took me away to write -out his prospectus for him because his hand was stiff. - -It was not till late in the evening that I got time to have a chat with -Joyce in the dear old attic bedroom that she and I had always shared, -and I was anxious for a chat. She had brought back two new gowns for -us, and apart from all I had to say to her, I wanted to see the new -gowns. I had never cared for clothes till quite lately; I used to be -rather ashamed of a new frock, as though folk must think me a fool for -wearing it, and had been altogether painfully wanting in the innocent -vanity which is supposed to be one of a young girl's charms. But lately -it had been different. I wanted to look nice, and I had my own ideas of -how that was to be achieved. Alas! when I saw the gowns, I knew that -they did not meet my views. - -Joyce was settling her things--laying aside her few laces and ribbons -with tender care; she opened the heavy old oak press and took out the -gowns with pride. I think that she was so busy shaking them out that -she did not see my face; I hope so, for I know it fell. The gowns were -pale blue merino, the very thing for her dainty loveliness, but not, I -felt instinctively, the thing for a rough, ruddy colt like me. - -"Won't they spot?" said I, diffidently. - -"That's what mother said," replied she, a little sadly; "but, dear me, -they're our only best frocks; we sha'n't wear them o' bad weather." - -I am so glad I said no more, for she had brought me a book from -London--it was a novel by a famous author of whom we had heard; the -author was a woman, and I had expressed a great wish to read it in -consequence. I was very pleased to think that Joyce should have -remembered it. I recollect that I kissed her for it, and I thought no -more about the frocks, I only felt that it was nice to have sister -home. I had not known until now how much I had missed her. - -"I wonder how we shall all get on when you go away for good and marry -that young man of yours?" said I. "It don't seem as if the place were -itself somehow when you are not there." - -"Time enough to think of that when the day comes," answered Joyce, I -thought a trifle sadly. - -"Well, yes, maybe," said I, doubtfully; "and yet it isn't so very far -off, you know. And if only you had a little more determination in you -it might be a great deal nearer." - -"You seem to be very anxious to get rid of me just as soon as you -have got me home," said she, with just the merest tone of wounded -sensibility in her voice. - -Of course I laughed at that--it wasn't really worth answering. But I -could have said that since three weeks ago, I had learned that which -made me think it harder than ever that Joyce should be separated from -the man she loved. I had not thought much of her or her concerns of -late, but now that she was close to me I felt very sorry for her. -When Joyce had gone away I had been conscious of a curious feeling of -inferiority with regard to her as though she knew some secret which was -to me sealed, but now--now I felt that there was a rent in the cloud -that divided us; I felt that I could look into her world, I felt that -I was on her level. And it was only with a more delicate feeling of -sympathy than formerly that I began to give her some of the messages -with which Frank had intrusted me. - -I could not exactly pretend that he had looked very miserable, but I -could assure her of his continued ardent devotion to her, and this I -did most fervently. Somehow, when I had entered upon this task I began -to feel that it was rather a queer compliment to assure a girl that her -lover was not forgetting her, and I asked myself why I felt obliged to -do it. - -She listened quietly to all that I repeated to her of the short -interview, but when I began to speak of my endeavors to induce mother -to cut the term of the engagement short, she interrupted me with that -serene air of determination which I knew there was no gainsaying. - -"Meg," she said, "I want you never to do that again. I want you to -understand once and for all that if things don't come naturally, it's -because I believe that they oughtn't to come at all. If Frank cares for -me as he says, he will care for me just as much at the end of a year, -and I had rather wait and see." - -I looked at her open-mouthed. - -"I think you're a queer girl," I said at last. "I shouldn't have -thought you wanted to punish yourself for the sake of putting a man to -a test. But I suppose I don't understand. That's the sort of way mother -talks, and I know it's very wise, and all that; but, dear me, I think -it's all stuff wanting to sit down and wait till the wave comes over -you. I'm sure that if _I_ wanted a thing very badly I should love to -fight for it--I should _have_ to fight for it." - -Joyce sighed a little sigh, and sat down by the window, looking out -into the deepening twilight. - -It was close upon midsummer, and the evenings were exquisitely long and -luminous, the twilight stretching almost across to the dawn. After the -heat of the day, lovely soft gray mists rose in transparent sheets off -the marsh below us, and floated upward towards the hill. It was not a -thick fog, as it had been the night before, but just a ghostly veil -thrown across the land, above which lights twinkled amid dark houses on -the distant hill. There was not a breath of wind, and in the silence -the lapping of the sea came faintly to our ear. Joyce looked out into -the mist. - -"Of course," continued I after a while, "I'm not engaged to a man, and -so I don't know what I should do if I were." - -"I think you would do what you do in other matters," answered Joyce. "I -think you would try very hard to get your own way. But then you and I -are not alike." - -No, we were not alike, I felt that. And I supposed that my sister was -right, and that the only difference lay in my being more obstinate. - -"I don't think that a woman ought to fight to have her own way," added -she, in a low voice. - -I considered a moment before I understood what she meant. "Do you mean -to say that if any one fights, it ought to be the man?" asked I. "Well, -you _are_ an unreasonable girl! Good gracious me! When Frank lifts a -finger you are angry with him." - -Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below. - -"I don't think you know _what_ you mean nor _what_ you want," added I, -impatiently. - -Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I know -that it will be all as it is ordained." - -When Joyce talked about things being as they were ordained, it always -put me in a horrible temper; and it was either this or some little -feeling of awkwardness in my mind about Harrod which made me reply very -shortly when she began asking me presently about the new bailiff. - -From some motive entirely incomprehensible to myself, there arose -within me a sudden dislike to the idea that Joyce should guess at my -liking for him. And so when she asked what he was like, I replied, -gruffly, "Oh, like many other men--plain and very obstinate." - -This was true, but the impression that I gave in saying it was false; -I knew that perfectly well, but I was too proud to change it, although -in my heart I felt ashamed that I should be guilty of any sort of -deception towards my dear, simple Joyce, and when I was really so glad -to have her back again. - -She looked distressed for a moment, but then she brightened up and -said, gayly, "Well, many a good-fellow is plain, and as for being -obstinate, that should be to your liking." - -"So it is," said I. "Of course." - -"I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate with -father." - -I laughed. "Oh, birds of a feather, you know," said I. "We're all -obstinate together. But we none of us waste words, so we get on -first-rate." - -Joyce sighed a little. "Mother said what a good-fellow he was, but -father wouldn't say a word about him to me," she said. "Of course he -never does. But I don't think he's looking well. He has aged so of -late." - -I looked at her defiantly. So many people had said the same thing -during the last few months. - -"Good gracious, Joyce!" I cried. "You're always saying that. Father's -hale and hearty enough. Folk are bound to grow older. And I can tell -you one thing, he's not half so touchy as he was. He and squire haven't -had more than two rows since you left. That's a very good sign." - -"Yes, I _am_ glad of that," agreed Joyce. "The squire's too good a -friend to quarrel with. And though of course I know the quarrels never -meant anything, they used to make me uncomfortable, Meg, and worse -than ever when you used to follow father's way. It didn't seem pretty -in one of us girls, dear. Something's good for mere manners. We don't -think enough of them." - -I was silent. My manners were certainly of the worst when my heart -did not go with them. But I was conscious that I was not quite the -same girl as I had been when my sister left. Even to the squire I was -different; since his talk to me on the garden terrace I had felt no -inclination to be anything but gentle to him. - -"Of course, if father quarrels with the bailiff it's as bad for his -own health as if he quarrelled with the squire," went on my sister, -concernedly. - -"Why, dear me, Joyce, who said he quarrelled with him?" cried I. -"I only said they were both obstinate. Father wouldn't think of -quarrelling with his bailiff." - -I took off my dress and hung it up, and shook out my red mop of hair -before I said another word. - -Then I added, "And I think Mr. Harrod is very considerate towards -father. He's far too good a fellow not to be respectful to an old man." -I felt bound to say that much for honesty. - -"Well, then, you do like him?" cried Joyce. - -"Who said I didn't?" answered I. "He's a downright honest fellow, with -no nonsense about him." - -It wasn't quite what I felt about Trayton Harrod, but it was as near as -I could get to the truth, and it seemed to give Joyce some idea of my -liking him, for she turned round with a brightened face, and laid her -hand on my shoulder. - -"Oh, Meg, you can't think how pleased you make me by saying that," she -murmured, softly; "I have been afraid you would just set your face -against the poor man out of mere obstinacy, and make things unpleasant -for everybody. You do sometimes, you know. And when you never mentioned -him in your letters, I made sure that was the reason. I thought you -were just making yourself as disagreeable as ever you could to show you -hated his coming to Knellestone." - -"Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch," laughed I, -awkwardly. - -"You _are_ tetchy when you have a mind to be, you know, though you can -be so bright when you're pleased that one's forced to love you. That's -just the pity." - -"Well, of course, I _did_ hate a bailiff coming to Knellestone," -answered I; "but now that I see how much cleverer he is about farming -than we are, I'm pleased." - -"I see," said Joyce. "Then he _is_ clever?" - -"Oh yes," answered I. "He's clever." - -Joyce paused. - -"Well, then," she said, diffidently, "I hope before long you'll be real -good friends. I have often thought, Meg, that the folk here aren't -bright enough for you. I believe if you weren't set down in a country -village you'd be a real clever girl." - -I laughed, not ill pleased. - -"Oh no, Joyce," said I. "I expect what you and I think clever wouldn't -really be so." - -"I know more than you think," said Joyce, sagely, nodding her pretty -head with an authoritative air. "I don't mean book-learning clever, I -mean mother-wit. And do you know, Meg, I do so hope that Mr. Harrod -being here may make a difference to you! But you don't seem to have -seen much of him yet." - -"Oh yes," said I, evasively. "He comes in to supper most nights; and of -course one meets out-doors now and then in a country place." - -"Well," concluded Joyce, with a sort of air of resignation, "of course -it wasn't to be expected you'd be great friends just at once. It's a -great deal to be thankful for you don't quarrel." - -"Oh no," said I; "we don't quarrel." - -And then we both said our prayers and got into bed. - -But for a long while I lay awake thinking--wondering why I had -pretended that I did not like the new bailiff, and whether I really was -a clever girl; and--shall I confess it?--hoping a little that the pale -blue dress would become me. And then, as I fell asleep and far into my -dreams, the memory of my ride with Trayton Harrod shone through the -mist, and I thought again of that bar of silver promise across the dawn -beyond which I had not been able to see. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Two whole days passed without Mr. Harrod coming to the Grange. I dare -say nobody else noticed it; I dare say _I_ should not have noticed it -if--if I had not thought that he would come to inquire how I did after -our adventure. I was always supposed to resent being asked how I did: -and here I was, quite hurt because a young man whom I had known not -three months had omitted to do so. - -I took covert means of finding out that father and Reuben had seen him, -and that he was well; and I am quite sure that I blushed with pleasure -when, on the morning of the third day, mother said that she was certain -the white curtains at "The Elms" must be getting soiled, and suggested -that I should carry up a new pair. Harrod was becoming quite a favorite -with her, or she would never have taken so much trouble for his -comforts--it was no necessary duty on her part. I blushed, but I did -not think that any one had noticed it. - -When mother had left the kitchen, however, with the key of the linen -press, I saw that two little black eyes were fixed on me with a merry -twinkle. They made me angry for a moment, I don't know why; but it was -a shame to be angry with old Deb, especially when her dear old red face -was so kindly and affectionate: it was not always wont to be so. - -"Well, well, I'm glad to see folk are for forgiving that poor young man -for being bailiff at Knellestone," said she, with good-humored banter. -"When I see'd what a fine masterful chap it were, I had my doubts it ud -end that way." - -"What way, if you please?" asked I, haughtily. - -Deborah laughed. "What do you say, Joyce?" said she, turning to my -sister, who was intent upon some one of the household duties that she -was so glad to be back at. "They aren't quite so hard on the young man -as they were for going to be, are they?" - -"I don't quite understand," said Joyce, with perfectly genuine -innocence. "Why should mother be hard upon him? It isn't his fault if -he's father's bailiff. Besides, I'm sure mother sees how useful he is -to father." - -Deb laughed louder than ever. "There, bless you, my dear," said she; -"you never could see round a corner; but you've more common-sense than -the lot of 'em. Why should folk owe the man a grudge, to be sure? All -the same, your mother'll spoil him afore she's done with him. Curtains, -indeed! I never knowed a bailiff as needed 'em before." - -Mother came back at that moment with the things, and I hastened to beg -Joyce to accompany me up to "The Elms" after dinner. Somehow, although -in my heart I knew that I was longing to see Trayton Harrod again, a -sudden shyness had come over me at the thought of meeting him, and I -wanted Joyce to be there. - -Joyce, however, would not come; she begged off on the score of many -household jobs that had got behind-hand in her absence, and mother -said that I might just as well go alone and get the thing done with -Dorcas's help, for that of course the bailiff was sure to be out at -that time of day. - -So alone I was forced to go. Most likely, as mother said, Mr. Harrod -would be out; but I took Taff with me--a dog was better than most -human beings; and with Taff at my heels I felt my self-consciousness -evaporate. - -I crossed the lane and skirted the brow of the hill behind the -pine-tree lane; the mill-arms faced the village with a west wind, -but the breeze had dropped since morning, and the air was heavy and -thunderous. I thought I would go round by the new reservoir and see how -the work was getting on. Mr. Harrod would very likely be there: it was -that one among his new ventures about which at the moment he was the -most excited, and the pipes were just about to be laid; even if I met -him he was not obliged to know that I was going to "The Elms." - -My heart began to beat a little as I drew near the group, but the -bailiff was not there; only old Luck, the sheep-dog, ambled towards me -wagging his tail, and I knew that Reuben could not be far off. Sure -enough, there he was among the men, who were just leaving off work, -talking to Jack Barnstaple. - -"I want to know whatever he needs to come stuffing his new-fangled -notions down folk's throats as have thriven on the old ones all their -lives?" the latter was saying. "We don't understand such things -hereabouts. We haven't been so well brought up. He'd best let us alone." - -"Yes, I telled him so," said Reuben, sagely, shaking his stately white -head, that looked for all the world like parson's when he had his hat -off; "but these young folk they must always be thinking they knows -better than them as has a life's experience. But look 'ere, lads, we -hain't been educated at the Agricultural College at Ashford, ye know." - -"Blow the Agricultural College," muttered Jack Barnstaple. - -"Yes; and so he'll say when he finds out he's none so sure about these -Golding 'ops. And so master'll say when he finds as he's dropped all -his money over pipes and wells as was never meant to answer." - -"What do you mean by that, Reuben?" said I, coming up behind him. And -I am sure that my cheeks were red, and my eyes black, as father would -declare they were when the devil got into me. "What was never meant to -answer?" - -Reuben looked crestfallen, for of course I know he had not expected me -to be within hearing, and the other men began to pack up their tools -for going home. - -"Well, miss, it don't stand to reason that a man can expect water to go -uphill to please him," said Reuben, with a grim smile. - -"Water finds its own level, Reuben," explained I, sagaciously; "Mr. -Harrod told me that, and father said so too. The spring is on yonder -hill, and if the pipes are laid through the valley to this hill, the -water is bound to come to the same level." - -I saw smiles upon the men's faces, and Reuben shook his head. - -"There's nothing will bring water uphill saving a pump, miss," said -Jack Barnstaple, gloomily. He always said everything gloomily--it was a -way he had. - -"Nay," added Reuben, looking at me with those pathetic eyes of his that -seemed to say so much that he can never have intended; "it may be a man -or it may be a beast, but some one has got to draw the water uphill -afore it'll come. It may run down yonder hill, but it won't run up this -un of its own self. 'Tain't in nature." - -"Well, Reuben, I advise you to keep to talking of what you can -understand," said I, crossly. "I should have thought you would have had -sense enough to know that Mr. Harrod must needs know better than you." - -A faint provoking smile spread over Reuben's lips. "Young folk holds -together," said he, laconically. "'Tis in nature." - -I flashed an angry glance at the old man, but I saw a lurking -smile--for the first time in my experience--on the face of stolid Jack -Barnstaple, who had lingered behind the others. My face went red, as -red as my red hair, and I stooped down to caress the dog. What did the -man mean? what had Deb meant that morning in the kitchen? But I raised -my head defiantly. - -"Well, I think you had just best all of you wait and see," said I, -severely. "You'll feel great fools when you find you have made a -mistake." - -I was alluding to the water scheme; but it struck me afterwards that -the men might have misunderstood me. But it was too late to correct the -mistake, and without another word I ran down the hill to the path that -led to "The Elms." - -My cheeks were hot with the consciousness that I had a secret that -could be guessed even by Reuben Ruck; the consciousness made my heart -beat again very fast; but it need not have done so: as was to have been -expected, Mr. Harrod was not at home. - -Dorcas and I put up the curtains together, and then I was left alone in -the little parlor while she went to make me a cup of tea. It was the -first time I had been alone in that room--his room. - -A bare, comfortless, countryman's and bachelor's room, but more -interesting to me than the daintiest lady's parlor. By the empty -hearth the high-backed wooden chair in which he sat; beside the wide -old-fashioned grate the hob upon which sang the kettle for his lonely -breakfast; in the centre of the rough brick floor the large square -oaken table at which he ate; on the high chimney-piece the pipes that -he smoked, the tobacco-jar from which he filled them, a revolver, and -an almanac; on the walls two water-color drawings, one representing -an old gentleman in an arm-chair, the other the outside of a country -house overgrown with wistaria; standing in the corner a handsome -fowling-piece, which I had seen him carry; in the bookshelf between the -windows the books that he read. - -I wandered up and looked at them: a curious assemblage of shabby -volumes, although at that time they embodied to me all that was highest -in culture. That was ten years ago, and I was in love. Had it not been -so I might have remembered that father's library was at least as good. - -Milton, a twelve-volumed edition of Shakespeare, a Bible, a Pilgrim's -Progress, a volume of Cowper's Poems, a volume of Percy's Reliques, -Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Sir Walter -Scott's Novels, Byron, Burns, some odd volumes of Dickens, and then -books on Agriculture, the authors and their titles strange to me; this -is all I remember. A mixed collection--probably the result of several -generations, but not a bad one if Trayton Harrod read it all and read -it well. - -I looked at it sadly. Save the Walter Scott Novels, the Burns Poems, -the Bible, and the Pilgrim's Progress, I knew none of them excepting -by name, and not all of them even then. I felt very ignorant and very -much ashamed of myself; for I never doubted that Harrod read and knew -all these books, and how could a man who knew so much have anything in -common with a girl who knew so little? I resolved to read, to learn, to -grow clever. Joyce had said that I was clever, Joyce might know; why -not? - -I took the volume of Milton down and sat upon the low window-seat -reading it. It was rather dreadful to be immediately confronted with -Satan as an orator, for I had never been used to consider him as a -personage, but rather as a grim embodiment of evil too horrible to be -named aloud. But the rich and sonorous flow of the splendid verse -fascinated me and I read on, although I didn't understand much that I -read. - -My thoughts wandered often to notice that the square of carpet was -threadbare, and that I must persuade mother to get a new one; or to -gaze out of the window upon the sloping bosom of the downs whereon this -house stood lonely--a mark for all the winds of heaven; in the serene -solitude the sleepy sheep strayed idly--cropping as they went--white -blots upon the yellow pastures. And all the while I was listening for a -footstep that I feared yet hoped would come, longing to be away and yet -incapable of the determination which should take me from that chance of -a possible meeting. But, long as I have taken to tell it, the time that -I waited was not ten minutes before a heavy foot made the boards creak -in the passage and a hand was on the door-knob. I started up, my cheeks -aflame--the volume of Milton on the floor. But when the door opened it -was Squire Broderick who stood in the opening. I don't think the red -in my face faded, for I was vexed that he should see me there, and I -fancied that he looked surprised. - -"Oh, do you know if Harrod is at home?" asked he. - -"No, he's not," answered I, glancing up at the clean windows; "and I've -been putting up fresh curtains meanwhile." - -"They look delicious," said the squire, with a little awkward laugh, -not quite so hearty as usual. "What care you take of him!" - -"Mother is a dreadful fidget, you know," murmured I. - -"And at the same time you took a turn at Harrod's library," smiled he, -picking up the volume which lay near my foot. "Milton! Rather a heavy -order for a child like you, isn't it?" - -I flushed up angrily. A child! - -"Do you understand it?" asked he. - -I struggled for a moment between pride and truthfulness. "No," said I, -"not all. Do you?" - -He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being cross. - -"Come, I'm not going to confess my ignorance to you," he laughed. "I'm -too old;" and he took hold of my arm to help it into the sleeve of my -jacket, which I was trying to put on. - -But at that moment Dorcas brought in the tea, and of course I was -obliged to stay and have some, and even to hand a cup to the squire to -please her; country-folk stand on ceremony over such things, and I did -not want to offend Dorcas. - -"You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you?" said I, for want -of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She looks -better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks." - -"I am glad of that," said he, glancing at me, although of course -he must have been thinking of sister; "they're the only ones worth -having." And then, although he promised to come in and welcome her -home, he went back to our first subject of talk. - -"As you're so fond of reading, you ought to get hold of a bit of -Shakespeare," said he. - -"Should I like that?" asked I. "I like poetry when it sounds nice, but -I like the Waverley novels best." - -"But Shakespeare is novel and poetry too," said the squire. "I'm no -great reader of anything but the news myself, but I like my Shakespeare -now and again." - -"Father keeps all those nice bound books in the glass-case," said I, -"and I don't believe mother would let _me_ have them." - -The squire laughed. "Your mother thinks girls have something better to -do than to read books," smiled he. "Reading is for lonely bachelors -like Trayton Harrod." - -"He's no more lonely than you are, Mr. Broderick," said I, "and yet you -always seem to be quite happy." - -He did not answer, and I was sorry for my thoughtless words, -remembering that brief episode in his life when he had not been lonely. - -"So you think I am always quite happy?" said he at last. - -I blushed. Somehow the question was of a more intimate kind than the -squire had ever addressed to me before, for although he had spoken -familiarly to me on my own account, he had never allowed me to know any -feeling of his own. I was afraid he must be going to speak to me about -Joyce. - -"Oh yes," I replied, lightly; "I think you're one of the jolliest -people I know." - -"Well, you're right, so I am," said he, gayly; "and I'm blessed in -having rare good friends. But it does sometimes occur to me to think -that I am pretty well alone in the world, Miss Margaret." - -He looked round at me in his frank way, but I noticed that the hand -which held his stout walking-stick trembled a little. I blushed again. -It was very unusual for me, but he made me feel uncomfortable; I did -not want him to tell me of his love for my sister, for I felt that -if he did I _must_ tell him of her secret engagement to his nephew, -and that would be breaking my promise to my parents. Suddenly an idea -struck me; I thought I would take the bull by the horns. - -"You should marry," said I, boldly. - -He looked at me in blank astonishment. - -"Of course," added I, "there's no one hereabouts that would be good -enough for you--unless it might be Mary Thorne, and she is only a -manufacturer's daughter. You must have a real lady, of course. You -should go and spend a bit of time up in London, and bring back a nice -wife with you. Wouldn't it brighten up the country-side!" - -I marvel at myself for my boldness; I, scarcely more than a child, as -he had said, to a man so much older than myself! But the squire did not -seem in the least offended, only he looked very grave. - -"You don't approve of people not marrying in what is called their own -rank of life, I see," he said presently, with a twinkle of humor in his -eye. - -"No," said I, gravely; "I agree with father." - -"Ah!" said the squire, with the air of a man who is getting proof of -something that he has affirmed. "I told Frank so the other day. As a -rule, the farmer class consider it just as great a disadvantage to mate -with us as we do to mate with them." - -I bit my lip. So he did consider it a falling down for a gentleman to -marry a farmer's daughter! Well, let him just keep himself to himself, -then. But what business had he to go meddling with Frank's opinions? I -was very angry with him. - -"I think you're quite right," I said, shortly. "They do." - -"It takes a very great attachment to bridge over the ditch," said he, -meditatively. - -There came a time when I remembered those words of his, but at the -moment I scarcely noticed them. I thought I heard a footstep on the -gravel without, and my fear of being surprised by the master of the -house came back stronger than ever, because of the presence of the -squire. - -"I must be getting home now," said I, hastily. "I'm afraid there's a -storm coming up;" and even as I spoke, a deep, low growl echoed round -the hills. - -The squire fully agreed that there was no time to be lost if one -did not want to get a drenching, and on the slope outside we parted -company, he promising once more to come up in the evening and see Joyce. - -The bailiff was not within sight. I had got over my visit quite safely; -but, alas! I am not sure that I was relieved. I walked homeward as fast -as I could, for heavy drops had begun to fall, and flashes of light -rent the purple horizon. The sun had set, leaving a dull red lake of -fire in the cleft, as it were, of two purple-black cloud-mountains; -above the lake a tongue of cloud, lurid with the after-glow, swooped -like a vulture upon the land, where every shape of hill and homestead -and church-spire lay clearly defined, and yet all covered as if with a -pall of deathly gloom. - -The storm advanced with terrible swiftness. By the time I had crossed -the hop-gardens and was climbing the opposite lane, it had burst with -all its strength, and was tearing the sky with seams of fire, and -emptying spouts of rain upon the land. I was not afraid of a storm, but -certainly I had never seen a fiercer one. - -I ran on, forgetful for the moment of everything but the desire to be -home, and thus it was that I did not notice footsteps behind until they -were alongside of me, and Mr. Harrod's voice was saying, almost in my -ear, "Miss Maliphant!" - -The voice made me start, but the tone of it sent a thrill through me. - -"I should have thought that one piece of foolhardiness was enough for -one week," added he, with a certain look of feeling, veiled under -roughness, that always seemed to me to transform his face. - -"I took no harm from the other night," said I. - -"Well, you may thank your stars that you didn't," answered he; "and you -certainly will get wet through now." - -I laughed contentedly. "_That_ won't hurt me," I said. "I've been up at -'The Elms' to put up fresh curtains." I hadn't meant to tell him, but a -sudden spirit of mischief, and I don't know what sort of desire to know -the effect of the speech on him, prompted me. - -"To 'The Elms!'" cried he, in a disappointed tone. And then, in a lower -voice, "To put up the curtains for me." - -"Yes," answered I, demurely, "mother sent me?" - -What he would have answered to that I don't know; for at that moment -the sky seemed suddenly to open and to be the mouth of a flaming -furnace full of fire, far into the depths of the heavens; it was the -hour that should have been twilight, but it was dark, save when that -great sheet of blue light wrapped the marsh in splendor; then the brown -and white cattle huddled in groups on the pastures, the heavy gray -citadel on the plain, the wide stretch of sea that, save for the white -plumes of its waves, was ink beyond the brown of its shallows, the wide -stretch of monotonous level land, the rising hill, with the old city -gate close before is--all was suddenly revealed in one vivid panorama -and faded again into mystery. The thunder followed close upon the -lightning--a deafening crash overhead. - -"By Jove!" said Harrod. "That's close. I hope you're not frightened of -a storm." - -"Frightened!" repeated I, scornfully. - -"Some girls are," said he, half apologetically, looking at me with -admiration. - -"Not I, though," I laughed. - -But as I spoke my heart stood still. We had climbed the hill and had -reached a spot where the trees overshadowed the road, nearly meeting -overhead; a fiery fork crossed the white path in front of us, there was -a kind of crackle in the wood, and a blue flame seemed to dart out of -the branch of an elm close at hand. - -"Great God!" ejaculated Trayton Harrod under his breath, and he flung -his arm around me and dragged me to the other side of the path. - -I had said an instant before that I was not frightened, and I had -spoken the truth; but if I had said now that I was not frightened it -would have been because the sweet sense of protecting strength, which -this danger had called forth, had brought with it a happiness stronger -than fear. - -"Can you run?" said he. "We must get away from these trees." - -I could not speak, something was in my throat, but I obeyed him. We -ran till we reached the abbey, where it stood in the great open space -of its own graveyard, and there we drew aside under the shadow of the -eastern buttress, protected a little by the projecting arch. - -"You're wet through," said he, laying his hand upon my arm. - -I laughed again, not in the sort of exultant way I had laughed when he -had asked me if I was afraid of lightning, but in a low, foolish kind -of fashion. - -"It won't hurt me," murmured I. "Nothing hurts me. I'm so strong." - -"Oh yes, you're the right sort, I know," said he; "but all the same, -you ought to have stayed at 'The Elms' till it was over. If I had been -there I should have made you stay." - -How angry those words would have made me a week ago! But now they -thrilled me with delight, and with that same tender fear and longing -of fresh experience that had haunted me ever since the night upon the -garden cliff. Could he really have "made" me do anything? - -"I shouldn't have stopped," I said; "no, not for any one. I'm not -afraid of a storm." But I think there was very little of my old -defiance in the tone. He laughed gently, and I added, "I don't see any -use in waiting here." - -I advanced forward into the open, but as I did so a fresh flash rent -the clouds and illumined the ground all about us, revealing darkest -corners in its searching light. He took me by the hand and drew me once -more into the shadow--not only into the shadow of the buttress this -time, but of the ruined roof of a transept, where only the lightning -could have discovered us. - -"Not yet," he said, gently; and although there was no need for it, he -still held my hand in his. - -My foolish heart began to beat wildly. What did it mean? Was that -coming to pass about which I had wondered sometimes of late? I wanted -to get away, and yet I could not have moved for worlds. I waited with -my heart beating against my side. - -But he did not speak, he only held my hand in his firmly, and I felt as -though his eyes were upon me in the dark. I may have been wrong, but I -felt as though his eyes were upon me. - -All at once in the ivied wall above our heads an owl shrieked. We -started asunder, and I felt almost as though I must have been doing -something wrong, so hard did my heart thump against my side. - -"Fancy that poor old barn-owl being able to frighten two sensible -people," laughed Trayton Harrod. "But upon my word I never heard him -make such a noise before." - -I made no reply. I came out once more into the path, and, turning, held -out my hand. - -"The storm is over," I said. "Good-night." - -"Oh, I must see you home," said he. "It's getting quite dark." - -He walked forward with me, but the spell was broken, only my heart -still beat against my side. - -"You'll come in to supper?" said I, when we reached the gate. I felt -myself speaking as one in a dream. The only thing that I was conscious -of was a strange and foolish longing that he should not go away from me. - -He did not answer for a moment, but then he said: "I'm afraid I -mustn't. I'm drenched through; I shouldn't be presentable." - -I had forgotten it; we were, in truth, neither of us presentable. - -"Well, you must come to-morrow," said I, in as matter-of-fact a tone as -I could muster. "Mother expects you, and my sister is home now." - -He stepped forward in front of me and opened the front door, which -always stood on the latch. The brightness from within dazzled me for a -moment as he stood aside to let me pass, and there in the brightness -stood Joyce. - -How well I remember it! She had on a soft white muslin dress, that -fell in straight, soft folds to her feet, and made her look very tall -and slender, very fair and white. The light from the lamp fell down on -her shining golden hair; her blue eyes were just raised under the dark -lashes, gentle and serene. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, -there flashed upon me a sense of the contrast between myself and her. - -I stood there an instant in my dripping old brown frock looking at her. -Then I turned round to introduce Mr. Harrod. But the house door had -closed behind me again. He was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Trayton Harrod did come to supper the next day. - -I remember that mother upbraided him for having been so many days -absent, and that he made some kind of an excuse for himself; and I -remember that I blushed as he made it, and felt quite awkward when he -shook hands with me and asked if I had taken any cold of the night -before. But I was happy--very, very happy. I was happy even in fancying -that I saw a certain self-consciousness in him also, in the persistence -with which he talked to mother, and in something that crossed his face -when our eyes met, which was almost as often as his were not fixed on -Joyce, where she sat in her old place by the window. - -Every one always was struck with Joyce at first, and I had been so -anxious that Harrod should duly admire her that I had purposely -refrained from saying much to raise his expectations, so that no doubt -his surprise was as great as his admiration; and I had never seen my -sister look handsomer than she did that night. - -There was a little increased air of dignity about her since she had -been to London, and had been thrown a little more on her own resources, -which sat with a pretty style upon her serene and modest loveliness. -She looked people in the face as she never used to do, raising her eyes -without lifting that little head of hers that was always just slightly -bent, like some regal lily or drooping tulip. She talked a little more, -and she blushed seldomer. - -She did not talk much to Mr. Harrod, but then he was very busy -explaining his scheme of water-supply to Mr. Hoad, who had dropped in -to supper. But she talked quite brightly to Squire Broderick when he -came, as he had promised, to bid her welcome home, and shone in her -very best light, just as I had wished she should shine--the beautiful -hostess of our home. - -It was a happy evening, typical of our happy home-life, that, flecked -as it may have been by little troubles, as the summer sky is flecked -with clouds, was yet fair and warm as the bright July days that -followed one another so radiantly. - -Ah me, how little I guessed that night that there were not many more -such happy family parties in store for us when we should sit around -that board united, and without a gap in the family circle! It is good -that we cannot see into the future. No gathering cloud disquieted me -that night; no fears for myself nor for any of those whom I loved; I -was absorbed in that one throbbing, all-engrossing dream which was -slowly beginning to fill my life. - -Absorbed, yet not quite so much absorbed but that I could feel sorry -for my sister's sake that one who had been there was now absent: where -Frank Forrester had been Trayton Harrod now was. I could not honestly -say to myself that I wished it differently, but I was sorry for Joyce. -She, however, did not seem to be depressed, she was very bright; the -gladness she had in being at home again gave her beauty just that touch -of sparkle which it sometimes lacked. - -It was a warm evening, and when supper was over we drew our chairs -around the low porch that led onto the lawn, and took our ease in the -half-light. It was very rarely that we sat thus idle, but sometimes, -of summer evenings, mother was fond of a bit of leisure herself, and -she never made us work when she was idle. The scent of the sweet-peas -and the roses came heavy upon the air; the dusk was still luminous with -lingering daylight, or with heralding a moon that had not yet risen. - -"I hear you have got Southdowns into your flock, Harrod," said the -squire. "I hope you won't have any difficulty with them. I feel -confident they ought to do, but when I tried the experiment it -certainly failed." - -"Perhaps they weren't carefully looked after," answered Harrod. "Of -course you have got to acclimatize animals just as well as people, and -the more carefully the more delicate they are." - -"Ah, I dare say it may be a matter of management," agreed the squire. -"I hadn't a very good shepherd at the time." - -"I don't leave it to a shepherd," said Harrod. "Shepherds are clever -enough, and there are plenty of things I learn from them and think no -shame of it; but they know only what experience has taught them, and -these shepherds have no experience of Southdowns. Besides, they are a -prejudiced lot, and they set their faces against new ventures." - -The squire laughed, a laugh in which Mr. Hoad--subdued as he always was -by Mr. Broderick's presence--ventured to join. - -"Yes, you're right there," he said. "You get it hot and strong, I dare -say, all round. They snigger at you pretty well in the village for this -water scheme of yours, I can tell you, Mr. Bailiff." - -My cheek flamed, and Mr. Hoad went down one step lower still in my -estimation. - -"I dare say," said Harrod, shortly, and he said it in a tone of voice -as much as to say, "and I don't care." - -"But it's a very clever thing, isn't it?" asked dear old mother, in her -gentle voice. "I never could have believed such a thing was possible." - -I could have said that Reuben declared it was not possible, but I would -not have told on Reuben for worlds. - -"It's not a new discovery," answered the squire, who had taken no -notice of the solicitor, and took mother's question to himself, "but -it's a very useful one." - -"I wonder you haven't thought of using it before for the Manor," put in -father. "You must need a deal of water there." - -I felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing father stand up for Harrod; -for, as far as I knew anything of their discussions, I had fancied he -was not very keen upon the scheme. - -"I had thought of it," answered Mr. Broderick; "but I didn't think I -could afford it. I didn't think it would pay for one individual." - -I fancied father was vexed at this. He began tapping his foot in the -old irritable way, which I had not noticed in him of late; for, as I -had remarked to Joyce on her return, I thought he was far less peppery -than he used to be, and I fancied it was a good sign for his health. - -"Neither do we think it will pay for one individual," said he. "We -intend to make many individuals pay for it." - -He said "we" and I was pleased. - -"Well, of course I shall have the water laid on to the Manor, and -am grateful to the man who started the thing," said the squire, in -a conciliatory tone; "but I'm a little doubtful as to your making -a good job of it all round. Marshlands folk are very obstinate and -old-fashioned." - -"Oh, they'll come to see which side their bread's buttered on in the -long-run," declared Harrod, confidently. - -But Mr. Hoad smiled a sardonic smile, and the squire added: "I'm afraid -it will cost you a good bit of money meanwhile, Maliphant. However, -as I sincerely hope you are going to make your fortune over these -new hop-fields, it won't signify." It was, to say the least of it, -an indiscreet speech, not to say an unallowable one; for I believe -there is nothing a man dislikes so much as having his affairs talked -of in public. It was not at all like the squire, and I could not help -thinking, even at the time, that Harrod must have in some way nettled -Mr. Broderick, although I was very far from guessing at the cause of -the annoyance. - -Father rose and walked slowly down to the edge of the cliff. I could -not tell whether he did it to keep his temper or to conceal his -trouble, for I fancied he looked troubled as he passed me. - -"The hops are a splendid crop now," said Harrod, without moving, as he -lighted a fresh pipe. He never allowed himself to show if he were vexed. - -But the squire did not reply. He rose and followed father. I'm sure he -was sorry for what he had said. It was the solicitor who answered. - -"It ought to be a fine crop," he said. "Maliphant paid a long price for -it." - -"How do you know what price he paid for it?" asked Harrod, sharply. - -I fancied Mr. Hoad looked disconcerted for a moment, but he soon -recovered himself. - -"Well, to tell the truth, he did me the honor to ask my advice," -he replied, with a sort of smile that I longed to shake him for. -"No offence to you, Mr. Harrod, I hope," he added, blandly. "I know -Maliphant holds your opinion in the highest reverence; but--well, I'm -an old friend." - -My blood boiled in the most absurd way; but Harrod was far too wise -to be annoyed, or at any rate to show it. He only remained perfectly -silent, smoking his pipe. - -Father and the squire came up the lawn again; I wondered what they -had said to each other. The evening was fresh and fragrant after the -rain of the night before upon the hot earth; the dusky plain lay calm -beneath us; the moon had just risen and lit the sea faintly in the -distance; nature was quiet and sweet, but I felt somehow as though the -pleasure of our evening was a little spoiled. Mother tried to pick -up the talk again, but she was not altogether lucky in her choice of -subjects. - -"Why, squire, the girls tell me the right-of-way is closed across that -bit of common by Dead Man's Lane," said she. "Do you know whose doing -it is?" - -Father turned round sharply. - -"It never was of much use," said Mr. Hoad, answering instead. "The way -by the lane is nearly as short, and much cooler." - -"It depends where people are going whether it is as short," said -father. "It's a flagrant piece of injustice. Do you know who's to blame -for it?" - -Mr. Hoad looked uneasy, and did not reply; and the squire burst into a -loud laugh. - -"Why, the Radical candidate, to be sure," said he, with a pardonable -sneer in his hearty voice. "Those are the men for that kind of job." - -"Mr. Thorne!" exclaimed mother. "No, never!" - -"Ay," said father under his breath; "a man who can rob his -fellow-creatures in big things won't think much of robbing them in -little things!" - -"You shouldn't run down your own party, Maliphant," laughed the squire. -"Thorne is no particular friend of mine, but robbery is too big a word." - -"I understand he's a very charitable man," said mother, who always -would have fair play. - -"Yes," echoed Joyce. "You don't know, father, what a deal of good Mary -Thorne does among the poor." - -Father rose; he was trembling. I saw a fire leap in his eye. - -"It's easy to give back with your left hand half of what you robbed -with your right," said he, in a low voice, that yet resounded like the -murmur of distant thunder; "but it isn't what those who are struggling -for freedom will care to see in their representative." - -"Oh, I don't believe in a Radical party--here anyhow," said the squire, -abruptly; "not even if you began to back the candidate, Maliphant." - -"I shall not back the candidate," said father, grimly. - -"No," laughed the squire. "He has done for himself with you over this -right-of-way." - -"When I see a man who declares he is going into Parliament on the -people's side deliberately try to rob the people of their lawful -possessions, I feel more than ever that the name of Radical is but a -snare," said father. - -His face had grown purple with emotion; his voice quivered with it; his -hand shook. - -I saw mother look at him anxiously, and I saw a sullen expression -settle down upon Mr. Hoad's detested face. - -"Now, Laban, don't go getting yourself into a heat," said mother, in -her quiet, sensible voice. "You know how bad it is for your health, and -it's unpleasant for all parties besides." - -"I can't make head or tail of the Radicals myself," began the squire, -who, it must be remembered, spoke ten years ago. But mother interrupted -him. - -"Come, come, squire," said she, in the pretty familiar way in which she -always addressed him, "we'll have no more politics. The girls and me -don't understand such talk, and it isn't civil to be leaving us o' one -side all the evening." - -He laughed, and asked what we wanted to talk about, and at the same -time Mr. Hoad came forward to take his leave. - -He smiled, shaking hands with mother, but his smile was a sour one, and -I noticed that he scarcely touched father's hand. - -"I suppose Hoad is in a bad temper because you won't take up Thorne's -cause," said the squire, as soon as the solicitor had passed up the -passage. - -Father gave a grunt of acquiescence, and the squire turned to us with -most marked and laudable intent to obey mother and change the talk. - -"Have you heard the news?" he asked. "Young Squire Ingram is to be -married to Miss Upjohn. I heard it yesterday riding round that way." - -Mother looked up eagerly. The subject was one quite to her own mind, -but the news was startling. - -"Never to Nance Upjohn of Bredemere Farm?" asked she. - -"The very same, Mrs. Maliphant," replied the squire. "Folk say they are -to be married at Michaelmas." - -"Heart alive!" ejaculated mother, lapsing into the vernacular in her -excitement. "Isn't old squire in a fine way?" - -"I believe he doesn't like it," agreed Mr. Broderick, evasively. - -"Why not, pray?" asked father, rousing from his reverie. - -I always noticed that once he had been brought to arms upon the real -interest of his life, he was the more ready to take fire upon secondary -subjects, even remotely connected with it. No one answered him, and he -repeated his question. - -"Why not, pray? The Upjohns come of as good a stock as we do, though -they haven't been so long upon the soil." - -"To be sure," put in mother, quickly. "And I've been told she's as well -schooled as any town miss. I don't mean to say she isn't good enough -for the young squire, only I've heard say the old gentleman is so -terribly particular." - -"Yes, indeed, she's as well-behaved and pretty a young woman as you -could find anywhere," declared Mr. Broderick, warmly. "Old Ingram can -have no objection on anything but the score of connection." - -"Connection! What's that?" exclaimed father. "If the girl comes of a -different stock to the lad, why must it needs be of a worse one? Faith, -if I were neighbor Upjohn, 'tis I would have the objection." - -"Nonsense, Laban," said mother, half annoyed. - -"No; I wouldn't let any girl of mine wed where it was made a favor to -receive her," continued father, hotly. - -"There are plenty among the gentry too that would make it no favor at -all to receive a nice young woman just because she came of another -class," added mother, with a vexed manner. "There's good honest folk -all the world over, and bad ones too." - -"Right you are, old woman," answered father, after a moment's -hesitation, with generous repentance. "There's some among them that -I'm proud to shake by the hand. But all the same, a prejudice is a -prejudice, and a class is a class." - -"You'd best come in-doors," said mother, still annoyed. "It's getting -chill, and you've been out too long already, I believe." - -He rose with the habit of obedience, and we all stood up, but he -tottered as he walked. I saw Harrod, who was beside him, stretch out -his arm. - -He did not take it, he walked in bravely, the others following--all but -myself and the squire. I saw he was troubled--I saw he wanted to speak -to me, and I did not like to move. - -"Your father is so emphatic, so very emphatic," he murmured; "but I -hope, Miss Margaret, that you do not misunderstand me." - -I looked at him a little surprised. I could not see how it could -signify to him whether I misunderstood him or not. If it had been Joyce -it would have been different. - -"Oh no, I don't misunderstand you," said I, a little hurriedly, for I -wanted to get in-doors. "It was quite clear." - -I was vexed with the squire. I was angry with him for having seemed to -make light of Harrod's knowledge and of Harrod's schemes. - -I thought it was not fair of him before father--and when he had always -bidden me fight the bailiff's battles for the good of the farm. So I -answered, a little proudly, "You can't grumble if father and I have our -pride of class as well as you yours." - -"No, I don't grumble," said he, with a smile, and yet I fancied with -something half like a sigh too. "Only I, personally, have very little -pride of class." - -"I'm glad to hear it," said I, and I ran in-doors. - -I wanted to say good-night to Trayton Harrod. But in the parlor there -was nobody but my sister, leaning up against the open casement and -looking out into the fragrant summer night. - -"What are you doing?" I asked, abruptly. "Where are they all?" And as I -spoke I heard a step die away on the gravel outside. - -"I have just let Mr. Harrod out," answered she, "and I came to close -up the windows. I think mother has gone up-stairs with father. I don't -believe he is well." - -I did not answer. It was Joyce's place again, now that she was home, to -close the front door after the guests. But it was the first time that -Harrod had left the Grange without bidding me good-night. When Joyce -asked me where the squire was I did not care. It was she who hastened -out to meet him and made mother's apologies; it was she who let him out -as she had let out the bailiff. - -It needed a sudden scare about my dear father to bring me back to -myself. He had had a bad fainting fit--the worst we had ever seen him -in. It was the bell ringing up-stairs, and mother's frightened voice -calling, that waked me from a dream. And the evening ended badly, as I -had had a silly presentiment that it would end. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -The next morning the sun shone, and the world was as gay as ever. -Father declared himself well and hearty; complained of no pain and -betrayed no weakness, was merry at the breakfast-table over a letter of -Frank Forrester's, and withdrew with it as usual to his study, where he -spent more and more time opposite the portrait of Camille Lambert, and -left farm matters more and more to his bailiff. - -For me the sun shone the more brightly because of a short, delightful -ten minutes with Trayton Harrod, in which we said nothing in -particular, but that chased away the tiny shadow of disappointment that -had crossed the horizon of my sweet, dawning experience, and banished -it--disgraced and ashamed--into oblivion. - -It was a very short ten minutes. Miss Farnham and the vicar's wife had -been to call, and the Hoad girls had come to ask us to go to a ball at -the town-hall. "Oh, do come," they had said, "and bring the bailiff;" -and my dignity had flamed into my cheek, and I had been grateful to -mother for promptly refusing for us, and even to old Miss Farnham for -declaring that we were more sensible than most girls, and weren't -always on the watch for new occasions to pinch in our waists. Miss -Farnham, I recollect, had declared afterwards that it was only a dodge -to catch father. - -It was after the guests had left, and while we were waiting for mother -to get her bonnet on for a drive, that Harrod and I got those short ten -minutes to ourselves. - -Joyce had gone to Guestling to lunch with some friends, and mother had -proposed to Harrod to drive us over to fetch her, so that at the same -time she might look at a cow which he had found for her there for sale. - -We set forth, Harrod driving mother in the cart with the steady old -black horse, and I riding Marigold alongside. - -I saw as soon as we set out that he was just a little shade out of -spirits. It troubled me at first, but I soon guessed, or thought I -guessed, what it was about. - -"Wasn't that Mr. Hoad I saw up atop of the hill with you and Laban?" -asked mother, just after we had set out. - -Harrod nodded. - -"What does the man want meddling with farming?" asked mother. "I -shouldn't have thought he was a wiseacre on such-like." - -Harrod shrugged his shoulders; he evidently didn't intend to commit -himself. - -"Mr. Hoad wouldn't wait to hear if other folk thought him a wiseacre -before he'd think he had a right to interfere," laughed I. "Those smart -daughters of his came inviting Joyce and me to a ball just now." - -"You're not going?" asked Harrod, quickly. - -"No, no," answered mother. "I don't hold with that kind of amusement -for young folk. There's too many strangers." - -"Why don't you want us to go?" asked I, softly. - -He didn't reply; he whipped up the horse a little instead. - -"Miss Farnham declared our going would have been made use of to try and -draw father into the election against his will," said I. "But she's -always got some queer notion in her head." - -"Well, upon my word, I don't believe there's much these electioneering -chaps would stick at," declared Harrod, contemptuously. "I declare -I believe they'd step into a man's house and get his own chairs and -tables to go against him if they could." - -Mother laughed, but Harrod did not laugh. - -"And if they can't have their way, there's nothing they wouldn't do to -spite a fellow," added he. - -"Why, what has Mr. Hoad been doing to spite you?" asked mother. - -"Nothing, ma'am, nothing at all," declared the bailiff. "There's -nothing he could do to spite me, for I don't set enough store by him; -and I should doubt if there's any would be led far by the words of a -man that shows himself such a time-server." - -He spoke so bitterly that I looked at him in sheer astonishment. - -"I thought Mr. Hoad seemed to have taken quite a fancy to you last -night," said mother. - -Harrod laughed harshly. - -"Yes," he said; and then he added, abruptly, "There's some folk's -seemings that aren't to be trusted. They depend upon what they can get." - -"Good gracious!" said mother. "Whatever could Mr. Hoad want to get of -you?" - -"Excuse me, ma'am, I don't know that he wanted to get anything," -declared Harrod, evidently feeling that he had gone too far. "I know no -ill of the man. I don't like him--that's all." - -Mother was silent, but I said, boldly, "No more do I." - -And there talk on the subject ended. It was not until many a long -day afterwards that I knew that Hoad--moved, I suppose, by Harrod's -argument against father on the previous evening--had tried to persuade -him to help in some sort against his employer in the coming political -struggle. He little knew the man with whom he had to deal, and that no -depreciatory remarks which spite might induce him to make to father -upon his farming capacities would have any influence upon father's -bailiff. Only I was glad I had agreed with him in not liking Mr. Hoad. -It got me a reproving look from mother, but it got me a little smile -from him, which in the state of my feelings added one little grain more -to the growing sum of my unconfessed happiness. - -It was a long way to Guestling. Away past "The Elms" and its -hop-gardens, and many other hop-gardens again, where the bines were -growing tall and rich with their pale green clusters; away between -blackberry and bryony hedges that the stately foxglove adorned, between -banks white with hemlock; away onto the breast of the breezy downs, -where the hills were blue for a border, and solitary clumps of pines -grew unexpectedly by the road-side. - -The west became a sea of flame beyond the vastness of that swelling -bosom, just as it had been almost every evening through that glorious -summer, and set a line of blood-red upon the horizon for miles around, -firing clots of cloud that floated upon lakes of tender green, and -hemming other masses with rims of gold that were as the edges of -burning linings to their softness. - -Mother was almost afraid of it. She declared that she had never seen a -sunset that swallowed up half the heavens like that, and she wondered -what it boded; for even after we had turned and left the west behind us -the clouds that sailed the blue were red with it still. - -When we got near to Guestling we were overtaken by Squire Broderick on -his roan cob. I think he had intended to ride farther but he seemed so -delighted to find mother out-of-doors that he could not detach himself -from our party. - -"Why, Mrs. Maliphant," I remember his saying with that half-respectful, -half-affectionate air of familiarity that he always used to our mother, -"if you knew how becoming that white bonnet is you would put it on -oftener. It's quite a treat to see you out driving." - -Mother declared that only business had brought her out now; and I -remember how the squire told her she would never find a new friend to -take the place of an old one, not if Harrod were to find her a cow with -twice the good points of poor old Betsey. And while Mr. Broderick was -paying sweet compliments to mother, Harrod and I exchanged a few more -of those commonplace words, the memory of which made me merry, even -when presently I was obliged to drop behind and ride alongside of the -squire. - -I had something to say to him, and as it related to the bailiff, I was -not unwilling to drop behind. The night before he had made light of -those schemes and improvements on the farm of which I was beginning to -be so proud, and I had not thought it fair of him to try and set his -own protégé in a poor light before father. I meant to tell him so, and -this was the opportunity. - -"Mr. Broderick," said I, driving boldly into my subject, "why did you -talk last night as if things were going badly on the farm? You told me -a while ago that all the farm wanted was a younger head and heart upon -it--somebody more ambitious to work for it. Yet now one would almost -fancy you mistrusted the very man you recommended, and wanted to make -father mistrust him." - -I saw the squire start and look at me--look at me in a sharp, inquiring -sort of way. - -"I did not intend to give that impression," he said. - -"Well, then, you did," said I, wisely shaking my head. "Any one could -have seen it. You were quite cool about the water scheme. Why, father -took his part against you." - -"I think you exaggerate, Miss Margaret," murmured he. - -"Oh no, I don't," I insisted. "And if I am rude, I beg your pardon; -but I think it a pity you should undo all the work I have been doing. -Besides," added I, in a lower voice, "it's not fair. You said you were -'afraid' he was spending too much money, and you 'hoped' he would make -a fortune over the hops. It didn't sound as if you believed it would be -so." - -"Well, so I do hope a fortune will be made," smiled he. - -"Ah, but you said it as if it might have been quite the contrary," -insisted I. - -"Did I?" repeated he, humbly. - -"Yes," declared I. "If you don't think Mr. Harrod manages well, you -should tell him so; you are his friend." - -The squire was silent, moodily silent. - -"Ah, who can tell what is good management in hops?" sighed he at last. -"The most gambling thing that a man can touch. All chance. Twelve -hours' storm, a few scalding hot days, and a few night-mists at the -wrong moment, may ruin the most brilliant hopes of weeks. I have seen -fortunes lost over hops. A field that will bring forth hundreds one -year will scarcely pay for the picking the next. No man ought to touch -hops who has not plenty of money at his back." - -"Do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous risk?" I -asked. - -"Oh, of course he must know it," answered the squire. - -And there he stopped short. I did not choose to ask any more. It seemed -like mistrusting father to ask questions about his affairs. But I -wondered whether he was a man who had "plenty of money at his back." - -"I think Harrod is a safe fellow, and a clever fellow," added the -squire. "A cool-headed, hard-headed sort of chap, who ought not to be -over-sanguine though he is young." - -The words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty--they -offended me. - -"Oh, I am sure you would not have recommended him to father unless you -had had a high opinion of him," said I, haughtily. "And I am glad to -say that father has a high opinion of him himself, and always follows -his advice. I do not suppose that anything that any one said would -prejudice father against Mr. Harrod now. In fact we all have the -highest opinion of him." - -With that I touched Marigold with the whip and sent her capering -forward to the cart. Mother started, and reproved me sharply; but at -that moment we drew up at the farm gates, and she turned round to beg -the squire would spare her a few minutes to give his opinion also upon -the contemplated purchase. Harrod looked round, and I was angry, for -she had no right to have done it. I do not know how the squire could -have consented, but he did so, though half unwillingly, and demurring -to Harrod's first right. - -"The squire is such a very old friend of ours," I murmured, half -apologetically, to the bailiff on the first opportunity. "Mother has so -often asked his advice." - -"Yes, yes, I quite understand," replied he. And then he added--I almost -wondered why--"I suppose you remember him ever since you were a child?" - -"Oh yes," laughed I; "he used to play with us when we were little girls -and he was a young man." - -"A young man!" smiled Harrod. "What is he now?" - -"I should think he must be nearly thirty-five," said I, gravely. "And -you know he's a widower." - -"Indeed! Well, he's not too old to marry again," smiled Trayton Harrod, -looking at me. - -"That's what mother says," answered I. And then I added--and Heaven -knows what induced me to do it, for I had no right to speak of -it--"Some folk think he's sweet on my sister." - -It was unlike me to babble of family secrets. I glanced at my -companion. There was a little scowl upon his brow; it was usually -there when he was thinking, and he was ruffled still with vexation -at mother's unusual want of tact. He looked after her where she was -talking with the squire. - -"Oh, is it to be a match?" he asked, carelessly. - -"Oh, dear no," laughed I. "Joyce--" - -I was going to say, "Joyce cares for some one else," but luckily I -remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time. - -"Joyce doesn't even think he likes her," I added instead. - -He turned to me and broke into a little laugh. I thought it almost rude -of him, and wondered whether he, too, thought that a farmer's daughter -was not worthy of marriage with a squire. - -But he was looking at me--he was looking at me with a strange look in -his eyes. Yes, there was no mistaking it--it was a look of admiration, -a look of almost tender admiration, and as I felt it upon me a blush -rose to my cheek that so rarely blushed, and the power of thinking went -from me; I only felt his presence. - -I don't know how long we stood thus; I suppose it was only seconds -before he said, "I believe you would put that sister of yours before -you in everything, Miss Margaret." - -I made an effort to understand him, for I think I was in a dream. - -"Yes, she's so beautiful!" I murmured. - -"Beautiful!" echoed he. - -There was something in the tone of his voice that made me lift my -eyes to his face. His gaze was fixed on the gate of the farm-yard. I -followed his gaze. Joyce had entered and was coming towards us. This -was where we had arranged to meet. - -She shook hands with Harrod and then with the squire, who joined us -with mother. We all went together into the cow-shed. - -I don't remember what remarks were made upon Betsey's proposed -successor; I don't even remember if we bought her or not. I don't think -I was in the mood to attend much to the matter. I was roused from a -brown-study by a curious remark of Trayton Harrod's. - -Mother had found occasion to ask him whether the woman whom she -had provided for him at "The Elms" made him comfortable, and was -pleasant-spoken. It had been on her mind, I know, ever since he had -been there. - -"She does her work," answered the bailiff. "I don't know if she's -pleasant-spoken. I never speak to her." - -"That's not the way to get the best out of a woman," laughed the -squire. "We poor bachelors need something more than bare duty out of -our servants." He said it merrily, and yet I did not think he was merry. - -"I want no more than duty," repeated Harrod. "Talking, unless you have -something to say, is waste of time." - -"You'll have to mend your manners, my lad, if ever you hope to persuade -any young lady to become your wife," laughed the squire again. - -"I never should hope to do any such thing," answered Harrod. "I -shouldn't be such a fool." And with that he walked away out of the -farm-yard and began untying the cart for the homeward journey. - -Mother looked after him, puzzled for a moment. Then, nodding her head -at the squire, she said, softly: "Ah, that's what all you young men say -till you've fixed on the girl you want. You're none so backward then." - -I fancied the squire looked a little uncomfortable, but he said, -lightly: "Do you think not, Mrs. Maliphant? Well, nothing venture, -nothing have, they say. Harrod has had his fingers burned, I suppose. -A bit sore on the subject, but he'll get over it. He's a nice lad; -though, to take his word for it, his wife wouldn't have a very cheerful -life of it!" - -"Well, we needn't take his word for it," said mother. "And, good -gracious me! it's fools indeed that would want to wed upon nothing -but sugar. There'd be no grit in love at all if we hadn't some duties -towards one another that weren't all pleasant. 'Tis in the doing of -them that love grows stronger. I've always thought you can't smell the -best of roses till you get near enough to feel the thorns." - -This speech of mother's comes back to me vividly now, but at the time I -was scarcely conscious of it. - -Trayton Harrod's words--"I shouldn't be such a fool"--were ringing -in my ears. What did he mean by them? I looked round after him and -saw that my sister had strolled across to where he was waiting by the -cart. It was natural enough--it was time to be getting homeward. But as -I looked I saw him bend towards her just a little and say something. -The expression of his face had softened again, and the scowl on his -sunburnt brow had faded, but his lips were pressed together so that -they were quite thin instead of full, as they appeared in their normal -shape; and I wondered why he looked so, and why what he said made the -blush, that was now so much rarer than it used to be, creep up Joyce's -cheek till it overspread her fair brow and tipped her delicate little -ears with red. - -An uncontrollable, unreasonable fit of anger took possession of me. I -flew across the yard to that corner where Marigold was tied beside the -dog-cart. - -"I suppose you read a great deal of evenings?" Joyce was saying. - -And Harrod answered, shortly, "No, I don't so much as I used to do. I -am too much taken up with other things." - -Simple words enough, but they set my heart aflame, yet left me sick and -sore. - -I undid the mare with a rough hand, and, before she had time to see -what I was about, I set my foot in the stirrup and sprang into the -saddle. She was used to my doing that, but she was not used to my doing -it in that way. - -She reared and kicked. My thoughts were elsewhere, and it served me -right that, for the first time in my life, she threw me. - -I heard a scream from mother, and the next moment I felt that a man's -arm had helped me up from the ground. - -I was not hurt, only a little stunned, and when I saw that it was -Trayton Harrod who had picked me up, I broke away from him and -staggered forward to mother. - -"I'm not hurt, mother, not a bit," said I, and then I burst into tears. -Oh, how ashamed I was! I who prided myself on self-control. - -But she put her arm round me and laid my head on her shoulder, and her -rare tenderness soothed me as nothing else in the world could have -done. I kept my face hid on her neck, as I had done when I was a little -child, and used to be quite confident that she could cure every wound. - -Yet it was only for a moment. - -"I had better ride, and lead the mare," I heard the squire say in a -low, concerned voice. "She won't be fit to mount again, or even to -drive the cart." - -I lifted my head. - -"Oh, indeed, Squire Broderick, I'm not in the least hurt," said I, as -cheerfully as I could, for I was grateful for those kindly tones. "I -can ride Marigold home perfectly well." - -"No, my dear, that you won't," said mother, all her decision returning -now that her alarm was over. "I've had quite enough of this fright for -one day." - -Joyce returned from the farm with a glass of water, and Harrod by her -side with some brandy that he had begged at the doctor's house hard -by. I drank the water but I refused the brandy, and scoffed at the -notion of the doctor coming out in person. Then I got into the cart. I -insisted on driving, and as the horse was the quiet old black Dobbin, -mother consented. Joyce sat behind, and Harrod rode after upon Marigold. - -The squire showed signs of joining our caravan at first; but as I -turned round and assured him once more that I was perfectly well, and -begged him to continue his road, he was almost obliged to turn his -horse back again in the direction in which he had been going when he -overtook us. But he still looked so very much concerned that I was -forced to laugh at him. I think it was the only time I laughed that day. - -The drive home was soothing enough across those miles of serene -pasture-land whose marge the sea was always kissing, and where the -sheep cropped, in sleepy passiveness, beneath faint rosy clouds that -lay motionless upon the soft blue; the vast dreamy pastures, browning -with autumn tints of many planes of autumn grasses that changed as -they swayed in the lazy breeze, were hemmed by a winding strip of -beach, pink or blue, according as the sun was behind or above one, and -to-night bordered beyond it by a stretch of golden sand, over which -rows upon rows of little waves rippled with the incoming tide. We drove -along the margin of the beach; the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid -their pale, blue-green leaves upon every mound of shingle, and not -even the distant church-spires and masts of ships, that told of man's -presence, could disturb the breathless placidity that no memory of -storm or strife seemed to awaken into a throb of life. - -But suddenly upon the vast line of wide horizon, where the sea melted -into the sky with a little hovering streak of haze, a throb of light -stirred; at first it was but a spot of gold upon the bosom of the -distance, but it was a spot that grew larger, though with a soft and -rayless radiance unlike the dazzle of the sun-setting; then out of the -breast of it was made a red ball that sent a path of gilded crimson -down the sea, and tipped the crest of every little wave that crept -towards us with a crown of opalescent light; it was the sun's last kiss -welcoming the moon as she rose out of the sea. - -It was a rare and a beautiful sight, and to me, who loved the world in -which I lived so well, it should have brought joyousness. And yet it -did not please me. I would rather have had it chill and stormy, with a -thick fog creeping up out of the sea--a fog such as that through which -Trayton Harrod's tall figure had loomed the first time that I had met -him, just on this very tract of land. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -On the day following I met Frank Forrester in the lane by the vicarage. - -I verily believe I had forgotten all about him during the past few -days, but that very morning I had remembered that he was most likely -at the Priory for that garden-party to which father had so annoyingly -forbidden us to go; and I vowed in my heart that, by hook or by crook, -my sister should see him before he left the neighborhood. It was a -regular piece of good-luck my meeting him thus; but I thought, when he -first saw me, that he was going to avoid me. He seemed, however, to -think better of it, and came striding towards me, swaying his tall, -lithe body, and welcoming me even from a distance with the pleasant -smile, without which one would scarcely have known his handsome face. I -was glad he had thought better of it, for I should certainly not have -allowed him to pass me. - -"Holloa, Miss Margaret," said he, when we were within ear-shot; "this -is delightful. I was afraid I shouldn't get a chance of seeing any of -you, as I am forbidden the house. How are you?" - -"I am very well," said I, looking at him. - -I fancied he had grown smarter in his appearance than he used to be; -there was nothing that I could take hold of, and yet somehow he seemed -to me to be changed. - -"Why weren't you at the garden-party yesterday?" asked he. "It was -quite gay." - -"Yesterday! Was it yesterday?" said I, half disappointed. "We weren't -allowed to go, you know. We wanted to go very much." - -He looked at me in that open-eyed way of his for a moment, and then he -shifted his glance away from my face and laughed a little uneasily. - -"Was I the cause?" he asked. - -"Oh, dear no," cried I, eagerly, although in my heart I knew well -enough that, with mother, he had been. "But you know father never did -like the Thornes. They belong to that class that he dislikes so. What -do you call it--capitalists? Why, he hates them ever so much worse than -landed proprietors, and they are bad enough." - -I said this jokingly, feeling that, as of course Frank sympathized with -all these views and convictions of father's, he would understand, even -though he might not himself feel just as strongly towards those members -of the obnoxious class who had been his friends from his youth upward. -But a shadow of annoyance or uneasiness--I did not know which--passed -over his face like a little summer cloud, although the full, changeful -mouth still kept its smile. - -"And Mr. Thorne has done something special to vex him," I continued. -"He has closed the right-of-way over the common by Dead Man's Lane. So -now father has forbidden us to go to the house." - -The slightest possible touch of scorn curled Frank's lip under the -silky brown mustache. - -"That's a pity," said he. - -"Well," said I, "you would feel just the same, of course, if these -people didn't happen to be old friends of yours, and they never were -friends of father's. He disliked them buying the property from the very -first." - -"It makes things rather uncomfortable to drive a theory as far as -that," laughed Frank. - -Of course it was what I often felt myself, but somehow it vexed me to -hear him say so; if he was the friend to father that he seemed to be, -he had no business to say it, and specially to me. - -"Well, anyhow, it's the reason we didn't go to the garden-party," said -I, shortly. And then I repeated again, and in a pleasanter tone, "But -we wanted to go very much, of course." - -"Ah yes," answered he, glancing at me and then away again, and -referring, I suppose, to the pronoun I had used, "your sister is -home again now. Of course I heard it in the village. What a pity you -couldn't come! We had a dance afterwards--altogether a delightful -evening, and you would have enjoyed it immensely. Besides," he began, -and then stopped, and then ended abruptly, "every one missed you." - -I laughed. "That means to say every one missed Joyce," I said. "I am -not so silly as to think people mean me when they mean Joyce--some -people, of course, more particularly than others." - -It was rather a foolish remark, and he took no notice of it. - -"Your sister is well, I hope," was all he said. - -"Oh yes, she's well," I answered. - -And then there was an awkward pause. I wondered why in the world he did -not ask any of the innumerable questions that must be in his mind about -her, and yet I felt that it was natural he should be awkward, natural -that he should not want to talk to me about her. - -I did not know exactly what to say, and yet I would not let this golden -opportunity slip. - -"You must come and see for yourself," said I, boldly, without in the -least considering what this course of action laid me open to from -mother. "She's prettier and sweeter than ever, Joyce is, since she's -been to London." - -He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze. - -"Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible!" -ejaculated he. - -"You came to see us the last time you were in Marshlands," said I. -"You don't come to see Joyce, you come to see father. Father would be -dreadfully hurt to think you were in Marshlands and didn't see him. He -doesn't know you are here." This was true, but whether father would -have wished me to run so against mother's wishes, I did not stop to -think. - -"Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange," said he, -softly. - -I almost stamped my foot with vexation at the lack of recklessness in -this lover of Joyce's, whose ardent devotion I had begun by envying her -once upon a time. But I reflected that it was both foolish and unfair -to be vexed, because Frank Forrester was only keeping to the word of -his agreement. - -"You come to see father, not to see Joyce," I repeated, dogmatically. -"Father doesn't seem to be happy about the way that notion of his is -turning out." - -"That notion?" repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of voice. - -I looked at him. - -"Yes," said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something or other -that father and you have got up between yourselves." - -Still he looked puzzled. - -"Some school, or something for poor children," explained I, I think a -trifle impatiently. - -"Oh, of course, of course," cried Frank. "I didn't quite understand -what you were referring to, and one has so many of those things on -hand, so many sad cases, there is so much to be done. But I remember -all about it. We must push it. It's a fine scheme, but it will need a -great deal of pushing, a great deal of interest. It's not the kind of -thing that will float in a day. Your father, of course, is apt to be -over-sanguine." - -I did not answer. It crossed my mind vaguely that three months ago it -had been father who had said that Frank was apt to be over-sanguine; or -rather, who had given it so to be understood, in words spoken with a -kindly smile and some sort of an expression of praise for the ardor of -youth. "It's to the young ones that we must look to fly high," he had -said, or words to that effect. - -"Well, you must come and talk it over with father," said I, somewhat -puzzled. "He thinks a great deal of you." - -"Ah! And so do I think a great deal of him, I assure you," cried Frank. -"He's a delightful old man! So bright and fresh and full of enthusiasm! -One would never believe he had lived all his life in a place like this, -looking after cows and sheep. There are very few men of better position -who can talk as he talks." - -I suppose I ought to have been pleased at this, but instead of that it -made me unaccountably angry for a moment. I thought it a great liberty -on the part of a young fellow like Captain Forrester to speak like -that of an old man like my father. But one could not be exactly angry -with Frank. In the first place, he was so pleasant and good-natured -and sympathetic that one felt the fault must be on one's own side; and -then it would have been waste of time, for he would either never have -perceived it, or he would have been so surprised that one would have -been ashamed to continue it. - -However, I tried to speak in an off-hand way as I said, "Yes, he -doesn't often get any one here whom he cares to talk to, so of course -he is very glad of whoever it is that will look at things a bit as he -does." And then, afraid lest I should have said too much, and prevent -him from coming to the Grange after all, I added, "But he's really fond -of you, and if he thinks you have been so near the place and haven't -been to see him, I'm afraid he'll be hurt." - -Frank looked undecided a moment, and I glanced at him anxiously. Truly, -I was very eager that day to secure a companion for my father. - -"Father is depressed," I added. "I don't think he's quite so cheerful -and hopeful as he used to be, and I am sure you would do him good." - -Frank laughed. "Very well," said he, turning down the lane with me, "if -your mother is displeased, Miss Margaret, let it be on your head." - -"Oh, I'm not afraid of mother," I said, although in truth I was very -much afraid of her. "She will be pleased enough if you cheer up father. -And if you tell him some good news of his plan about the poor little -children, you will cheer him up." - -"He mustn't set his heart too much upon that just at present," said -Frank, in a cool, business-like kind of way. "There's a deal of hard, -patient work to be done at that before it'll take any shape, you know." - -"Yes, I understand," said I; "but who is going to do the work?" - -He looked a bit put out for the moment, but he said, cheerily: -"Ah, that's just it. We must find the proper man--the man for the -place--then it'll go like a house on fire." And then he turned and -fixed his brown eyes on me, as was his wont, and said, "But how is it -that this bailiff hasn't roused your father's heart in his own work -more, and made him forget these outside schemes?" - -I flushed with anger; I thought the remark unjustifiable. - -"I hear he's a clever fellow," continued the captain. "That's it, I -suppose. He prefers to go his own gait. Although they tell me"--he said -this as if he were paying me a compliment--"they tell me you can twist -him round your little finger." - -"Who are they?" cried I, my lip trembling. "They had best mind their -own business." - -He laughed gayly. "The same as ever, I see," he said. "But you might -well be proud of such a feat. He struck me as a tough customer the only -time I saw him." - -I set my lips tight together and refused to answer another word; but -when we had left the pines, and turned out of the lane into the road, I -was sorry for him, and forgave him; for glancing at him, I saw that his -cheek was quite pale. - -"I'm dreadfully afraid of your parents," laughed he. "Your mother won't -deign to shake hands with me, and your father will be hurt because I -haven't brought a train of little London waifs at my heels." - -Of course it was neither the prospect of mother's cold welcome nor the -thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation of the scheme -which had really made his cheek white. I understood things better than -that; it was that he was going to see Joyce, whom he had not seen for -three months. I was sorry for the poor fellow, in spite of his having -offended me. - -On the top of my original plan, which had only been to get him to the -Grange, another took sudden shape. It was a Thursday--dairy morning. -But as we had come down the street I had seen mother's tall back beside -the counter of the village grocer's shop, and I determined to risk -Deborah's presence, and to bring Frank straight in through the back -door to the milk-pans and Joyce's face. - -Luck favored me. Deborah had gone outside to rinse some vessel not -quite to her mind, and Joyce stood alone with a fresh pink frock and -a fresh fair face against the white tiles, kneading the butter with -sleeves upturned. I left Frank there, and ran on to Deborah, who showed -signs of returning. - -"Whatever does that dandified young beau want round about again?" said -she. "I thought he had taken those handsome calves of his to London to -make love to the ladies." - -I must mention that Frank always wore a knickerbocker suit down at -Marshlands--a costume less in vogue ten years ago than it is now, and -an affectation which found no favor in Deborah's sight. To tell the -truth, it did not please me that day; nothing about him quite pleased -me, yet indeed I think he was the same as he had always been. But I -was not going to let myself dwell upon anything that was not in the -captain's favor, and certainly I was not going to let Deborah comment -upon it. After all, as I had once said to mother, he was my sister's -lover, not mine; but he was my sister's lover, and as such I should -stick up for him through thick and thin. - -"He's come to see father," said I, shortly. - -"That's the first time I knew that the way to your father's room was -through the dairy," grinned Deborah. "But look here, Margaret"--and -here old Deb grew as solemn as a judge--"you'd no business to bring -him in there when your mother was away. You know very well you -hadn't. You'll get into a scrape." How much Deb really knew about the -particulars of Joyce's engagement I have never found out, but that she -guessed what she did not know was more than likely. - -"Why not?" asked I. - -"Why not? Because he's a slippery young eel, that's why not," said -Deborah. "If Joyce cares for him, the sooner she leaves off the -better. But it's my belief she's got more sense in her head than some -folk give her credit for." - -"Of course Joyce cares for him," cried I, angrily, "and he's not -slippery at all. He can't come courting her when mother forbids him the -house. But it's very unkind of mother, and that's why I brought him. -I don't care if I do get into a scrape for it. You're a hard-hearted -old woman to talk so. But I suppose you've forgotten what it was to be -young--it's so long ago." - -"I remember enough about it to know how many men out of a dozen there -are that are fit to be trusted, my dear," smiled Deborah, grimly. "And -my old ears haven't grown so queer yet but they can tell a jig from a -psalm tune." - -"I don't think you go to church often enough to know them apart," -sneered I; for Deb was not as conspicuous for piety as Reuben, and was -wont to declare that when she listened to parson her head grew that -muddled and stagnated she couldn't tell her left hand from her right. - -"Ah, I'm not like some folk as likes to go and be told o' their sins," -said she, alluding, as usual, to the unlucky Reuben. "I know mine well -enough, and on the Sabbath I likes to put up my legs and give my mind -to 'em in peace and quiet. But I'm not afraid I shall hear the Old -Hundredth if I go into the dairy just now," grinned she, catching up -the milk-pail, which she had been scrubbing viciously, "so I'll just go -back and finish my work." - -I laid my hand on her arm to detain her, but at that moment Trayton -Harrod appeared round the corner from the garden. - -"Where's Reuben?" asked he, with a thunder-cloud upon his brow. - -"That's more than I can tell you," answered Deb, shortly. "I'm not the -man's keeper." - -"What's the matter?" I asked. - -"Some malicious persons have been taking the trouble to break the pipes -that have just been laid across to the new reservoir," he answered. -"They were not yet covered in. But I'm determined to find out the -offenders." - -"Well, you needn't come asking after Reuben, then," said old Deb, with -rough stanchness, "The man mayn't be much for brains, but he ain't got -time to plan tricks o' that sort." - -"I'm not suspecting Reuben," answered Harrod, "but I look to Reuben to -help me to find out who's to blame." - -"Well, if there's wrong been done against master, so he will," -declared Deborah again. "Reuben's a true man to his master, say what -you may of him. You'd best not come telling any tales of Reuben to me." - -"No, no," replied Harrod, hurriedly, "I want to tell no tales of Reuben -nor any one else, but I must get to the bottom of the matter;" and then -turning to me, he added, "I must see your father at once." - -He moved across the yard to the outer door, but midway he stopped, -listening. - -The voices in the dairy had attracted his attention. I think he was -going to ask me who was there, when suddenly Joyce came out of the -door, her cheeks red, her eyes wet with tears. - -As soon as she saw him she ran quickly by, and round the corner of the -yard to the front of the house; but I knew by the way that he glanced -at me that he had seen that her eyes were full of tears. He did not -speak, however, neither did he look after her. He first glanced across -to the dairy, but Frank Forrester did not show himself, and he strode -across to the gate of the yard and let himself out into the road. - -"I'll see your father another time," he said to me as he went past. - -I went round the corner, meaning to follow Joyce, but remembering that -Frank must be in a very uncomfortable position, and that I was rather -bound to see him through with it, I went back and found him bidding -Deborah tell me he would come again in the evening. - -"The master'll be busy all the evening," she said; and her -inhospitality decided me to make a bold move. - -"Father is at liberty now," I said. "Please come this way." And he had -no choice but to follow me round to the front. - -Luckily for me, father was there alone, reading his newspaper in the -few spare minutes before dinner; neither Joyce nor mother was visible. -He welcomed Frank even more cordially than I had hoped. - -"How are you, lad?" he cried, heartily. "Why, I didn't know you were -near the place at all. When did you come?" - -Frank sat down in his usual place, and the two talked together just -as if they had never parted. All Frank's cautiousness, not to say -half-heartedness, about father's scheme seemed to have evaporated, -now that he was in his presence, just as if he were afraid or ashamed -not to be as enthusiastic as he was. As I listened to them I couldn't -believe that he had told me ten minutes before that father was "apt to -be over-sanguine," and that he must not "set his heart too much" upon -the matter. On the contrary, it seemed to be Frank who was sanguine, -and father who was suggesting the difficulties of working; father, -moreover, who used almost the very phrase about its being necessary to -get the proper man to work the details, and Frank who declared, as he -had declared before, that _he_ would be the man. How was it that, as -soon as his back was turned, the fire seemed to die out of him? Was he -like some sort of fire-bricks that can absorb heat, and give it out -again fiercely while the fire is around them, but that grow dead and -cold as soon as the surrounding warmth is withdrawn? - -But it was very pleasant to see them there talking as merrily as ever. -Merrily? Well, yes, with Frank it was "merrily," but with father I -don't think it had ever been anything but earnestly, and now I fancied -that there was even a tinge of hopelessness about him which had not -been there of old. Yet he smiled often, and treated Frank just in -that half-rough, half-affectionate way that he had always had towards -him--something protecting, something humorous, almost as though he -traced in him a streak of weakness, but could not help being fascinated -by the bright kindliness, the sympathetic desire to please in spite of -himself. - -Perhaps it was so with all of us--with all of us, excepting mother. -She had never felt the fascination, she had always seen straight -through the mirror. And as she had always been inexorable, so she was -inexorable that day. - -Father, in his eagerness about the interest that he had at heart, had -forgotten all about Joyce, all about the reason why Frank Forrester -should not be at the Grange. But I had not forgotten it; I knew mother -would not have forgotten it, and I stood, with a trembling heart, -listening for her step upon the stairs within. - -She came at last, and one glance at her face told me that Frank's -presence was no surprise to her; that she knew of it, and knew of it -from Joyce. Her lips were pressed together half nervously, her blue -eyes were smaller than usual; and she rustled her dress as she walked, -which somehow always seemed to me a sure sign of displeasure in her. -She did not hold out her hand to him, although he advanced with every -show of cordiality to greet her as usual. - -"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant, you are angry with me for coming here," cried -he, in a half-humorous, half-appealing voice, that he was wont to use -when he wanted to conciliate. "You're quite right. What can I say for -myself?" - -He did not say that I had persuaded him. I liked him for that, but I -said it for him. - -"_I_ brought Captain Forrester here, mother," said I, in my boldest -manner, trying neither to blush nor to let my voice quaver. "I knew -father would want to see him, and he is in Marshlands for only one day." - -"Captain Forrester is always welcome in my house," said father, and his -voice did shake a little, but whether from annoyance or distress it -was not possible to tell. But mother said nothing. She kept her hands -folded in front of her. It was Joyce who spoke--Joyce, who had followed -mother down the stairs and out into the porch. - -"Father, I have been telling mother," said she, coming very close to -him, "that I knew nothing of Captain Forrester's coming here to-day. I -did not wish to see him." - -She kept her head bent as she said the words, but she said them quite -firmly, although in a low voice. Certainly Joyce, for a gentle and -diffident girl, had a wonderful trick of courage at times. I admired -her for it, although to-day she angered me; she might have allowed her -love to shine forth a little--for her lover's sake if not for her own. - -"All right, my girl," answered father, without looking at her. "I -understand." - -And then he turned again to Frank. "You'll stay and have a bit of -dinner with us?" he said. - -I was grateful to him for saying it, for things were altogether -rather uncomfortable. The honesty and frankness of our family is -a characteristic of which I am proud, but it certainly has its -uncomfortable side. Fortunately Captain Forrester's pleasant and easy -manners were second nature, and cost him no trouble. They came to the -aid of us all that day. - -"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant does not echo that kind invitation of yours," said -he. "I know I have deserved her wrath. A bargain is a bargain." He put -out his hand again. "But she will shake hands with me before I go?" he -added. - -Who could have resisted him? Mother put out her hand. - -"You're welcome to our board, captain, if you will stay," said she. - -"Thank you, that is kind of you," answered he, with real feeling in -his voice. "I mustn't stay, I am due elsewhere, but I appreciate your -asking me none the less." - -He turned to me and shook hands with me warmly. Then he stopped in -front of Joyce. - -She did not lift her eyes; she put her hand silently into his -out-stretched palm without, so far as I could see, the slightest -tremor. He pressed the soft long fingers in his for a moment, and then -he turned away without speaking. - -Father and he went along the passage together, talking; and it was -father who showed him out of the front door. - -I was sorry that I had persuaded him to come to the Grange. Harrod had -seen Joyce in tears, and would wonder what was the cause; and was it -worth while to have gone through the very uncomfortable scene which had -just taken place for anything that had been gained? It was Joyce's own -fault, but it showed me how idle it was to hope to move her in any line -of conduct which she had laid out for herself. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -The next morning I was still more sorry that I had brought Frank to the -Grange. - -Mother very rightly upbraided me for it, and in a way that showed me -that she was more than ever determined that Joyce should not marry -Captain Forrester if she could help it. She said that Joyce was -beginning to forget this dandy love affair, and that it was all the -more annoying of me to have gone putting my finger in the pie and -stirring up old memories. I declared that Joyce was not forgetting -Frank at all, and told mother I wondered at her for thinking a daughter -of hers could be so fickle, and for supposing that her manner meant -anything but the determination to keep to the unfair promise that had -been extracted from her. - -Ah, dear me, if I could have believed in that other string that mother -had to her bow for Joyce! But although the squire came to the Grange -just as often as ever, I could not deceive myself into thinking his -coming or going made any difference to my sister, whatever might be -his feelings towards her. If Joyce had not encouraged her lover, as I -thought she ought to have done, that was not the reason. I told myself -that the reason was in the different way in which we looked at such -matters; but I was sorry I had brought Frank to the Grange. - -With my arrogance of youth, I might have got over mother's scolding if -I could have persuaded myself that I had done any good; but I could -not but think that I seemed to have done nothing but harm. Joyce was -almost distant to me in a way that had never happened before in our -lives; and when I tried to upbraid her for her coldness, she choked -me off in a quiet fashion that there was no withstanding and left me -alone, sore and silent and angry. Oh, and there was a worse result of -that unlucky visit than all this, although I would not even tell my own -heart of it. - -Joyce, as I have said, was moody and silent all the next day. To be -sure, the weather had turned from that glorious heat to a dull gray, -showery fit that was most depressing to everybody. It had most reason -to be depressing to Trayton Harrod, who had his eye on the crops even -more anxiously than father had himself. The rain had not as yet been -heavy or continuous enough to do more than refresh the parched earth, -but a little more might make a serious difference to the wheat and the -hops, of which the one harvest was not yet all garnered, the second -nearly ready for picking. - -This, and the annoyance about the broken water-pipes--in which matter -he had failed to discover the offenders--were quite enough, of course, -to account for the cloud upon the bailiff's brow as I came across him -that evening on the ridge of the downs by the new reservoir. I ought -to have remembered this; I ought to have soothed the trouble; I should -have done so a fortnight ago. But I was ruffed, unreasonable, unjust. - -"Well, have you discovered anything more about that ridiculous affair?" -I asked, nipping off the twig of a bush in the hedge pettishly as I -spoke. - -"What affair?" asked he, although I knew that he knew perfectly well -what I meant. - -"Well, about those water-pipes that you fancy the men have stamped upon -to spite you," laughed I, ill-naturedly. - -He pressed his lips together. "I think I guess pretty well who was -at the bottom of it," he said. "But the work is finished now and in -working order, so I shall say no more about it." - -I knew very well that if he could have been certain of his facts he -would have said a great deal more about it, and in my unreasonable -ill-temper I wanted to make him feel this. - -"Guessing isn't enough," I replied. "But if you could be sure, it would -be far better to let the man know that you have discovered him. You'll -never get anything out of these Sussex people by knuckling under to -them." - -I was sorry for the words as soon as I had said them, for it was an -insulting speech to a man in his position; but I wouldn't show any -humility. - -"Thank you," he answered, coldly. "I must do the best I can, of course, -in managing the Sussex people. But, anyhow, it is _I_ who have to do -it." - -I would not see the just reproof. "Well, if any one is to blame in this -it isn't poor old Reuben," I declared, stoutly; "he's obstinate, but he -isn't mean. It _might_ be Jack Barnstaple. I don't say it is, but it -_might_ be. It isn't Reuben." - -"I am quite of your opinion," answered he. "But as you say, guessing is -of no avail, so we had best let the matter drop." - -He turned to go one way and I the other. But just as we were parting, -Reuben appeared upon the crest of the hill with Luck at his heels. -They were inseparable companions. Luck was the one sign of his former -calling that still clung to poor old Reuben. But he was very old, older -than his master; both had done good work in their day, but both were -nearly past work now. - -"That dog will have to be shot soon," said Trayton Harrod, looking at -the way the poor beast dragged itself along, stiff with rheumatism, -which the damp weather had brought out. "I told Reuben so the other -day." - -"Shot!" cried I, with angry eyes. "No one shall shoot that dog while I -have a word to say in the matter." - -And I ran across to where Luck was coming to meet me, his tail wagging -with pleasure. - -"Poor old Luck! poor old fellow!" I murmured, stooping to caress him. -"They want to shoot you, do they? But I won't allow it." - -"Shoot him!" growled Reuben, looking round to the bailiff, who had -followed me. "Shoot my dog?" - -"He's not _your_ dog, Reuben," I said. "He's father's, although you -have had him for your own so long. And father will have a voice in the -matter before he's shot. Don't be afraid. He sha'n't be shot. We can -nurse him when he needs nursing, and he shall die peaceably like a -human being. He deserves as much any day, I'm sure. He has worked as -well." - -Taff was my special dog, and it was true that Luck had always, as it -were, belonged to Reuben, but now that I fancied him in danger, all my -latent love of the weak and injured rose up strong within me, and I -fought for the post of Luck's champion. Perhaps my mood of unreasonable -temper had just a little to do with it too. - -"You are mistaken," said Trayton, coldly. "The poor beast is ill and -weary. It would be a far greater kindness to shoot him." - -"Well, he _sha'n't_ be shot, then, so there's an end," cried I, -testily, rising to my feet and looking Harrod in the face. - -"Oh, very good; of course it's not my business," said he. - -He turned away up the slope. But the spirit of annoyance was in Reuben -as it was in me that day. - -"I came to have a bit of a look at the 'op-fields, master," said he. -"The sky don't look just as we might choose, do it?" - -"This rain is not enough to hurt," growled Harrod, without looking -round. - -"No, no; we might put up with this so long as it don't go on," agreed -Reuben, slowly. "We want a bit of rain after all that dry weather. You -didn't get your water-pipes laid on in time for the dry weather, did -you, Master Harrod? begging your pardon," asked the old man, slyly. - -"No; some mischievous persons took a childish delight in putting them -out of order," said the bailiff, turning round sharply; "but I have my -eye on them." - -"They're dreadful brittle things, them china things, for such work," -said Reuben, in a slow, sleepy voice. "I doubt you'll never get the -water to go just as you fancy. They do say there's another broke down -by Widow Dawes," he added, with a grin. - -Harrod turned round, with a muttered imprecation. - -"But there, I'm thinking you won't want no water round about for some -while to come, mister. The Lord'll do it for ye." - -"I tell you the weather hasn't broken up, man. This rain is nothing," -growled Harrod again, striding up the bank as he spoke. - -"Right, right," agreed Reuben, nodding his head; "we must trust the -Lord, we must. Though, for my part, I'd sooner trust Him with anything -rather than a few gardens of 'ops." Reuben sighed as he looked out -across the valley that was so rich now with the tall and graceful -growths. "They're a fine sight now," said he, "but the Lord can lay 'em -low." And with that comforting reflection, he turned his back on me and -went down the path. - -Luckily for Reuben, I had not leisure just then to think of him or his -words; my thoughts were elsewhere. Trayton Harrod had reached the top -of the slope. He was nearly out of ear-shot. I watched his figure grow -longer and longer upon the softening sky, that was slowly clearing with -the coming twilight. - -How could I bear to let him go from me like that? Was it for this that -we had had those good times together, those happy, happy hours, that -lived in my memory like stars upon a bright sky? Was it for nothing -that he had held my hands in his and tuned his voice to gentleness in -speaking to me? Was it for nothing that my heart beat wild and hot, so -full of longing, so full of devotion? Oh, and yet it was I who had made -this foolish quarrel! How could I have allowed my unreasonable temper -to get the better of me like that? It was my fault, all my fault! What -devil had taken possession of me to fill my heart with wicked and -unjust fancies, to imbitter all that was but a little while ago so -sweet? - -My heart was heavy, the tears came into my eyes. If he loved me he -would forgive me, I said to myself, and I forgot all of what I had been -wont to consider proper pride, and ran after him. - -"Mr. Harrod," I called. He turned at once and waited for me. - -"You're going to London one of these days, aren't you?" I said, -breathlessly, for I had run up the bank. - -"One day before the hop-picking begins," he said, hurriedly, impatient -to get on; "but not before the harvest is all in." - -He turned, walking on, and I walked by his side. - -"Well, when you go, I want you to do something for me," I said. "I want -you to buy some books for me." - -"Buy some books!" ejaculated he. "What books?" - -"I don't know," I answered. "I have saved some money, and I want to buy -some books with it. But I don't know what books. I thought you would -advise me." - -He laughed. "I don't think I'm at all the proper person to advise -you what books to buy. I'm not much of a reader myself. I've got my -father's books, and have had some pleasant hours with them too, but I -don't know if they're the best kind of books for a young woman to read. -No, I'm not the proper person to advise you, I'm sure. You'd better ask -the squire." - -"The squire!" cried I, vexed. "And pray, why should I ask the squire?" - -"Well, he's an older friend of yours than I am, and far better suited -to advise you," answered Harrod. "And he would do anything for you, I'm -sure." - -Was it possible that Harrod might be under a delusion? Somehow it gave -me pleasure to think that it might be possible. - -"The squire is no friend of mine," said I. I was ashamed of the words -before they were spoken, they were so untrue; but I spoke them under -the smart of the moment. - -"How can you say such a thing?" said Harrod, sternly. - -"I don't mean to say that he wouldn't do anything for any of us," I -murmured, ashamed. "I only meant to say that he would be more likely to -do it--for Joyce." - -I felt his eyes turn upon me, and I raised mine to his face. It was -quiet, all trace of the temper that had been there five minutes ago had -vanished; but his eyes, those steely gray eyes, looked me through. But -it was only for a moment. Then the shade upon his brow melted away, and -the hard lines of his mouth broke into that parting of the lips which -was scarcely a smile yet lit his whole face as with a strong, sharp ray -of light. - -There never was a face that changed as his face changed; not with many -and varying expressions as with some folk--for his was a character -reserved almost to isolation, and if he felt many things he told but -few of them, either tacitly or in words--but with a slow melting, -from something that was almost akin to cruelty into something that -was very much akin to good, honest tenderness. It was as the breaking -of sunlight across some rugged rock where the shadow has hidden every -possible path-way; when the sunlight came one could see that there -was a way to ascend. Judging with the dispassionateness of distance, -I think that Harrod feared any such thing as feeling. Life was a -straightforward and not necessarily pleasant road, which must be -travelled doggedly, without pausing by the way, without stopping to -think if there were any means by which it might be made more agreeable. -Life was all work for Trayton Harrod. - -And as a natural consequence, if he had any feelings he instinctively -avoided dwelling on the fact; therefore he mistrusted any expression of -them in others. He was cruel, but if he was cruel to others he was also -cruel to himself. - -That evening, however, the sunshine broke out across the rock. It -melted the last morsel of pride in me. He turned away his eyes again -without a word, after that long, half-amused, half-reproachful, and -wholly kind look. It puzzled me a little, and yet it gave me courage. - -"I think I'm in a very bad temper to-day," said I, with a little -awkward laugh. "I think I was very rude to you just now." - -"Rude!" echoed he, turning to me quickly. "Why, when were you rude?" - -"Just now, about the hops and everything." - -He laughed aloud, quite merrily. "Good gracious! surely we are good -friends enough to stand a sharp word or two," cried he. - -I was silent. Harrod walked very fast, and talking was difficult. When -he reached the top of the hill he held out his hand, and said, in a -cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, "Good-night; I must be getting along to -Widow Dawes as fast as I can." - -I stood watching him as he ran down the slope. At any other time I -should have been just as much excited as he was about the breakage of -the pipes, but that night there was a dull emptiness about things for -which I had no reason. - -The west was still clouded, and in the plains the struggling rays of -the sinking sun made golden spray of the mists that the rain had left; -but to the eastward the sky was clear of showers. - -The mill was quite still, its warning arms were silent; it stood white -upon the flaxen slope, where the short grass was burned to chaff by -the rare summer heat--white and huge against the twilight blue. Behind -it--slowly, slowly out of the blue sea--rose the golden August moon. - -I turned my back to the clouds and faced the golden moon. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -And now let me pause a while and think. Ten years have passed since the -time of which I write. I am a woman, twenty-nine years old--a woman in -judgment as well as in years, for many things have happened since then -which have taught me more than the mere passage of time. And I can see -clearly enough now that what I am going to tell happened through no -fault of others; my pain and my disappointment were the result only of -my own mistake; let me state that as a fact--it will be a satisfaction -to my own conscience. I never had any excuse for that mistake. I was a -foolish, passionate, romantic girl, and out of the whirlwind of my own -love I conjured up the answering love that I craved; but it was never -there--it was a phantom of my own making. - -A month had passed since Joyce had come home, since that night when -Trayton Harrod and I stood under the abbey eaves in the lightning and -the storm--a long, long summer's month. The hay had all been gathered -in long ago, and the harvest was golden and ready for the reaping; -the plain that had once been so green was growing mellower every day; -the thick, reedy grass that blooms with a rich dark tassel upon our -marsh made planes of varied brown tints over the flatness of the -pastures--the whole land was warm with color; the gray castle lay -sleeping upon the flaxen turf, with the gray beach beyond; the white -sheep cropped lazily what blades they could find; between the two lines -of tall rushes yellow and white water-lilies floated upon the dikes, -and meadowsweet bloomed upon their banks; the scarlet poppies had faded -from the cornfields, and the little harvest-mouse built her nest upon -the tall ears of wheat. - -Every sign told that the summer would soon be fading into autumn; the -young broods were all abroad long ago; the swallows and the martins -were preparing for a second hatching; the humming of the snipe, as -his tardy mate sat on her nest, made a pleasant bleating sound along -the dikes near to the sea; the swift, first of all birds to leave us, -would soon be taking her southward flight; on the beach the yellow -sea-poppies bloomed amid their pale green leaves. - -There had been the same little trouble over the bringing of reaping and -threshing machines onto the farm as there had been over the mowing. -Poor father did not appear to be reconciled to these innovations, -although he seemed to have made up his mind to give in to Trayton -Harrod up to a certain point; he had not, however, wavered an inch on -the subject of the length of the laborers' working-hours; on that he -and the bailiff still preserved an ill-concealed attitude of hostility. - -I did what I could to preserve the peace, so did mother, so did we all; -but I don't think that father grew to like Trayton Harrod any better -as time went on. I think he respected him thoroughly. More than once, -I recollect, he took occasion to observe that he was an upright and -honorable man, and yet, somehow, he scarcely seemed even to thoroughly -trust him. - -I know, at least, that one morning about this time he called me into -his study and bade me ride into town at once with a letter for Mr. -Hoad, which I was to deliver privately into his own hands, letting -nobody know my errand. Three months ago how proud I should have been -of this trust, which might have been given to the man who had been -called in to supplant me! But now I did not like it; it filled me with -apprehensions, with misgivings, with anger at the slight to him. - -"Are you afraid to go, Meg?" father had asked, seeing me hesitate. -"I'll go myself." - -The word must have lit up my gray eyes with the light that he was wont -to laugh at, for he put down his stick and sank into his chair. - -"There," said he, patting my cheek, "I thought she hadn't lost her -pride." - -And neither had I; but the strangeness of the request, and the -strangeness of Mr. Hoad's face as he read the letter, set me thinking -most uncomfortably all the way home. Nor was it only on that occasion -that I had need to ponder somewhat anxiously on matters that were not -my own. - -A Sunday morning about this time comes back to my mind. Father had been -up to London during the week on one or two matters of business. It -was an event in those days for a farmer to go up to London. To father -it was specially an event, for he always had been a more than usually -stay-at-home man. But there must have been some special reason that -took him up; he had seemed disquieted for some time. - -I had fancied that it was purely on account of that scheme that Frank -Forrester had not yet succeeded in floating, and I was angry with Frank -for that cooling down which I have noticed as happening in him whenever -he got away from the fiery influence. I was angry with Joyce for not -keeping him up to his first ardor, angry with mother for not allowing -them to correspond, so that she might do so. But after all, I don't -believe that father's uneasiness was entirely owing to Frank Forrester, -for his journey to London was suddenly decided upon one afternoon after -he and Mr. Hoad had had a long talk together in the business-room. -Father had seen Harrod afterwards, and had then announced his proposed -journey at the tea-table. - -He had been away only two days; but although he said that he had been -made a great deal of by the old friend with whom he had stayed, and -though he declared that Frank was just the same as ever, and it was -therefore to be supposed that they had been as good comrades as usual, -father looked none the better for his little change. As we all stood -up in the old church to say the Creed, I remember noticing how ill he -looked. - -It was not only that he bent his tall, massive figure over the desk, -leaning heavily upon it with both hands, as if for needful support; it -was not even that his cheeks were more sunken, and that he bowed his -head wearily; it was that in his dull eyes and set lips there was an -air of suffering, of dejection and hopelessness, that was pathetic even -to me who should have known nothing of pathos at nineteen. It struck -me with sad forebodings, and those words of the squire's a few weeks -before came back to my mind. - -I glanced at mother's face--beautiful and serene as ever--with the -little net-work of delicate wrinkles spread over its soft surface, -and the blue eyes content as a young girl's beneath the shadow of the -thick white hair. It was what Joyce's face might grow to be some day, -although at that time there were lines of character about the mouth -which my sister's beauty lacked; it was what my face could never grow -to. But surely neither of those two had any misgivings. "And the life -of the world to come," repeated mother, gravely, saying the words a -little after everybody else in a kind of conclusive way. But, somehow, -I wondered whether she had really been thinking of what they meant, for -she sat down again with almost a smile upon her lips and smoothed out -her soft old black brocade without any air of undue solemnity. - -I glanced at Joyce. Her eyes were bent down looking at her -hands--large, well-shaped, useful hands, that looked better in the -dairy or at her needle than they did in ill-fitting kid-gloves; her -face was undisturbed, the lovely little chin resting on the white bow -of the ribbon that tied on her fresh chip-bonnet. It was before the -days when it was considered respectable to go to church in a hat. - -I, too, had a white chip-bonnet--Joyce had brought them both from -London, together with the blue merino frocks, which we also wore that -day; but I did not look as well in a chip-bonnet as Joyce did. - -I glanced along the row of pews. At the end of the one parallel with -ours across the aisle sat Reuben in his clean smock, his fine old -parchment-colored face set in the quiet lines induced by sleepiness -and the suitable mood for the occasion. Deborah, as I have said, came -rarely to church; she always declared that a deafness, which I had -never noticed in her, made the coming but a mere form, for "what was -the use if you couldn't extinguish the parson?" But Reuben was a pious -and constant attendant, and looked better in keeping with the place -than did the owner of two keen gray eyes, just beyond him, that I -noticed were fixed upon my sister's face. - -They were withdrawn as soon as I turned my head, although they did not -look at me, but I paid no further attention to the service that day, -and for all the good I got of the sermon I might as well have stayed at -home. - -And yet we had a fine discourse--or so father said as we came out of -church--for it was from the curate of the next parish, that young Mr. -Cyril Morland, to whom he had taken such a fancy, and it was for the -ragged schools, and touched on father's subject in father's own way. -If I had cared to look round at him again I should have seen that his -weary eyes had regained all their usual fire, and that his head was -raised gazing at the impassioned young speaker. - -But I did not look at father again. I sat with my eyes fixed on the -old tombstone at my right, on which reposed the mail-clad figure of -an ancient knight; and, for aught I knew or cared, the preacher might -have been the sleepy old vicar himself, clearing his throat and humbly -enunciating his well-worn sentiments. I don't remember just what my -thoughts were--perhaps I could not have put them into words even then; -but I know they were not of God, nor of the poor little wretched -children for whom our charity was asked. When the plate came round at -the end it awoke me from a dream; ah me! it was not a good dream nor a -happy dream. I wondered if people were often so wicked in church. - -When the service was over father went round to the back and took up -little David Jarrett, whom he had carried into church. The little -fellow was supposed to be better, but he did not look as though he -would be long for this world, and I think he grew nearer every day to -father's heart. - -The vicar's young wife spoke to him as he went out in father's arms. - -"You've got a very kind friend, David," she said to the child, in her -weak, whining voice. "I hope you're very grateful." - -A smile came over the little pinched face. The boy did not reply, but -he put his arm round father's neck to make the burden easier, and -looked into his eyes. - -"I'm going to take you to the Grange to-day for a bit of roast beef, -David. What do you say?" asked father. - -"I should like to go to the Grange," said David, without making any -allusion to the roast beef. - -"Come, you youngster," said the squire, coming down the path with Mary -Thorne, and speaking in his hearty, healthy voice, "isn't that leg of -yours well enough yet for you to walk alone and not trouble a poor old -man?" - -The child flushed scarlet, and father said, in a vexed tone, "I'm not -so very old yet, squire, but I can carry a poor little cripple a couple -of hundred yards." - -The squire had spoken only in joke, and he said so; it was his way, for -in reality he was as kind a man as father himself, but I don't think -father forgave him for quite a little while. - -"Well, did you see anything of that good-for-nothing nephew of mine up -in London?" asked the squire again. - -We were all standing round in a little group, as folk are wont to do -coming out of church, when they rarely get time to meet on week-days. -Mother was talking to that aggressive old lady, Miss Farnham; Joyce -stood at her side. I could not see Harrod anywhere, but it was just -like him to have disappeared; he hated a concourse of people. - -"Oh, come, Mr. Broderick, I don't think you ought to take away a poor -fellow's character when he's absent," laughed Mary Thorne, in her jolly -way. "Here's Miss Maliphant," added she, pointing at Joyce, "might be -prejudiced against him by it, and he thinks a very great deal of what -Miss Maliphant's opinion of him may be, I assure you." - -She said it in a good-natured, bantering kind of way, but not at all as -if she guessed at the real relations that existed between Joyce and her -childhood's friend. - -The squire frowned, and mother turned away from Miss Farnham. - -"Now, Miss Thorne, I should take it very kindly if you wouldn't bring -my girl into it," said she. "I'm an old-fashioned woman, and I don't -hold with jokes of that sort." - -Mary looked rather surprised, but it was just like mother to speak up -like that; she never was afraid of anything or anybody, although she -did seem so gentle. - -"Ah, I often have my suspicions that Mrs. Maliphant is a good old Tory -at heart," said the squire, trying to turn the matter off lightly. - -"No, no, squire, don't you try to make more out of my words than's in -them," declared mother, shaking her head. "I never was for politics. I -make neither head nor tail of them." - -Of course everybody laughed at this, and the squire added, "I'll be -bound Frank won't show himself till after we have got my friend Farnham -in for the county." - -"He said nothing about coming down," said father, who had withdrawn -from the group since the Thornes had joined it, and stood by the old -stone wall, on which he had rested little David; "but I don't think -that's the reason." - -"He'd have been down before now to torment me about those new stables -unless there were something particular keeping him away," went on Mr. -Broderick. "He keeps writing to me about them, but I tell him I'll -have the men and women housed before the dogs and horses. There are two -new cottages wanted on the estate, and they're going to be done first." - -"Ah, you're a decent sort of landlord; they're few enough like you," -declared Miss Farnham, nodding her ever-bugled head before she turned -up her black silk gown over her white petticoat, and trudged off across -the church-yard; "and that's a sight better than going about making -mischief, as some seditious folk must needs do." - -This was a parting thrust at father, but he did not seem to have even -noticed it. - -"Mother, I'll just take the little chap home," said he. "You get hold -of Mr. Morland, and ask him to come and have a bit of dinner with us, -will you?" - -The squire looked after him. "You oughtn't to let him carry that child -about, Mrs. Maliphant," said he. "He's not the man he was." - -"Oh, squire, what a Job's comforter you are, to be sure!" sighed -mother, half fretfully. "Why, I think Laban's quite himself again since -the summer weather has come in. He's a bit cast down to-day, I've -noticed it myself; but that's in his spirits. I don't think that trip -to London did him any good. Those railways are tiring things, and then -I can't help fancying he's a bit disappointed about this notion of his -for getting the charity school, or whatever it is. He's so set on those -things. I tell him it's a pity. He wears himself out and neglects his -own work. And no offence to you, squire, that young nephew of yours -isn't so smart about it as he might be. I always warned Laban against -putting too much trust in him. Not that he has said anything, but if -matters were going as he wants, he would have had something to say, you -see. The young man seemed just as eager about it as my old one once -upon a time, but young folks haven't the grit." - -Mother made the whole of this long speech in a confidential manner to -the squire, but I heard every word of it. So must Joyce have done, for -she and Mary Thorne had been talking, and were standing side by side, -but she gave no sign at all, although Mary said, with a loud laugh: "Is -that Frank you're talking of? Why, dear me, you don't expect him to -hold long to one thing, do you? The squire knows him better than that. -As jolly an old chap as ever was, but never of the same mind for ten -minutes together; at least," added she, quite gravely for her, "not -about things of that sort. Dear me, I know at least five things he has -taken up wildly for the time being, and wearied of in six months." - -The squire smiled a little maliciously. "There's a bit of truth in -that," he agreed, "though I don't know that I could have told it off so -glibly. Oh, Miss Mary, Miss Mary, what a wicked tongue you have got!" - -I fancied she looked distressed. "Come, who was it stood up for him -just now?" cried she. "You can't call black white because you happen to -like a person." - -He laughed. I couldn't help thinking that he was very well pleased with -what she had said, and I thought it was very unkind of him. As for me, -I was furious with the girl. I had always liked her before, but that -day I positively hated her. What business had she to go telling tales -about Frank? - -It never occurred to me for a moment that she might possibly have a -reason for wanting to set Joyce against Frank, for making her think -that his liking for people as well as for pursuits was of a very -transitory nature. - -I went home in a very bad temper. Why was I so specially angry -now every time that Joyce was lukewarm where her absent lover was -concerned? I had often secretly accused her in my heart of being -lukewarm before. She was not of a forthcoming temperament; she never -had expressed her emotions freely, and she never would do so; it was -not in her nature. - -Why did it trouble me more now than it used to do? Why did it trouble -me so much that, when I reflected that Joyce had not said a single word -during the whole of that scene, I could not find it in my heart to -speak to her? - -A month ago I should have scolded her for letting mother awe her into -silence--I should have laughed at her for her timidity. But that day I -could not. - -I let her go up-stairs alone into our little bedroom to take off her -bonnet, and found an excuse to lay mine aside down-stairs. - -I heard the Rev. Cyril Morland talking the management of the ragged -schools over with father, and considering his suggestions of -improvement. At any other time I should have been proud to notice the -deference that he showed to the old man. I should have liked to listen -to the comparison of their ideas and plans. But then I was afraid. - -The pity of suffering, the zeal for succoring it, seemed to me so much -more akin between the curate and father than they had ever really been -between him and Frank. - -I could not bear to acknowledge it, yet I could not but instinctively -feel that it was so. - -I did not guess at possible rocks and quicksands of creeds that might -be ahead in any intercourse between father and his new friend, but I -felt that in him was the spirit of endurance and self-sacrifice which, -girl as I was, I could not but fear was lacking in the sympathizing, -sympathetic nature of my sister's lover. It was only since he had been -at the Grange the last time that I had begun to fear it; but after -that, that waxing and waning in the heat of his enterprise was apparent -even to me. - -I felt that mother was right when she said that you knew where you -were with a man who had troubled himself to put some of his ideas -into practice, and could not blame her for being glad that father had -put his scheme into the hands of one who had shown that he could work -as well as talk. I could not blame her; she had no reason for making -excuses for Frank Forrester; on the contrary, she had every reason for -wishing father to see him in what she called his true colors, so that -their intercourse should be at an end. - -But I--I had a reason best known to myself for wishing to strengthen -every little thread that could bind Frank to father and the Grange. And -even though this fervent young curate should turn out to be that man -of whom Frank himself had spoken--he who was the "right man to do the -work"--I could not like him. How could I like any one who showed signs -of taking Frank's place with father? - -I sat silent at the board, and well deserved mother's just reproof -afterwards for my lapse into the old, ill-mannered ways out of which -she hoped I was growing. - -I was cross--I was cross with Joyce; but it was unjustly so, and I felt -it. When I had said my prayers that night I went up and kissed her -where she lay with her golden heaps of hair upon the white pillow. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -There is no season so bad but there are some fine days in it, and -there is no time so heavy but it has some happy hours. That stormy -summer-time had its happy hours, although I must needs tell also of its -clouds. - -The earth was the same, although the eyes with which I saw it saw -another image before they reached it, and sometimes the sense of its -eternal beauty came to my spirit with a soothing song, and whispered -of an enduring life that was beyond the changes and chances of varying -weathers, bidding me be still and wait. I don't know that I was still, -I don't know that at that time I was content to wait; but those voices -that were so familiar made me glad as nothing else did, and, though I -knew it not, made me strong. - -The wind that breathed soft from over the downs, heavy with the scent -of the hops; the wind that smote salt upon my cheek with the fresh -sea-brine; the lap of the waves upon the sand's soft lip, or their -fretful flow upon the steeper beach whence they would suck the pebbles -back again to the ocean's heart; the rush and rustle of birds in the -air--rooks, or starlings, or fieldfares in great congregations that -blackened the sky; the clouds hastening over the blue that lay so wide -a covering over the wide level land, and made the red roofs of the town -purple beneath their touch; the rippling of a breeze in the ash-trees, -and the moaning of it in the pines; the pattering of rain, the lowing -of cattle; the hundred notes of birds, and sounds of beasts upon the -land; the throbbing sunlight, and the cold moon--all these things, -and many, many more, spoke to me, gay or pitiful, in tones that I had -learned from my childhood up, and told me of that wide sea of life that -was there for me, whether I would or not, beyond the present, beyond -selfish longings, beyond happiness or unhappiness. - -Yes, I think something of all this came to me even then, although -I could not have told it in words, as I try to do now--ten years -afterwards. - -It was late August--the last of the harvesting. I had gone down to -those wheat-fields upon the marsh that lie almost alongside of the -beach. - -The day's work was nearly done, the reapers were binding up the last -sheaves, and only a few solitary gleaners were still busy where the -hated machines had left off their monotonous grind. I don't know how -it was the men had done work so early that day, for it was an hour off -sundown yet, but I think it was the very last field they had to reap -upon father's land. - -Trayton Harrod had been there, but I had not spoken to him all the -afternoon, and now, as I stood looking at him from afar through the -late golden sunshine, and one of those strange showers of cobwebs that -sometimes fall about this time of year upon our Sussex levels, I saw -the squire upon the path hard by that led to the beach. I had seen him -coming down the road before with his bailiff, but had scarcely noticed -him then--he was such a familiar figure in the landscape. Only when he -was comparatively close at hand something occurred to me with regard to -him. - -I gave up a foolish wish that I had had to walk up to the village with -Trayton Harrod after work was done, and jumped the dike, beyond which -only a narrow strip of pasture-land was between me and the road. I -remember how I stopped to pluck meadowsweet and flowering willow as I -stepped across, that I might just climb the bank not too long before -the squire should have reached that point. - -"Been harvesting, Miss Margaret?" said he, in, I fancied, rather a -preoccupied manner. "We have all got plenty of that to do just now, -haven't we?" - -The squire had more of it to do than we had, for he had more wheat, -and the ugly weather having given place that week to a fresh burst -of summer, all we who still had crops on the ground were anxious to -take advantage of the unexpected good-fortune. I did not reply; I was -thinking how to begin what I had to say, and I took my knife out of my -pocket, and stooped to cut a tall teasel that was turning brown on the -dike-side, and a spray of ruddy dock that grew beside it. - -"The weather is splendid now for harvesting," said I, finding the -squire did not speak again, "and Mr. Harrod says the crop of wheat will -be finer than he once thought." - -"Why shouldn't he have thought it would be fine?" grumbled the squire, -looking in the direction where our bailiff stood in the wheat-field -talking to the bailiff from the Manor. "We have rarely had such a hot -summer." - -The field was hot and golden, the hill behind cool and dark. - -I pulled one of the heads of dock to pieces in my hand, and said, "He -says that a hot early summer doesn't always do good; it sucks the -juices out while the straw is milky, and impoverishes the strength of -the plant." - -The squire laughed, and I grew scarlet with vexation. - -"Why, you'll be quite a farmer under Harrod's auspices," he said. "You -were nearly fit to manage the farm before he came, and I'm sure you'll -soon be able to turn him off." - -"No, indeed," said I, trying to speak quietly. "I'm only just beginning -to learn that I know nothing." - -"Ah! Well, they say that's the first step to growing clever," he -replied. "And, joking apart, of course Harrod's a very able fellow, -and can teach us both a lot of things, I've no doubt, though he does -have queer notions at times, I'm bound to say. He is a business man, -and no mistake." - -"Of course Mr. Harrod is a good man of business," said I, haughtily. -"We all know that. That's why you recommended him to father, I suppose." - -Whenever the squire was rough on Harrod for his energy--which somehow -seemed to me to be rather often of late--I always reminded him that he -had recommended him for that very quality. I don't think he liked to be -so reminded. I don't know why, but I am sure he did not like it. - -"Mr. Broderick," I said, striking a bold tangent, "when is Captain -Forrester coming down again to the Manor?" - -He looked at me, surprised. - -"I don't know, I'm sure," he said. "He never used to come at all. He -has never been at the Manor before for so long a time as he was here -this spring." - -"No, perhaps not," I said. - -He looked at me sharply, and remembering the warning he had given me -against any intimacy between my sister and Frank, it occurred to me -that he might be to blame for Frank's long absence. - -This thought made a sudden flame of anger leap up within me towards the -squire. I could not help being angry with him if he were doing anything -to keep Joyce and Frank apart. I longed to tell him so, but with that -promise to mother at my back I did not dare. - -"He might come for the election," said I. "I think he ought to come for -the election." - -The squire laughed again. - -"On which side do you suppose he would throw in his interest, Miss -Margaret?" he said. - -I saw that I had said a silly thing, and flushed. Of course if Frank -put any interest in the election it would be on the side that was not -the squire's. - -"But, upon my soul, I scarcely know myself," added he. "The lad is a -slippery sort of fellow." - -This speech pleased me no more than the former one. It pleased me none -the more because it awakened a certain uneasiness that I had felt -myself about Frank. Girl as I was, I, too, had fancied he was not -always the same; but I stood up for him. - -"I think it's very unfair of you to say that of your own nephew," I -said. - -The squire fixed his blue eyes upon me with an amused expression. - -"Why, Miss Margaret, you're a very stanch champion of that young -scapegrace," said he. "What makes you so bold at fighting his battles, -and so eager that he should come back again to the Manor?" - -"I fight his battles because I think you are unjust," I said. "And I -want him to come back because father looks to him to help him in his -work." - -"Oh, I see," said the squire, somewhat doubtfully. "But you mustn't -fancy that he is so necessary to your father as all that. I am sure my -friend Maliphant is far too wise a man to set much store by the talk -and opinions of a young and idle fellow like my nephew. He is far more -likely to value the advice of a man such as this new parson over at -Iden. I am glad to see they have struck up quite a friendship together. -I wish he wouldn't wear such a long coat, but I can see that he is an -honest chap in spite of it." - -At any other time I might have been willing to enter into a discussion -as to the merits of the Rev. Cyril Morland, but at that moment I was -only annoyed with the squire for having noticed father's liking for -him. However, he gave me no more time for further talk. Whether I had -said anything to annoy him, or whether he was really busy, I don't -know; but he bade me good-bye abruptly, only asking me, if I should -meet Harrod, to tell him that he would call round at "The Elms" and see -him later on. - -I strolled down to the sea-shore that hemmed the margin of the marsh, -and sat down upon the beach to listen to the wash of the water upon -the pebbles as the tide went out. It was one of those serene evenings -that are made for dreaming; the sea was calm, and melted into the sky, -with a little haze upon the horizon; streaks of varied shades crossed -it in lines, brown upon the shallows, palest green beyond, blue where -the water deepened, and darker still where the shadow of passing clouds -fell upon its bosom. A fishing-boat, with brown sail flapping idly, lay -becalmed in the offing; a steamer crossed the distance. The light-house -at the end of the long, faint pink line, that was the far point that -swept out into the ocean, seemed scarcely to be on land at all, but a -mere speck of white in a veil of haze at sea; even the shipping in the -harbor, but two miles away, had a phantom look, although the distant -cliffs to my right could not but be stable and stately even in that -languid atmosphere. - -It was all so peaceful and pleasant that I forgot the storms that -oftentimes raged upon it, and although I was not actively happy I -was passively content, involuntarily wrapped around by the soothing -influence of the world that had been all the world to me until six -months ago. - -I began thinking of the days--not so very long past--when I knew no -excitement so great as to be out with the fisher-lads fishing for -mackerel. Mother would not allow me to go out when it was very stormy, -so it was days of comparative calm that I remembered, and one night in -special when I had leave to go out with Reuben and an old fisherman by -torchlight. It was in the month of November--a cold, clear night--and -we fished for herring. There had been just enough of a swell not to -make the adventure tame, but the stars had shone calmly, and the haul -had been a good one. At the time, I had thought much more about the -haul of fish than about the stars, but now I remembered that the stars -had shone calmly. A longing came over me to be once more on the sea. - -The old fisherman with whom I had been out that night was dead, I knew; -but there were others whom I had known, and with a sudden impulse I -got up from the shingle, and began walking towards the fishing village -hard by. It was but a handful of little low cottages, with a rough inn -in the middle--a wild, strange place, alone on the border of the marsh -with the wind and the sea. - -I met one of my friends coming along the beach; he was going for his -shrimping-net, for the tide was going out, and in another hour the work -would begin. He came slouching along, with his old faded blue jersey -rolled up around his waist, and his woollen cap cocked over his eyes to -keep out the slanting rays of the late sun. - -"Good-day to you, Eben," I called out. His name was Ebenezer, but -everybody called him Eben. "Are you going to take up the nets this -afternoon, or it is too calm?" - -The old fellow--not so very old, but weather-beaten into an appearance -that might mean any age from forty to sixty--pursed up his dry lips and -looked out over the water. The yellow sail of the fishing-boat yonder -had swelled out; there was a little breeze getting up. - -"We might put out," he said, "though it's touch and go if it'd be worth -while. Do you want to go out?" - -"Yes, I should like to go," said I. "It's a long while since I've been -on the water." - -Eben looked at me. I don't know if he saw anything in my face different -from what used to be there, but he said, quite sympathetically, "Well, -'tis mopin' work being always on dry land." - -I laughed. "I'd rather have the land than the sea all the year round," -I said; "but I should like to taste the salt again." - -"I've my shrimpin' to do," said he. "And we can't go afore the turn o' -the tide, anyhow." - -"All right," answered I. "I'll wait a bit." - -"There won't be more than a handful of codling and p'r'aps a sole," -declared the old man, doubtfully. - -"Never mind," answered I. - -"How's the old chap up at the farm?" said he, as he was moving off. One -might have imagined that he meant Reuben, but I knew well enough that -he meant father. - -"Father's well," I said. - -"He have got a bailiff to look after the place now, haven't he?" asked -Eben. "Don't work very well, do it?" - -"Why, yes; it works all right," said I. - -I did not ask whether it was Reuben who had said it did not work, but -of course I knew, and wondered what I could do to punish Reuben for it. - -"He's a nice-spoken chap," added the man. "I've seed him about here -many's the time, and he's always spoke civil to me. Ain't that him -coming along now?" - -I turned round sharply. Yes, walking along the beach towards us was -Trayton Harrod. He too was taking a rest after his day's work. The -glare on the shingle dazzled me so that I could not see him, for the -sun was behind me, sinking towards the hill, and shone onto the face of -the pebbles, making the long stretch of beach shine rosy gray. Was he -coming towards us? No, most likely he had not recognized me talking to -the fisherman. Should I go to meet him? I had the squire's message to -deliver. But I thought I would not go. Of late there had come upon me a -resolve to wait until he should seek me. Foolish and useless effort of -pride! Was I even true to it? He turned across the beach back again to -the road, but in the direction of the cliff. - -"Well, I'll be back again in an hour or so, Eben," I said. "You'll know -by that time whether you mean to go out or not." - -He nodded, and shouldered the pole of his big square net. I stood and -watched him wade into the water. But when he had distanced me by some -couple of hundred yards, plodding through the rippling waves, and -pushing the big square net in front of him, then I turned and crossed -the shingle back to the short brown turf, where the rabbit-warrens are -thick upon the uneven ground, and the blue bugloss and sea-gillyflower -bloom sparsely upon the dry soil. - -I had suddenly resolved to use up the spare hour in a sharp walk to the -cliffs. I did not know, or did not confess to myself, that I had any -special object in view in coming to this determination; but I think my -heart beat a little as I walked, wondering whether some one else was -advancing in the same direction behind me. I walked without turning, -however, till I came to certain pools in the beach that tides no -longer reach--pools housed behind banks of shingle, and scarcely even -remembering the sea their mother; quiet havens where rushes grow and -moor-hen make their nests, and the stately purple heron comes for his -meal at dawn and sunset. - -One flew across from trees inland, obliquely, slowly sailing, just as -I reached the last of these seeming remnants of a primitive world, and -stood bathing his feet on the shallow lip, erect and imposing, the -only inhabitant fitted to the spot. He did not see me nor move, even -though I stooped down as I neared him to pluck a bunch of the yellow -sea-poppies that bloomed amid the very pebbles. - -The beach stretched blue now in front of me as I raised my head, for -the sun was before me--nearing the edge of the hill; I looked back -along the way, that was pink, but Trayton Harrod was not in sight, and -with something that was very like disappointment at my heart, I went on -again, following the dike, that now ran not far from the shore, until I -came to where it widens into a channel between a greensward on one side -and the high ridge of shingle on the other. Its end is in a deep pool -sheltered beneath the hood of a gray cliff--a cliff adorned at its base -with the blackberry and ash, and whitening at its top into the chalk -that here begins to give its glistening frontal to the gales of the -turbulent sea. - -Upon a bank of bracken that September promised to gild with amber, I -sat down to rest. Poor foolish child! How faint was my heart when my -hope was vain--how wild when I saw it fulfilled! For he came at last, -leisurely, reading as he came. - -I had not been mistaken: for him too this was a favorite spot, this -corner forsaken of the world, but loved all the more of the sleepy -marsh and of the sleepless sea, of the raging winds of heaven and of -the tender summer sunshine. - -"Why, Miss Margaret!" said he, as he came up, with something of -surprise, but also--ah yes--something of pleasure, in his tone. "Fancy -finding you such a long way from home!" - -"Oh, I often come here," I said. "It is but a step." - -I was longing to remind him that it was but just yonder on the marsh -that I had met him for the first time, but I could not. "What is that?" -I asked, abruptly, instead, as a bird flew out of one of the caves that -the sea once filled, and hovered over our heads. It hung there some -forty feet aloft, winnowing the air gently; then fell like a stone upon -the field. "A hawk, I call it," added I; "but I know you have some -strange name for it." - -When we were together we went back naturally, I think, with one accord -to our little altercations about the names and manners of beasts and -birds; it was on such little things that the first good beginning of -our friendship had been built. It set me at my ease that day. - -"It's a kestrel, not a sparrow-hawk," said Harrod. "It's a pity keepers -ever mistake them. The kestrels are useful birds. They kill mice. That -was a mouse it got now." - -"What is your name for it?" I repeated. - -"Windhover," he answered. - -"Ah yes, it's a pretty name," I said. - -And we went on discussing the habitations of the bird, and how it loved -to dwell in old buildings; and as we talked we climbed the flight -of rough steps, hewn, winding up the face of the rock, and stood on -the bald top, with the wind fresh in our faces and nothing but sea, -sea all around, in the midst of which we almost seemed to stand as -on an island. The little struggle with the breeze did me good, and -the familiar way in which he went from one subject to another of our -every-day interests put stormier thoughts for a moment out of sight. - -As we walked back along the beach--colorless now that the sun had sunk, -with the silvery curves of the gull's white wings bright upon the blue -waters--the sympathy that he sought from me once more, as of old, upon -the things of his ambition, the daily and engrossing interest of his -work, all made me happy again, as I had not been happy for many a day, -and I think that for the moment I scarcely thought of anything better -than that this sympathy should go on like that forever. - -A flight of starlings, beginning with companies of fifties, till, -as day waned, the army counted thousands, blackened the sky. Flying -towards us, with wings perpendicular and wide-spread, they were a dark -cloud high in the air; but presently, as though by silent command, they -changed their course, and in the twinkling of an eye the cloud became a -mere patch of faint gray upon the sky, although the birds were still -as close to us as before; they had but altered the poise of their -bodies, and the wings, presented horizontally, made only little lines -where before they had been black blotches. But once more they varied -their flight, the sky darkened again, the compact mass became a long, -sweeping curve that, with one great rush and rustle, descended across -the belt of trees that clothe the Manor cliff above the marsh, and with -a roar of wings and a very Babel of chirping that was like the noise of -a mountain torrent, they buried themselves completely out of sight in -the bank of tall reeds and bulrushes that here clothe the dike-banks. - -"It's a parliament," said Harrod. "Now, I wonder what they have got to -talk about. If the truth were ever known, I dare say they know more -about co-operation than we do." - -He laughed, and so did I. - -"You see I've got co-operation on the brain, Miss Margaret," he said. -"I've set my heart upon making your father see what an advantage it -would be for the farmers." - -"I thought that was one of his own favorite things," said I. - -"I'm afraid that's not exactly the sort I mean," replied he. "He means -co-operation between laborers or artisans to thwart their employers--or -at least to get on without them. I mean co-operation between -land-owners to keep their goods up to the prices that will repay them -for their outlay." - -"Oh, I'm afraid that is a very different thing," murmured I. I felt in -my bones that father would never take part in it. - -"Yes, I know," he answered. "But I want to see the squire about it. I -hope to bring him round to my views. I am to meet him to-night." He -looked at his watch. We had not noticed how the twilight was falling. - -"Well, you hurry on and meet the squire," said I, just a trifle nettled -at the way he said it. "_I'm_ going out in the boat with old Eben." - -"That'll make you very late," said Harrod. - -"I mean to go," said I, obstinately. - -He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head a little, reprovingly. The -smile made me forget everything. - -"Won't you put the squire off a little to come out with me?" I begged, -wistfully. "It's so beautiful on the sea." - -He hesitated a moment, and I ran down to the shore, where old Eben was -waiting for me. But before I had reached it I heard Harrod's firm, -light step following me. - -"Is this the right time to take up nets?" he asked of the fisherman. - -"Women always thinks it's the right time to do a thing when they wants -it," said Eben. "But I've knowed missie a little one," he added, -stolidly. - -He was going to call his "mate" for the other boat, two being necessary -to do what they called the "seining"--that is to say, the drawing in of -the net from opposite angles--but Harrod stopped him. - -"I'll go out in one boat with the young lady, if you'll take the -other," he said. - -My heart grew big. Eben asked him if he knew anything about the work, -very doubtful as to the competency of a mere pleasure-seeker, but -suddenly his face lit up. - -He looked from me to Harrod. - -"It works all right, eh?" he asked of me. - -I thought he had lost his wits, until suddenly it occurred to me that -those were the words I had used when he had suggested that the new -bailiff did not "work well" at the farm. What did he mean? I think I -grew red as I jumped into the boat, and was glad that it was so dark -that nobody could see me--for the twilight was dying fast, and the -stars were coming out faintly. It was cold on the water after the hot -day. Harrod rowed, and once, as before, he took a warm garment and -wrapped it about my shoulders; this time it was his own coat. - -We sat there a long hour, throwing pebbles at the net to make the -fish sink down in it, and rowing hither and thither to gather it in. -Now that he was at it, Harrod was keen upon the sport; I think he was -always keen upon all sport. But eager as I had been a while ago to see -the fish brought in once more, I was not a bit eager now; though the -"take" was not a good one, I was not a bit disappointed. - -The stars shone brighter every moment as the sky grew darker; they -shone calmly. I looked up at the vault--deep and blue, with the perfect -blue of a summer's night, and studded over so thick and bright with -those thousands of wonderfully piercing eyes. Half an hour ago I had -thought I wanted no more than that quiet sympathy of friendship--but -now, did I want no more? I scarcely knew myself. - -But the stars shone calmly. They shone as we crossed the solitary marsh -and roused the timid night-jar upon the road-side. He uttered his weird -and plaintive note like the speechless cry of some sorrowing soul, -and fluttered away in short little flights along the path-way till he -reached the dark wood under the cliff; and there he hid himself from -our sight, still sending his mournful appeal at intervals through the -darkness. - -No wonder that the country-folk hold the bird in horror, and still -imagine that its presence in the neighborhood of any dwelling is an -omen of coming death or misfortune. One could fit the cry with words -if one would, so far is it from the senseless utterance of a senseless -creature, so near to the pathetic appeal of a human soul. - -But the stars shone, and not even mother's just upbraiding, nor a -certain silent surprise on my sister's countenance, which troubled me -far more, could take away from me the good hours which had been mine, -could make the stars stop shining in the great fathomless blue. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -A week or more had passed by since the night when I had drawn the nets. -It was the first of September, and my birthday. I was nineteen years -old. A hot, fair day; all the cloudiness and rain of a fortnight since -forgotten in bright sunshine and in the scent of the roses, that were -making their second bloom. - -I was hardly up in the morning before Joyce brought me a little gift -which she had been busy preparing for me; it was a handkerchief that -she had embroidered for me herself. It must have cost her all her -leisure. I had often laughed at her, telling her that a piece of -needle-work was far more beautiful to her than all the lovely things -that God had made in the world; but that day I wondered why it was that -Joyce loved to work a handkerchief for me when I had never cared to -sit long enough in-doors to do such a thing for her in all my life. I -turned and kissed her. I hoped she did not see that there was a tear in -my eye. I turned away very quickly so that she should not do so; but I -know that there was one. - -Father and mother gave me a black silk dress. It was a sign that I was -now quite grown up, and I think I appreciated it more on that account -than for its own particular value; certain ideas about "looking nice" -were slowly beginning to develop in me, but they were not altogether -associated with a black silk dress, although indeed this was a very -good one, soft and rich, as much like mother's own old-fashioned one as -could be obtained in those more modern days. - -Deborah too had her little gift for me, although with a comment upon -the absurdity of such things; and even Reuben found a word to say on -the subject. Ah me, why was I not contented, as I had always been -contented before, with these tender signs of the quiet affection which -had filled my life up till now? When father gave me one of his rare -kisses before the others came in to dinner, and bade me be a good girl -and a happy one, I was ashamed to think that there was anything else in -the world that I wanted besides his love and care. - -We sat down rather silent to the meal. Even though it was my birthday, -nobody was in good spirits. Father had ridden up to "The Elms" that -morning, and I suppose he was tired; he was often tired with a very -slight exertion nowadays. And the weather was hot. Mother declared that -the weather was so hot that her marrow-bone was melted to a pulp. She -never could abide the hot weather, and always had the strongest figures -of speech ready to hand to express its effect upon her. - -"I should think it'll kill off all the old folk in the village," said -she. - -"Oh no, mother," I laughed; "it's the frost kills off old folk. This -will do them good. It ought to do little David Jarrett good too." - -Father shook his head sadly. "Mother, I want you to send the poor -little lad some more broth," said he. "I've been round to see him this -morning. He won't be long for this world, and while he's in it I want -him to have all that his own mother ought to get him and don't." - -Mother promised to take him the broth herself, and then she asked, what -I had been dying to ask ever since father had come in, whether he knew -when the bailiff was expected back from London, whither he had gone on -farm business some three days ago. - -"Dorcas expected him home to-day," said father; "but she didn't know -what time." - -"Well, I shall be right glad to see him," declared mother. "I don't -believe he's been near the place this week past; and as for the squire, -why, I can't but think there must something have happened to him." - -"Nonsense, Mary; what should the squire want to come for, save now and -then for friendship?" said father. "He hasn't got work upon the place, -and I'm sure we're not such good company all the year round as to tempt -folk to come here to do nothing. We're working men and women, and have -no time for talk." - -Mother laughed. "Well, Laban, I have seen you get time to talk over -some things," said she. "It's natural, I'm sure. And when it's the Rev. -Mr. Morland, that knows something about doing good, I'm pleased myself. -Not but what you used to have many a nice chat with the squire too, -times ago, before you got so set upon other things." - -This was all a hit at Frank, I knew; but father did not answer. He -tapped his fingers impatiently on the table-cloth, waiting for his -helping of pudding, and at that moment a dark figure passed across -the lawn to the porch, and my heart went thump upon my side as mother -declared gladly that it was Mr. Trayton Harrod, and bade Joyce go bid -him welcome. - -"Now, Laban," said she, "you won't go and be tetchy with the man, will -you? He has done you a world of good with the farm, and you might be -beholden to him for it, instead of being so worriting as you have been -of late." - -Whether father was "tetchy" or not I never knew. It was my place to -leave him alone with his bailiff when they had to talk business; and, -moreover, I did not want to meet him there among so many; I had a -craving for just one quiet word. - -I went and sat outside on the lawn, just under the big square -window-seat of the dwelling-room. There was a seat there in the shade, -and I took a book and waited. I heard the voices of the two men inside -rising and falling in eager discussion; then mother's voice in gentle -remonstrance, for she had not left the room when Joyce and I did, and a -moment later I heard father pass out, still talking, and Harrod after -him. Mother came to the window and opened it wide just above where I -was sitting, and then went out also; the room was empty. - -I fell to wondering how it was that men who all seemed to me good and -admirable could differ so very materially; father, the squire, Trayton -Harrod--all good in their own way, and none agreeing; father's warmest -welcome for a new-comer, who did not really give him what the others -did. - -Yes, I felt _that_, although I recognized Frank Forrester's -fascination, and declared to myself that he had fascinated, and always -would fascinate, my sister Joyce. - -She came into the room above my head just as I made this reflection. -She was singing to herself. I wondered how it was that she could sing. -If she really loved Frank, could she sing like that now that he was -away, that she could never see him, never have any news of him? If she -really loved Frank? Something that was like an iron hand seemed to grip -my heart and turn me sick. Could I have sat there singing to myself -when the man I loved was far away? No, I knew that I could not. Even -now, I felt as though I should never sing again; never sing again as I -had sung that bright May morning when I had raced along the dike with -Taff, before I had ever met Trayton Harrod. Yet he was here, within -hail; the word that I wanted of him might be spoken any day. Even a -week ago, on the sea, under the stars, had it not been near to being -spoken? - -I was not unhappy, but I could not have sung as Joyce was singing. I -kept quite still under the window; I did not want her to know I was -there, I did not want to speak to her, I wanted to think. - -Involuntarily there came to my mind that time on the cliff, the night -before she went away to Sydenham, when I had told her that she was -overrating her own strength--that she would never be able to live -without Frank. I had not met Trayton Harrod then, but now I knew that -what I had said was true: "When a girl loves a man she wants him every -minute of her life, and something goes wrong in her heart all the time -that she is parted from him." - -It would be true for me, but was it true for Joyce? Was it only that we -were different? - -I sat still and Joyce went on singing. She was singing "Annie -Laurie"--one of the songs that I used to please father and the squire -with when the long winter evenings made time. - -But suddenly she stopped. Some one had come into the room; it was -Harrod. I knew it before he spoke. And he did not speak for a long -while, for such a long while that I wondered. - -"You're not looking well, Miss Maliphant," he said at last. "The heat -tells on you." - -"Oh, indeed," answered she, in a low voice, "I'm quite well. I never -have such a color as Margaret has, you know." - -"But I think you work too hard in the house. You don't get out-doors -enough." - -She laughed a little shy laugh. - -"I like working," said she. "I'm not so fond of out-doors as Meg is." - -He said no more, and presently I heard the rustle of brown paper. I had -noticed when I met him in the hall that he had a small parcel in his -hand. - -"How did you like London?" asked Joyce. "It must have been very hot -there." - -"It was," replied he. "I didn't like it at all. I'm heartily glad to -get back. But I found a minute to run up to Regent Street to look at -those shops you told me of. I bought this. I want your opinion on it." - -I wondered what it was. A smothered exclamation came from Joyce. - -"You like it," asked he, in a pleased tone. - -"Oh yes, I think it's lovely," answered she, "lovely!" I had never -known Joyce so enthusiastic over anything. - -"Well, Miss Maliphant, will you--" he began, and then he stopped. - -I raised myself a little on the seat lest I should miss the words. But -no words came; and then suddenly it struck me that I was playing a mean -part, listening here to what was not meant for my ears, and I rose, -rustling the leaves of the shrubs as I went by. Even then there was no -sign from those two within the room. What ailed the man? He was not -wont to be so awkward. And I felt that Joyce was blushing; it made me -furious. I moved on, meaning to go in, but the next words arrested me. - -"At least," said Joyce, "I think it would be lovely for a lady to wear -in town." - -Then it was some article of dress. - -"I see you don't really admire it," replied Harrod, in a disappointed -voice. "I was afraid I shouldn't know how to choose such a thing -properly. I'm sorry. I was thinking--" He made a long pause, and then -he added, abruptly, almost savagely: "Well, I was thinking of offering -it to your sister. I hear it is her birthday." - -A blush crept over my cheek, even out there where there was no one to -see me. But I could not have told whether I was pleased or not. - -"Oh, do, do please give it to her, then," cried my sister, eagerly. -"I'm sure she'll be pleased. I'm sure she would like to have it. Don't -think of what I said." - -She was quite distressed. Why was she so much distressed over it? - -"I don't think it's really worth giving to any one," said he, with a -laugh; and then he said something quite commonplace, I forget what, and -I heard him throw down the parcel and go out of the room. - -What did it mean? His behavior was scarcely even polite. I waited a -minute, wondering; I thought I heard a little sob through the window. I -hastened in-doors and into the parlor. Yes, Joyce turned away hastily -as I came in, and I could see that she dried her eyes furtively; she -had been crying. - -"Whatever is the matter, Joyce?" cried I, I'm afraid, crossly enough. -She turned her face round to me smiling. I felt a throb of shame. -Only that very morning tears of tenderness had come into my eyes, as -I thought of the pleasure she had taken in sitting hours together to -do fine embroidery for me when she might have been in the fields! But -before I could say any more, and before she could answer, mother came -in. - -"Joyce," said she, "here's Mr. Hoad with his daughters, and father -wants us to make 'em welcome to tea. I'm sure we're not fit to make -any one welcome to-day--the butter coming so bad, and all the ironing -to do, and the best-parlor not turned out this week past. But whatever -father says is right, of course, so I suppose they must stay." - -Joyce looked up with her patient, gentle eyes. - -"Of course we will make them welcome," said she. "I'll set the -drawing-room straight." And she and mother went out together to see -to the washing of the best teacups, and the uncovering of the best -furniture. - -I had not said a word. Mother and Joyce no doubt found it natural -enough that I should not speak, for they both knew my aversion to the -Hoad family. But at that moment I was not thinking of the Hoads. I was -thinking of nothing but Joyce and Harrod, and the parcel which still -lay on the table. Mother had not noticed it. - -As soon as she and my sister were gone out, I darted towards it and -opened it. Had he not said that it was meant for me? - -It contained a delicate rose-colored silk shawl, strewn with little -white flowers, and finished with long fringes--a soft, quaint garment -that reminded one of one's grandmothers even then, and was choice and -dainty enough for the sprucest of them. - -It was perfectly suited to Joyce, who always had something of the air -of an old picture; but to me--commonplace, workaday me, with my red -hair--how could he have thought of such a thing? - -I held it in my hand a long time, looking at it and wondering. It was -not that I was surprised that he should give me a present; to tell the -truth, I had looked for a present from him, but I had thought it would -be a book--a book like one of those in his father's old library that I -had so much envied. How was it that he had chosen a thing so unsuited -to me, and so well suited to Joyce? - -I was still standing there, with the soft, pretty folds crushed up in -my hand, when the door opened suddenly and Trayton Harrod stood on the -threshold. I had no time to put the shawl away; I remained there with -it in my hand--awkwardly. And he did not say a word to help me out -of the difficult position; he only looked at me in a morose sort of -fashion. I was obliged to make the best of it. - -"I beg your pardon," I stammered; "but Joyce said--that is to say--" -I stopped, blushing furiously. I had meant to be quite frank, and to -confess that I had overheard the conversation, but my courage failed in -his sight. - -He did not speak, and I felt very foolish. Why did he stand there, -silent, with that frown upon his wide brow, that frown that never used -to be there! - -"It's a very beautiful shawl," I said, timidly, "and it would look -lovely, I am sure, upon some grand lady who drives in her own carriage." - -"Yes," said he, speaking at last; "things aren't pretty if they don't -suit." - -"Well, of course, finery is _not_ in our line; at least not in--in my -line," I stammered. - -I added the last words so low that I don't think he heard them. He -almost snatched it out of my hand. - -"No, thank Heaven, it's not," he answered. "So we'll say no more about -it." - -But when he took it from me, there came over me a wild, foolish longing -to have the thing. What at another time I should have laughed at -possessing, I wanted now more than all the books that I had envied, -more than any other gift in the world. And it belonged to me; he meant -it for me, it was mine and I would not part with it. - -"Oh, please, please, Mr. Harrod," I cried, "don't misunderstand me. I -am very much obliged to you for having thought of my birthday. I like -it very much indeed. I--thank you with all my heart." - -I stretched out my hand for it again, but he only looked at me. I -fancied there was a sort of surprise in his gaze. - -"Of course, of course," he murmured at last, as if he were pulling -himself together. "I'm afraid it will be of no use to you, Miss -Margaret, as you say it is not a suitable gift; but if you will take -it, of course you are welcome." - -I took it; but a chill fell upon my heart. - -"You did not remember my commission when you were in London, Mr. -Harrod?" I asked, with, I am afraid, something of bitterness in my -voice. - -"No," he answered, quickly. "Did you give me a commission? I'm very -sorry if I forgot any wish of yours." - -"A commission to buy me some of those books that you have in your -library," I said. - -I saw him bite his lip as though vexed. Perhaps he _was_ vexed to think -that he had forgotten something which might have given me pleasure. But -if he was, he was too proud to confess it. - -"Oh, that was no commission," he said, with a little cold laugh. "You -know I would not take it. I told you I was not the person for such a -job. I advised you to ask Squire Broderick." - -I tossed my head. "Yes, and I think I answered you that the squire was -no such friend of mine that I should ask favors of him," I replied, -hotly. My temper was rising, but luckily he had more self-control than -I had; he saved me from making an exhibition of myself. - -"I ought not to have forgotten any request of yours," said he. "I'm -sorry. If you'll give me the names of the books you want, I'll write -to-night." - -I thanked him, but I said I did not know the names of the books, which -indeed was true enough; and we turned the talk round to every-day -things, until luckily some one came into the room. - -But there was some one else who knew the names of books, and who, -moreover, remembered that I cared about them. It was Squire Broderick. -He came in that evening with a case of twelve little volumes of -Shakespeare's complete works under his arm. - -"I know you're very keen about reading, Miss Margaret," said he, with -his sunny smile. "I've often thought of you trying to puzzle out -Milton's 'Paradise Lost' up there on the old window-seat at 'The Elms.' -But I think you'll find this easier reading than 'Paradise Lost,' and -more amusing." - -I blushed a fire-red, for they were all standing by: father, mother, -and Joyce, and Trayton Harrod. I almost fancied that I saw a suspicion -of a smile break round his mouth as the offering was made. - -I am afraid that I scarcely even thanked the squire audibly for it. -I can only hope that that fiery blush appealed to him somehow as a -recognition of his kindness to me, and not as what it really was. Good -Mr. Broderick! How far too good to me always! Even to this day it hurts -me to think that perhaps I hurt him. - -But something in the way father shook him by the hand, and something -in his voice as he said, "Oh, Meg, it isn't every girl has such a kind -and thoughtful friend," made up, a little, I hope, for my curtness, -although indeed the squire went away as soon as he had given his gift, -and with something in his face that was not quite like his usual -cheeriness. I am afraid that neither father's warmth of manner nor -mother's thanks, hearty as they were, were enough for him. Could he -have been wishing that it had been Joyce's birthday, that the gift -might have been made to her? For no one had been so enthusiastic as -Joyce over my good-fortune. - -"The very thing for you, dear," she had said, after the squire was -gone, taking up the books and looking at them admiringly. "Isn't it, -Mr. Harrod?" - -Harrod agreed warmly that there was no doubt about their being the very -thing for me, and every one declared that I was a very lucky girl. -But no one knew anything about that pale pink shawl, with the white -flowers, that had fallen into my hands in so strange a manner. I don't -know why, but I kept that gift a secret from every one. And to this -day it lies in the same folds, in the same piece of gray-blue paper in -which it was originally given me. - -Did I think myself a very lucky girl? - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Frank Forrester did not come down to Marshlands for the elections. He -did not come, but he was very near coming. - -I met Mary Thorne and the Hoad girls out canvassing two days before. -Mary would have passed me with a nod, but Jessie Hoad had something to -say. - -"I don't think it's at all nice of your father not to let you help -us canvass for Mr. Thorne, Margaret Maliphant," said she, tartly. -"Father says he can't make it out at all. He always understood that Mr. -Maliphant would support the Radical cause, and now that for the first -time they have got a candidate who has some chance of getting in, he -won't have anything to do with him." - -"I suppose my father knows what he is about," answered I, proudly. - -"Does he?" retorted she. "It's more than any one else knows, then." - -I bit my tongue in my efforts to keep it from saying something rude, -yet I am afraid the tone was not quite conciliatory in which I -retaliated. "His friends seem to know well enough to trust him! You've -only got to ask the people round about to hear whose advice they would -soonest follow on the country-side." - -It was true, but I should not have said it. - -Jessie turned to Mary Thorne. "We ought to have her with us," said she. -"The funny thing is she's right enough. The laborers hereabouts do look -to Farmer Maliphant in the most extraordinary way. He don't hold any -meetings, or work at the thing like other folk work. But there's the -fact, and that's why it's so aggravating of the man to hold aloof. What -does he do it for, eh, my dear?" asked she, looking at me again. - -"I don't know," I said, sullenly; "I'm not clever enough to understand -father's motives. I only know that he says that Parliament's no good." - -Jessie was going to retaliate, but the other stopped her. - -"Come, don't bother any more about it, Jessie," said she, with the -frank, good-natured smile that had always drawn me towards her, in -spite of my father. "We're not going to get Farmer Maliphant's vote nor -his support either, and what's the good of going on at it?" - -"Oh, my dear, going on at it is the only way to get anything; and one -doesn't like to be beaten without knowing the reason why. However, we -shall have some one down to-night who will make a finer speech at the -meeting than ever Farmer Maliphant would have made, even if he had -consented to give us a glimpse of those grand deep notions of his." - -Mary Thorne laughed in a sort of self-conscious way; I wondered why. - -"Who is coming to speak at the meeting?" I asked. - -"Why, Squire Broderick's nephew, Captain Forrester, to be sure," -laughed Miss Hoad. "He'll make an effect on the people, I'll be bound. -So fascinating and so handsome. I've never heard him speak, but father -says he's awfully enthusiastic, and all that kind of thing." - -I felt myself grow red or pale, I don't know which. I had wanted him to -come, but I had not thought it would be in that way. Yet it was what I -should have known must happen if Frank came down to the elections at -all. - -"I'm sure he will make a splendid speech," said Mary Thorne, with a -sort of pride. "I told father it would be everything if we could get -him to come down." - -"He has been a long while making up his mind," said Jessie. - -"Well, it is awkward for him, you see," said the other. "He naturally -doesn't care to go against his uncle." - -"It's worse to go against one's principles," declared Jessie, loftily. - -"I quite understand it," declared Mary, loyally. "He mightn't mind it -if the squire weren't such a dear old fellow, but it is awkward, and I -consider it a great mark of friendship that he should do it for us." - -"Is he going to stay at the Manor or at the Priory?" I put in, bluntly. - -"Oh, at the Priory with us, of course," replied she. "And I must send -the carriage for him in an hour. So, please, we must get on, Jessie, or -I shall never be home in time." - -She held out her hand to me, and of course I took it, as I took also -Jessie Hoad's when she offered it, but I was not comfortable. - -Why was Frank always going to stay at the Priory now, and why was he -willing to risk hurting his uncle's feelings solely for the sake of -doing an act of friendship to the Thornes? I could not understand -it, any more than I could understand why Mr. Hoad should be so -extravagantly anxious that Thorne should succeed. Miss Jessie was not -in the habit of troubling herself about things that, as she would -have expressed it, "didn't pay"; yet here she was putting herself to -all manner of inconvenience to go canvassing with Mary Thorne, while -Mr. Hoad was scouring the county for votes and spending his evenings -writing flaming articles for country papers, or making emphatic -speeches at country meetings. - -I might have thought about it more than I did if I had not had the more -interesting matter of Frank's arrival to occupy me. Would father let -us go to the meeting that we might hear Frank speak? Would mother let -Joyce have a word with him? How were they to meet, and most important -of all, how would Joyce behave towards him? I flew home to tell her, -but she was not in the house. Deb did not know where she was. - -Deb only gave vent to a loud fit of laughter when I told her that -Captain Forrester was coming down to speak at the meeting, and that I -wanted to give my sister the news. She made me angry--it was no good -speaking to Deb. I caught up my hat again, and rushed off, seized with -a sudden inspiration to take a walk that evening and find myself at -the station at the time that Frank Forrester would arrive. In common -civility he could not do less than offer me a lift up in the carriage -which would have been sent to meet him; and anyhow, I could not fail to -get a few words with him. - -Yes, I would talk to him of Joyce; I would tell him that her manner was -deceptive; I would tell him how reserved we all were; how different to -himself; how rarely we showed what we really felt; I would tell him -that her cold manner the day when I had taken him to the Grange was but -from her desire to be loyal to the promise she had sworn our parents, -that in truth she loved him; I would tell him how changed she was--for -indeed it was true. I would try and not be shy; I would try and give -him fresh heart. - -I sped away over the downs and along the hill, Taff following me -uninvited. It was a long way to the station, and I was afraid of -missing the train. Ah, I had missed it! Just as I was crossing the -last strip of level road before reaching the rails, I saw the Priory -carriage bowling towards me on its return journey. "What a pity!" -said I to myself. But it came near and nearer, and at every bit that -shortened the distance between us I became more and more sure that -Frank was not in it; there was only one person, and that person was -Mary Thorne. - -She stopped the carriage as she saw me. Her face was very pale, and I -saw that she held the yellow envelope of a telegram in her hand. - -"Oh, Miss Maliphant, do you think it would really be quite impossible -to persuade your father to address the meeting for us to-night?" she -said, hurriedly. "We are disappointed of Captain Forrester, who was to -have spoken." Her lip trembled a little. - -"I hope he's not ill?" I said. - -She did not answer at once. - -"I hope nothing has happened to him?" I repeated. - -I saw her fingers close tightly over the yellow envelope until they -were quite white. - -"Yes," she said, slowly. "He was riding in a steeple-chase not far from -here; he has been thrown. They say--" Her lip trembled again. She could -not go on. - -"But he's not much hurt, not badly hurt?" I cried, in a fury of -anxiety. "Do speak!" - -She looked at me sadly, but a little surprised; and no wonder. I did -not know how loud or how eagerly I had spoken till I saw the coachman -look round. - -"Father is so fond of him," I said. "I should be so sorry if he were -hurt." - -"They say only slightly injured; no cause for alarm," she answered. -"But one never knows." - -She turned away her head. I knew very well that she was crying. I ought -to have been sorry; I was only angry. - -"Oh, I dare say it's a mere excuse," I said, ill-naturedly. "Men are -so clever at excuses. He has got scratched just enough to say so. He -didn't want to come." - -She turned round. Her eyes were dry again. But she must, indeed, have -been a good-natured girl, for there was no trace of anger in her face. - -"You don't know him; that's not his way," she said, quietly. And then -she added, "You'll try and persuade your father, won't you?" - -"I'll give him your message," I answered. "But I know perfectly well he -won't speak." - -"Well, then, we must do the best we can without him," she said. "It's -too late to get any one else. I must get home quickly. Good-night." - -She drove on and left me standing in the road. Another time I might -have thought it rude of her; but then I noticed nothing, I thought of -nothing, just as she, probably, thought of nothing, but that Frank -Forrester was hurt. And for my own part, I thought of nothing so much -as that Joyce would--_must be_--heart-broken. - -Taff, seeing me standing there as though turned to stone, leaped -upon me, barking. I took no notice of him, but he roused me, and I -tore up the hill as fast as I could to carry my grewsome message. -Instinctively, I felt that this, at last, must rouse my sister to show -her true feelings, and if there were a mask on her face, that this at -last must strip it off. - -I did not want to see Deborah, and I did not stop to go in by the front -door. I climbed the hedge and crossed the lawn to the parlor window. -Through the tangle of traveller's-joy and frail old-fashioned jasmine -that framed it around, I looked into the room. Father and Trayton -Harrod sat by the fireless hearth smoking their pipes, and at the table -was Joyce, with the inevitable basket of family darning; her profile -was turned towards me, listening intently, with eyelids raised and -needle poised idle in her hand, to something the bailiff was saying. - -What was there in anything there to vex and sour and wound me? Yet I -went in hastily, letting the door slam behind me. - -"Good gracious me! Fancy sitting in-doors this lovely fine evening!" -said I. "We sha'n't have so many more of them that we need waste one. -The summer is nearly over." - -"Why, what's the matter, Meg?" asked father. "Let folk please -themselves, child." - -"Oh, dear, yes; they can please themselves," I answered. - -"Is that all you came in-doors to say?" laughed he again. - -Harrod was busy filling his pipe, ramming in the tobacco with a stern -hand, while Joyce bent forward again over her work. - -"No," answered I, promptly. "I came with a message for you, father, -from Miss Thorne. She wants you to oblige her by speaking at the -Radical meeting to-night." - -A cloud gathered on father's brow. "Speak at the Radical meeting!" -echoed he. "What ails the girl to make such a request, or you, Meg, to -bring it? You know very well I shall speak at no meeting." - -"I told her so," said I, curtly; "but she would not take my word." - -"This is some of Hoad's work," he said, excitedly. "Why can't the man -understand that he won't bully me into doing what I don't intend to do? -I don't intend to support James Thorne. I don't consider James Thorne -an honest man. Why can't he leave off worrying?" - -This speech was not at all like father. There was an amount of -irritability, almost of pettiness, in it, which was quite foreign to -him; and his saying that Hoad couldn't "bully" him into anything struck -me as odd even then, though the more weighty matter that was in my mind -made me chiefly impatient to hear my own voice. - -"Well, it isn't Mr. Hoad this time, father," said I, hastily. "I'm sure -he knew nothing about it. Captain Forrester was to have spoken." - -Joyce did not raise her head, but I saw a little frown trouble her -smooth brow. - -"Forrester!" echoed father. "No, no! You're mistaken, child. I should -be disappointed, grievously disappointed," he added, tapping the -fingers of one hand on the knuckles of the other, "to think he should -be led astray to throw himself in with that lot. Are you quite sure of -it, Meg?" - -"I am quite sure he _was_ going to speak," said I; "but--" - -"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," repeated father. "But he's -young--easily misled. I must have a talk with him. I didn't know the -lad was in these parts." - -"He's not," said I. "He was to have come, but he has had an accident; -he has been thrown from his horse in a steeple-chase." - -"God bless my soul!" cried father, starting up from his chair. "Why -didn't you say so? Not killed?" - -My eyes were on Joyce's face. She had looked up anxiously, but she had -not changed color one bit. - -"No, not killed," answered I, slowly; "but I don't know how badly hurt. -The telegram didn't say." - -"Poor lad, poor lad! murmured father, concernedly, as he sat down -again. But still Joyce did not speak. She looked serious and -distressed, and a faint pink flush had deepened on her cheek, but there -was no horror in her eyes. - -"Men shouldn't ride in steeple-chases," said Harrod. "It's the most -dangerous of all riding--and only for amusement, after all." - -"I should have thought Captain Forrester was such a splendid rider that -he could have managed any horse," said Joyce. - -"Oh, it's not always a matter of mere management in a steeple-chase," -said Harrod. And I do believe my sister was actually opening her mouth -to reply to him, when I said, sharply, "Joyce, mother wants you," and -by that means got her out of the room. - -"Poor lad!" I heard the old voice murmur again as I closed the door. - -"Father's sorry," said I, as I turned round and faced my sister. - -"Yes," said she; "of course. Who could help being sorry?" - -"Some folk seem to be able to help it very well," laughed I. "_I_ -couldn't have sat there discussing with another man how my lover had -nearly come by his death! At least I can scarcely fancy that I could. -Of course I'm not engaged to be married to anybody, so perhaps I don't -know how I should feel." - -Joyce looked at me aghast. "Good gracious, Meg!" said she, in a -half-frightened whisper, "what is the matter?" - -I suppose my face had told her something of what I was feeling; I -suppose it had become white, and the gray eyes were black in it, as -father used to declare they were wont to become when I was angry. - -"The matter?" cried I. "Oh, there's nothing the matter. Only I was -a little surprised to see how coolly you took the news of Frank's -accident." - -"Why, what was I to say?" said she. "I am very sorry, and I sincerely -trust that it is nothing serious." - -"Well," answered I, scornfully, "I should think you would feel as much -as that if Joe Millet had been run away with by the old dray-horse, or -even if Luck were to have a fit. I'm sure I should. I was afraid you -would be very unhappy when I brought you that bad piece of news. I was -afraid you would be quite upset. I didn't know whether I ought to tell -you before a stranger, but I needn't have troubled myself. You took it -very well. Perhaps poor Frank would have been a little hurt to see how -well you took it." - -"I don't know what right you have to speak to me like that, Meg," said -my sister, in a low voice. "How do you know what I feel? People aren't -all alike. You take things very hard. You must have everything your own -way, or else you fight and struggle. But I'm not like that. I believe -that whatever happens is all for the best. Why can't you let me take -things my own way?" - -"Good gracious me!" cried I; "take them your own way by all means, only -you might argue till you're black in the face, but you'll never get me -to believe that it's all for the best whether the man one cares for -breaks his neck or not." - -"Oh, Meg, you know I didn't mean that," murmured Joyce, in a low, -disheartened voice. The tears gathered over those clear blue eyes of -hers, that were as untroubled waters whose transparent depths could -be fathomed at a glance. There was never anything mysterious about my -sister's eyes; they were simple as a little child's, but, unlike a -child's, they had ceased to wonder. - -The tears irritated me, but they made me ashamed of my unreasonable -temper, and I said, quickly, with sudden change of mood: "Well, I'm a -cross-patch of course; but you know it was enough to make anybody angry -to see you sitting there so meek and patient when I knew you must be -dying of anxiety. And all for nothing but to please two dear old people -who have forgotten what it was to be young and eager. But you must -write to Frank at once." - -"He knows very well how sorry I am," said Joyce. - -I think my face must have darkened again, for she added, almost humbly, -"You know I never could write letters, and I had rather not vex mother." - -"Then you'd rather let that poor fellow think you didn't care whether -he was dead or alive than show mother you've got a mind and ten fingers -of your own?" I cried. - -"He must think what he likes," said Joyce, in her most quietly -obstinate voice; "I don't want to write." And that was all I could get -from her. - -"Very well, _I'll_ write, then," I said, with ill-concealed anger. "I -like writing letters, and I am not afraid of mother." - -I flew up-stairs; I did not dare trust myself to say another word, but -on the first landing I looked down and saw her head upturned towards -me. There was a pitiful look in the blue eyes. - -"Don't think me heartless, Meg," she murmured. - -"Oh no; I understand," said I, wearily. "I dare say you're quite right. -I dare say it's much better not to take things too hard." - -After all, she might be right. She had said, "How can you know what I -feel?" And, indeed, how could I possibly know? "How could one ever know -what anybody else felt?" I repeated once more, as if to convince myself -of it; and I am afraid, I am sadly afraid, that my own voice broke a -little. "I know I'm not always happy, and perhaps it's because I take -things too hard." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -Girls such as we were got little time for sentimental brooding, -however, and though up-stairs in the little attic where Joyce and I had -always slept, I threw myself on the bed and looked sadly out across -the marsh with eyes that saw none of its plaintive placidity, mother -soon waked me from day-dreams, and called me down-stairs to active -employment that did its best to drive love and its torments from my -mind. - -The squire was ill; he had taken a bad cold out partridge-shooting, and -mother was making him some of her special orange-jelly as a salve for -his cough. - -Those who were interested in the Conservative success at the elections -were much concerned at the squire's illness just at this time; and Mr. -Hoad, who had, it seems, been round that afternoon, had been heard to -declare that it was all to "our" good that the squire should not have -been able to hold forth at the rival meeting that evening. - -But mother did not regard the matter in that light, and I believe she -told Mr. Hoad so. I was not present; it had happened at the time I -had been gone to the station, but according to Joyce, she had told -him so very plainly. Mother, as I have often said, was as loyal to -squire as if he had been her own son, and on this occasion so, I -believe, was father also. Looking back to that time, I seem to remember -the sort of rough stand-aloofness which had characterized father's -attitude towards the squire, giving place of late to a curious sort of -half-unwilling consideration and tenderness. - -When mother called me from my bedroom to the kitchen, she was full of -the squire's illness. "I hope it's nothing serious," she kept saying; -"and that he won't go worrying himself any way about this accident to -his nephew." - -"Oh, you have heard about it, have you?" answered I. "Well, I don't see -why the squire can't afford to worry a little about it, I'm sure. And -I'm certain he does; anybody with any heart in them would." I said it -bitterly, but I did not anger mother. - -"Well, there, Margaret," she said, abruptly, "you know I never did -like the young man, and I can't pretend to break my heart over this. -I'm sorry he's come to harm, of course, but I can't help feeling glad -Joyce takes it as she does. We can't expect her to forget all at once, -but please God she _will_ forget, and things perhaps be even as I hoped -for." - -"I can't think how you can suppose it would please God your daughter -should be a fickle, shallow-hearted creature, I'm sure," said I, hotly. - -"You and I never were of one mind over that matter, were we?" smiled -mother, quite good-temperedly. "But the day'll come when perhaps you'll -say I was right. You're but a child yet; you know nothing about such -things saving what you've got out of books, and that ain't much like -it. Perhaps you may come to know what it is yourself one day, and then -you'll tell the difference between the real stuff and the make-believe." - -A child! Was my waywardness, my impetuosity, my passionate longing only -childishness? Now that I am a woman, I wonder whether mother was partly -right in her simple intuition? Only partly: I did know something about -"such things." - -"I don't believe Joyce hasn't taken it to heart," said I, doggedly. - -"Well, her eyes aren't so heavy as yours by a long way," answered -mother. "I don't know what's come to _you_ of late. You used not to be -mopy. Nobody could say it of you whatever else they might say. You had -your tantrums, and you always have been a dreadful one for wearing out -your clothes, but mopy you were not. But I'm sure you fret more over -this business than Joyce herself does. I've no patience with you. As -for any work you do for me, I'd as soon have your room as your company. -I like to see a body put her heart into whatever comes to hand, if it's -only boiling a potato. You take my word for it, my girl, it's the only -way to be happy." - -The tears came into my eyes, for I knew very well that mother was -right. I turned away that she should not see them, for I was ashamed of -tears, but she did see them nevertheless. - -"There, there," she added, kindly; "I don't want to rate you. Be a good -girl, and look more like yourself again. Half-hearted ways won't bring -anybody on; and as for your complexion, well, you used to have a skin -that I could boast of. 'Red hair she may have,' I used to say, 'but -look at her skin.' And now it's no better than curds and whey. Come, -get the muslin and strain off that jelly." - -I did as I was bid, but I'm afraid not with my whole heart. Had it come -to that, that anybody could say of me, Margaret Maliphant, that I had -taken to moping after anybody? - -"You shall take it up to the Manor yourself and leave it with the -house-keeper, as soon as it's set, in the morning," said mother, -tasting the liquid to see that it had just enough flavoring in it. "You -can say it's from an old friend, and then it won't hurt her feelings." - -We finished the job and set it down to cool before we went in to tea. -Joyce was there, with her hair smoothed and her face fresh, and I had -red cheeks from stooping over the fire, and red eyes from something -else that I would not remember. But I forced myself to look Harrod -boldly in the face, asking what had become of father, and learning that -they had been up to "The Elms" together, and that the walk had been too -much for him. - -"Mr. Maliphant will take things so hard," added the bailiff, and the -words sounded sadly familiar to me. - -Father came in presently and handed me a letter addressed to Frank. - -"Take that up to the Manor presently, Meg," said he; "and get the -address and ask for news." - -"Margaret is going up in the morning with some jelly for the squire; -I suppose that'll do," said mother. "I don't expect it's near so bad -as it was made out. Those things are always worse in the telling, and -these young beaus are just the ones to get a sorry tale abroad about -themselves." - -"Hush, hush, mother; that's not like your kind heart," said father, -reproachfully; and mother laughed, and said she had meant no harm to -him, and Joyce looked down on her plate uncomfortably. - -But I heard nothing, and as soon as I had swallowed my meal I got up -and went out. I recollect with what relief I welcomed Reuben on the -terrace with his old dog, and began to talk of commonplace simple -things. Feeling hurt me too much, and Reuben did not foster feeling. - -"Dear old Luck," said I, stooping down to pat the dog, who looked up at -me with tender eyes out of his dusky black and white face, and would -have wagged his tail if there had been a long enough piece of it to -wag. "I hope there has been no more talk of shooting you. We couldn't -spare the sight of you about the farm." - -"Nay," said Reuben, shaking his head; "when the dog goes, Reuben'll go -too. No mistake about that. He's been my luck, and when they take him -they take me." - -"Ah, well, you aren't either of you going yet a while," said I, -consolingly. "There's lots of life in you both." - -"Ay, miss, ay," grinned the old man, well pleased. "We sent the sheep -home last night, Luck and I; didn't we, old boy? Beale he have taken -his sweetheart on a spree somewhere out Eastbourne way, and he asked me -to see to the folding. I'm spry in the summer-time, and I was pleased -enough. But I wouldn't have none o' them ondependable, skittish young -uns. Not I." - -"Whom do you mean?" I asked. - -"Nay, I place no dependence on young things," repeated he, doggedly. -"They're sure to have their eye on a bit of fun somewheres, and they be -allays for trying new dodges. Now, Luck he's safe and he's sure. He's -got sperience, Luck has. He knows." - -He nodded his head to and fro with an air of profound wisdom, and I -burst out laughing. - -It did me good. I had not laughed that day. - -"What? You mean the young sheep-dog, I suppose?" I said. - -"Ay, miss," answered Reuben. "A 'andsome young chap enough, but -ondependable." He paused, waiting for me to speak, but I saw whither -he was drifting, and was silent. "There's others besides dogs as is -ondependable!" he added, slowly. "Such as we durstn't understand the -ways o' them that are learned. Nay, would we presume? But there's -others as is ondependable. Poor master! But the Lord knows what is best -for us all." - -"Well, He is sending us glorious weather for the crops, anyway," said -I, with determined cheerfulness. "It's quite too hot for me." - -"Ay, so be it for the 'ops, miss," grinned the old man. - -"I don't believe it," cried I. - -He took me by the arm and led me forward to the edge of the cliff, -whence we could see the marsh in its whole wide expanse. The day, as -I had said, had been very hot, but the sun had set now--it was full -seven o'clock, and the long twilight had begun her peaceful reign, -exquisite in sober tints and fragrant coolness of silent air. The plain -was slowly sinking into mystery, but silver-gray upon the bosom of -the dikes, clearly defining their long, straight lines wherever they -crossed the marsh; ribbons of white mist unrolled themselves in the dim -light. - -"They're thicker than that back yonder," said he, "where the -'op-gardens be." - -"Well, what harm do the mists do?" laughed I. "The hops haven't got the -rheumatics." - -"Nay, miss, but the mists, this 'ot weather, and the scalding sun -atop'll spoil 'em worse nor they'll 'arm my old bones. They'll be as -brown as brushwood." - -Reuben delivered this speech in a low tragic whisper, and with the most -ominous of expressions, holding my arm the while. - -"Oh, Reuben, you always were a gloomy creature," said I. "I believe you -like making the worst of things." - -"Nay, it's the Lord's doing," said Reuben, piously; "but if he had -a-planted Early Perlifics they would ha' been all safe and garnered by -now." - -"Well, it isn't you that'll be afflicted if the hops fail, Reuben," -said I, tartly, "so you needn't be so pious and resigned over it;" and -with that I walked off back into the house. - -What Reuben had said had set me thinking. I wondered whether it was -neither altogether distress at Frank's accident, nor fatigue from the -walk, that had made father depressed at tea-time. He was not in the -dwelling-room, neither was mother. There were papers strewn over the -table, and an inkstand with pen aslant across it stood in the midst. -The papers were evidently accounts, and somebody had been working at -them. - -I supposed it might be Trayton Harrod, for he was still there, contrary -to his wont; but he was not seated at the table. He was standing up -before the big, empty fireplace, and in one of the deep spindle-railed -chairs at the side sat my sister Joyce. I fancied that he moved a -little as I came in, but I was not sure. - -"Where's father?" asked I, sharply. - -I looked at Joyce, but she did not reply. - -"Your father is in the study, I believe," said Harrod. "He was here -doing some work with me, and did not feel so very well. I believe your -mother is with him." - -"Oh, I suppose the news of Captain Forrester's accident upset him," -said I. "He is so very fond of him." - -There was silence. The fact of Joyce's not speaking somehow exasperated -me. - -"Do you think that was the reason, Joyce?" asked I. - -"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered. - -And when she spoke I saw why it was she had not spoken before: she had -been crying. - -"Dear me!" said I, half frightened. "Is he so bad as that?" - -Again she did not answer; it was Harrod who replied for her. "No, no, -Miss Margaret," he said; "I assure you it's nothing of consequence." - -Which did he mean? Father's illness, or Joyce's distress? - -"I must go and see," said I. But I did not move. I was anxious about -father, and yet I had not the courage to go and leave those two -together. I stood looking at them. Joyce sat just where she had sat -that cold spring evening not six months ago, when she had told me that -Frank Forrester had asked her to marry him. She even sat forward and -clasped her hands over her knees, as she had clasped them then; only -there was no bright fire now in the hearth to illumine her golden hair; -the hearth was empty, but there was a curious sense of gold in the -twilight. - -In the flash of a moment the scene came back to me; the strangeness of -it; the absence of the glow of romance that I had dreamed of when I had -first dreamed of romance for my beautiful sister. I had not guessed -then that it was the lack of that golden glow that had chilled me. I -had wanted it so; I had felt that, outwardly, everything was fitting -for it to be so, and I had chosen to believe that it was so; but now I -knew very well that it had never been so. - -The fire was dead to-night, but the sense of the glow was there--too, -too brightly. - -"I must go and see about father," I repeated, in a kind of dull voice. -I wondered to hear the sound of it myself. - -"Don't _you_ go, Meg," said Joyce. "I haven't washed up the tea-things -yet, and Deb is busy. I must make haste. I'll look in as I go past." - -Her voice had recovered its serenity, and she spoke brightly and -sweetly. "Very well, I'll come, too, in a minute, and help you," -answered I, going through the hollow pretence of looking for something -that I didn't want. - -She got up and glided across the room, and out of the door, with that -soft way she had. Harrod had sat down again to the table and the papers. - -"What's the matter with Joyce?" I asked, bluntly, almost before the -door had closed. - -He looked at me with those honest eyes of his. I could see that he -scorned to make any pretence, any evasive answer. - -"I have been speaking to her of something that distressed her," he -said. "I should not have done it. I am sorry. I did not think it would -have distressed her." - -It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what it was. I don't know -whether it was natural good-feeling and politeness that prevented me, -or whether I simply dreaded the answer. I tried to think that the -"something" related to Frank Forrester's accident, but I did not ask. -"I did not think it would have distressed her" might point to that -explanation, as of course Harrod knew nothing of any relations between -her and the captain. It might, but there was an undefined fear within -me that it did not. - -Harrod dropped his eyes again on the papers on the table, and took -up the pen. An insane, wicked desire came upon me to hurt him for -innocently hurting me. - -"Mr. Harrod," said I, roughly, "Reuben has been talking to me outside. -He thinks the hops are looking very badly." - -He laid down the pen, and looked up, with an underlip that quivered a -little. - -"Reuben's opinion is not so infallible as I fancy you suppose, Miss -Margaret," said he, trying to smile. "Your father has been round the -property, and is, I fancy, quite as well able to judge of it as Reuben -Ruck." - -"Oh, did father think the hops looked well, then?" asked I. - -I thought Harrod winced. - -"Hops are a very difficult growth," he answered. "I don't suppose a -perfect crop is gathered more than once in twenty years. A hundred -chances are against it; your father knew this well enough when he went -in for the speculation. He is a reasonable man." - -I knew that this was intended as a reproof to me, and I knew that -I deserved it. I had prided myself on being wise and calm over the -business affairs of the farm, as I should have been if I had been -father's son instead of his daughter; I had prided myself that Harrod -considered me so by talking things over with me as he often had done. -But of late I had not been reasonable. I knew it; I knew that I was -straining the very cord that I most counted upon, perhaps even to -breaking-point. I knew it, I could have bitten my tongue out, and yet -my wounded feelings got the better of me and carried my tongue away. I -stood there ashamed, sick at heart. I wanted to make it up, I wanted to -be forgiven, but I did not know what to say. - -And while I was thinking what to say, the door opened, and father and -mother came in. Father's face was pale, and he walked uncertainly. - -"There, there, that'll do, Mary," he said, testily. "I'm all right now. -The weather is a bit oppressive, that's all. I want to finish this bit -of business with Harrod, if you'll leave us quiet." - -Mother knew better than to say a word. Father sat down in the chair -which Harrod got up to give him, and mother and I went out of the room. - -My chance of reconciliation that evening was over. - -I had to listen to mother's very natural distress about father's fresh -indisposition, and her expressions of annoyance at its having been -brought on, as she supposed, by the piece of news about "that young -good-for-nothing." Then I had the tea-things to wash up with Joyce, and -the clean linen to put away. And when all our work was done Trayton -Harrod had gone, and I went up into the little attic whence mother had -called me in the early evening, and sat down again in the dark to have -it out with myself about all the puzzling events of this puzzling day. - -Joyce had not yet come up to bed; I was all alone. The twilight was -dead; the stars shone above--thousands of stars looking down upon me -with a story of courage and hope in their bright eyes--I wonder whether -I understood it! - -Deborah came in with a candle. She had forgotten to give us one. I was -sorry she brought it. - -"Lord bless my soul, Margaret, you startled me," said she. "Whatever -are you doing? Why don't you get to bed?" - -"Joyce hasn't come up yet," I said. - -She put down the candle, and came up to me and took hold of me by the -shoulders. - -"You've been frettin'," said she, sharply, looking down into my eyes. -"Now, whatever is that for?" - -"How dare you say such a thing?" answered I, pulling myself away. "I've -not been fretting. I've nothing to fret about." - -"Well, I don't know as you have," answered she; "but you've been -fretting for all that. I've seen it for weeks past. What's it for?" - -She stood there above me, with her arms akimbo, and her keen, round, -dark eyes fixed upon me. It never occurred to her that I was not going -to tell her what it was for. - -"You've been frettin'," repeated she. "And what call you have to fret -because Joyce's beau goes and falls off his horse is more than I can -understand." - -"I tell you I'm not fretting," repeated I, emphatically. "Of course -what should it matter to me? I was surprised that Joyce took it so -coolly. Some folk are so quiet. I suppose they feel just the same, but -I'm sure you'd never know it. It's a mercy for them they don't make so -much noise." - -"Oh, that's where it is," said Deb, sagely, as if she had guessed a -secret. "You're so set on Joyce frettin' over that young spark. But, -Lor' bless my soul, Joyce don't care for him. She never have cared for -him, so as to say, properly. She was took at first by his being such a -fine fellow and seemin' so fond of her. 'Twas natural enough. And you -was so set on it you made her believe she liked him better nor she did. -But that ain't what's going to wash. She never loved the fellow." - -"It's not true," cried I, with flaming eyes. "She did love him always, -and she loves him just as much now." - -Deb was not a bit put out by my impetuous sally. She only shook her -head quietly, and repeated, "No, she don't. And a precious good thing, -too, seeing he's so like to forget her and mate with his own class." - -"You're talking nonsense, Deb," cried I, hotly. "Mate with his own -class, indeed! We're as good as he any day." - -"That may be," answered Deb, calmly, "but he don't think so. He were -keen upon her pretty face at first, but he's cooled down now, and sees -it wouldn't be a wise thing for him to do. It's a precious good thing -Joyce don't care for him." - -"I tell you Joyce does care for him," reiterated I, savagely. - -"Now, I wonder whatever makes you so set upon Joyce being in love with -that young man," said the old woman, looking at me sharply, and without -paying the slightest attention to my passionate vindication of my -sister's constancy. - -"Oh, I know, you want her to marry the squire and be a lady, as mother -does," retorted I. "But you needn't bother. The squire'll never propose -to her." - -"No, you're right there," laughed Deb, with a loud laugh that both -puzzled and irritated me. "He won't. I don't rightly see as he could -propose to any one in this house till folk are minded to give him -a civil word now and then. But that ain't no reason why you should -want your sister to wed where she don't love. Nay, Margaret, there's -somethin' under that as we don't know of. What is it, eh?" - -I looked at Deb defiantly, but her round black eyes were full of a -rough and simple sympathy. I knew Deb well enough to recognize the -signs of it, and my sore, struggling pride gave way. I forgot all about -having insisted a minute ago that I had nothing to fret about, and -that I was not fretting. Just as I had used to do when I was a child -and mother had whipped me for messing my frock, I put my head upon her -broad bosom and began to cry. - -Deb offered me no caress; she didn't know how, and she knew well enough -I should be ashamed of my unusual behavior later; but after a few -minutes she said, grimly: "I thought as much. Bother the men!" - -I dried my eyes at that, and between a laugh and a sob I said: "Why -should you say that? What have they to do with it?" - -"What have they to do with it?" cried Deb. "Why, everything. They -always have. Folk may say it was the woman made Adam to sin, but she's -been punished for it ever since if she did, and it's just about time it -should stop. Men are at the bottom of every trouble that comes our way, -though we ought to be ashamed to say so. If it's not loving of 'em, -it's hating of 'em, and that's just as bad. What I want to see is a man -a-worriting _his_ life out for one of us. They take it so easy, they -do. But there, dearie me," smiled the old woman, "I weren't always so -wise; and you mark my words, if folk go fixin' their hearts on what's -not meant for them, they can't expect to be easy nor comfortable no -ways. Ah, I'm not talking stuff, I can tell you. Old Deb isn't such -a fool as she looks. You wouldn't think I'd ever had a lover, would -you, my dear? But I had, once upon a time. I was a smart, bright lass, -though I never was pretty, and the lads they were all fond of me. There -was one of 'em fond of me for many a long year, just as patient as -could be. He was better to do than I was, and would ha' been a good -match for the likes o' me. But, Lord, I must needs go snubbin' of 'im, -nasty uppish-like as I always was. Ah, many's the time poor mother has -told me I was a fool for my pains. I might have had him if I had liked. -But I never so much as cared to think he was coming after me. He was a -good body for a friend--as you might say, a walking-stick of a summer -evening, and there was an end." - -"Well, but you couldn't have married him if you didn't like him, -anyway, Deb," said I, interested in spite of myself by the story. - -"Ah, I should have liked the man well enough if there hadn't been -somebody else by, my dear," said Deb, "and that's just the pity. But -one fine day there comes along a stranger lad, a lad as I didn't -seem to want to snub--well, not for more than the first week. It was -hop-picking time, and we used to be in the fields together all day. He -never took particular account of me, more than for a joke and a laugh -with the rest; but, my dear, he was as the light o' my eyes to me from -morning till night again. I'm not ashamed to tell you now, it's so long -ago. I dare say they all saw how it was; I dare say I was the jest o' -the field. It don't matter now. I don't know as I much minded then, so -long as I could get a word from him. He had always been kind and civil, -helping me with the poles over the bin when they were too long and -heavy for me to lift; and one day I was ailing and couldn't do my work, -and he picked for me, and spoke so as I thought he meant courtin'. But, -Lor' bless your soul, he didn't. It was only his nice, pleasant way. -Afore the hopping was over I saw him kissing Bess Dawe down by 34 tower -of a Sunday evening. The girls told me they'd been trysting it all the -time, and he was going to wed her." - -"Poor Deb," murmured I, softly, "poor Deb!" - -"Oh, it's all past and gone now, child," laughed the old woman. "I've -forgotten it, I think. It served me right enough for going for to fix -my fancy on a man that didn't want none of me." - -"I don't see how you could help that," said I, passionately. "I don't -see how it's loving at all unless folk can't help it. And how were you -to guess he wouldn't want you? It was cruel, cruel!" - -"Nay, child, it weren't cruel. It were just natural, just as it had for -to be," said Deb, quietly. And then, in her most matter-of-fact tones, -she added, "But it were a rare pity I hadn't wedded the other one, for -he'd have made me a good husband." - -"Oh, how can you talk so?" cried I. "Why, you wouldn't have loved him." - -"Maybe it ain't seemly for a woman to love," said Deb, considering. -"The run of women marries the men because it's comfortable, and I'm -thinkin' it's the best way. When a woman begins loving she do fret so -over it. But the men, they takes it cool and easy, and does their work -atween whiles." - -"Well, I'm very glad you didn't do it that way at all events, Deb," -said I. - -"Ah, you wouldn't have had a sour old thing to rate ye if I had," -laughed Deb. "But, Lor', I'm content enough. If I'd had a 'ome I'd have -had cares, and a man alongside the whole blessed time, which I never -could abide. But the Bible do tell us man ain't made to bide single, -don't it? That's as much as to say a girl durstn't throw away her -chances. And so that's what old Deb's story was for." - -"If you mean to say Joyce is to marry the squire for fear Frank -mightn't be faithful to her, all I have got to answer is, you're a -horrible old woman, and I won't be a party to any such thing." - -"Well, of all the obstinate, contrairy-headed, blind-eyed young women -that ever I see'd in my whole life!" began Deb, planting her arms -akimbo and looking me full in the face. - -But she got no further in what seemed very much like the beginning of a -sound rating of me. Joyce was coming up-stairs. The old boards cracked -even under her light footfall. She was very late. Mother had been -keeping her talking. Deb just nodded her head at me with an expression -of anger, disappointment, impatience, and warning mysteriously mixed, -and went down-stairs without so much as a good-night to my sister. - -It was the last I ever heard from her on matters relating to the -sentiments and affections. Such an upheaval of her busy, business-like -temperament I should have thought not possible; it never was possible -again to my knowledge, and the strange revelations in that apparently -rough nature remain a marvel to me to this day. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -The elections were over. They had passed quietly enough, and Mr. -Farnham was returned for our division of Sussex, as Squire Broderick -had always said he would be. As far as I recollect, it was as every one -had expected, and I don't even remember that any one was particularly -disappointed excepting the Thornes themselves and Mr. Hoad. - -He, I remember, came to see father the very next day on business, and -whether it was the "business" or the Radical failure I don't know, but -his face wore that expression of mean vindictiveness which I had always -instinctively felt it could wear, although I had never actually seen -it as I saw it that day. He was closeted some time with father in the -study. I met them in the hall as they came out; I was just starting -for the Manor with the basket of jelly. - -"Ah, we should have won it if you had helped us," the solicitor was -saying. "And I must say, Maliphant, it doesn't seem to me to be right -to hold aloof when energy is required in the cause." - -Father's underlip swelled portentously; it was the sign of a storm -within him; but he controlled himself and did not reply. - -He turned to me instead, and said: "Are you off to the Manor, Meg? -Well, ask the squire if I shall come and spend an hour or two with him -to-night, as he's laid up." - -The disagreeable expression deepened on Hoad's face. "Ah, your friend -the squire'll be in fine feather," said he to father. "It's a precious -good thing for him and his friend Farnham that that smart young nephew -of his didn't come down and address the meeting the other night. He's -an influential chap, and he's an honest fellow; he sticks by the ship." - -Father looked towards me, and said, quietly, "Well, be off, my girl." - -It seemed to bring Mr. Hoad to his senses. He turned to me with that -particular smile which I so much disliked, and said: "Ah, Squire -Broderick is a great friend of Miss Margaret's; we all know that. It's -not always the young and handsome that succeed with the fair sex, and -we can't blame a lady if she should put in her oar on the side it suits -her to trim the boat." - -"Don't talk nonsense to my girl, Hoad, if you please," cried father, -angrily. "She doesn't understand that kind of stuff." - -I didn't wait to hear any more. I lifted the latch and went out; but -I heard Hoad laugh loudly, and as I closed the gate I heard him say: -"Well, good-bye, Maliphant. You understand me about the loan? I'm glad -the hops are looking well; but I'm afraid I can have nothing to do with -any such negotiations as you propose about them." - -I walked down the road with my little basket on my arm, pondering this -sentence and Hoad's attitude altogether. It puzzled me. It almost -seemed as though he wanted to pay father out for something. But what? -Why should the election matter so very much to Mr. Hoad? And in what -way could he pay father out? - -I could not understand, but I hated Mr. Hoad worse than ever, and -none the less for his vulgar banter about squire and me. I suppose he -thought girls liked such stuff, but he was oddly out of it in every -way. - -But neither Mr. Hoad nor his words were long in my thoughts, I am bound -to say. My head was so full of other things--of things that seemed -all the world to me, because they concerned, and vitally concerned, -that poor little, throbbing, aching piece of selfishness, Margaret -Maliphant--that I had little thought left for anything else. The day -before had left a vivid impression on me; it seemed almost like an era -in my life. - -The way in which Joyce had received the news of Frank's accident, the -strange and puzzling scene with Deborah, and last but not least, the -chance discovery of my sister and Harrod in the parlor, and the manner -in which Harrod had answered me about it, inducing me, to my bitter -regret, to try and quarrel with him in return--was it not enough to -distress such a girl as I was then, living so much on sentiment and -emotion? - -All the morning I had been hoping to see Harrod, to have a little -word with him that should set matters straight again between us; at -all events, set them where they were before. Only two days ago I had -been so happy with him on the ridge of the open cliff, I had felt so -confident that my companionship was sweet to him, and now ajar again! -What was the reason? And even as I asked myself that question, I saw -Joyce sitting in the low chair by the fireplace, with the tears on her -long lashes, and the dusky light upon her golden hair. - -I was so intent upon my dream that I did not see the chief figure of -it walking towards me until he was close at my side. My heart leaped -within me for gladness; here was my opportunity. The demon--I _would_ -not give it its name--fled in the presence of a happy humility that -surged up within me, and made me almost glad to have put myself in the -wrong, that I might say so and be forgiven. - -Ah, what was this terrible unseen power, that rode rough-shod over -every sense that had ruled me up till now? How was it that I fell so -passively, so imperceptibly, beneath its might? how was it that I did -not struggle? how was it that I had forgotten to be proud? - -I think that there was a smile on my face as I looked up into Harrod's. -I know there was a smile in my heart, but it must have faded away very -quickly, for his was quite cold. My courage sank. - -I don't know what I feared, but I felt as if some unknown evil -were going to happen. Yet, if I had been cool enough to notice him -critically, I should have seen that he was not thinking of me. - -"Has Hoad been with your father?" he asked. - -"Yes," I answered. "He has only just left him." - -"I suppose he is very much annoyed about the failure of this election," -he said. - -"I don't know," answered I, not caring at all about the election. "I -don't know why he should mind so very much." - -"Oh, I do," growled Harrod, striking his left hand smartly with a -newspaper which I now saw he held in his right. "The vil--" - -He stopped himself, and set his teeth. - -"Yes, he _was_ angry, I suppose," added I, recollecting the man's face. -"But--" I wanted to say, "But don't let us talk of Mr. Hoad," and I -hadn't the courage. - -"Well, I wish you would try and keep the paper out of your father's way -to-day, if you can," added he, more quietly. "There's something in it -I'm afraid might distress him." - -At any other time this speech would have filled me with curiosity and -probably alarm, but just now I was so intent upon that idea of humbling -myself and "putting matters straight" that I scarcely even noticed it. - -"I suppose he doesn't often read it before the evening, does he?" added -Harrod. - -"Sometimes he does," said I. "I'll do my best. What is there in -it--something bad about hops?" - -The preoccupied look changed into one of simple annoyance and anger. - -"I'm afraid it is," said I, blundering, and trying to find my way to -the explanation that I wanted. "But never mind. As you said yesterday, -hops are always very difficult things, and father must know that quite -well. It was very stupid of me to say what I did yesterday about them, -Mr. Harrod. I was talking foolishly. But I do know better than that, -you know." - -I spoke gently, but the frown deepened almost into a scowl on the -bailiff's face. - -"What on earth makes you think hops have anything to do with the -matter?" cried he. - -His lip trembled in that dreadful way I have noticed in him before. It -was very slight, so slight that any one else might not have noticed it, -but to me it was horrible--it terrified me. Yes; and two months ago I -had never seen him look so--I did not know it was possible. - -"I beg your pardon," said he, in a low voice; "but indeed the subject -that I referred to in the paper has nothing at all to do with -agriculture of any sort." - -I did not say anything. I could not have spoken a word. He stood a -moment with his face turned from me, and then he said "Good-day," -abruptly, and walked down the road. - -Without looking after him I went on my way. I had forgotten where I was -going; a great weight hung at my heart. Yet nothing had happened. I -had stupidly harped on a matter which, I might have seen, annoyed him; -he _had_ been annoyed, and he had been sorry for it. What was there in -that? Nothing. No, it was not that anything had happened, it was that -nothing had happened; it was that every little thing that occurred day -by day showed me more clearly that nothing could happen, that I had no -hold, that the ground was slipping away from under my feet. - -I walked mechanically forward, I was giddy, the air danced around me, -and my heart went beating about in its cage. I kept repeating to myself -that I had not said what I had meant to say, that if I had said what I -had meant to say all would have been well. I felt instinctively that -I had not touched at the root of the matter; but I did not know that -I could not have touched at the root of the matter, that I should not -have dared to go within miles of it. - -And still I went on under the leafy trees, with that unexplained hunger -within me, until, as in a dream, I stood upon the broad steps of the -Manor gate-way. Was it forgiveness that I wanted of him? He would only -have wondered to hear me say that it was needed. What was it that I -wanted? - -I rang the great bell, which sounded so emptily through the hall. The -sound called me back to myself, but even as the words of the message -that I had come to deliver formed themselves upon my lips, a sudden -resolve formed itself within my heart. - -When the door opened, instead of merely giving my message, I asked -if the squire was at home. I dare say the man was astonished. It did -not occur to me to think whether he was or not; I had not had enough -experience of the world to think much of such a matter; and my purpose -burned too bright in me for such reflections. - -I was shown through the great hall, which Frank Forrester had so -cleverly decorated with flags and garlands on the night of the county -ball, to the long room beyond that looked out onto the fine lawn -through three great deep-embrasured windows that enclosed the landscape -in their dark oak frames. I leaned upon one of the faded cushions of -the window-seat and looked out to the garden. It was laid out in a -large square of lawn, with a broad old-fashioned flower-bed flanking -it on either side; but to the belt of trees towards the marsh it was -free, and through the trees one had glimpses of the wide, sad land, -with the sea in the distance, that we saw from the Grange; to the right -of the lawn was the ruin of the thirteenth-century chapel, the tall, -slender arch of the chancel, and the graceful little turret of the -bell-tower standing out against the elms and sycamores. - -How well I remembered that night of the ball, when we had strayed out -into the moonlight--the squire and I--and when I had envied Joyce for -having a lover! Yes, I had wondered to myself whether I should ever -have a lover who would speak to me like that in the moonlight with his -heart in his voice. - -Joyce's white dress had fluttered in the shade of that dark ruin--cold -as the shrouds of the ghosts who might have peopled it. I remembered -that now, as though it had been an evil omen. But then nothing had -seemed to me cold. I had envied Joyce for having a lover. Did I still -envy her her lover? - -A step sounded in the hall, and I stood up holding my basket with the -jelly in it; my heart was beating a little with the strangeness of the -place, for of the squire I was not afraid. - -The dark oak room was getting a little dim; I had not been able to get -off in the morning, it was afternoon--late afternoon, because Harrod -had detained me. A shadow over the sky without made very dark corners -in the old wainscoting, that the heavy tapestry curtains made darker -still. Everything was dark and old-fashioned, with a solid serviceable -goodness, in the squire's house. There were bits of delicate satinwood -furniture, as I knew, in the citron-colored drawing-room with its -canary hangings, but here, in the room where the squire sat, everything -was for use. - -I took it all in at a glance; the shelves that lined the walls--books -and books and books for him who declared he did not read--the carved -settee by the hearth, the old leather arm-chair whence he must just -have risen, the large table strewn with newspapers and pamphlets, -driving-gloves, hunting-crops, dog-collars, and all kinds of strange -implements that country gentlemen seem to require. An old Turkey carpet -covered the floor, and a heavy curtain kept the draught from the door; -it was a comfortable winter room, dim and hot on this warm September -evening. - -As I looked I remembered another room that I had been in alone not a -long while since--a different room, looked at with different feelings. -I shivered as I thought of it, just as I had shivered a moment since in -the hot air without. - -The squire came in. He looked as though he had been ailing, but he did -not look ill, and his smile was sunshine in its welcoming. - -"Why, Miss Margaret, this is an honor for an old bachelor," said he. -"It's worth while being ill for--or _saying_ one has been ill, for -there has been precious little the matter with me. I should have been -out long ago if it hadn't been for that tiresome doctor that Mrs. -Dalton insisted on calling in." - -I smiled. I did not know what to say--how to begin. - -"Mother sent you this jelly," I said, hurrying to get over the avowed -object of my visit. "It's some we make at home, and she thinks it'll -cure anything." I held out the basket, and then placed it on the big -table behind me. "And father wants to know if you would like him to -come to-night and have a chat," I went on, hurriedly, before he had -time to answer. - -"Oh, I couldn't let him do that," said the squire. "I heard he wasn't -so well again the other day. I'm quite recovered now. I'll come down to -the Grange. I should like to have a chat with him about the election. I -hope your father isn't disappointed?" - -"Oh dear, no; father doesn't mind a bit," said I, impatiently. "But do -come. I'm sure mother'll be downright glad to see you at the Grange -again. She says you never come near us nowadays." - -"What, have I been missed?" said he, with just the very tiniest bit of -sarcasm in his good voice. - -"Why, of course," I answered, simply. "You know how fond mother is of -you--and father too. Excepting Captain Forrester, I don't think he gets -on so well with anybody." - -His face fell, and I was sorry. - -"He's had more practice with me," he laughed. - -"Yes," said I. "But he is so fond of Captain Forrester. He's dreadfully -cut up about this accident of his. If it hadn't been for that Mr. Hoad -coming in and worrying him this afternoon he was coming up to see you -about it. But he gave me this letter and told me to ask you to put the -address on." - -"Oh, Frank's all right," said the squire, a trifle impatiently. "It's -nothing but a sprained wrist and ankle. Only he didn't feel like coming -down; perhaps he was half glad to get out of it; I'm sure he ought to -have been ashamed ever to have promised to come." - -It was rather a fall, after all the sympathy I had tried to win for -Frank, and the reproaches I had made to Joyce for her coldness! But -Joyce's strange conduct was none the less so because he had only -sprained his ankle. - -"I'm glad he is no worse hurt," said I; and as it came home to me how -very glad I was I added, "Oh, I'm very glad." - -"The boy's right enough," repeated the squire, in the same manner. - -He advanced to the table, against which I had been leaning all this -time, and said, in a very grateful sort of way, "So you really made -this jelly for me, and came all the way across here on purpose to bring -it to me?" - -I looked at him, astonished. One would have thought making jelly was -dreadfully hard work, and the distance from the Grange to the Manor at -least five miles instead of not one. - -"Oh dear, no," said I. "I didn't make it. Mother made it; I only helped -her strain it. And I didn't come here on purpose to bring it." - -It was the squire's turn to look at me, astonished. "No, I came to -ask you something," continued I, hurriedly, rushing violently upon my -subject. "Do you remember once--in the summer--Mr. Broderick, you told -me that if ever I was in any trouble, that if ever I wanted help, I was -to come to you?" - -"Yes, I remember it very well," answered he. "I meant what I said." - -"I knew you did," said I. "That's why I've come." He came close up to -me. - -"Thank you," he said, and at the time it did not strike me that it was -strange he should say "thank you." "I'm glad you have come. So you are -in trouble up at the Grange! Ah, I was afraid, I was sorely afraid it -was coming! Come and sit down and tell me all about it." - -He took hold of my hand and led me towards the oaken settle. We had not -sat down before; I don't think either of us had supposed that I was -going to remain more than a minute. - -"It's about Joyce," I said. - -He started, but he did not look distressed, rather more surprised. "I'm -dreadfully unhappy about Joyce," I repeated. - -"Indeed!" answered he, concernedly. "How's that?" - -"I promised mother not to tell anybody," I replied; "but I can't help -it--I must tell some one, for I don't know what to do." - -"Yes, tell me," he repeated. - -"Do you remember that ball you gave here at the Manor last spring?" -asked I. - -"Ah, yes, I remember," answered he, I thought sadly. - -"Well, Joyce was engaged to Captain Forrester that night," said I. - -I saw his face grow stern as it had grown when he had warned me about -Frank at first. - -"Mother didn't like it, she--she wanted something else for Joyce," I -went on, evasively, not caring to let the squire think that mother had -noticed his liking for my sister--"she said they must wait for a year. -Yes, and not meet all the time, and not write to one another. But it's -not possible that two people who care for one another can go on like -that. Is it, now?" cried I, eagerly. - -"Yes, it would be possible if they really cared for one another, Miss -Margaret," he said, presently; "but it would be hard." - -"Oh yes, yes, too hard," cried I. "They _have_ met. I managed it once. -But now I want them to meet again." - -"That's why you were so anxious that Frank should come down for the -elections," he said. "I wondered why you were so anxious." - -"Yes, that's why. Don't you see?" I explained. "And now that he has had -this accident it's worse than ever. You say it isn't very bad, and I'm -glad; but don't you see how bad it must be for Joyce? It can't be good -for her, can it? And so I want you to get him down here so that they -can meet sometimes. You easily could. It would only be kind of you. He -ought to be nursed up and made well again." - -He dropped his eyes from my face, where they had been fastened, and got -up and walked away towards the window. - -"There is no one to do any nursing here," he said. "Frank can go to his -mother to be nursed." - -"Oh, well, I didn't mean nursing," I hastened to say, correcting -myself. "I don't suppose he needs nursing, if it's no worse than you -say." - -There was a silence. - -"You _will_ ask him to come, won't you?" repeated I, softly. - -The squire turned round. His face was quite hard. - -"No, Miss Margaret," he said. "I can't do it. I would do anything to -please you, but I can't do that. What you have told me distresses me -very much--far more than you can guess. I had feared something of the -sort in the spring; but then Frank went away, your sister and he were -separated, and when she came back from her holidays, well--especially -of late--I made sure that there had been nothing at all in it." - -He paused, and I wondered why, especially of late, he had made sure -that there was nothing in it. - -"If your sister cares for Frank, I am very sorry," he went on, gently; -"but I cannot but hope that you are mistaken." - -"I am not mistaken," cried I, vehemently, starting to my feet. - -He looked at me with a strange pity in his eyes. - -"Well, then, I can only hope she will forget him," added he. - -"Forget him!" cried I. "Do you think girls so easily forget the men -they love?" - -"I think it depends partly on the girl," said he, still with an -unwonted gravity in his tone, "and partly on the kind of love." - -The words stunned me for a moment; they seemed to be an echo of -something in my own brain that kept resounding there and deafening me. - -"I don't think that Joyce will ever forget Frank," repeated I, doggedly. - -"Well, then, I can only say again that I trust you may be mistaken," -answered the squire, firmly; "for I'm afraid that he will certainly -forget her." - -"I don't believe it," cried I. - -"You can imagine that I do not willingly say such a thing of my own -kith and kin," he answered, with just a touch of his old irritability -in his voice, "but I fear that it might be so. Frank's mother is an -ambitious woman, the family is poor, and she has set her heart upon his -marrying an heiress. In fact, there is a particular heiress to whom she -is now urging him to pay his suit. He is a fascinating fellow when he -likes. I dare say he will succeed if he tries. And he appreciates the -comfort of having his bread buttered without any trouble. I'm afraid he -might try." - -I was silent--dumfounded. - -"No," added the squire; "far from trying to bring your sister and Frank -together again, I shall do my uttermost to keep them apart. I shall -work upon every sense of honor that Frank has--and, thank God! he may -be weak, but he is not wanting in a sense of honor--to induce him never -to see her again. Then you will see soon, very soon, she will release -him from the fictitious tie that binds them, and will leave herself -free to choose again, and to choose more wisely." - -"Joyce will never choose again," muttered I. - -There was a great lump in my throat that almost prevented me from -getting out the words. My tongue was quite dry and would not move, and -I was conscious of a cold chill upon my forehead and upon my lips, even -though they were parched. I locked my hands together--they, too, were -quite cold. - -The squire came towards me, he came quite close. The room was very dim -now, although the sun had only just set without, for the windows did -not look towards the sun-setting. All the irritability called up by my -insane obstinacy had melted out of his face; it was very tender. He -looked at me again with that strange pity in his eyes. - -"Ah, my child," said he, taking one of my hands in his, "why do you try -so hard to persuade me that your sister loves Frank? Why do you try so -hard to persuade yourself of it?" - -Yes, why did I try so hard? I did not answer, but the lump swelled -bigger than ever in my throat. I unclasped my hands, and let my arms -fall down straight at my sides, and looked up into his face. For a -moment a wild impulse seized upon me to tell the squire something of -why I tried to persuade myself of that thing. I felt so sure of the -deep, loyal friendship that shone out of his eyes as he looked at me. -It was as though he were some big, strong, unknown brother come to help -me in my trouble; I had never had a brother. But the moment passed. - -"You must surely know that it is not really so," he added. - -And then I snatched away my hand. - -"I know nothing of the kind," I said, fiercely. "You said you would -help me whenever I came to you, but you did not mean it. Now that I -come to ask you, you will not help me. But I will help myself, I will -help Joyce. I will write to Frank, and tell him that he must come back -to her. I don't care what he thinks of me--what any one thinks of me. -You are cruel, you are all of you cruel; but I do not believe that he -will be cruel." - -"No, I am not cruel," answered the squire. "I am only doing what is -right--what I believe to be best for your sister." - -"Yes, you are cruel," cried I, beside myself. "You are all of you -cruel and selfish. Mother is cruel too. I know why she is cruel--it is -because she wants Joyce to marry you. And I know why you are cruel--it -is because you want to marry Joyce." - -Oh that the darkness might have come, might have come quickly and at -once, to cover the blush of shame that rose to my brow! Oh that the -great window would have opened, that I might have rushed forth into -the open air--away, away from everybody! How could I have been so -unwomanly, so cowardly, so ungrateful? - -I stood still--even to my heart--waiting for the squire to speak. - -At last he said, in a voice that was not in the least angry, as I had -expected it to be, but that sounded to me deep and far away, and quite -unlike his own, "What made you say that?" - -The voice was so gentle that it gave me courage to look up. If all the -regret that was in my heart, and all the sorrow for having hurt him, -rose into my eyes, they must have been very big and sorrowful that day. - -"Oh, I don't know," I said, lifting up my hands as I used to do when I -said my prayers, only that I don't think I had ever hitherto said my -prayers with so much feeling--"I don't know. I don't know anything. I -think I am losing my wits. Will you forgive me?" - -"There is nothing to forgive," answered he. "But tell me what made you -think that?" - -"Oh no, no; don't make me say any more," I implored. - -"Yes, you must tell me that," insisted he. - -"Everybody always thought it," murmured I. "Mother used to say you -would never think of coming down to the Grange so often as you used to -do only to quarrel over things with an old man. Oh, I can't think how I -can repeat such things! It's dreadful. But, you see, mother thinks such -a deal of Joyce. She has been quite unhappy because you so rarely come -now. You must forgive her and me too. _I_ thought it just the same. -Only Joyce didn't. She's not that sort of girl. And father didn't. If -mother ever hinted at it, he told her that you would never think of -wedding out of your own class, and that, indeed, he would never have -allowed it. Father is very proud." - -"Yes," answered the squire, "and he is right. But such pride is a poor -thing compared with a deep and honest love. There is a girl, not of -what is called my own class, whom I would marry if she would have me, -but her name is not Joyce Maliphant." - -"Not Joyce!" cried I, genuinely surprised, genuinely disappointed, and -for a moment forgetting all my many emotions. - -"No," he said, gravely. - -He did not try to take my hands again. I dropped them down once more, -and stood looking at him. His eyes seemed to travel through mine into -my heart. Their look frightened me, it was full of such a wonderful -tenderness. I had never thought before that his eyes were beautiful; -good, kind, frank blue eyes--nothing more. But as I remember them that -night, I think they must have been beautiful. - -"What do you mean?" I murmured. - -"I mean that I love _you_," answered he. - -I don't know what I did. I think I crept backward, away from him, till -I stumbled upon a chair, and that then I fell into it. I was stunned. - -"How is it that you didn't guess it?" asked he, tremulously. - -I did not answer; I could not. I believe I covered my face with my -hands. - -"I don't want it to distress you," said he. "Whatever you may do about -it, please remember that it will not have distressed me. At no time -will you have brought me anything but pleasure. I think I understand -a little, and I will not trouble you now. I did not mean to have told -you. It slipped out because of what you said. Go home and forget it. -Only, if at any time you should be lonely and need love, remember that -I have always loved you. Yes, ever since you were a little girl, and -used to come and have your frock mended in the house-keeper's room. I -am not a sentimental sort of fellow, you know. It's not my way. I shall -never be that; I shall never fret. But I shall always love you as I do -now." - -He did not make one step towards me; he remained where I had left -him--standing in the middle of the hearth-rug. Still stunned, -bewildered, ashamed, I struggled to my feet and walked towards the door. - -"Good-bye," said he. - -"Good-bye," murmured I, mechanically. - -I stood outside in the quiet evening, on the steps of the Manor -gate-way. Vaguely I remembered that as I had rung the great echoing -bell there had been a craving in my heart for something that I could -not reach--for something which the request I was going to make might -perhaps help me to secure. Was that something love, and had I secured -it? - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -One morning about a week after my visit to the Manor, mother and I -chanced to be alone together in the dairy. - -I had spent the last days in a trance; I seemed to have lost all count -with myself, only, as I look back across the years that intervene, I am -certain of one thing--I was glad that the squire loved me. - -In the turmoil of surprise, of something akin to fear, of the vague, -wretched sense of crookedness throughout, and of a touch of some sort -of remorse at what I had unwittingly done, there shone forth one -bright, sharp ray of light; it was a sense of pride and satisfaction -that this man, whom every day I felt more sure was good and loyal, -should have chosen _me_ to love. Beyond that I was sure of nothing, and -was chiefly thankful that there was no decision to take, and that I -need tell no one of what had happened. The squire had been kind, he had -asked no question and needed no answer. - -The hop-picking was about to begin, and mother was arranging how much -milk should be set apart for the hoppers; she never made her usual -quantity of butter in hopping-time; she always said that butter was -a luxury, and that she wasn't going to have working-folk deprived of -their proper quantity of milk so that those who didn't work should have -butter. - -Things had not been cheerful at home this while past. To be sure, -though I went about my duties with a feverish energy, and mother had no -more occasion to upbraid me for those "moping silly ways," I was seeing -things myself through a dark haze; yet I do not think it was entirely -my fancy that matters seemed gloomy. - -I had not been able to get hold of that newspaper that Harrod begged -me to keep out of father's way; he had seen it before I got home, and -had taken it away with him, and I never found it afterwards; all that -I could make out about it had been from Harrod, who had answered my -questions somewhat curtly, but had led me to understand that it had -been some kind of attack on father for having held aloof from the -Liberal cause, with covert allusions to certain reasons for his doing -so remotely connected with the condition of his finances. - -I could not make head or tail of it at the time, though a day came -when I learned how a vile man can suspect an honorable one of his own -doings, and then I was thankful to Trayton Harrod for having fired up -for father as he had done. But at that time I only saw that father -was visibly depressed. I could see that he could scarcely even bear -Harrod to talk about the farm matters. There was a dreadful kind of -irritability upon him which is piteous now to think of, as I remember -how it was varied with moods of strange gentleness towards every one, -and of an almost child-like humility towards mother whenever he spoke -so much as a keen word to her. - -Even to Harrod, with whom I don't think he ever had any real sympathy, -he showed sorrow for any sharp speaking by a very patient hearing, from -time to time, of all the new schemes of that busy practical mind. But -he seemed to have lost his love of argument, once such a feature in -him; he seemed to be withdrawing himself more and more into himself. -Selfish as I was, and absorbed in my own hopes and fears, it made me -sad. Even in his dealing with the Rev. Cyril Morland that feature -seemed to have vanished. He was as eager about the philanthropic scheme -as ever; more eager, as if with a feverish longing that _something_ he -had undertaken should be brought to a good issue quickly; but though -the two sat hours together, wrapt over details and figures, it was -hard, silent work now, with none of that brilliant enthusiasm that -there had been about it in Frank's day, none of the pleasant dreams, -none of the sympathetic affection; and when, one evening, I surprised -him in his study, standing almost as though entranced before that -portrait sketch of the young Camille Lambert, I hated Frank for a new -reason for not coming to Marshlands. - -But we none of us spoke of him now. Even I did not--not even to Joyce. -I had written him that letter that I had intended to write, and was -awaiting the answer to it, but I did not speak of him. Mother was the -only one who did; she spoke of him that morning in the dairy. - -"Meg," she began, "I can't make out how it is that the squire don't -come to see us as he used to do. I've sometimes thought that you might -have something to do with it." - -I looked round quickly. I was alarmed. - -"Why on earth should _I_ have anything to do with it?" I cried. But I -saw that I was distressing myself needlessly; mother was as far as ever -from guessing the truth. - -"None so very unlikely, I'm afraid, my dear," she replied. "You're but -young, and you might even let a thing slip out without meaning it. -And then you're masterful, and you've set your heart upon this affair -coming straight between Joyce and the captain, though the Lord alone -knows why you should suppose a young butterfly such as that would make -a better husband than Squire Broderick. The truth is, Margaret, I'm -afraid you have been telling tales." - -She had guessed part of the truth, but what a little part of it! I was -silent, and she looked at me sharply. - -"Of course if you have," said she, severely, "it's just about the worst -piece of mischief you could well have set your hands to. That other -affair 'll never come to anything, as I guessed pretty well from the -first it never would. The dandy young beau has got other fish to fry -by this time, and, luckily enough, Joyce is too sensible to fret after -a bird that has flown. She never did set that store on him that you -fancied, and before the year's out she'd be very sorry to have to keep -to her bargain." - -"Well, however that may be," answered I, with an inward sense of -superiority, "Joyce will never marry the squire, so you needn't bother -about that." - -"You'll please to keep such remarks to yourself, Margaret," said -mother, coldly. "You can't possibly know anything at all about the -matter." - -Alas! but I was just the one who could and did know everything about -the matter. As I think of it now, it is a marvel to me that mother -should have guessed nothing at all of what was really going on; but it -was too evident that she did not. I suppose her mind was so fixed upon -one thing that she thought of nothing else. After all, it is the way -with us all. - -"Am I to understand that you _have_ been talking nonsense to the -squire, then, Margaret?" asked she, in her most dignified manner. - -It was not in me to tell a lie. - -"I told the squire that Joyce and Frank were engaged," said I, "if -that's talking nonsense." - -I did not say it crossly. I think my fits of fiery temper were becoming -less frequent, but I said it without wincing, although I knew what -mother's feelings would be. She sat down in a despairing kind of -manner, and drew in her breath, rather than let it out, in a long sigh. - -"Engaged!" ejaculated she at last, with a withering accent of scorn. - -"Well, it's the truth," insisted I, doggedly. - -"No, it's not the truth, Margaret," replied mother, emphatically. -"_You_ may choose to consider them engaged, but _I_ don't. And what's -more, Joyce don't. I'm thankful to say I've one daughter who always had -a grain of good-feeling and respect towards her elders and betters. -Your sister _never_ considered herself engaged to the captain." - -"They were to be engaged if they were of the same mind in a year," said -I. "Well, they are of the same mind so far, so it's practically the -same thing." - -"I don't think so," said mother, in a conclusive sort of voice. "But -I don't need to discuss the matter with you. I must acquaint Squire -Broderick that he has been misinformed. And meanwhile I'll trouble you -to keep yourself to yourself, and not discuss things that don't concern -you with people outside the family." - -Of course I deserved the rebuke, and I took it silently. But I could -not help feeling a little anxious as to how that proposed conversation -between mother and the squire would resolve itself. If mother allowed -the squire to see--as I feared she would do--what she supposed to be -the state of his feeling, would he be able to keep from telling her -that she was mistaken? - -It was at the first of the hop-picking that she met him. That odd -medley of strange folk who go by the name of "foreigners" among the -village hop-pickers had already begun to appear upon the scene, and -mother always went down at the beginning of the season to see that the -poor creatures were as comfortable as possible in their straw huts, and -generally to inquire into the condition of life with them. I can see -her now scolding careless mothers for unkempt children, and careless -maidens for rent skirts and undarned elbows, inquiring into the cause -of pale faces, suggesting remedies, procuring relief. - -She had gone down to the camp with Joyce, for she had sent me riding -over to Craig's farm for some butter, ours had come so badly. Trayton -Harrod overtook me as I came home. I had seen him in the neighboring -village, but I had spurred Marigold on, for I did not want to speak -with him. - -"You shouldn't ride that poor beast so hard, Miss Margaret," I remember -him saying as he came up with me; "you'll break her wind." - -"Oh dear, no," declared I, laughing harshly, for I was in no soft -mood towards him; "she's a very different creature to that old black -thing you're riding, and she understands me. Mother's at the hopping -to-night, and I want to get on to meet her there." - -I lashed the horse again as I spoke, and she started forward wildly. We -had just come to the place where there is a short-cut across the marsh, -and I set her to the gate. She took it like a deer, and flew as though -she were borne on wings when she felt the turf beneath her feet. She -made me dizzy for a moment, and when I looked back I saw that Harrod -was on the ground--his horse had refused to take the fence. But even as -I meditated turning back I saw him leap into the saddle again, and in a -few minutes he was beside me once more. - -"What possessed you to do that?" he cried, out of breath. "You might -have had a serious accident. It was folly." - -I did not answer. Indeed the pace at which I was going made speech -difficult, and he could not expect it. - -"You're going too hard, Miss Maliphant," cried he again. "Stop the -mare, if you please." - -The peremptory tone irritated me, and far from doing as I was bid, I -gave Marigold a touch with the whip. Her blood was already up; she -reared and tried hard to throw me. Mr. Harrod leaned forward and caught -at her bridle. - -"Don't, don't," cried I, petulantly. "You only chafe her; leave her -alone." - -But still he leaned forward towards me and held on to the horse, and -still we thundered on over the soft ground across the empty plain. -There was no road; we were quite alone; and at any moment I knew we -might come upon some unseen dike that would send Marigold upon her -knees and me over her neck. - -I knew that if ever I were in danger of my life I was in danger of it -then; but the sense of peril, and of the strong arm--_that_ strong -arm--ready to save me if it could, his breath that came hot upon my -cheek, his eyes that burned upon me though I could not see them--all -lifted me into a strange delirium of excitement, of anger, of delight. -Yes; I think that, if I thought at all, I wished that that ride might -go on forever. But it came to an end soon enough. Marigold stumbled at -nothing, she flew straight as an arrow from a shaft, until at last she -knew her master, and was still. - -"Now, Miss Maliphant," said he, quietly, after a panting minute or two, -"won't you be so kind as to give me that whip?" - -I looked at him; my cheek was burning, my bosom rose and fell wildly. - -"No," answered I; "why should I?" - -He smiled. "Well, I know you won't use it again," he answered, almost -vexatiously careless of my discourtesy. "I hope you have had a lesson -that Marigold can't be tampered with." - -"I wasn't in the least bit frightened," I said, in a low voice. - -"Upon my word you're a splendid girl," said he, still looking at me. - -I felt my face grow redder than ever, but what I had said was no mere -boast. - -"But _I_ was frightened," added he; and then, in a very gentle voice, -"You won't do it again, will you?" - -His temper had done me good, his tenderness was almost too much for me. - -"No," murmured I; and the sense that he _cared_ made my voice tremble -so that I dared say no more. - -"A girl doesn't know how soon she has played one prank too many. I can -tell you that we ran a greater danger just now than we did when the -bull was near tossing you. Do you remember it?" - -Did I remember it? Ay, and many other things since then. The thought -of them kept me silent, and kept my heart beating till I was afraid he -would see it. Ah me, what would I have given to be back again under -that five-barred gate, with Trayton Harrod standing over me, and all -the future before me! But now--what was the future? - -"Will you promise me not to be so foolish again?" repeated he, gently. -"There's no fun in breaking one's neck, you know." - -My heart was big; he was very kind to me, very careful of me--just as -he had been always. I waited--waited for him to say something more, -for him to lay his hand once again upon mine, though it were to check -Marigold's bridle. - -But the mare was going quite quietly now, and there was no need for -him to lay his hand on her bridle. He did not seem even to notice -that I had not answered his question. We were riding up alongside the -hop-fields where the camp was set. Along the lanes groups of village -hop-pickers were coming home; whole families, who sallied forth every -morning with dinners in bag and basket, and babies in blue-shaded -perambulators. The conical straw huts made a circle under the maple -hedge, and in the middle of the field the folk were filling their -pitchers and kettles at two large water-butts on wheels drawn up there -for their use. We tied our horses to the fence, and walked up. The -women were beginning to light their fires, and father was expostulating -with a tall, handsome girl who had begun to lay hers too near the -dangerous straw. - -She lifted a pair of splendid eyes upon him, insolently, but the words -upon her lips were swamped in a smile, for he had stooped to pick up a -crying child, and the little one had stopped its whimper at his tender -words, and was gazing up at him confidingly. "It ain't often she takes -to strangers," said the young mother. "She's proud and masterful--and -a good job too. She ain't got no father to fight for her, and she may -well learn not to trust the men-folk." - -I don't know what father said, I didn't listen. Mother was talking -to the squire in a far corner of the field, and, though I was shy of -seeing the squire, I wanted to know what he was saying to mother. But -it seemed only to be commonplace talk. - -Mother took me to task for my disordered appearance, and asked me what -I had been doing to get the mare in such a state, and Harrod came up -and gave some kind of explanation for me, and then the squire, shaking -hands with me, asked me what I thought of the weather. - -He was self-possessed. It was I who was shy and who could find no words. - -"I'm afraid we shall have a pocketful of wind," said he, looking up -anxiously at the sky. - -It was a gorgeous sunset. Banks upon banks and piles upon piles of -cloud, fortifying the horizon, and flung wildly across the heavens -till, overhead, they were airy puffs upon the blue vault; seas and -billows and cataracts of cloud, all of them suffused with rosy -remembrance of the fiery furnace on the ridge of the purple downs--a -gorgeous sunset; but the squire was right--a stormy one. - -"'Tis the Lord sends mists and 'eat, rain and gales, and we've got to -submit, whether or no," murmured Reuben behind my back. - -"I've thought of late Mr. Harrod seemed anxious about the crop," said -mother, "but it's _my_ belief it's above the common." - -I looked quickly round for Harrod, afraid lest he should have heard -the remark. I need not have feared: he stood beside my sister, with a -strange, dreamy look upon his face which I had never seen there before. -There was nothing in their standing together side by side, but there -was something in the way they thus stood, an indefinable sense of a -companionship in suffering which hardened me to stone. - -"I wonder you venture to have an opinion on such things, mother," said -I, in a voice loud enough for him to hear. "Men don't like us women -to have any opinions. They only like women who care for nothing but -house-keeping." - -Mother looked at me dumfounded, and the squire turned grieved eyes on -me; Joyce bent her head, but Harrod glanced round at me with anger on -his heavy mouth. Ah me, how sharply two-edged a sword was that bitter -pride of mine! - -I turned away and began to untie the mare from the hedge. The squire -came to help me. He did not speak, but he held my hand a moment longer -than usual in his own, and I felt that _his_ trembled. And when he had -done at last arranging my habit over the saddle, he looked up at me -with that same pity in his blue eyes that had made me feel so strangely -a week ago. A disturbed feeling, half pleasure, half pain, stole over -me, and as I rode up the steep lane in the dusk, under the arching ash -and pine trees, the memory of the squire's face made me feel things -less entirely dead and dreary in the midst of those vain and endless -self-torturings, those angry struggles, those heart-sickening hopes and -fears. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -The reply to my letter came on the morrow from Frank Forrester. What -a day it was! I recollect it well. All the summer had gone in one -terrible storm of wind. Alas! Reuben had been only too just in his sad -prophecy: the red sunset upon the citadels of cloud had meant mischief -indeed. - -The gale had burst that very night. Before midnight the wind was -tearing up across the marsh like some live thing, rending the air with -its threatening voice, almost rending the earth with its awful tread, -as it swept, grieving, muttering, moaning, and rushed at last with a -wild shriek upon us--a restless, relentless, revengeful foe. Even to -me, strong and hearty girl, whom not even trouble and heartache, that -was sore enough in those days, could keep from the constraining sleep -of a healthy youth--even to me that night the voice of the wind was -appalling. - -I lay in bed waiting and listening for its grim footsteps as they sped -across the dark waste without, distant at first and almost faint, -growing nearer and nearer, louder and louder, till with a yell, as of -fierce triumph, the maniac burst against the windows, as though it -would rend the house in pieces for its sport. Afar the sullen roar of -the sea mingled with the lash of the pitiless gusts breaking, baffled, -upon the distant beach, only to renew its unwearied attack with -ceaseless, weary persistence. - -I got up and looked out of the window. There was a cold moon shining -faintly in a gray sky, where the clouds hurried wildly about as though -seeking to escape some fierce pursuer; it gave a veiled feeble light, -in which the near farm buildings looked like unsubstantial things -that the wind might lift in its unseen hands and scatter like dead -leaves upon the ground; in the phantom whiteness the black trees waved -helpless, beseeching arms, bowing themselves to earth beneath the -mighty grasp of that great, invisible strength; one could almost fancy -it might pass into shape, so near and terrible seemed its personality -as it advanced, sure and strong, across the wide, dim distance that was -only marsh-land to me who knew that it was not sea. - -Some one stirred in the house. It was father; he was coming up-stairs; -he was still dressed; he had been sitting up all this time with those -papers of his. I upbraided him for it, and said it was enough to give -him his death of cold, but he seemed scarcely to hear me. His face was -very pale. - -"It's a rough night, a very rough night, Meg," he said, sorrowfully. - -"Oh yes, father, it is," answered I, sympathetically, thinking of the -hops that this would be the ruin of. But he made no allusion to them, -he only said: "Those poor creatures down in the huts will have a bad -time of it. And so many children too! They will be frightened, poor -lambs." - -And then after a pause he added: "Little David Jarrett was very weak -when I called this afternoon, Meg. I'm afraid he'll not last out this -gale. I think he would like me to go round and see him." - -"Not now, father, not to-night?" I cried. But he did not answer, and I -remember that it was with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded him -to go to bed. - -In the morning I was sorry that I had done so. The little lad was dead. - -We were all seated at breakfast. The gale still raged outside; the -garden was strewn with boughs of fruit-trees and blossoms of roses that -the wind had ruthlessly torn from their stems; even from the distance -of our hill we could see the white storm-crests upon the bosom of the -laboring sea, and the snow of the foam as it dashed against the strong -towers upon the coast. - -Mother sat silently pouring the tea and looking anxiously across at -father, who was eating no breakfast; Joyce alone was much the same as -usual, for I--well I don't know what I _looked_ like--I felt wretched. -The post had brought me the reply to my letter to Frank Forrester, and -it was not what I wanted. - -I sat moody and miserable. And to us all sitting there--very unlike -the bright family that we generally were--came a messenger with the -news--little David Jarrett had passed away in the night. I can see -father's face now; not sad, no: grave, and with a strange drawn look -upon it that I could not understand. His eyes shone out very dark and -deep from the white face that almost looked like parchment; the shaggy -eyebrows and strong tufts of gray hair a mockery of strength upon it. -But this is as it rises up before me now in terrible reality; then I -saw nothing, I guessed nothing. Oh, father, father, that the old days -might come back once more! - -He said nothing, he gave no outward sign of trouble; he got up and -went out, and we cleared away the breakfast-things. We were not given -to expressing ourselves. - -I took Frank's letter out of my pocket and read it over and over again; -it was very short--there was scarcely anything in it, and yet I read it -over and over again. He thanked me for writing; it was very kind of me -to write; he was sorry his friends had been so anxious about him; it -had been a needless "scare," there never had been much amiss, and he -was all right again now. He was sorry his friend Thorne had lost the -election. What did my father think of it? He was afraid it would be a -long while before he should get time to come to Marshlands again. That -was all. - -No wonder I read it over and over again to try and find something more -in it than was there! There were only two sentences that meant anything -at all, and they made my heart wild with anger. - -"What did my father think of it?" And "he was afraid it would be a long -while before he should _find time_ to come to Marshlands again." - -They were insulting, heartless sentences. Yes, even as I look back upon -it now, with all the bitterness of the moment passed, I think they -were that. As if he--who had been honored by my dear father's intimate -friendship, who knew his views as few of his friends knew them--should -not have known better than I "what my father thought of it." If he ever -_found time_ to come to Marshlands again perhaps he would find out. -Not a word of Joyce in it--not a stray hint, not a hidden allusion! -Was it possible, was it really possible, that a man could seem to love -so bravely, and could forget in a few short months? Were the squire's -warnings just after all? Forget, forget? I repeated the word to myself, -to me it seemed so impossible that one should ever be able to forget. -At that time I don't believe I even thought it possible that one should -live without the thing that one most craved for. - -I sat there on the low window-seat, crushing the letter in my hand, -looking out at the wild clouds that hurried across the sky, looking out -at the havoc that the gale had made, and thinking perhaps of another -havoc than the havoc wrought by the wind. But it was all Joyce's fault, -I said to myself; she might have prevented it if she had liked. Why had -she not prevented it? - -Some one came into the room. I crushed the letter into my pocket and -started up. - -It was Trayton Harrod. He wore that same harassed, preoccupied look -that I had noticed in him before; it maddened me, though I might have -known well enough why he was preoccupied--there was anxiety enough on -the farm. - -"Where's your father?" asked he, quickly. - -"He's out," I answered, shortly. - -"I wanted him particularly," said Harrod again. - -"Well, he's out," repeated I. "He has gone to Mrs. Jarrett's. The -little boy died last night." - -"Oh, I'm sorry, very sorry," said he. "I know he was very fond of the -child." And then, after a minute, he added, "But it's really very -important that I should see your father at once, Miss Margaret. Could -you not go across and tell him so?" - -"No," said I, ungraciously. "I don't think I could; I shouldn't like to -disturb him." And then, half penitently, I added, "Can't _I_ help you?" - -He smiled, but gravely. "No," answered he; "I'm afraid this time your -father must decide for himself." - -"Is it ruin?" I asked, after a minute. "I suppose so." - -He started and looked at me sharply. "What do you mean?" he asked. "No, -I sincerely hope it's nothing of the kind." - -"Oh," answered I, "I was afraid there wasn't a chance after this gale -of anything but ruin to the whole crop." - -"You mean the hops," replied he, as if relieved; and it did not strike -me at the time to wonder what he could have thought I meant. "I'm -afraid it's a bad lookout for them. That's why I want to see your -father at once. It _must_, I fear, alter some arrangements I have made. -I must telegraph." He paused a moment, thinking; then he added, "Is the -squire expected here to-day, do you know?" - -I flushed. "Not that I know of," said I; "but how should I know? He -never comes to the Grange now." - -I jerked out these sentences foolishly, incoherently. - -"No, I know he has not been here quite so often of late," said he. -"I've noticed it, and I've been sorry. But he'll come back. Never fear, -he'll come back," smiled he, looking at me. - -The heat in my face grew to fire. "I don't care whether he comes back -or not," stammered I. - -"No, no, of course not," answered Harrod, quickly, as though he were -afraid he had said a foolish thing; "but _I_ care very much. I have -pinned my faith on the squire." - -Something rose, choking, in my throat. How dared he say that he had -pinned his faith on the squire! In what way had he done so; what did he -mean? - -"I want to have a long talk with you one of these days," he added, -gravely. - -I looked at him. I think my face must have grown white. I could not -make my lips form the words, but I suppose my eyes spoke them, for he -added, "About many things." And then after a pause again: "There's -something I think squire may be able to do that I haven't been able to -do. I want you to ask him." - -He spoke in his most hard voice; evidently it cost him a pang to have -to say that he had not been able to do that something. "Of course it -would be in a different way," he said, half to himself, "and the old -man is proud; but it's the only chance." And then he added, "And he -would do anything for you." - -My eyes must have flamed, for he stopped. - -"I shouldn't think of asking the squire anything--no, not anything at -all," said I, trying to speak plainly. "I don't understand you." - -"Well," said he, as if that settled the question, "anyhow, I must get a -word with your father this morning. Do you think you can help me?" - -"No," repeated I, my voice trembling, "I can't. You had better ask -Joyce. She will be able to do any of these things that you want, I dare -say." - -He did not reply. He just turned his back and went out. I think it was -all there was for him to do. And as I stood there, looking after him, -with my heart swelling big, and Frank's letter crushed in my hand, -Joyce passed across the lawn to the parlor porch. - -In a moment, unbidden, unsuspected, like a watercourse broken from -its banks, a great anger surged up in my heart towards her. She came -gliding into the room with her usual quiet, graceful gait, and went -up to the old bureau to get a china bowl that stood there and wanted -washing. She fetched it and was going out again, but I stopped her. -"Joyce, I want to speak to you," I said. - -I suppose there was something in my voice that betrayed my feelings, -for as she turned and stood there with the bowl in her hand her face -wore just the faintest expression of alarm. - -"What is it?" she asked. - -"I have had a letter from Frank Forrester," said I. Her face flushed -slightly. - -"Oh, Meg!" said she. - -"Yes," answered I, defiantly; "I wrote to him. There was no reason why, -because you were heartless, I should be heartless too. I have no reason -for being so prudent. I wrote to him." - -Joyce flushed a little deeper, but she did not answer a word to my -cruel and unjust accusations; she was always patient and gentle. - -"What did he say?" she asked, presently. - -"What _could_ he say?" I said, scornfully. "He thanks me for writing; -but I ask you how much he can have cared for my writing when the person -whom he supposed loved him didn't care to know whether he was dead or -alive?" - -"That's nonsense, Meg," said Joyce, quietly. "He knew very well that I -cared; he knew very well why I didn't write. Why should he expect me to -break my word?" - -"Why?" cried I, vehemently. "Because if you had had a grain of feeling -in you, you _must_ have broken your word; you couldn't have helped -yourself. But you haven't a grain of feeling in you. You are as cold as -ice. People might love you till they burned themselves up for loving -you, but they would never get a spark to fly out of you in return. I -suppose you _think_ you loved Frank. Why else should you have said you -would marry him? Was it because he was a gentleman, and you were only -a farmer's daughter? No; I never imagined that," I added, confidently, -seeing that she made a movement of horror. "You're too much of a -Maliphant. It _must_ have been because you loved him as much as you can -love anybody. And you'll be faithful to him--oh yes, you're too proud -to be fickle! You'll hold on silently to the end, just as you said you -would hold on! But, good gracious me, does it never occur to you to -think that perhaps such milk-and-water stuff might put a man out of -heart? He may wait and wait for the ice to melt, but, upon my word, I -don't think it would be so very astonishing if, at last, the fire went -out with the waiting!" - -I stopped, panting, and waited for what she would say. She lifted her -eyes to my face--her dark-blue limpid eyes; there was no anger in them, -only surprise and distress. - -"Oh, Meg," she said, sadly, "do you know that I think you sometimes -make up things in your own mind as you want them to be, and then you're -angry because they're not like that. Can't you be different?" - -"No," said I; "of course I can't be different any more than you can be -different. We've got to make the best of one another as we are." - -"Well, then, let's make the best of one another, Meg," said Joyce, -gently. "We have always done it before, let us do it now." - -"I can't make the best of you, Joyce," answered I, half appeased, "when -I see you so cold towards the man whom you have sworn to love. I can't. -I know you can't be different--people never become different--but, oh, -you do make me angry." - -"I'm sorry," said Joyce, penitently. "Don't be angry. Perhaps you don't -quite understand, although you think you understand so well. I _am_ -proud, and I don't think I am fickle; but I am not cold either." - -Why should her words have poured oil upon the flame which her -gentleness but two minutes before had allayed? I don't know, but they -maddened me. - -"You're one or the other," I said. "You are cold, or you are fickle." I -went up to her and took hold of her by the wrist--the left wrist, for -the right hand still held the blue bowl. "Which is it?" I said, in a -low voice; "which is it?" - -Her face grew very pale, but she neither winced nor struggled. "Don't, -Meg," she said. - -"Yes, I will," cried I, fiercely. "Which is it, tell me?" - -"It's neither," repeated she. - -"I tell you you lie!" cried I. "You are as cold as ice. Frank knows it; -Frank feels it. It is killing his love for you. Ah, go away; for pity's -sake, go away, or I don't know what I shall say!" - -I flung her hand away from me and rushed towards the door; but the -sudden movement had jerked the bowl that she held out of her other -hand; it fell onto the floor and was smashed into many pieces. - -I turned round. Joyce had stooped down and was tenderly picking up the -fragments. She had self-control enough to make me no reproach--she -was always self-controlled; but the bowl was mother's best blue bowl. -The sight of her there, with her concerned face, irritated me beyond -endurance. Was there nothing in the world that was worse to break than -a blue bowl? I went back to her again and stood over her, watching her -with hands that trembled and heart that beat to very pain. - -"If you are not heartless," I said, in a low voice; "if you _can_ care -for anybody's feelings as much as you care when the china is broken, -who is it that you can feel for? You didn't seem to care very much when -we thought that Frank had broken his back. Whom _do_ you care for, -then?" - -I felt my lips tremble with anger, and for one moment I hated her. Oh -that I should have to write it down! My own sister, who had been all -the world to me two months ago! But it was true. Even through all the -crystallizing, cooling mists of distance, I can recall the horrible -feeling yet: I knew that--for one moment--I hated her. - -"What do you mean?" said she, below her breath, trying to draw back. - -"Ah, I can see very well how it might be," continued I, hurrying my -words one on top of the other breathlessly--"how you might persuade -yourself that you were true to him, and persuade yourself that you were -doing a fine honorable thing keeping so strictly to your bargain with -mother, when all the time it was because you never wanted to see him, -and didn't care whether he loved you or not, and cared very much more -whether somebody else loved you--somebody else who, but for you, might -have belonged to another person. I can fancy it all very well," cried -I, tearing Frank's letter that I held in my hand into little atoms and -scattering them about the floor; "I can see just how it might happen, -and nobody be to blame. No, nobody be to blame at all." - -"Margaret, Margaret, for God's sake, collect yourself!" cried Joyce, -her voice breaking into something like a sob. "You frighten me. What do -you mean? What can you mean?" - -"No, nobody to blame," repeated I, wildly, without paying any heed to -her; "only just what one might have known would happen. One, with every -gift that God can give, and the other, with--nothing but a vile temper -that makes folk shun her even after they've seemed to be friends with -her. What does it matter that you have promised to marry another man? -Nobody knows it; and when one is as beautiful as you are, I suppose it -isn't in human nature not to like to see one's beauty draw people away -from what had been good enough for them before. I ought to have known -it. There's nobody to blame, of course." - -"Margaret," said my sister--and even in the midst of my fury the firm -tone of her voice surprised me and checked me for a moment--"you must -explain yourself. I don't understand you; I don't, indeed. Perhaps, if -you knew everything, you wouldn't have the heart to speak so. You are -cruel, and you are unjust. You say I am cold; but even if I am cold I -can suffer, Meg; you must recollect that I can suffer." - -"Suffer!" cried I, bitterly. "I wish you could suffer one little tiny -bit of what I suffer. Ah, for pity's sake, don't let me say any more; -don't let me go on; let me go!" - -"I can't let you go," said Joyce, with that unusual firmness that did -crop up at times so unexpectedly in her. "You must tell me first what -you meant when you said that I took people away from what had been good -enough for them before." - -"Meant!" cried I. "You know well enough what I meant. I meant that it -was easy enough for you to be noble and self-sacrificing, when all -the time your thoughts were elsewhere. Yes, very easy for you to be -patient, waiting for your own lover, when you were busy robbing me of -my lover. Oh, don't speak, don't deny it! It's useless. You have done -it, and you know that you have done it." - -I think I expected Joyce to be crushed--I expected her to cry. I stood -there panting and waiting for it. But she was neither crushed nor did -she cry; she was not even angry. She stood there quietly, looking away -from me out of the window, and at last she said: "You're mistaken, Meg; -I never wanted to rob you of your lover. If you remember, when first -I came home I told you that it was my hope such a thing might happen -between you. I always thought you were too clever for the folk about -here, and I thought he was clever. But you know you told me it never -could be. You led me to believe you hated him, and always should hate -him, because he had come to the farm to do your work. I believed it. -Yes, until quite a little while ago I believed it. Then--" - -"Well?" asked I, scornfully. "Then? What then?" - -"Then, when I began to suspect that I might be mistaken, I resolved to -go back and live with Aunt Naomi until matters were settled between -you. That's what I was telling Mr. Harrod the day you came into the -parlor last week." - -"Oh, that's what you were telling him," cried I. "You don't say what he -said to you that made you tell him that. You don't say if you also told -him that you were engaged to another man." - -"I didn't, because he said nothing to me to warrant it," answered my -sister. "If he had I should have told him that I was not free." - -"Ah, you do mean to keep your word to Frank, then?" asked I. - -"I mean to keep my word to him if he wishes it," answered she, in a low -voice. - -Her face ought to have shamed me, but it raised the devil in me. - -"Well, if you still love Frank there is no need for you to go away," -said I, brutally. "Or is it because you are afraid of Mr. Harrod's -peace of mind that you want to go?" - -"Oh, Meg, how can you?" murmured Joyce. - -Yes, how could I? The evil spirit was stronger than myself. - -"It doesn't occur to you that this fine generosity of yours comes too -late," cried I. "But the mischief is done. I won't have you go away -now. I will go away." - -"You!" exclaimed Joyce. "Where?" - -"Not to Aunt Naomi's," I began, scornfully; and for a moment the -temptation rose up in me to show her that I too was loved, was -sought--to tell her where I might go if I chose, and be cherished, I -knew it, for a lifetime. But the memory of the squire's face, of the -little tremble in his voice, came back to me, and I could not speak of -his love. "Not to Aunt Naomi," I said. "To be a governess." - -"Oh no, Meg, I couldn't let you do that," said Joyce, concernedly. "I -thought perhaps you were going to say something quite different. I -have had a fancy now and then of late that we were all of us mistaken -in that foolish notion of the reason why the squire has been such a -faithful visitor to us all these years. Supposing it were as I fancy, -don't you think you could grow to love him, Meg? He is worthy of you in -every way." - -She spoke with a strange pleading; her words heaped fuel on the fire -within me; she paused for an answer, but I gave her none. "He is coming -here to-night. I heard him promise mother he would come. Oh, how I wish -it might be about you! Do you think there is any chance?" - -Her voice flew at me like a shaft from a bow. I felt myself grow cold. - -"How dare you?" I cried. "How dare you?" - -I could say no more--I was paralyzed--I had no words. - -Poor transparent Joyce, who had meant to be so generous, and who undid -her work so thoroughly! How little I repaid her with my gratitude. She -stood there gazing at me with a frightened expression on her lovely -face. - -"Go away, go away!" I stammered, wildly. "I want you to go away." - -She made a movement forward as if to beg my pardon for anything she had -said amiss. There was concern, pity, distress in her eyes, but I put -her away. She went out of the room slowly, clasping the fragments of -the broken bowl in her apron. - -I threw myself down on the far window-seat. I did not cry, I never -cried; but my whole body was trembling convulsively. I sat there in a -trance till the latch of the front door roused me, and I heard some one -come slowly, very slowly, across the hall. - -Father came into the parlor; he came across to where I was, and laid -his hand upon my head. The touch of it seemed to pass into me and -soothe my troubled spirit. - -"God help us to forget our troubles in those of others, Meg," he said, -gravely, after some minutes. - -And then I remembered that he had just come from the death-bed of that -little lad whom he had loved so well. - -I think there were tears in my eyes then. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -The squire came that night to visit us, as Joyce had predicted. We were -still sitting round the supper-table when he came in--a gloomy party. -How unlike the merry, argumentative gatherings of old! Joyce and I did -not look at one another, but Trayton Harrod glanced now and then at us -both. The traces of tears were on my sister's face. - -But father pushed his plate aside untouched, and turned to the bailiff -with his business manner. - -"Will you see to those poor folk down at the camp having a week's wage -before they are discharged, Harrod?" said he. "Those of them who won't -be needed, I mean." - -"We'll see first how many will be needed, sir," answered Harrod, trying -to be cheerful. - -"Our own folk will be enough," replied father, quietly. "It's rough -weather, and there are children down there. It's useless keeping them -about for nothing." - -Harrod was silent, and father lit his pipe. We none of us spoke of the -little child who we knew was in his thoughts, but mother sighed. I -think that little grave was very near to another little grave that she -had in the abbey church-yard. - -The squire shook hands with me just as usual when he came in, looking -full into my eyes, with such a concerned look of kind inquiry as made -me feel ashamed of my heavy face; but I made an excuse to get away at -once--I could not stay in the room. I went into the kitchen to make -cakes. - -Not long afterwards I heard the front door close upon Trayton Harrod--I -knew his step well enough--and then Joyce came into the kitchen. I know -I asked her what she wanted in there at that time of day, for I did not -care for the squire to be left alone with my parents, but she said -that mother had sent her away. I saw Deb raise her eyebrows and purse -her mouth in a way that was, as we knew, a sure forerunner of some -sharp, good-natured raillery. - -"Oh, what was that for, I wonder? What's the secret now?" said she, -wiping her big red arms, and then stirring up the fire with a sharp -brisk motion that betokened her most biting mood. - -"I don't know," said Joyce, but in a tone that said she knew very well. - -"Well, well, we've all expected it this long while past," said Deb. -"I'm glad it's come at last." - -She plunged her hands into the dish-tub once more, and looked up with a -comical expression of triumph on her ugly old face. - -"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, faintly. - -"Oh, don't you?" answered she. "Perhaps Meg does. Eh, do you know, -Margaret?" - -"I think you had better mind your own business, or talk of things you -know something about," said I, tartly. - -But Deb only laughed good-humoredly. - -"I suppose you make no doubt it's your pretty face the squire's after, -eh, Joyce?" persisted she, mercilessly. - -Joyce flushed painfully. - -"Don't, Deb, don't," said she. - -"Well, my dear, no shame to you," added the old woman; "we have all -thought the same thing. But maybe it isn't. Maybe Meg knows what he has -come for, and is thinking over what answer she'd give him now." - -"It wouldn't take me long to think what answer I should give _you_," -cried I, fairly out of patience. "If the squire wanted an answer from -me I could give him one without asking your advice, I dare say. But -he's not such a fool." - -"No, the squire's no fool," retorted Deb; "but I'm thinking other folk -aren't so very far off it. The Lord grant you don't all of you get a -lesson stiffer than you reckoned for one of these days, my dears," -added she, with a little sigh. - -We said no more on the subject. Joyce soon went up-stairs on some -household job, and Deb and I went on silently with our work. But before -my cakes were ready for the oven mother called me into the parlor. The -squire had left. As Joyce had hoped, he had spoken to mother about me. - -I knew it the moment I went into the room. I am sure he had not spoken -willingly; but that he had said something, I knew the moment I looked -at mother. There was a flush upon her cheek and a light in her eye that -told of surprise, but of pride and pleasure also. It proved how there -was never really any favoritism in her for my sister, for she showed -not the slightest disappointment that the squire's proposal was for me -and not for Joyce. - -"Margaret," said she, sitting down in the big wooden chair opposite to -father, who leaned forward in his favorite attitude, as though about to -rise--"Margaret, the squire has just been here." She stopped a moment -and half smiled. "The squire is very fond of you, Margaret," she added, -gravely, going at once, as was her way, to the heart of the matter. - -"The squire is fond of us all, I know," I answered, evasively. "He has -known us such a long time." - -"But he is fond of you in a different way to that," continued mother. -"He loves you as a man loves the woman whom he could make his wife." - -I did not answer for a bit, and mother, fancying, I suppose, that I -must be as surprised as she was at the news, went on: "I had thought -once it would be different, but now many things are explained. I think -he has loved you ever since you began to grow up. It ought to make any -girl feel proud, I'm sure." - -"Yes," said I, softly. And I did feel proud, quite as proud as mother -could wish, but I was not going to show it in the way that mother -expected. - -"Of course," she went on, after I had been silent a little while, "I -quite understand how such a piece of news must come as a great surprise -to you, almost as though it would take your breath away, I dare say. I -don't wonder you don't know what to say." - -Still I was silent. I stood by the table, twisting the fringe of the -table-cover in my hand. - -"I don't want to press you now," continued she. "Take your time about -it, and tell me your mind in a day or two." - -"Did the squire ask you to ask me my mind?" I said then, hurriedly. - -It was mother's turn to be silent at that. And I knew that I had -guessed aright, and that the squire had probably only had his secret -drawn from him against his will by some remark showing the mistake that -mother too had made about his love for Joyce. I even felt sure that he -had specially begged that I should not be spoken to on the matter. - -"Squire Broderick was speaking mostly about your sister," answered -mother, evasively. "You know I told you I felt it my duty to set him -straight about what you allowed you had made him think mistakenly -about. And he was very much relieved when I told him there was no -engagement between Joyce and that nephew of his. It's plain to see he -thinks no good of him." - -"Gently, gently, mother," murmured father, in remonstrating tones. - -"But I suppose in that way he came to guess what was in my mind about -him and her, and thought it best to put it right," concluded mother. - -Of course I saw in a moment that it had all happened exactly as I might -have been sure from the squire it would happen. The knowledge gave me -courage. "I will give my answer to the squire himself when he asks me," -I said, bravely. - -Mother looked at me. I fancied there was a half-apologetic look in her -eyes. - -"The squire will not ask you, Margaret," said she. "I suppose he's -timid. I suppose all good men are timid before the woman they love, -however much they may really be worthy of her--the worthier perhaps -the more so. It seems strange, but the squire'll never ask you to your -face. So you'd better make up your mind to it. Your answer'll have to -come through your parents in the old-fashioned way." - -I went back to my occupation of pulling the fringe of the table-cover. - -"But there's no need for you to say anything yet a while, lass," said -father, after a few minutes. - -It was the first time he had spoken, and I looked at him reassured. - -"Oh yes, I think I had just as well say what I have to say now," I -answered, with sudden boldness. "What's the good of waiting? I sha'n't -change my mind. I can never change my mind. I can't marry Squire -Broderick, if that's what you mean he wants." - -There was silence. Mother seemed to be actually stupefied. - -"But perhaps, after all, it isn't what he wants," added I, cheerfully, -after a bit. "He's fond of me, because he has known me ever since I've -been a little girl, and--well, because he is fond of me. But perhaps, -after all, he doesn't want to marry me. I shouldn't think he would be -so silly. I shouldn't be a bit of credit to him. I shouldn't be a bit -suited to it. Not because father's a farmer, but because--well, because -I'm not that sort of girl, like Joyce." - -Mother had found her tongue. - -"That's for the squire to decide," said she. "I know well enough it's -a rise for any daughter of mine to marry into the Brodericks. Yes, you -may say what you like, Laban," insisted she, fearlessly, turning to -father, who had looked up with the old fire in his eye. "Our family -may be older than his, but as the world goes now he's above us, and -marriage with him would be a rise for our child. And I think that it -would be a very good thing for one of our girls to be wed with the -squire, and that's the truth." - -Mother spoke emphatically, as though this were a question that had -often arisen between her and father, as indeed I knew that it had, -although not on my account. I looked round to see him fire up as I -had seen him do before. I waited to hear him say that if the squire -thought he was doing us a favor by asking one of us to marry him he was -mistaken; but the light had all died out of his eye, and if his lip -trembled, it was plain enough that it was not with anger. - -"No doubt you're right, Mary," he said, very slowly. "Let class and -family and such-like be. There's times when we forget all that. The -squire's a good man, a good man." - -I was dumb. I had certainly never thought that father would want me to -marry the squire. But a retort that had risen to my lips at mother's -speech, to the effect that I certainly shouldn't marry the squire, -because it would be "a good thing" for me, died away. I was ashamed of -it. It was so true that the squire was "a good man," and I was proud of -his love. - -"I can't marry the squire, mother, because I don't love him," said I, -humbly. - -Mother rose from her seat in all the height and breadth of her soft -gray skirts. - -"You and I never were of one mind as to what we meant by love, -Margaret," said she. "But you take my advice. You don't say anything -about this now, but just go away and think things over in your own mind -for a while. Maybe you'll see you're not likely to be loved again as -squire loves you. And maybe you'll say to yourself there ain't anything -very much better to do than to make yourself worthy of it. Of course I -don't know; folk are so different; and there's such a deal talked about -love nowadays that most like it's grown to be something better than it -was when I was young. But it won't hurt you to consider a while anyway." - -"It's no use," said I, doggedly. "I suppose folk _are_ different; but -I can never marry a man I don't love as he loves me. I can't help it. -That's the truth." - -Mother had reached the door; she was going out, but she turned round. -She was angry. The squire was rich, a gentleman. She had known him all -his life, and knew that he was a good and kind man, and would make a -good and true husband. Would not any mother have desired him for a -son-in-law? She guessed at no reason why I should not wed him, and I -think it was natural that she should be angry at mere obstinacy. I -think so now, but I did not think so then. - -"You can't marry a man you don't love as he loves you," repeated she, -with an accent of something very like scorn. "Well, my girl, let me -tell you that the very best sort o' love a woman can have for a man is -gratitude, and if she can't live happy with that she's no good woman. -There's no happiness comes of it when the woman's the first to love, -for it's heartache and no mistake when she must needs pass her life -with a man she loves more than he do her. There--I'm prating to the -wind, I know. There never was a girl yet thought an old woman had once -known what love was. You must go your own way, but you may take my word -for it that your opinion about love'll be more worth knowing in twenty -years' time than it is now. A chit like you, indeed! At least squire -knows what he is about." - -And with that she went out of the room and left me standing there, -frozen into silence. The torrent of her unwonted speech, poured forth -from the furnace of an unwonted fire in her, had fallen upon me like a -cold stream of icy water. Had she guessed? Had every one guessed? Was I -the sport of the community? Had I worn my heart upon my sleeve indeed? - -I turned round to find father's gaze fixed upon me anxiously. I -couldn't make out just what it meant--it was so full of a keen yet -half-puzzled inquiry; but it was tender and sympathetic, and it soothed -my ruffled spirit. - -"You mustn't let mother's words hurt you, child," he said, kindly. -"Mother's tongue is sharp sometimes, because she puts things in plain -English; but she's a wise woman, Meg, a wise woman. There are never any -clouds and mists round the tract of country mother travels. She sees -things straight." - -"I don't believe one person can ever see for another," declared I, -stoutly. "However poor my opinion may be, it's all the light I have. I -can't wait twenty years to decide what to do now." - -Father smiled, but sadly. "Yes, we must all fight our own fight," he -said, with a sigh. - -"Oh, father, I can't believe you want me to marry Squire Broderick," -said I, turning from the reflective which father so loved to the -practical side of the question. "You always used to say that you -wouldn't like us to marry out of our station." - -"My dear," he said, "there's many windows that'll let in light if we'll -only open them. But sometimes we're a long while before we'll open more -than one window. I dare say, if the truth were known, it wasn't all at -once the squire made up his mind that he wanted to marry out of _his_ -station. We mustn't forget that, Meg. It shows he loves you truly, -child, and that he's a man above the common. The squire's a good man, a -good man and true. And, after all, that's more than theories and such -like." - -I looked up at father anxiously. - -"Would you have liked to see me the squire's wife, father?" asked I. - -He held out his hand, beckoning me to him, and I went and knelt down at -his side. - -"Meg," said he, "you've always been a good girl, a bright, brave, smart -girl, with understanding of things beyond your years, though, maybe, -sometimes that very thing in you has led you to be less wise than -quieter folk. You've often been a help and a comfort to me." - -My heart swelled big within me, and I could not speak. - -"Now, if I say something to you that I wouldn't trust every girl with, -will you promise me to be just as wise as you are brave?" - -"Yes, father," whispered I. - -"I'm afraid when I'm gone, Meg, that mother won't be so well off as I -had hoped to leave her." - -"Why, what does that matter?" cried I, with the scorn of a youthful -and energetic, and also of an inexperienced spirit for such a thing as -poverty. "So long as we live in the old place we needn't mind having to -be a little more economical. Mother's very lavish now." - -Father only sighed. "Besides," continued I, "you're not an old man yet, -father. You've many years before you, and the hops'll be better another -time." - -I said it hopefully, but something in my heart misgave me. I lifted my -face to find those gray eyes, dark in the fire's uncertain light, fixed -upon me tenderly. - -"Child, I don't believe I'm long for this world," said he, gravely. "I -don't want mother to know it. Time enough when the day comes, but the -doctor has told me that I carry a disease within me that may kill me at -any moment." - -I felt all the blood ebb away from my heart. I clasped his hand -tightly, but I did not speak. - -"That's right. You're a brave girl," said he, with a smile. "But you -see, when I'm gone, there'll be nobody but you to take care of mother." - -"Doctors are often wrong," murmured I, faintly. - -"Yes, yes, so they are," answered father, "and I may last many a year -yet; but if it were possible, I want to be prepared--I want some one -else to be prepared. Perhaps I've done wrong to tell you, Meg. Perhaps -it's too heavy a burden for a young heart." - -"No, no," cried I, eagerly, though in truth I was frozen with a -terrible fear. "I like you to trust me--I like to think you lean upon -me." - -"I do trust you," repeated he, resting his hand upon my head in that -way that he sometimes had. And then he added, "And I trust Squire -Broderick too." - -I was silent. I began to see his drift. - -"The squire will always be our friend," I said. "He has told me so." - -"I'm sure of that," replied my father; "but don't you see, Meg, that if -the squire wants to marry you, it will be difficult for him to be just -the same to you as he has always been." - -"Will it?" said I, doubtfully. - -"I'm afraid it might be so," answered he; "but of course that must make -no difference. I can't teach you what to do in this matter. Nobody can -teach you. You must do what your heart tells you. But you're a young -lass yet, and if ever you come to think differently of the thing, -remember what I said to you to-day, dear, and don't let any fancied -pride stand in your way. Where hearts are true and honest, there's no -such thing as pride; I learn that the older I grow." - -"I will remember it, father," answered I, religiously; and something in -my heart forbade me to add, as I wanted to, "But I never shall think -differently." - -How could I tell him that I loved a man who had never spoken to me -of love, who I had every reason to suppose loved another woman, and -that woman my own sister? No; I had not the courage so to humble -myself; I had not the courage so to grieve him. Mother's voice sounded -without. "Bring in prayers, Joyce," called she, using the well-known -topsy-turvy phrase that I had known ever since I was a child. "It's -late enough." - -But as I knelt there that night, mingling my voice with the voices -of all those I loved, in the familiar words of the Lord's Prayer, I -thought God had been very hard to me, and the fear that he might even -take away my father from me brought such a storm of terrified and -rebellious agony that I felt I could not honestly say the words that -had passed so easily over my head these fifteen years, "Thy will be -done." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -A week went by--silent, uneventful--the world of action and emotion as -leaden as the sky was leaden above our heads. - -Father led his usual life, and seemed in no way worse than he had been -for some time; so that the sick fear within me was lulled for a while -to rest, and, realizing the emptiness of the present, I forgot the -possibility of even greater evil in the future. - -The summer was gone--the summer that even the oldest people in the -village declared to have been more wonderfully bright and long than -any they had ever seen; September closed with a whirl of storms and a -drenching of bitter rain. - -In the deserted hop-gardens--strewn with the unpicked tendrils of -the ruined crops, or studded with the conical tents of the stacked -ash-poles--only dead ashes recorded the merry flames that had leaped up -towards the merry faces; the summer was gone, and everywhere trees and -hedges were turning to ruddy tones upon the brooding sky. - -Ah me! Harvesting had slipped into winter before, and green leaves had -turned to gold, and summer birds had flown to southern homes, but never -had storms followed so quickly upon sunshine, nor flowers withered so -fast upon their stems, nor hopes fallen so quickly to the ground! - -But the uneventful week was to end in events. It was the 1st of -October. I remember it because it was mother's birthday, and the -esquire, who had never before failed to come and congratulate her -personally, only sent his gift of flowers by a servant. I know I felt -guilty, and realized something of what father had meant, for I fear -mother was hurt. - -When I went into the parlor at tea-time, mother and the bailiff -were there alone. They were evidently engaged in a deep and earnest -conversation. - -I thought it was about Mr. Hoad, who had rarely been at the Grange of -late, but who was closeted with father that afternoon, somewhat to my -own vague anxiety. I had a notion that mother had spoken to Harrod upon -the subject before, and thought at first that her sudden silence was -only because she did not care for one of us girls to know that she so -far confided in the bailiff. But a certain half-confused look, that was -very foreign to mother, led me to wonder whether, after all, she had -been talking to him about Mr. Hoad that time; and when she sent me to -call father in, she bade me shut the door after me, although I was only -going across the passage. - -If I had not been so very preoccupied I should have been more alarmed -than I was at the sound of Mr. Hoad's voice, raised in loud tones, as I -approached the library door, and I should have taken more anxious note -of father's face, as he only just opened it to bid me tell mother he -was busy just now but would come presently. - -She looked vexed when I gave her the message, and took her seat before -the tea-tray with an aggrieved air. "I don't know why, if Mr. Hoad -doesn't care to drink tea with us himself, he should choose this -particular moment to keep your father busy and away from his food," she -complained. - -"I suppose it's something very particular," said Joyce, in her even -tones, and without noticing the frown on Harrod's brow. "Mr. Hoad is -always so polite; it must be something particular." - -"Very particular!" repeated mother, pursing up her lips. "I don't know -why it should be so particular it couldn't be said at the table, only -that men must always needs fancy they've got very weighty and secret -matters on hand. It was only about those unlucky hops, for I heard him -mention them as he went in. Why he must needs remind father of his -losses, I don't know. It's bad enough without that, and when I wanted -him to cheer up a bit. The hops can't matter to Mr. Hoad. But men are -so stupid and inconsiderate!" - -We finished tea and drew round the fire. It was dark--half-past six -o'clock and more--and we had had tea by lamplight. Mother remarked how -quickly the evenings were drawing in. Then she suggested sending again -for father, but Harrod begged her to be patient. - -"Mr. Hoad must be going soon or he will have a dark drive home," he -said. - -I laughed. "There is a moon," said I, "unless the clouds have swallowed -it." And I got up to go out on the terrace and see. - -The voices in the library rose and fell as I opened the door. I heard -father's deep tones, strong and firm, and Mr. Hoad's, lighter and -jarring. Joyce rose too and followed me, and so did Trayton Harrod. - -The library window stood ajar as we crossed the lawn. - -"You'll pull through all right," came Mr. Hoad's voice; "Squire -Broderick's your friend. You were wise not to stick to your colors over -that election business. It would have offended him. He's not a poor -devil like me who must needs look to the pence. He can afford to be -generous about debts and rents. And if rumor says true, there's one of -your young ladies can give him all he needs for reward." - -I stopped, paralyzed. Had Joyce heard? - -But Trayton Harrod strode past me to where she stood a few steps before -us. "Miss Maliphant, you must fetch a wrap for your head," he said, -hurriedly; "the mist is falling." - -She went in obediently. I noticed she always did behave obediently -towards him now. If she had heard, she gave no sign of it. Probably she -had not understood. - -Some one stepped forward inside the room and fastened the window. I -heard no more. - -"Come down onto the terrace," said Harrod, authoritatively. "We can -wait for your sister there." - -He led the way and I followed, but I looked at him. Had he also not -heard, not understood? Oh yes, he had heard, and he had understood--as -I had understood. - -"What did that man mean?" cried I, looking at him straight in the eyes. - -We had not spoken to one another frankly and freely for some time, but -this had roused me. - -"The fellow is a low cur," he said. - -"Yes; but what did he mean?" insisted I. "I've always known that; but I -want to know what he meant by talking as he did of Squire Broderick." - -Trayton Harrod was silent. - -"Mr. Harrod, if you know, you must, please, tell me," said I, firmly. - -He had looked away from me, but now he turned his face to me again. - -"Yes, I will tell you," answered he, simply. "I think it is well you -should know. The farm is in a bad way; perhaps you have guessed that. I -have not been able to do what I hoped to do when I first came to it. I -have not been successful." - -He spoke in a heavy, dispirited tone; it roused afresh all the sympathy -that had been stifled a while by my bitter passion. "Don't say that," I -cried. "You have done a great deal. I am sure father thinks so, and I -think so," I added, softly. "But you have been hampered." - -"Well, anyhow I have failed, and the farm is in a bad way," he -repeated, rather shortly. "Your father has been pressed for money, -probably not only since I have been here; he has been obliged to get -it as best he could to pay the men's wages. He has got some of it from -Hoad." - -"From Hoad!" repeated I. "Not as a favor?" - -"No," continued he, with a laugh; "your father is indebted to Hoad, -probably for a large amount. I fear it. But not as a favor. Hoad is -the man to know well enough what rate of interest to charge; and he is -threatening now to press him for payment. So long as your father could -be useful to him, so long as he hoped to get his help towards securing -the Radical seat for Thorne, he was forbearing enough--made out that -he would wait any length of time for it, I dare say; but now it's a -different matter. Thorne lost the seat and Mr. Hoad some advantage he -would have had out of the affair. He doesn't mean to be considerate any -more. He means to press for his money." - -"How could father ever trust such a man, ever have any dealings with -him?" cried I, indignantly. "It's horrible to think he could have done -it. But now, of course, he must be paid at once, and we must never, -never see him again." - -Harrod was silent. - -"Why does father stop there arguing with him?" cried I, looking back -towards the library window. "How can he condescend to do it? Why -doesn't he pay him his money and tell him to be off?" - -"Perhaps your father hasn't got the money, Miss Margaret," said Harrod, -slowly, after a pause. - -"Not got it!" cried I. "How much is it?" - -"I don't know," he answered, "but I'm afraid it's more than your father -has at hand at the moment. He must need all his ready cash to pay the -men, and there's the rent due presently." - -"The rent!" echoed I, under my breath. "The rent is due to Squire -Broderick." - -"Yes," agreed Harrod. - -"Father has been punctual with his rent all his life," continued I, -proudly, "I've often heard him say so. Nothing would persuade him to be -a day late with the rent." - -"No, of course," said Harrod, quickly. - -And then he was silent. I flushed hot in the dim light. - -I knew now what Mr. Hoad had meant, and I hated him in my heart worse -than I had ever hated him before, for what he had meant. - -"But that's what Hoad counts on," continued Harrod, rapidly, as though -suddenly making up his mind to speak. "He is a low, vulgar fellow, and -he would think such a thing natural enough. He can see no other reason -why your father should not have consented to stand by his candidate at -the election." - -A sudden revelation came to me. - -"Was that what the article was about that you tried to keep out of -father's way?" I asked. - -He nodded. My heart flamed with anger at the treachery of the man who -had called himself father's friend, but through it there was a very -broad streak of gratitude to the man who had been his friend without -calling himself so. But I did not say so; I only repeated aloud what I -had told myself inwardly. - -"I hate him," I said. "Whatever happens, he will never get his money -that way. But, oh, isn't it horrible to think that father should owe -money to such a man! Is there no way in which he could be paid off -now--at once?" - -"Not any that I can see," said Harrod, sadly. - -"Won't there be any money coming in for the hops?" I asked again, -eagerly. - -"Oh, if the season had been good for the hops!" echoed Harrod. And then -he stopped short. - -I did not ask any more, but I understood a great deal in that short -sentence, and when I thought over all that he had said, I understood -more still: that perhaps he had guessed long ago, when he first came, -in what position father then stood; that perhaps he had even advised -the hop speculation as a last chance, having as I knew he had, special -facilities for disposing of a good crop. He had worked for us, he had -our interests at heart, but the task that he had undertaken had been -harder than he had guessed; knowing him as I did, I knew how very, very -bitter must be to him the sense of failure. His work: that was the -first thing with him, and he had failed in it. - -"If it hadn't been for you, things would be much worse than they are," -said I at last, full of a really simple and unselfish sympathy. "You -have done a great deal for the farm." - -"It might have been of some use if the circumstances had been -different," said he, half testily. "As it is, I have done no good, no -good at all. But that's neither here nor there. The thing is what to do -now." - -"Must something be done at once?" I asked, anxiously. - -"Yes," answered he, briefly, "at once." - -I was silent, looking out over the plain. The last of the daylight -was dead; the moon fled in and out among the clouds that swept, swift -and soft, over the blue of the deep night sky, on whose bosom she lay -cradled sometimes as in a silver skiff, but that again would cross her -face with ugly scars or hide her quite from sight--a murky veil that -even her rich radiance could only inform with brightness as a memory -upon the hem of it. The marsh always looked wider and more mysterious -than ever under such a sky as that, until no one could have told where -the land ended and sea began; it was all one vast, dim ocean--billows -of land and billows of water were all one. - -I could not but think of the night, three months ago, when I had stood -there on that very spot with Trayton Harrod, and when, at my request, -he had consented to stay on at the farm and help us. He had stayed on, -and he had done what he could. Was it his fault if he had not brought -us help and happiness? - -I remembered the night well; I remembered that then it had been warm, -whereas now it was chilly. The twilight had faded and the night was -dark, save for that fitful, fickle moon. A thin gauze of cloud hung now -before the white disk, and the light that filtered through it showed -another thin gauze of mist floating above the sea of dark marsh-land; -the breeze that crept up among the aspens on the cliff had scarcely a -memory of summer. - -"What can be done?" asked I, in answer to that brief, terse declaration. - -"There is only one thing that I can see," said he. "You are right; Hoad -must be paid. It is not a matter of choice. The money must be borrowed -to pay him with." - -"Borrowed!" cried I. "From whom could we borrow it, even if we would? -There is nobody who would lend us money." - -"Yes, there is one man," said Harrod, quietly. - -"You mean Captain Forrester," said I, "because you have seen him here -so intimately with father; but I assure you"--I stopped; I had begun -disdainfully, but I ended up lamely enough--"he has no money." - -"No, I did not mean Captain Forrester," answered Harrod, with what I -fancied in the half-light was a smile upon his lips, "I mean Squire -Broderick." - -I flushed again. I did not look at him. - -"Father would never think of asking Squire Broderick to lend him -money," I said, quickly. - -"No, I dare say not," answered the bailiff. "Your father is a very -proud man, and however well he may know the squire is his friend, they -have not always exactly hit it off. But you, Miss Margaret, you could -ask him, and for your father's sake, you would." - -"Oh no, indeed, I wouldn't," said I, almost roughly. "It's the last -thing in the world that I would do." And then I turned quickly round. -"Joyce hasn't come down," I added. "We had better go back and look for -her." - -I moved away a couple of steps, but he didn't follow, and I stopped. - -"Don't go in just yet," he said. "Your mother does not need you. I want -to talk to you a little. We used always to be such good friends; but we -haven't had a talk for a long while." - -I stood still where I was. - -"If it's about borrowing money of the squire that you want to talk to -me, I don't think it would be any use for you to trouble," said I, with -my back still turned to him. "I shouldn't think of asking him to lend -father money--not if I thought ever so that he would do it." - -"Of course he would do it to please you," said Harrod, frankly. "He -loves you. But I quite understand how that might be more than ever the -reason for your not asking him." - -I did not answer; the suddenness of the way in which this had come from -him had taken away my breath. It had not even struck me that he could -have guessed it; and now that he should speak of it--_he_ to _me_! - -"It would be a reason if you did not mean to accept his love," -continued Harrod, ruthlessly. "But since that could not surely be the -case, are you not over-delicate; do you not almost do him an injury by -not trusting him to that extent?" - -"Mr. Harrod, I don't know how you dare to talk to me so," said I, -fiercely, but under my breath. - -"Dare!" echoed he, with a little laugh that had an awkward ring in it, -and yet at the same time a little tone of surprise, "I thought we were -friends. Surely one may say as much to a friend?" - -"You may not say as much to me," retorted I, in the same tone. "And I -don't know why you should think that the squire loves me." - -"Is there any insult in that?" smiled he. "I did not suppose so. Surely -it is clear to every one that he loves you? I have seen it ever since I -have been at the Grange." - -"You have seen it!" ejaculated I, dumfounded. "Why, it was Joyce! We -all thought it was Joyce!" - -"I did not think it was Joyce," said he. - -I was silent once more. Ever since he had been at the Grange he had -seen that the squire loved me. What, then, had been his attitude -towards me? What had ever been his attitude towards me? - -"Well, if the squire loves me, he will have to get over it," said I, in -a hard, cold voice. I was hurt and sore, and my soreness made me hard -for the moment towards the man to whom in my heart I was never anything -but reverent. But the very next moment I was sorry; I was ashamed of -even a thought that was not all gratitude towards him. "Perhaps," I -added, gently, "it is not exactly as you fancy. I am not good enough -for the squire." - -"Not good enough!" echoed he, and there was a ring of genuine -appreciation and loyalty in his voice which set my foolish heart aglow. -"I don't see why not. Anyhow, _he_ does not seem to be of that opinion, -from what your mother tells me." - -Mother! That was what they had been discussing so secretly. - -"I'm sorry mother could talk about it," said I. "It wasn't fair. It's -a pity such things should be talked about when they are never going to -come to anything." - -"Why is it never going to come to anything?" asked Trayton Harrod. - -"That's my own business," said I, defiantly. - -"Yes, that's true," answered he; "but I had thought, as I have said, -that we were good enough friends for you to let a little of your -business be mine also. I beg your pardon." - -His tone unaccountably irritated me, but his allusion to our friendship -touched me nevertheless. - -"You needn't beg my pardon," said I, more quietly; "only I don't want -you to talk any more about that. Mother may be mistaken about the -squire wanting to marry me. I hope he does not. If he does, I shall -find my own way of telling him it couldn't be." - -"Well, Miss Margaret, if I'm offending you by speaking of the matter, -I must hold my tongue," said Harrod; "but I feel as if I must tell you -that I think you are making a great mistake." - -I did not answer, and he went on: - -"Your father is in a bad way. He would be very much relieved to think -that one of you was comfortably settled for life. Apart from anything -that you could do for him in this crisis, and which, no doubt, he has -not thought of, you must see for yourself how that would be so." - -"A girl can't marry to please her father," said I, "and _my_ father is -the last one to wish it." - -"Of course," said he, persistently, "neither your father nor your -friends would wish you to marry against your will for _any_ advantage -that might result. But why should it be against your will? The squire -is such a good-fellow." - -"Oh, don't ask me to talk about it," cried I. "I know he is good; I -know all you say." - -"If the truth were known, I expect there's a good bit of pride in it," -smiled he. "You are your father's own daughter about that. And there's -the squire, no doubt, thinks he's not half good enough for you. A man -mostly does if he cares for a woman." - -"It isn't that. I can't marry the squire, because I don't love him, and -there's an end," cried I, desperately. - -I wished he had never spoken to me about it; I could not understand how -he _could_ do so, even to please mother, at whose instigation I felt -sure it was done. It seemed to me to be very unlike him, but since he -had forced himself to speak, I must force myself to tell him that much -of the truth. But I turned down away from him, and walked to the edge -of the terrace. - -Harrod, however, again followed me. - -"Perhaps you don't know exactly what you mean by that," said he, -gently. "Young girls don't always. And they think, because a man is a -few years older than themselves, that it can't be a love-match. But -sometimes they find out, after all, that it was a love-match, only they -didn't know it at the time. Wise folk say that the best sort of love -comes of knowledge, and isn't born at first sight, as some think it is." - -They were mother's arguments. It was out of friendship for me, no -doubt, that he repeated them, but they were mother's words, and they -didn't touch me at all. All that I felt was a rage, rising horribly and -swiftly within me, against the man who dared to utter them. - -I did not reply. I only drew my cloak closer around me, for the marsh -wind rose now and then in sudden puffs that found their way to the very -heart of one; they sent the clouds flying across the sky, and the moon -disappeared deep down into a bed of blackness--so deep that not even -the hem of it was fringed as before with the silver rim; upon the marsh -was unbroken night. I can see it still, I can feel the chill of it. - -And yet, within, my heart was hot, and it was out of the heat of it -that I spoke. Shall I write down what I spoke? I can hardly bear to do -it. Even after all these years, when fate, kinder than her wont, has -helped me to bury all that spoiled past, and to begin a future upon the -grave of it that has its foundations deeper still. Even now I am afraid -to look at the stern record of my words in black and white before me. I -am ashamed--not of my love, but of my selfishness, though these pages -are for no other eyes than mine, I am afraid. But I have set myself the -task, and it shall be accomplished to the end. - -"Can't you understand," said I, in a low voice, "that perhaps I cannot -love the squire because I love somebody else better?" - -He was silent--he did not even look at me. He gave no sign of being -surprised at my revelation. - -"Are you sure of that?" he said, after a pause. "And is he as worthy of -you as Squire Broderick?" - -"Worthy!" echoed I. For a moment a proud, rebellious answer flashed -through my mind. Was he worthy of me--he who gave so much the less, for -mine that was so much the more? But I trod the demon out of sight. Was -he to blame if I gave the more? "What is worthiness?" asked I. - -He did not reply at first, and then it was in a voice that somehow -seemed to me different to any I had heard him use before. - -"I don't know that there's any such thing," he said, with a sort of -grim seriousness. "But a man can give the best he has, and I don't -think a woman should put up with less." - -Queer, plain words; there was nothing in them to hurt me, and yet they -seemed to fly at me. My heart beat wildly; I could feel it, I could -hear it, fluttering like a caged bird against the hard-wood of the -fence against which I leaned. - -"The squire gives you the best he has," said Trayton Harrod. "Does the -man you think you love do as much?" - -I don't know whether it was my fancy or not, but his voice seemed to -tremble. I had never heard his voice tremble before. - -"How can I tell?" said I, as well as I could speak the words for shame -and heartache. - -"A woman can tell fast enough," murmured he. And then he stopped; he -came one step nearer to me. "And the fact is," said he, emphatically, -"it seems a shame for a fine, clever girl like you to throw away such -a man as the squire for the sake of a fellow who she isn't even sure -gives her the best he has. I've no right to talk so to you, and I -couldn't have done it if your mother hadn't made me promise to. She -seemed to think I ought. But, upon my word, I'm of her mind. You think -you care for that other fellow now, but if he don't give you what -you've a right to expect, you wouldn't be the girl I take you for if -you didn't put him out of your mind. There isn't anything in the world -can live when it has nothing to feed on." - -How every word seemed to fall like a stone into the bottom of a well! -They echoed in my head after he had finished speaking. Another gust -of wind came sweeping up from the invisible sea of water across the -just visible sea of land. The moon made a little light again through -a softer gray cloud, and shone with a wan, covered brightness upon -us; the aspens on the cliff shivered--and I shivered too. The fire in -my blood had burned itself out, I suppose, and the cold from without -struck inward, for I felt as though I were frozen into a perfectly -feelingless lump of ice. - -"I wonder what would have happened if the squire's proposal had been -made to Joyce, as we all supposed it would be?" said I, slowly. - -I did not look at him, but I felt him start. - -"Do you think she would have accepted him?" asked he. His voice did not -tremble now; it was hard and metallic; it did not sound like his own. -It drove me into a frenzy. All that had happened of late, all that had -happened in the last half-hour, had been piling up the fuel, and now -the instinctive knowledge of the feelings that had prompted that last -speech of his set a light to the fire. I was mad with jealousy. - -"I don't know," said I. "If the squire had proposed to Joyce, and she -had known that she would help father, as you say, by marrying him, -she might have brought herself to it. She is more unselfish than I -am. _She_ might have brought herself to marry one man while she loved -another." - -Harrod did not answer at first, but I felt his face turned upon me -waiting for me to go on, and I heard him draw in his breath and breathe -it out again, as if he were relieved. - -"What makes you think she is in love with another man?" asked he, in a -low voice. - -"Oh, I know it," said I, stung to the utterance by the knowledge that -he thought I meant with himself. "She is engaged to him." - -My heart almost stopped beating, waiting to see where the shaft would -strike. - -It struck home. "Engaged!" muttered he. - -"Yes," I went on, quickly, perhaps lest I should repent of my wicked -purpose. "She is engaged to Captain Forrester. They do not meet, -because my parents wished it to be kept secret for a year. But they -love one another." - -Oh, Joyce, Joyce! how could I have said it? A hundred excuses came -swarming into my head, but in every one of them there was a sting, for -through the buzz of them all came a strong, clear voice telling me that -the man whom Joyce really loved stood at my side. I knew it, I knew it, -and yet I let him think that she loved some one else; I let him go away -with an aching heart. That was my love for him--that was my love for -Joyce, who, until he crossed my world, had been all my world to me. - -I remember nothing more. I suppose he said something and I answered -it, or else I said something and he answered it; but I remember -nothing--nothing until I saw him thread his way down among the aspens -on the cliff and disappear onto the desolate marsh-land. - -That I remember. I often see it happening. The moon still hung behind -that veil of gray cloud; the breeze still crept chill among the trees, -piercing to the heart; the faint white light showed a very wide world, -wider far than in the brightness of day; there seemed to be a great -deal of room for longing and heartache. But was the heartache in it all -mine? In a moment the horror of what I had done came home to me. I who -suffered had made others suffer. - -"Oh, come back! come back!" I cried, in an agony of grief, hurrying -down the cliff till I stood over the marsh, waving my arms wildly in -the dark night. "Come back! I have something more to say." - -But he was gone. The moon was the same moon looking sadly on; the world -was the same world as it had been ten minutes ago, but he was gone. And -who was to blame? - -I came slowly up the cliff again--cold, stunned. What had I done? Where -should I go? - -"Margaret! Margaret!" came a loud, terrified cry from the porch. - -It was the voice of my sister Joyce. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -That night father was struck down with the stroke that was to end in -his death. - -That was what the terror in my sister's voice had meant when she had -called down the garden to me through the chill darkness. Her cry had -roughly summoned me from the contemplation of my own woes, and the -mourning of my own cruelty, to a sterner death-bed than the death-bed -of my own selfish hopes, to the darkest experience that can cross any -loving human creature's path. - -He lay ill three weeks, but from the first we knew that there was no -hope, and knew that none could tell when he might finally be taken. -We took turns night and day watching beside him, and during the first -dreadful night following his seizure I was sitting alone in the dim -parlor waiting for my turn, when, towards midnight, there was a knock -at the door. I thought it was the doctor, who had promised to come -again before morning; but when I opened the door the squire stood -outside. The bad news had crept up to the Manor during the evening, and -he had come to learn if it was true. - -For the first time that evening a little breath of something that was -warm crept about my cold heart. I forgot that the squire had wanted to -marry me, and that I had practically refused him; I forgot everything -but that here was a friend full of real sympathy in our trouble, and -thinking at that moment of nothing else--perhaps the only friend whom I -instinctively counted upon in a world that seemed to me just then very -wide and empty. - -He stepped inside at once, and I told him what had happened, there in -the hall, in a quick, low whisper. - -"There is no hope," I said. "I knew that quite well, although the -doctor said that there was just a chance. He knew himself that he -might die at any moment. He told me so yesterday, only I didn't really -believe him." - -My heart swelled at the recollection of that scene, but I did not cry. -I wonder if he thought me heartless. - -"How did it happen?" asked the squire. - -"Mr. Hoad was with him. I heard them talking as I went out into the -garden," answered I, sickening with the recollection of what I had gone -there for. "Joyce says Mr. Hoad went out suddenly, and then they heard -father fall. He has never spoken since." - -"Ah, if we could only have kept that man away from him!" murmured the -squire. - -"Yes; and I feel as if it were my fault," whispered I. "He owed him -money, and he came to press for it just now when the hops have failed -and the rent is due. He is so mean that he had a grudge against father -for not helping on Mr. Thorne. But how was I to get the money? It was -cruel, cruel to suggest it!" - -I caught the squire's eyes fixed upon me with a strange, pitying, -questioning look. I did not understand it at the moment, but in the -light of what I afterwards learned I understood its meaning. - -I stopped abruptly. I felt as though my senses were leaving me--my head -was whirling. I knew I had said something, in this moment of unusual -craving for sympathy and support, which I should never have said at any -other moment. - -But there was no time to go back upon my words, even if that had been -possible. I just caught those eyes that shone so blue out of the -squire's bronzed face fixed intently upon me in the dim light of the -little hall, when Joyce ran quickly down the stairs. - -"Father wants to see you, Squire Broderick," said she, eagerly. "He -heard your voice and he wants to see you." - -"Oh, then he _is_ conscious again!" cried I, joyfully. - -"Yes," said Joyce; "he is conscious." - -She said it with a marked accent on the word. - -"But--" asked the squire. - -"He can't speak," added she. - -I turned my face away from them. - -"That means he is dying," said I. "The doctor said it might be before -dawn." - -All at once a cowardly, horrible longing to run away took possession of -me. - -"Oh, perhaps not," said Joyce, gently. "We must hope while there is -life. We can do nothing; he is beyond us. We must submit ourselves to -whatever is God's will." - -She was right. Perhaps for the first time in my life I felt all the -awful force of it--that we could do nothing, absolutely nothing; that -we must submit ourselves. - -But why was it God's will? Again it angered me, as it had angered me -once before, that Joyce should be able to submit herself apparently so -easily to what was God's will. I was unjust. There were tears on her -cheeks and mine were dry. We were different, that was all. - -"Come," said she, turning again to the squire, "he is impatient." - -She turned up the stairs, flitting softly in her blue flannel -dressing-gown, with the golden hair slipping a little from its smooth -coils. - -The squire followed. I sat down on the old oaken bench below to wait. - -"You, you too, Meg," said she, turning round. The oak staircase was -dark, but a yellow ray from the oil-lamp hung on the wainscoting showed -her face surprised. Mother's voice came from above, and she ran on up -the stairs. - -The squire came back again to me. "Come, dear," said he--and even at -that solemn moment I could not help noticing the word of tenderness -that had unconsciously slipped from him. "I want you to come, because -afterwards you would be sorry you had delayed. When you see him you -will not be afraid." - -He took my hand and led me up the stairs, so that we entered father's -room together. - -Yes, he was quite conscious. Those piercing gray eyes of his shone -as with a fire from within like coals in his white face; they were -terrible in their acute concentration, as though all the strength of -that once strong frame, of that once active mind, had retired to this -last citadel; but, black under the shadow of the overhanging brows, -they were the dear familiar eyes of old to me, and I was not frightened. - -As we approached--I in my trouble still letting my hand lie -unconsciously in the squire's--I saw one of those gleams that I have -said were often as of sunshine on a rugged moor cross the whiteness of -his face. - -For a moment the effort to speak was very painful, but he took the -squire's hand in his--in both of his--and looked at me, and I knew well -enough what he meant to say. - -I did not speak. I could not have spoken if I would, for there was a -lump in my throat that choked me; but I had nothing to say. How could -I have found it in my heart to tell him that what he had seen meant -nothing, yet what words would my tongue have made to tell him that -I would give my hand to the squire forever? It was not possible. I -slipped my hand out of his, but father did not see it. He was looking -more at the squire than at me; upon him his eyes were fixed with a -strangely mingled expression of pride and entreaty. Thinking of it now, -it comes before me as a most pathetic picture of proud self-abandonment -and generous appeal. It was almost as though he said: "I have wronged -you. Creeds and convictions are nothing. We have always been one, and -you are my only friend. Help me in my need." So I have often since read -that look in his deep, sorrowful eyes. My dear father! Should I say my -poor father? No, surely not. Yet at that moment I thought so; I wanted -to do something for him, and the only thing that I might have done I -would not do. But the squire came to the rescue. - -"I know," he said, tenderly; "be at rest. I will take care of them all." - -Not I will take care of _her_. "I will take care of them all." - -My heart went out to him in thanks. He had said I should have courage. -He had given me courage. - -When he was gone, I took my place at the bedside; I was no longer -afraid of Death, or if I was afraid, my love was more than my fear; I -stayed beside father till the end. I was thankful that the end did not -come for those three weeks. He did not suffer, and he grew to depend -upon me so, to turn such trustful and loving eyes upon me whenever I -came near him, that they took me out of myself as nothing else could -have done. Dear eyes that have followed me all through the after-years -to still the pangs of remorse, and to warm the coldness of life. Ah me! -and yet those were sore days. Knowing that he was taking comfort as -he lay there from the thought that I and the squire would one day be -one, I longed to make a clean breast of it. I longed to tell him that -a very different figure from good Squire Broderick's crossed my mind -many times a day, unbidden and horrible to me, who wanted to give every -fibre of myself to him who lay a-dying. - -I cannot explain it, I can only say that it was so: dearly as I loved -my father, the thought of him did not keep out every other thought. All -through those weary watching hours, I was watching for other footsteps -besides those that were coming--so slow and sure--to take away what I -had loved all my life; black upon my heart lay the shadow of a deeper -remorse than that of letting a dying man believe in a possibility that -set his mind at rest: I wanted to see Trayton Harrod that I might undo -what I had done, that I might tell him the truth about Joyce. - -Yes, though I knew well enough that I loved him far too well to think -of another, it was not of my love that I thought, sitting there through -the dark hours with the sense of that awful presence upon me that might -at any moment snatch, whither I knew not, the thing that I had known as -my dear father. I only wanted to see him that I might rid my conscience -of that mean lie, that I might make him happy, and hear him say that -he forgave me; and many is the time I started beside the still bed, -thinking I heard that light firm step on the gravel without, or the -click of the latch in the front door as the bailiff had been wont to -lift it. - -But Trayton Harrod did not come, and, with the self-consciousness of -guilt, I dared not ask for any news of him. It was not until more -than a week after father's first seizure that I learned he had gone -to London at daybreak on the morning following our parting, and had -not yet returned. My heart sank a little at the news, although I knew -he had intended going away for a little just about this time, and I -guessed, of course, that he could have heard nothing of our trouble -before he left. - -Deborah said that one of the men had left a note from him the morning -of his departure, but in the confusion of father's illness neither -she nor I could find it, and I was reduced to sitting down once more -to wait face to face with another grim phantom of Death besides that -one that was keeping the house so quiet and strange for us all. Once -I think mother said Harrod must be sent for, but nobody thought of it -again, for everything was really swallowed up in that great anxiety, -while we waited around that bedside hoping against hope, watching -for that partial return of speech which the doctor had told us might -perhaps be given to him once more. - -The Rev. Cyril Morland came to see him, and told him all that he had -been able to do about that scheme for the protection of little children -which lay so near his heart. I well remember, though his poor body was -half dead, how pathetic in its keenness was the effort to understand -all as he had once understood it--how touching the fire that still -burned in his sunken eyes--how touching the smile that still played -about his white lips. - -Yes, I remember it all; I remember how, after many attempts, he made me -understand that I was to fetch that crayon sketch of the young man's -head that hung above the writing-desk in his study, and put it opposite -his bed. I remember how his eyes were turned to it then, as he listened -to the good young parson's explanations of what had already been -achieved in that branch of the great question upon which his mind had -so long been concentrated. - -The minister had scarcely gone out before Deborah came into the room -with a message. She whispered it to mother: Captain Forrester was -staying at the Priory, and had sent round to ask how Mr. Maliphant did. - -Father's eyes were closed, he did not open them, but I saw a look of -suffering, as though a lash had passed over him, cross his features. - -Mother sent Deborah hastily out of the room with a whispered reprimand, -and father beckoned me to his side. As far as I could make out, he -wanted me to send for Frank. - -A few weeks ago how gladly would I have done it! But now I knew too -well that it was too late; and when I saw the telltale flush of trouble -on Joyce's face, and her quick glance of entreaty, I was loath to do -father's bidding. I could see that she had it on her lips to tell -him something--something that she no longer made a secret of soon -afterwards; but how could any of us dare to disturb him, dare to do -anything but simply what he wished? Even mother, much as it cost her to -let me send that summons, would not interfere. We felt instinctively -that the visit could do neither good nor harm. We need not have -troubled ourselves. Father died before Frank came. He had seemed a -little better; in fact, just for a day we had been quite hopeful. The -squire had been sitting with him, and when he left him alone with -mother and came down-stairs, I met him in the hall; I had been waiting -for him. I led the way into the deserted parlor, and the squire--I -fancied, half-unwillingly--followed. - -"I hope I haven't kept you away," began he, concernedly. "He's dozing -now, and your mother is with him. But he'll be asking for you again -presently." - -"Yes, I know, I know," answered I, absently. "But, Mr. Broderick, I -wanted to ask you whether you don't think Mr. Harrod ought to be sent -for?" said I, hastily. - -He turned away his head; I could not help noticing that he looked -embarrassed. - -"I'm sure he can't know of father's illness, and I feel that he ought -to be told," said I. "I know very well he would never choose this time -for a holiday if he knew how very urgently his presence is needed. -Everything must be going at sixes and sevens on the farm." - -"I see that things aren't going at sixes and sevens," murmured he. - -"You!" cried I, aghast. "Oh, but that isn't fitting." - -Still he looked awkward. "Don't you trouble your head about it," said -he, kindly. "You have enough to do without that. My bailiff has very -little work just now, and he can as easily as not see to things a bit." - -Something in his whole manner froze me, but I cried, eagerly, almost -angrily, "But he _must_ come back; it's his duty to come back. You are -too kind--you don't want to spoil his holiday; but that isn't fair, and -not real kindness. He would much rather come back, I know. If you won't -write to him, I will." - -I spoke peremptorily, but something in the way the squire now looked at -me--pitifully, and yet reproachfully--made me ashamed, and I lowered my -eyes. He came up to me and said, in a low voice, for I had raised mine: -"Will you leave it all to me? Do. I promise you that I will do you -right; and for you, just now, anything--everything but one thing, must -remain in abeyance." - -I could not answer, something choked me. He took my hand in his to say -good-bye. "I thought he seemed easier, less restless to-night," said he. - -I nodded, and he pressed my hand and went out. Not till the last -yellowness had died out of the twilight did I go up again to the -sick-room. - -Mother sat on a low chair by the bed; her hand was in father's, and her -head rested on her hand. There was no light, only just the grayness of -the twilight. One might have thought it was a young girl's figure that -crouched there so tenderly. All through the years of my childhood I -had very rarely seen any attitude of affection between my parents; I -scarcely ever remember father kissing mother in our presence, although -his unfailing chivalry towards her, and the quiet, matter-of-course -way in which her opinion was reverenced, had grown to be an understood -thing among us. I felt now that I had intruded on a sacred privacy. - -Mother turned as I came in, and drew her hand very gently away from -father's; he was dozing. She rose and walked away towards the window. - -"Shall I bring the lamp, mother?" asked I. - -I felt that there were tears in her voice as she answered. It was the -first time I had been aware of this in all the time that father had -been ill, she had been so very quiet and brave. I went up to her where -she stood in the dim light of the window-seat, with her back towards -me, and after a moment I kissed her reverently, as I never remember to -have done before, save that once when she said that things would have -been different on the farm if our little brother had lived. Her tears -welled over, but she did not speak, only when I said, "He is better -to-night, mother, don't you think so?" she nodded her head, and turned -and went out of the room. - -That night the wave we had been watching so long broke over our heads. - -Mother had sat up the night before, and had gone to rest; Joyce held -watch till midnight, and then I took her place. The hours wore away -wearily through the darkness. Father was very restless, moaning often, -and throwing his arms from side to side. - -Once he had held his hand a long while on my head in the old, -affectionate way, and had looked with mute, passionate entreaty into -my eyes. What did he want to know? If I guessed, I did not satisfy -the craving. I only murmured vague words here and there, smoothed his -pillow and his brow, putting water to his dry lips, ministering to a -physical thirst, and ignoring the bitterer thirst of the mind. I was a -coward. - -At last he fell into a restless doze. I left the bedside and went to -the window. The dawn was breaking; behind a rampart of purple clouds -a pale streak of orange light girdled the marsh around; sea there was -none, or rather it was all sea--silent waves of desolate land, silent -waves of distant water, and over all a sullen surf of mist that hid the -truth; out of the surf rose the far-off town, like some dark rock amid -the waters, statelier than ever above the ghostly bands of vapor that -crossed its base, and made the crown of its square belfry loom like -some fortress on a towering Alpine height. Purple was the town, and -purple the cloud battlements, but overhead the sky was clear, where one -patient yellow star waited the coming of day. - -At the foot of the cliff the water was up in the tidal river; it lay -blue and cold amid the dank, white mist. I remembered the day, six -months ago, when I had stood and watched it, just as blue and cold -against the white winter snow; I had thought it looked colder than the -snow in its iron depths; I had thought it looked like death. Yes, how I -remembered it! It was the first time I had ever thought of death. - -I went back to the bed. I fancied father had moved; but he lay there -quite still, with his face upturned, and a strange blue grayness on it. -I stood over him a long time, till my hands were so cold with fear that -I could scarcely feel if his had still the warmth of life. I thought I -would call mother, but the breath still came faintly from his lips; so -I waited a while, creeping softly back to the window, whence I could -see the living world. - -The yellow star was no more, for slowly from behind the purple ramparts -a glory of silver rays grew up; the purple became amethyst, the sullen -cloud-cliffs broke into soft flakes of down; they cradled the rising -sun, whose fire flushed their softness; they bore him up until he was -full-orbed above the horizon; then suddenly a rent ran across them, and -it was day. But the white mist still lay just as thickly on the ground; -it was gray with shadows, and the water was cold, and the wide, wide -sea of surf-bound marsh was desolate. - -A sound came from the bed. My heart stood still. It was so long since -we had heard father speak that to hear him now seemed like a voice from -the grave. - -"Meg," he said, distinctly. - -I did not turn. He repeated the word, and it was his own voice, and I -went to him. He lay there just as I had left him, excepting that he had -turned just a little on his side, so that the portrait of his friend -should be the better within his view. The same blue shadow was on his -face. - -"Meg," said he, slowly, "mother will be very lonely when I'm gone. You -will take care of mother." - -I sank slowly upon my knees so as to bring my face on a level with his. -I wanted to hide it away from him, but by a great effort I kept my gaze -upon him. - -"Yes," I answered, firmly. - -"You've always been a good girl, my right hand," continued he. "Take -care of them both." - -His voice was getting weak; I could see the drops of perspiration -standing on his brow. I tried to get up that I might call mother and -Joyce, but he held me fast. - -"The squire--trust the squire," he murmured. "He loves you as I loved -your mother." And then, with a smile of peace, he added, "The squire -said he would take care of you all." - -I was too much awed to speak, but I put my lips gently to his hand. It -was quite cold, and a shiver ran through me. - -His eyes were closed, and I drew my arm as well as I could from his -grasp, and flew to the door. - -In a moment I was in the room where mother and Joyce lay resting -together; my presence was enough to tell them what was the matter. - -When I got back to father, his eyes were open again--fixed on that -picture opposite to him. - -"Now we see through a veil darkly," he murmured. "Ah, Camille, I have -done what I could;" and then, "God has a home of his own for the little -ones." - -He was wandering. - -"Laban!" cried mother, with a low cry. - -A smile broke through that gray shadow, as light had burst through the -purple clouds when the sun rose. - -His lips seemed to move as if in some request. - -"'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,'" began mother, in -a broken voice. - -There was a long silence in the room, and then a sound: it was a sob -from our mother's heavy heart. - -His voice was still forever. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -On the day of father's funeral the sun shone and all the summer had -come back. Against a pale, fair sky, dashed with softest clouds, golden -boughs of elms made delicate metallic traceries, and crimson creepers -shot like flames across the gray walls of sober cottages. Even passing -birds had not all deserted us, and swallows swept again around the -ancient ivied aisles of the old cathedral, under whose shadows we laid -him away in the earth. - -We put him under the yew-trees beside our little brother John, with his -face towards the sun's setting behind the pine-trees; every one said it -was a beautiful place for him to rest in; and Joyce wept her simple, -silent tears over the hopeful words spoken by the Rev. Cyril Morland, -whom mother had chosen to read the service. But as for me, my heart was -too hot and rebellious to shed any tears or to see any hope or comfort; -I hated the sun for shining so brightly, the world for being so fair, -and folk for thinking it natural enough that an old man should come to -an end of his life. - -Yes, they spoke of it sadly, compassionately--all those many folk who -followed him to the grave; folk to whom he had told his thoughts, whom -he had helped and taught, and with whom he had sympathized in his life; -folk who would not have been what they were without him--whose friend -he had been, who would never find such another to lead them! But for -all their honest tears, they spoke of it as a worthy life brought -worthily to an end--they could think of his grave as beautiful, -whereas to me God was cruel to have taken him, and no place in the -world could be anything but cold earth that hid him from my sight. - -Towards mother and Joyce my heart was soft because of the promise I had -given him with his darkening eyes looking into mine, but even towards -Joyce I was sore when I saw her bend her head towards Mr. Hoad as he -held open the gate of the graveyard for her; and it was with a grim -feeling of satisfaction, and no sense at all of the unfitness of the -occasion, that I turned aside from his out-stretched hand, and said, in -a loud voice, that every by-stander could hear: "No, Mr. Hoad, I don't -think I shall ever care to shake hands with you again. You don't fight -fair. It is through you my father lies there, and I'll never forgive -you." - -I swept on after mother without even giving one glance at the angry -face I left behind, without listening to the suppressed murmur that ran -round, without even seeing the vexed, distressed look on the squire's -face close beside me. My heart was very sore, and not the less so -because I had missed around the grave one face that I had made quite -sure would be there. - -The squire and I had never spoken again of Trayton Harrod since -that day when he had begged me to leave the recalling of him to his -discretion. I don't think I had seen him more than once during that -time, and then it had been about the arrangements for the funeral, when -I should not have liked to speak to him on such an apparently trivial -matter, however much I might have wished to do so. But all through -the dreadful days when we three had sat silently in the darkened -parlor, hearing no news from without save messages of condolence and -flower-tokens of humble friendship, brought in by old Deb with her -swollen eyelids--all through the time when we were waiting till they -should take away from us forever that which was left of what had once -been our own, there had come sudden waves of unbidden remembrance -mingling with my holy sorrow for the dead, and interwoven with my -regrets over the much I might have done for my dear father which it was -now too late ever to do, were other genuinely contrite thoughts, which -I resolved should not be without fruit. - -I wanted to make amends for my wrong-doing, and Trayton Harrod would -not give me the chance. Where was he? Surely by this time he must have -heard of our trouble. How could he remain away? And as the dull hours -wore on from morning to evening and from evening to morning again, I -longed to see him with a heart-sick longing that not even my tears -could quench; I longed to see him, though his face might be ever so -stern, his voice ever so cruel, his hand ever so cold. - -But he did not come, and on the fourth day after the funeral, mother, -awaking slowly to the knowledge of outer things and people, asked for -him. "Meg," she said, "it's very strange that Mr. Harrod hasn't been -near us all this time of our trouble. Is he sick, do you know?" - -"I haven't heard, mother," said I, faintly; "but I believe he has been -away." - -"Away!" echoed mother. "Well, then, he might have come back again, I -think. I wouldn't have believed he was such a fair-weather friend as -that. I thought of him so differently." - -My heart swelled with a bitter remorse, for deep down there was a -little voice that told me that if Harrod was away I was not without -blame for it. - -"You and he haven't had a quarrel, have you?" said mother, after a bit. - -"A quarrel!" repeated I, faintly. "Oh no!" - -"Well, I'm glad of that," answered she. "He's a nice lad, and it's a -pity to lose a friend. I fancied he might have been speaking to you -about something you didn't choose to be spoken to about. I'm glad it -isn't so. I wonder what keeps him away. And not so much as a line. -Well, I dare say he'll be back to-morrow." - -Her voice dropped wearily; in truth, she cared very little whether he -came or not; there was only one whom she longed for, and he could never -come again. - -But I--sorely as I too longed for that presence that she mourned--_I_ -cared whether Trayton Harrod came again, and when he did not come I -went to get news of him. Joyce thought it very dreadful of me to go for -a walk when our dead had been but so lately laid to rest, but Joyce did -not know. She too, perhaps, wondered at his absence, but she did not -know, as I did, the reason for it. - -I went out of the house, across the garden, down the cliff where I had -seen him disappear on that weird, moonlight night a month ago, down -onto the marsh. The sun had gone behind the hill, for it was afternoon, -but the sky was clear and limpid, the sea blue beyond the mellow -marsh-land; along the banks of the dikes thorn-bushes studded the -way--rosy-flushed from afar, but close at hand coral-tipped on every -slender branch; and the water, shorn of its green rush-mantle, lay -still and bare to the sky. - -I walked fast till I came to the white gate that divides sheepfold from -cattle-pasture, and then I turned round to look back: if I chanced on -the squire I should get news; but there was not a living thing to be -seen on the land--I was alone with the birds and the water-rats. The -cattle had been called off the marsh when the stormy weather set in, -and I had forgotten to bring even the dog with me; it was so long since -I had been for a walk. - -But the dear familiar land soothed me with its sadness. Far away upon -dikes where the scythe had not yet mown the rushes, broad streaks of -orange color followed the lines of the banks or were dashed across -the stream, tongues of flame in the sunlight. In the distance blue -smoke soared slow and straight into the pale air from the fires of -weed-burners in the ploughed furrows, and a shadow crossed the base of -the town, whose pinnacle was still white in the afternoon light. Along -the under-cliff of the Manor woods the crimson of beeches made gorgeous -patches of painting upon the sombre background of pines, and larches -held amber torches up among the paler gold of elm-trees. - -God's earth was very fair, but why had he taken away all that made it -glad? Not far from here had we two first met in the rain and mist; here -had we started the lapwing in the green spring-time and scared the -cuckoo from its nest, usurped; here had we many a time followed the -game and learned the ways of birds and beasts; here had we gathered -the hay and the harvest, and watched the sheep-shearing; here had we -crossed the plain in the thunder and lightning of the storm. - -And all these things would happen again--the spring and the summer and -the winter would come with their sights and their sounds, their life -and their duties; the marsh-land would always be the same, but would it -ever be the same again to me? Ah, that day I did not think so! - -A shot sounded in the woods. It was the squire's keeper after the -pheasants. It awoke me from my dream, but I must have been so still -that even the rabbits thought I was not alive, for two of them ran out -across my path. - -Was I alive after all? I shook myself and went slowly on to where the -marsh meets the road, and then I turned up across the ash copse on the -hill--bare already of leaves--and took the path towards "The Elms." -Yes, I had come out to hear news of Trayton Harrod, and I would not go -back without it; somehow and from somebody I would learn where he was, -and why he had gone. - -I walked fast when once I got in sight of the house; my heart was -beating. It stood there--serene and solitary as usual--a bare, lonely, -uninviting house, looking out from its quiet height upon the downs and -the sheep-pastures, the sun-setting and the sunrising. - -There was never anything human about "The Elms." It seemed to be intent -just upon its daily work and its daily duties, and as though it might -think that anything which interfered with them was not to be considered -or countenanced. That day it looked more inhuman, more uninviting -than ever; its white walls seemed to grin at me; its straight, tall -chimneys, whence no friendly blue smoke sought the sky, seemed to point -jeeringly away into the void. My heart sank as I climbed the hill and -opened the gate of the farm-yard. I knew why the place looked more -uninviting than ever--it was deserted, the shutters were closed, the -house door was bolted; it was as if some one had died there, as some -one had died at home. - -I knocked once, loudly, in desperation, but I knew that nobody would -come. Nobody did come; nobody came, though I knocked three times; all -was still as the grave. As I walked down the hill again at last, I met -Dorcas's niece with her "youngest" in her arms. - -"Lor', miss, who would ha' thought to meet you so soon after your poor -father died!" said she, reproachfully. "I've just been down to the -village to fetch some soap." - -"Oh, I see. Is Mr. Harrod expected home?" asked I, lamely. - -"Home!" repeated she, gaping. "Why, he's left the place this month -past. All his traps went last week." - -I suppose my face showed how my heart had sunk down, for she added, -half compassionately, "Didn't you know he was going, miss?" - -I pulled myself together. Miserable as I was, there was an instinct -within me that did not want strangers to guess at my misery. - -"Oh yes, I knew he was going," said I, carelessly; "but of course we -have had too much to think about at home for me to remember just when -it was." - -"Why, yes, of course," echoed the woman, in the commiserating tone of -her class under such circumstances. "Ah, farmer was a good man, and -none can say different! And, to tell the truth, many's the one have -thought it queer Mr. Harrod should choose this time to go away. But he -always were odd, and I suppose we must all look to our own advantage. -There's no more work to be done on poor old Knellestone farm--so folk -say--and I suppose he had heard of something as would suit him. Ah, -it's very sad after all the years the family have been on the place." - -I dared not think what she meant, although I knew well enough; but this -other blow had stunned me, and I could not speak, even had I chosen to -bandy words, about poor father's affairs with a village gossip. - -"I'll go up with you and look round the house," said I. - -"It ain't tidied yet, miss," answered she, apologetically. "I was just -going to wash and settle it all up." - -"Never mind," insisted I. "I want to look for a book," and I led the -way up the hill. - -"Lor'! you won't find anything there," laughed she, following. "There -isn't anything in the place." - -I went in, nevertheless. But she was right, he was gone indeed. The -homely room was deserted where I had sat in the window-seat that summer -evening reading words of Milton that I did not understand, and watching -the rising storm and the sheep cropping sleepily over the grassy -knolls. There was not a book left of all those books that I had envied, -and had thought he would think the better of me for reading; not a pipe -on the rack above the mantle-shelf; not a sign to show that he had ever -been there. And yet I saw it all before me just as it had been that -day; I felt that unseen presence that I had never seen there, just as -if he might open the door at any moment and come in. - -The woman left me for a moment, and I sat down on that window-seat once -more. The sun was setting redly, as it so often set beyond those wide -marsh-lands and their boundary line of downs; the valley was full of -blue mist--blue as a wild hyacinth--against which the bended, broken, -broad-topped pine-trees laid every branch of their dark tracery, -abrupt, unsuspected, alert with individuality, strangely full of a -reserved irregular grace. I remember the picture, yet I scarcely saw -it; it must have fastened itself upon my memory, simply because it -fitted so well with my own mood. Oh me! when I had last been there -Harrod had not seen Joyce, and now I said from my heart, "Would to -God he had not seen me!" Yes, I said it from my heart; so much so -that I was not content with mere regrets, I was resolved that Trayton -Harrod should not go out into the world with that lie of mine in his -heart--not if I could help it. - -I started up. I would go to the squire; I felt convinced now that the -squire knew all about Harrod's departure. The squire could at least -tell me where he was that I might write to him. I walked across the -empty room, and at the same moment Mr. Broderick opened the gate of the -yard without. Everything was happening just as it had happened that -day; but oh, with what a difference! - -The squire's face grew pale--I could see that through the tanning on -it; he had not expected to see me here, and his hand trembled as he -took mine. But he said, gently: "I'm glad to see you out again. I came -to look round the place. I hope we have been lucky enough to sublet it -till your lease is up." - -From a business point of view the words swam over my head, but they -were ominous. I felt that they confirmed what the woman had said. "You -think we can't afford to keep on 'The Elms?'" I asked, absently, not -daring to put the question that was at my heart. - -"I think it would be unwise," answered he, evasively. "I think any one -who manages your property will have enough to do without it." - -"Mr. Broderick," said I, suddenly, looking him full in the face, "has -Mr. Harrod left us for good?" - -"Yes," he answered, firmly, "for good." - -I could not speak for a moment, then trying hard to steady my voice, I -said, "Did you know it?" - -"Yes," he answered. "I knew it." - -He no longer looked at me now, nor did either of us say anything for -some time. He spoke first, saying, in quite an ordinary voice: "I don't -think he was quite the fellow for the place. An older man with fewer -new ideas would have been better." - -"Was that the reason that he left?" asked I, in a muffled voice, -although indeed I knew well enough that I was talking idly. "Father did -not send him away because of his new ideas." - -The squire brought his eyes round to my face. "I don't know the reason -that he left," said he. And although I said nothing, I suppose there -was some sort of an appealing look in my face that made him go on: "I -only know that he came to me the night before your father was taken -ill, and asked me, as a friend, to see after his work for him until a -substitute could be found, because he was obliged to leave immediately. -I asked no questions, and he told me nothing. Of course I was glad to -do what I could for--you all." - -He was silent, but I felt his eyes upon me. I met them, with that -tender, pitying gaze in them, when at last I lifted mine. - -"Mr. Broderick," said I--and I felt that my voice faltered--"will you -give me his address? I must write to him. There is something that I -must say to him. I thought I should have seen him again, but--I must -write it." - -He took out his note-book and wrote it down, handing me the leaf that -he tore out. - -I don't think I even thanked him; I don't think I said good-bye; I just -walked out of the door. The squire followed me for a few, steps. "I -want to have a talk with you soon about your father's affairs," said -he, trying to reach a cheerful and commonplace tone of voice. - -"Yes--some day," said I, in a dull way. And I don't think I even turned -round again to look at him. - -It was very rough, very ungrateful of me, but I couldn't bear another -word. The only thought in my heart was to be at home--to be alone--to -write my letter. I tore down the lane under the pine-trees in the -gloaming. I ran so fast that I did not even notice two figures that -passed me under the shadow of the wall on the opposite side; their -heads were close together, and the woman, who was much shorter than the -man, clung very close to his tall, slim person. It was not till some -days afterwards that it occurred to me who those figures had been. - -I had not even a word for poor Taffy, who sprang upon me reproachfully -as I opened the gate of the farm-yard. I had forgotten to take him, but -I had no thought even for that dumb and faithful companion just then; I -only wanted to write my letter. - -I wrote it, but it was returned to me from the dead-letter office. Two -days afterwards Deborah, taking courage at last to clean up the poor -deserted parlor, found another letter in the old Nankin jar on the -mantle-piece, which served well enough as an answer to mine although it -was sent so long before it; it was the letter which Trayton Harrod had -written to father the day before he left. - -I had been in the garden, and when I came in mother sat with it in her -lap. There was a shade more trouble than before on her worn white face, -whence the dainty tints had all fled in these hard weeks. Directly I -came into the room I knew what the letter was. I had never had a letter -from him--no, not a line. I don't remember that I had even seen his -handwriting, but I knew whose the rugged uncompromising capitals were -the moment I looked at them. I took the letter up and read it, and -when I had read it I found some means of slipping it into my pocket; I -wanted to keep it--it was the only letter I could ever have from him, -but a strange love-letter truly. It was written in his curtest, most -uncompromising style, saying what it had to say and no more. Somehow -I was glad that father had never seen it; it did my friend such grave -injustice. It made no sort of excuse for quitting the place as he did, -it merely said that as he felt he was useless there, he had decided -to accept a post in Australia, which would, however, oblige him to -leave Knellestone without the usual warning. It enclosed the sum of -three months' salary, which he would have been supposed to forfeit for -leaving without notice. It gave no address, and left no message; that -was all. - -"It's very odd," said mother, looking at me as I read it, and slowly -opening and shutting her spectacles in a nervous manner. "I don't at -all understand it. But I suppose he had something better in view--and -the farm is not what it was. It shows how one can be deceived in folk." - -And that was my punishment. I was obliged to let people think that they -had been deceived in him. It was on my tongue to tell mother what I -could. Was it cowardice that kept me back, or was it that I scarcely -knew what to tell? There seemed so little that was not bred of my own -fancy--only I knew well enough that my fancy was right. - -And as the time passed, I knew more surely than ever that my fancy was -right. He had said in his letter that there was nothing to keep him in -the old country, but if he had seen Joyce as I saw her, surely he would -have guessed at my lie--he would have known that there _was_ something -to keep him! - -Two days after the discovery of Trayton Harrod's letter my sister told -me that she had broken off her engagement with Frank Forrester. - -There had never been quite the same understanding as of yore between us -two since that horrible scene of passion, when I had been so cruelly -unjust to my poor Joyce. She would have forgiven me, no doubt, but I -was too proud to invite it. That day, however, she told me quite simply -that she had broken off her engagement. - -"I ought never to have made it, Meg," said she. "I did not think it was -wicked then; I liked him to love me; but now I think it was wicked. It -may be wrong to depart from one's word, but--I can't marry him." - -She spoke in a half-apologetic kind of way--as she had, no doubt, -written to him. She had not seen those two figures pass along under the -wall in the twilight, as I now remembered for the first time that I -had seen them. But I said nothing; I was dumb. I think from that time -forward I was dumb for a long time--dumb with remorse and the sense -of my own utter helplessness--standing alone to see the river run by, -which I had once fancied I could set in motion or stem at will. - -But her face, though stained with tears, which mine was not, was -calm, her blue eyes were serene and trustful as ever. Yet, ah me! how -guiltily did I creep about her, how hungrily watch for every piece of -news--for her! - -But he was gone, and it was through my fault. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -What more is there to say? If I had written all this ten years ago I -should have said that there was nothing more to say, I should have said -that my life was ended. But now I am not of that mind. Thank God! there -is more to say, and though there have been sad hours to live through, -the haven has been reached at last. - -When father was dead and buried, they told us that we should have to -leave the Grange. I can remember how the blow fell on me. Reuben had -just buried Luck, the old sheep-dog, under the big apple-tree. - -"The Lord'll have to take me now," he had said, with tears in his -dim eyes; "but I'd sooner die than see the old place go to the bad. -I knowed what it 'd be when the master was called; and now that the -dog's gone as well, there's no more luck for us. Ay, if he'd ha' stuck -to Early Perlifics we shouldn't ha' seen old Knellestone come to the -hammer." - -I don't believe I felt the thrust, I don't believe I ever saw the comic -incongruity of the situation, when, leaning forward on his spade and -gazing tearfully at the grave of his old dumb comrade, he had turned -to me saying, confidentially: "There'll be a rare crop of apples this -year, miss. There's nothing for an apple-tree like a dead dog." - -But Reuben was a philosopher and I was no philosopher; and of the days -that followed, the days when Deborah went about with a grim, wise air, -as one who had known all along what would happen--the days when mother -wandered aimlessly from the chairs and presses to the old writing-table -where father had sat so many years, and the eight-day clock that had -summoned us as children to breakfast and prayers--of those horrible -days I cannot speak. I dare not remember the guilty feeling with which -I felt mother's eyes upon me when the squire delayed to come for that -"business talk" that he had asked leave for; I might have found spirit -once more to scorn Deborah's more openly expressed upbraiding, but -mother's silent reproach made my heart sick. - -We were wrong, however, to doubt the squire. He came in spite of Deb's -cruel, covert taunts, in spite of mother's hopeless eyes. If he had not -come earlier, it was only because he was waiting till he had good news -to bring. I can see him now as he walked once more into that parlor -where we had had so many eager discussions, so many friendly meetings -and half-fancied quarrels, so many affectionate reconciliations! The -late autumn sun shone in through the three deep windows upon the worn -old Turkey carpet and leather chairs, upon the polished spindle-backed -seats that stood on either side of the hearth--one empty now forever; -it almost put the fire out, and touched the copper fire-irons into -flame. I suppose it was the sun that made the squire's face look so -ruddy and so radiant. - -Radiant it most certainly was, and yet, at the same time, half -shamefaced too as he said that he had just come from a meeting of the -creditors, and that he had every reason to hope that father's affairs -would be satisfactorily arranged. I don't think I believed him at the -time, I think I was almost hurt when he met my trembling question, as -to whether we should have to leave Knellestone, with a laugh. But oh, -what a relief was that laugh from the visits of condolence we had had! - -He did not forget father although he did not speak of him in words: -the awe that had surrounded the death-bed was gone, but not the sacred -burden that it had left. Yet I did not understand when he said that the -creditors had been satisfied. Even when the dreaded day of the sale -came, and mother kept her old friends in chairs and tables and presses, -and linen within the presses, and Joyce kept her favorite cows in the -dairy, and I even the mare that had been the innocent means of first -bringing romance within our quiet family--when the farm was not even -deprived of a single one of the mowing and threshing machines that had -caused so much strife--I, ignorant as I was of business, never even -guessed in what way an "arrangement" had been come to! - -It was old Reuben again--sitting by the chimney-corner crippled with -rheumatism, or, as he himself expressed it, with all his constitution -run into his legs--it was poor old Reuben who had told me the truth. -Shrewd Deb knew it and was silent, but Reuben--too shrewd or not shrewd -enough to be silent, told me the tale: if squire had not bought in -all the stock and the furniture before it ever came to the hammer, we -shouldn't have been in the Grange now, living practically very much -the same life as we had always lived. - -Ah me! I knew well enough why the squire had taken such pains to -conceal from us all that he had done anything more than effect a -compromise with the creditors. But I ought to have guessed. If I had -not been so much wrapped up in my own personal pains and feelings I -_should_ have guessed it, and when I next met him I nerved myself to -speak on the subject. How well I recall his explanation! "Folk in -the country grow to depend so on one another that I couldn't do with -strangers at the Grange while I'm alive," he had said; "so you must -forgive me if I played a game to serve my own ends. The place might -have stood empty ever so long. Farms do nowadays." - -We must have been riding eastward over the downs, for I can remember -that the wind blew keen in our faces, and that the sky was leaden -overhead, almost as dull as the wide, dull marsh below it: it was -winter. I know that, even at the time, I recalled another night when I -had ridden with the squire; then the west was raging crimson behind us, -and the moon rose yellow out of the sea; it had been summer. - -"There is no one else in the world who would have done for us what you -have done for us, nor any one else in the world from whom we could take -it," I had murmured, in a trembling voice. "It is for father's sake." - -"It is not all for your father's sake," the squire had answered, -softly, with grave and tender face, his blue eyes shining down on me -with a deep, bright light. - -By a sudden impulse I recollect holding out my hand to him. "I know you -are my friend and I am your friend," I had said. "We shall always be -friends till we die." - -And all through the dreary days that followed, that friendship, that -needed no words to tell and that no parting could weaken, warmed my -empty heart at a time when the world seemed to hold no further joy nor -even such comparative content as a respite from remorse. - -For, alas! Joyce slowly faded and saddened before my eyes, and all my -passionate love for her came back, making the thought of her wasted -youth, her tarnished loveliness, her happiness uselessly spoiled -through my fault, almost heavier than I could bear. - -For it was spoiled though she spoke no word. At first the tall, slim -figure--more Quakerly neat than ever in its straight black gown--went -about the household duties just as serenely as before, and the face, so -dazzlingly fair a flower on the dark stem, shone as innocently content -as of yore. I could scarcely believe that she could have seen that -cruel letter, with its upright, rugged characters, that seemed to have -sent away the last drop of blood from my heart. Her hope must have been -high or she could never have kept so patient a countenance. - -But however high it may have been, it began to fade. I had said to -myself that Joyce could not feel, but--ah me, how little can we -know how much other people feel! I could see her feeling through -the tremulous sensitiveness of the face that once seemed to me so -impossible to ruffle--I could hear it through the thin sound of her -timid voice, in her rare speech and rarer laughter--and I knew that my -loved sister was unhappy. Yes, she was unhappy; life was as dead to her -as it was to me, and it was I--I, loving her--who had killed her joy -for her, and killed it wilfully. May no one whom I love ever know, what -it is to feel remorse! - -A whisper ran round the village that Joyce Maliphant was pining away -her beauty for love of the gay young captain who had once courted her, -and who was now going to wed with Miss Mary Thorne, the heiress. Deb -told me of it, she had heard the rumor coming out of church; but I -don't believe we, any of us, thought that it mattered much what Frank -Forrester did. He could never have made Joyce happy, why should he not -make Mary Thorne happy? There had been tears in her eyes when the news -of his accident had come, there had been no tears in Joyce's. - -No, what really mattered was that my sister's face was growing paler -and thinner, and that at last the day came when they told us that -unless we could make up our minds to part from Joyce for a while, we -might have to part from her forever. - -I hope I may never feel again the heart-sick pang that went through me -as the doctor said those words. I had thought that no such pang could -be worse than that I had felt when father had told me he was going to -die; but this was worse, for Joyce was young, and had the right still -to a long and happy life, and if she was deprived of it, it was I who -had deprived her. - -I went to work with an aching spirit to arrange how it should be -that Joyce should leave us for warmer lands. Mother had a married -brother living at Melbourne, and to him it was decided at last that -Joyce should go for a couple of years. We found her an escort in some -friends of the squire's, and the only little grain of comfort I had -in the whole matter was that if Joyce was to leave us, it was to go to -the same country whither Trayton Harrod had fled a year before. But -Australia was a large field, and unless they were to meet by the purest -accident, Trayton Harrod was not likely ever to seek Joyce out. - -Was it some such faint and wild hope, I wonder, or merely the feeling -that I could not part from that dear heart without making a clean -breast of my sin to it, which made me say what I did when the last -moment came? I don't know. I only know that as we stood there in the -little waiting-room of the London Docks, while mother stooped from her -usual shy dignity to beg the kindness and care of this unknown friend -of the squire's for her suffering child, I felt suddenly that I could -not let Joyce go from me with that lie weighing on my heart--I felt -that I _must_ have her forgiveness! - -I cannot imagine how I had endured so long without it. I had hungered -for _his_ forgiveness, whom I had wronged less cruelly, because I owed -him less devotion, and had been able to live side by side with her -without asking for her pardon whose life I had so wrecked. - -Many a time in those past months I had started to find the squire's -perplexed eyes upon me, following mine that were fixed upon Joyce, and -I had blushed with shame, knowing what it was that put that look in -me which puzzled him; and many a time I had vowed that I would abase -myself and tell her all, yet never had found the courage. But now, when -the last chance was slipping from me, the courage came. It came, I -think, because Joyce stood suddenly revealed before me in the grandeur -of her simple goodness, her power of silent and loving sacrifice; it -came because I had no fear, because I was ashamed of my very shame, -because I was sure of her forgiveness. - -She stood with her hand in mine, her figure very tall and slim in -the straight black gown, her face very fair and fragile in the frame -of the neat little close bonnet. She might have been a nun, so quiet -and orderly her outward demeanor, so calm her beautiful face, and yet -when I looked again I saw that there were tears in the blue eyes that -looked away from me to the tangled mass of shipping in the dock, and to -the confused net-work of masts and rigging that lay black against the -leaden, wintry sky. - -"O Joyce, darling," I cried, seizing her hand wildly, "don't cry! I -can't bear it." - -She did not answer, she was afraid of trusting herself to speak, but, -true to her perfect unselfishness, she turned to me and smiled. "You'll -get well, you know," I went on, with determined cheerfulness; "you'll -get quite well and come back to us very soon." - -Still she smiled that heart-breaking smile, nodding her head, however, -as though to confirm my cheerful words. Then came my burst of -confidence. "If you were _not_ to come back quite well," said I, in a -low voice, "I think, Joyce, I should die. It's all my fault." - -At that she spoke. She did not seem surprised at my words, but only -anxious to deny them so as to remove any pain of my self-reproach. - -"Oh no, no, Meg," she said, softly. "Not your fault, dear. Things like -that are never any one's fault." - -She thought I only meant that my love for Harrod had stood in the way -of her accepting his, because _she_, brave and unselfish in what I used -to call her coldness, would have given him up to me. - -But I couldn't let her think that I had meant only that. "Joyce," said -I, firmly, "if it hadn't been for me, Trayton Harrod would have married -you." - -I saw that the name hurt her like the lash of a whip. "Oh, don't, -don't!" she murmured, with pain in her eyes. - -"I beg your pardon," said I, humbly, "but I must tell you. I can't -let you go away without telling you the truth. O Joyce, my poor, dear -Joyce, however much it pains you I must tell you. I don't mean only -what you think. I don't mean only that I didn't go away, that I didn't -behave as generously towards you as you would have done towards me. I -mean--O Joyce, how can I tell you? But I was mad with jealousy, and -I told him that you loved Frank. I sent him away from you." I had -hurried the words out without preparation, I was so afraid of being -interrupted--and now I was frightened. - -Every drop of the blood that was left in that poor, wan face fled from -it. I thought she was going to faint, but she stood firm, only her eyes -seemed to turn to stone, to see nothing. - -"O Joyce, darling, don't look like that!" cried I, in an agony. "Speak -to me. Say something." - -She closed her hand over mine, and her lips moved, but I could not hear -a word. - -"I shall never, never forgive myself so long as I live," murmured I, -a sob rising in my throat; "but if _you_ do not forgive me, Joyce, I -think I shall die, Joyce." - -"Poor Meg!" murmured my sister at last, and then the lump that had -been rising in my throat broke into a sob, and the tears rushed to my -eyes. - -For a moment I could not speak. I got rid of my tears as well as I -could, and looking at her, I saw, yes, thank God! I saw that her eyes -were wet too. - -"Can you forgive me, Joyce?" I faltered. "Yes, I think _you_ can. You -are good enough." - -"Forgive you!" echoed she, faintly. And her sweet mouth breaking into -the tremulous smile that was its familiar ornament, she added, "Dear, -_you_ have been unhappy too." - -They were few words, but what more perfect expression of tenderest -forgiveness could there be? I wanted no more. I knew there was no -bitterness, that there never would be any bitterness, in my sister's -heart towards me. - -There was no one in the waiting-room, mother had gone out onto the -wharf with the strange lady; I put my arms round Joyce's neck, and drew -her face down to mine. "God bless you!" I said, reverently, and I think -for the first time in my life I felt what the words meant. - -"It's all for the best, dear," added she, gently, leaning her cheek -against my hair. "You know we never really do alter things that are -going to happen by anything we do. It's arranged for us by a wise -Providence." It was the simple faith that had always guided her life; -it had often annoyed my more impetuous and self-willed spirit, but it -did not annoy me now; there was a soothing in it. - -But there was no time for further speech; mother came back again, it -was time to go on board. I busied myself with the luggage and with -talking to Joyce's escort--a kindly, good-natured couple--and left -mother and daughter together. - -The parting was over all too quickly, and we were left standing on the -wharf alone, mother and I, watching the big black mass steer its way -slowly among the crowd of shipping, watching the tall black figure on -the deck until, even in imagination, it faded from us, and we looked -but on the interminable rows of black masts against the lurid sunset of -a bleak winter evening. - -When we were safe in the cab again, homeward bound, I did what I had -done only once in my life before, and that was on the night when the -mare threw me and I had first fancied that Trayton Harrod loved my -sister--I put my head down on my mother's breast and wept my heart out -on hers. It was selfish of me, for I should have thought of her grief, -and yet I do not think that it intensified it; I think, somehow, my -tears did her good. - -She said nothing, but she stroked my hair tenderly, and from that -moment there was opened up between us a new vein of sympathy that had -never been there before, and that left something sweet in life still, -even in the sad and empty home to which we came back. - -It was an empty home indeed. The squire could no longer cheer its -solitude with his genial presence. He had gone abroad. The Manor was -shut up, and there was no sign of life about the dear old place, that -held so many happy memories, but the sound of the keeper's gun in the -copses above the marsh, and the cawing of the familiar rooks that -circled round the old chapel at eventide. - -I dared not complain, things might have been so much worse. The farm -was still our own. A new bailiff and I managed it together, but though -I had reached what, a while ago, would have been the summit of my -ambition, it was gone. I no longer cared to have my own way; save for a -somewhat vain struggle to keep up father's theories as far as I could, -I let the new man do as he liked; he made the farm pay us a moderate -income, and I asked no questions. My duty to mother was the plain -thing before me, and I threw myself into that now, as I had thrown -myself into personal ambition before--the farm must be made to keep her -comfortably. - -But for all my devotion to her, these were dreary days. With my new -passion for self-sacrifice, I refused to leave her for the rambles -of old, and the want of fresh air and exercise told on me a bit. The -only things that broke the monotony of our life were our letters from -Joyce and from the squire. He wrote to me regularly, telling me of -all that he was seeing, of all that he was doing--the kind letters -of a friend, from whose thoughts, it made me happy to think, I was -never long absent. I would scarcely have believed a year ago that it -would have made me as low-spirited as it did, when one of the squire's -letters was a little delayed. I think I missed them almost more than -I should have missed one of Joyce's, for--save for knowing that she -was better, and, as I faintly began to hope, a little happier--her -letters were so entirely unlike herself that they gave one but scant -satisfaction; whereas the squire's, without breathing a word that was -out of the common, were full of himself and his own characteristics. In -spite, however, of these red-letter days, the hours were long hours, -and the days gray days for me. I worked as of old through summer and -winter, spring and autumn, flower and fruit, sowing and reaping, but -the seasons were not the same to me as they once had been. I loved the -sunless days, with their fields and mysteries of cloud, soft promises -of a far-off heaven, ever-changing, ever-unknown depths--I loved them -as I could not love the sunshine. I was not always unhappy, for I was -young, and out of the past upon which I mused, many a note of suffering -had had its answering whisper of joy; but upon the marsh there lay a -shade which had not been there when I was a merry, thoughtless girl. - - * * * * * - -Thus far had I written, and I thought my task was finished; but -to-night, as I lean out of my window, watching the pale moon sink -cradled in gray clouds, and make a misty silver path across the lonely -land that is woven into my life, I want to reopen my book that I may -set down in it one last word. - -It is not half an hour since I stood down there on the cliff waiting -for a carriage to come along the white road that crosses the plain. -Two were in that carriage--the sister whom I had loved and betrayed, -the man whom I had loved, and for whom I had betrayed her. They were -returning together from a distant land, where they had met once more. -My heart was full of thankfulness, and yet--when I felt the aspens -shiver again in the night breeze as they had done that evening ten -years ago--I seemed to hear the deep voice in my ear, and to feel the -cold strike to my heart as it spoke. - -But it was not _his_ voice that spoke; another stood at my side, -one who had come back to me from a long parting, the friend of my -life, the lover of ten years who had never spoken but once of his -love, who had never put a kiss upon my lips. I scarcely know what he -said--simple words enough, but they told me of his tender pity and -untiring sympathy, they opened the floodgates of my burdened heart, and -I told him all my tale. I shrank from nothing. I told him of my wild, -unreasoned passion that, deep as it had been, was not all that I could -imagine love might be; I told him of my selfish sin, of my long and -bitter remorse, of my thankfulness that the punishment was removed, and -that Joyce was coming back to me happy in spite of my great wrong to -her. I did not ask myself what this longing to confess to the squire -meant in me, and yet the confession was by no means an easy matter; and -when all was told, my heart sank within me at his silence, and I felt -as though I could not bear it if _he_ should be ashamed of me, if he -should take away his friendship from me because I had done an unworthy -thing. - -But I suppose one does not love people nor cease to love them for what -they do or for what they leave undone; for certain it is that when the -squire spoke at last there was something in his voice that told me he -was not ashamed of me, that same "something" that had been so silent -all these years, that I sometimes wondered if it was still alive. - -The squire has gone home, and all the house is at rest; but I still -look out of my little attic window whence I have seen the sea for -so many years. Below me a mist lies upon the dike like a white pall -upon some cherished grave. It is just such a night as that night ten -years ago--only with a difference: the dim plain is not so cold, the -light has a promise of brightness. And in my heart, too, there is a -brightness which I am almost afraid to believe can be mine. I am happy -because Joyce is happy, because Joyce is beautiful once more as she -was beautiful when I first wanted a lover to love her. But it is not -only thankfulness for the stain blotted out, peaceful resignation to -the inevitable, which makes light in my soul to-night. There is a new -picture growing slowly out of the clouds as they part and melt around -the moon; there is a new harmony coming to me at last out of the very -monotony of the marsh-land. - -Above the lonely plain the night is blue and vast. - - -THE END. - - - - -Transcriber's Notes. - -Page 35: changed ofter to after - -Page 142: changed You've sister to Your sister - -Page 146: changed heeard to heard - -Page 215: removed the word 'the' from 'said the mother' - -Page 233: changed instincttively to instinctively - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Margaret Maliphant, by Alice Carr - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET MALIPHANT *** - -***** This file should be named 63202-8.txt or 63202-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/2/0/63202/ - -Produced by Fay Dunn, Fiona Holmes and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by the babel.hathitrust.org. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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