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diff --git a/old/63202-h/63202-h.htm b/old/63202-h/63202-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 0b72f92..0000000 --- a/old/63202-h/63202-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18741 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Margaret Maliphant, by Mrs. Comyns Carr. - </title> - - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/i_cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -.nopagebreak { - page-break-before: avoid; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -hr.tb { - width: 45%; - margin-left: 27.5%; - margin-right: 27.5%; -} -hr.chap { - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%;} - -.space-above2 { - margin-top: 2em;} - -.space-above4 { - margin-top: 4em;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} /* page numbers */ - -.center {text-align: center;} - -/* Font */ - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -/* Images */ - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -img {max-width: 100%; height: auto;} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -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. - - - - - - -</pre> - - - - - -<div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nopagebreak" title="">Transcriber's Notes.</h2> - -<p>Differences in hyphenation of specific words and missing punctuation -have been rectified where applicable.</p> - -<p>Other changes made are noted at the <a href="#end_note" title="Go to the End Note">end of the book.</a></p> -</div> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" alt="" width="618" height="1020" /> -</div> - -<p class="space-above4"></p> - - -<h1>MARGARET MALIPHANT</h1> - -<p class="center">A Novel</p> - -<p class="center"><small>BY</small></p> - -<p class="center">MRS. COMYNS CARR</p> - -<p class="center"><small>AUTHOR OF "PAUL CREW'S STORY" ETC.</small></p> - -<p class="space-above4"></p> - -<p class="center"><small>NEW YORK</small></p> - -<p class="center"><small>HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE</small></p> - -<p class="center"><small>1889</small></p> - - -<p class="space-above4"></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="PROLOGUE" id="PROLOGUE"></a>PROLOGUE.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="space-above4"></p> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>none of it. He never denied her a whim for herself, but he did not -hold with boarding-school learning.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But although the Grange had been often added to in the course -of its history, and was therefore irregular in shape and varied in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Captain Forrester</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>citement -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>It was strange that he should know her name so well.</p> - -<p>"No," said I, "I am not Joyce; I am Margaret Maliphant. My -sister's name is Joyce."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Why," said I, puzzled and half doubtful, "father bought her -only last week from Squire Broderick."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" ejaculated I, I am afraid still far from graciously.</p> - -<p>He was still standing by the horse, stroking its neck.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I like a horse with a little temper," answered I. "A horse that -has a hard mouth is dull driving."</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Margaret," sighed Joyce, "I'm sure we shall never get home -safely!"</p> - -<p>"Nonsense!" cried I, impatiently.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>Rather than have a scene, I knew it would be best to give in.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"This is for the Manor, captain," said he. "Shall I put it in the -carriage?"</p> - -<p>"No, no, thank you," answered our new friend. "The squire -will be driving over one of these days and will fetch it."</p> - -<p>This settled the question for me.</p> - -<p>"Captain!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what to say, I'm sure," murmured she.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"As you like," said he, still smiling; and he got up beside Joyce.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>As I dreamed, my eyes grew dim thinking of the wife who must -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I</span> 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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>Then he must be staying in our village.</p> - -<p>I said aloud, laughing, "Well, we could hardly get into trouble -between this and our house, could we?"</p> - -<p>"Hardly," laughed he back again, looking down the road to the -right, which led to the ivied porch of our house.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Won't you come in and see my father and mother?" said I.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I wonder whether he is staying at the Manor," said I, as we -drove up the gravel.</p> - -<p>And Joyce echoed, "I wonder."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 taci<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>turn, -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"She didn't pull any too much for me," answered I, half vexed. -"What makes you fancy so?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>If there was any secret in our having driven out of town with Captain -Forrester, Reuben had it.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Miss Joyce is nervous," said Reuben, meditatively. "Most -like she <i>would</i> 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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You've got your frock out at the gathers again," said she. She -did not often trouble to give us our titles of "miss."</p> - -<p>"Have I?" replied I, carelessly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"The squire!" cried I. "Is he going to stay to dinner?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, so I suppose he did," answered I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You're never going in like that?" cried she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Birds of a feather, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> -<p>Deborah laughed, quite good-humoredly this time.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>I</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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Father made an impatient sound with his lips at this, but mother -went on just the same.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I know it would be the best in the end," mother went on, with -a distressed look on her sweet old face.</p> - -<p>It rather annoyed me at the time, simply because I saw that she -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I must be off now," he added. "I ought to have gone long -ago. We'll talk it over again another time."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Fie, fie, Mrs. Maliphant! don't you be so modest," said the -squire, with his genial smile, buttoning up his overcoat as he spoke.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Mr. Broderick has visitors, mother," I suggested.</p> - -<p>I glanced at Joyce as I spoke. Her cheeks were poppies.</p> - -<p>"What makes you think so?" asked the squire, turning to me -and frowning a little.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Your nephew!" exclaimed mother, quite reassured. "He must -be but a lad."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"See the squire to the door, Joyce," said the mother. And -Joyce, blushing again, glided out into the hall and lifted the big -latch.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I was</span> 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, no, of course not," assented father, absently. Then turning -to me, "What made her rear, Meg?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't help it," murmured Joyce. "I know I'm silly."</p> - -<p>"Well, to be sure, any old cart-horse would be better for you than -a beast with any spirit, wouldn't it?" laughed I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I laughed—I am afraid I laughed. I thought mother was so very -innocent.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"We asked him to come in, didn't we, Joyce?" added I, looking -at her.</p> - -<p>"Yes, we did," murmured my sister, bending very low over her -plate.</p> - -<p>"Asked him to come where?" asked mother.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> -<p>"Why, here, to be sure," cried I, growing bolder. "He drove us -home, you know."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"It will be all over the place to-morrow," said mother, pathetically.</p> - -<p>"Well, the gentleman is the squire's nephew, and everybody -knows what friends you are with the squire," answered I, provokingly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>your shortcomings had been. You were too pretty to be passed -over."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"The walk round the farm has been too much for you, Laban," -said mother, sitting down in the other high-backed chair near him.</p> - -<p>"Let be, let be," muttered he.</p> - -<p>"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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"D—n the squire," said father at last, slowly and below his -breath. Mother laid her hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>"Hush, Laban, hush; not before the girls," said she, in her gentle -tones.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother sighed as she said this, but I am afraid I looked at her -with angry not sympathetic eyes.</p> - -<p>"The squire takes a true interest in us all," repeated she for the -third time, her voice trembling a little.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, let him take his interest elsewhere this time, ma'am, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>With that he strode to the door and opened it.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I went</span> 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>Father called from the window, and I went in. He was sitting -by the table, surrounded by papers, his foot supported on a chair.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You mustn't begin too soon, father," said I, timidly; "you -know the weather is very cold and treacherous yet."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"But I shall still be able to help you, father, as I have done be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>fore, -sha'n't I?" added I, still, singularly, without my accustomed -self-confidence.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I did</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mr. Hoad smiled rather uncomfortably.</p> - -<p>"And we have not much to amuse them with," I put in. "We -do nothing that young ladies do."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"I'll ask her," said Mr. Hoad, a little diffidently. "I'm never -sure about my daughters' engagements. They have so many engagements."</p> - -<p>"We shall be very pleased to see them here any afternoon for a -practice, sha'n't we, mother?" added Joyce.</p> - -<p>"The young ladies will always be welcome," replied mother, a -little stiffly; and I hastened to add, I fear less graciously:</p> - -<p>"But pray don't let them break any engagements for us."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Enthusiasm don't always carry weight," objected father. "It's -rather apt to fly too high."</p> - -<p>"Bound to fly high when you have got to get over the heads of -other folks," laughed Mr. Hoad.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>his memory and the strength of his convictions so many years in -the heart of another.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What! Captain Forrester?" cried I.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, ma'am, only joking, only joking," declared Mr. Hoad. -"I shouldn't think the lad gave the property a thought."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I see you're up in all the party phrases, young lady," said he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>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!"</p> - -<p>"Politics!" echoed father, frowning more unmistakably than ever; -"what have they got to do with the matter?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" asked father.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Father rose from the table. His eyebrows nearly met in their -overhanging shagginess, and his eyes were small and brilliant.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I have always told you, Hoad, that it's no part of my scheme to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>go in for politics," said he, in a low voice, but very decisively. "I -see no reason to change my mind."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>And I should be inclined to think this young fellow was not wanting -in tact."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No doubt it was rather that the wish was father to the thought -in you, Hoad," answered father, frankly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Of course not," cried I. "Whoever were the candidate we -should not canvass. We never canvass. We are not politicians."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>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 fa<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>ther'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.</p> - -<p>"What does father want to go to work for so late?" said I. -"Why don't he sit and smoke his pipe as usual?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"But he seems much better to-night, mother," I added, coming -up behind her; "he was quite himself over that argument."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Dear mother, why do you fret?" said I, softly. "I'm sure -there's no need."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I lay</span> 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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 inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>ests -much good, if that's the only man they have got to put forward -on the Conservative side."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I was nettled at this, but I did not dare to answer mother back.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Who told you that, mother?" asked I, quickly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Maliphant at home?" said the squire's cheery voice; and -scarcely waiting for a reply, he strode through to the front room.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, are you leaving the neighborhood?" said I—I am afraid a -little too anxiously.</p> - -<p>"Well, not just yet," smiled Captain Forrester. "I think I shall -stay till over the ball."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Considering that we had been sitting over frocks all the morning, this -would have been nonsense, excepting that Joyce never could see a joke.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire took no notice of this speech. It was so very evident -that it was spoken with a view to the vexed question.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I'm very glad to see you, sir," said father, shortly. "I hear you -rendered my daughters some assistance the other day."</p> - -<p>Captain Forrester smiled. "It could scarcely be called assistance," -he said. "Your daughter"—and he looked at me to distinguish -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>me from Joyce—"would have been capable of driving the horse, I -am sure."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I understood the mare reared," answered father.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire took up the paper again. I did not think it was good-manners -of him.</p> - -<p>"What a splendid view you have from this house," continued Captain -Forrester. "I think it's much finer than from our place."</p> - -<p>The squire's shoulders moved with an impatient movement. The -article he was reading must decidedly have annoyed him.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Ay; I don't remember a snowfall in March these five years," -said father.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"No, no," answered father for her. "We have no time for such -things. We have all of us plenty to do without any accomplishments."</p> - -<p>"Miss Margaret can sing 'Robin Adair,'" put in the squire, "as -well as I want to hear it, accomplishments or not."</p> - -<p>"Indeed," said Captain Forrester, with a show of interest. "I -hope she will sing it to me some day."</p> - -<p>He said it with a certain air of patronage, which I found afterwards -came from his own excellent knowledge of music.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"That's very kind of you," said the young man, with a little smile. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"Certainly I will," he answered, pleasantly, "and do anything I -can to help you. I have had some practice at that kind of thing."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Miss Thorne is not very proficient on the piano," said he. "Have -you already asked her to perform?"</p> - -<p>"Do you know Miss Thorne?" asked Joyce, surprised.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Charming," acquiesced the captain; "but she's not a good musician, -and I shouldn't ask her to perform unless you're obliged to."</p> - -<p>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 win<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>dow -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.</p> - -<p>"That's a most ridiculous article in the <i>Herald</i>," said the squire -to father. "I wonder Blair can put in such stuff. He's a sensible -man."</p> - -<p>"I wonder you'll admit even that, squire," answered father, with -a little laugh. The paper, I need not say, was the Liberal organ.</p> - -<p>"Oh, well," smiled the other, "I can see the good in a man though -I don't agree with him. But I think <i>that</i>"—pointing to the print—"is -beneath contempt."</p> - -<p>"I don't hold with it myself," answered father; "the man has -got no pluck."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother's eyes scarcely rested on him; they travelled past him to -Captain Forrester, who stood in the window.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Joyce, lay the cloth," said she. "We'll have tea at once." I -left the room with sister.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Then, why in the world didn't you say so?" cried I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"He's a friend of mine," said father, stiffly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> -<p>"Perhaps that is because you do not know him," suggested father.</p> - -<p>"No doubt, no doubt," answered the squire.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know," answered father, too honest to deny the charge.</p> - -<p>"Oh, do you know who it is?" asked the squire, sharply.</p> - -<p>"No, I don't," answered father, in the same way.</p> - -<p>The squire paused a moment, then he said, unable to keep it in, -"Are you going to support him too?"</p> - -<p>The color went out of father's face; I knew he was angry.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Did I hear you say that you were a Radical, Mr. Maliphant?" -asked the young man, looking at father.</p> - -<p>"I am not a Tory," answered father, without looking up. I -thought his tone was cruelly curt.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Ah, I know what you young fellows mean by a Socialist," he -murmured.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I should say that you went farther than you can see," said the -Squire, laconically.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I am not aware that I talked of supporting him," said father.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe there is," said father, quietly.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> -<p>"Then why do you want to support this candidate?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I am afraid that I intrude, Mrs. Maliphant," said he.</p> - -<p>"Not at all, not at all, Hoad," declared father. "Come in; we -expected you."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Three</span> 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.</p> - -<p>I remember all this now; then I was only conscious of one thing—that, -in spite of the east wind, I was happy.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>How was it possible that I should be otherwise than happy?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Although she was an heiress to money that had been "sucked from -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, how are you?" said he, abruptly, holding out his hand without -looking at me. "Is your mother out?"</p> - -<p>I explained that mother had gone to the village to see a neighbor.</p> - -<p>"I'll just wait a few minutes for your father," said he. "I want -particularly to see him to-night."</p> - -<p>"Is it about that young man?" asked I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>He knit his brows in annoyance, and I was sorry I had spoken.</p> - -<p>"What young man?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"That gentleman whom you recommended to father for the farm," -said I, half ashamed of myself.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>It was on my lips to say that of course it would not work, but I -restrained myself, and the squire went on:</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Did you?" answered I. "I only went up about the flour. I -didn't see you."</p> - -<p>"No," he said. "I was riding the other way."</p> - -<p>He walked up to the window as he spoke, and looked out over -the lawn.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> -<p>"Everybody out?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered I. "Everybody."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes; I suppose you young ladies are going to be very grand -indeed," smiled he.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, not grand," insisted I, "but very jolly. We mean to -enjoy ourselves, I can tell you."</p> - -<p>"That's right," said he; "so do I."</p> - -<p>But he could not get away from the subject of Joyce.</p> - -<p>"Has your sister gone far?" asked he, in a minute.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," I answered, quite determined to throw no light -upon the subject of where she was and with whom.</p> - -<p>A direct question made it difficult now to keep to this determination.</p> - -<p>"Do you know if my nephew has been here this afternoon?" was -the question.</p> - -<p>I looked down intently at my work.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he came," answered I. "He sat some while with father, -till father went out."</p> - -<p>I did not add any mention of where he had been since. It was a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"Your father and Frank seem to be great friends," observed he, -presently, and I fancied a little bitterly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I felt directly I had said the words that they were inconsiderate -words, and I regretted them, but I could not take them back.</p> - -<p>Squire Broderick flushed over his fair, white brow.</p> - -<p>"Yes; my nephew professes to be as keen after all these democratic -dodges as your father himself," he said, curtly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire left my work-basket in the muddle in which he had -finally put it, and stuck his hands into his pockets.</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, I'm sure of it," continued I, blindly. "And I am sure -father thinks so too."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Oh no; I suppose it will cost money," assented I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I think</span> 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; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I sha'n't be long," said she.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Come now, Meg," said she, "I am quite ready. Let's go and -see if we can do anything to help mother."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>did I, although that may perhaps have been because I was very anxious -to be off.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>She turned me all round. Then she went to her jewel-case, unlocked -it, and took out a row of red coral beads.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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: -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>was</i> a dictatorial, loud-voiced -way, and was very active among the poor, although it was not always -in the manner which they liked.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, I never saw such a thing in my life!" exclaimed she presently, -in a loud voice that attracted every one's attention.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She dropped my hand.</p> - -<p>"The very image of him," said she, turning to my mother.</p> - -<p>"Yes, she is very like her father," agreed the mother.</p> - -<p>"Why, my dear, the very image of him," repeated the aggravating -creature. "Got his temper too?" asked she, turning to me again.</p> - -<p>"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure," answered I, half amused, but still -more annoyed. "I dare say."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Miss Farnham laughed and patted me boisterously on the back.</p> - -<p>I do not think she was an ill-natured woman, although she certainly -had the talent of making one feel very uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>h's</i>, but very much the reverse of shaky in -any other way; shrewd and keen as a sharp knife or an east wind.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> -<p>She contradicted him now.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, papa, how can you!" laughed his daughter. "Why, it's what -everybody admires; it's the great sight of the whole neighborhood."</p> - -<p>"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—"</p> - -<p>"But you would have done it up," broke in the squire, bristling -all over; "whereas there's been nothing new in the Manor since—"</p> - -<p>He stopped.</p> - -<p>I fancied that he was going to say, "Since I brought my bride -home;" but he said, after a pause, "since my father died."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my nephew Frank did all that," answered the squire, carelessly; -"he likes that sort of thing."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"He likes taking trouble," said I. "Just look at the trouble that -he has taken over our concert."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'm not quite so prejudiced as that," he said, laughing also, -"although I do wear the cloth."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>Not with mother; no, I felt not for an instant with mother. But -with father?</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The laughter faded out of his face as I mentioned Joyce's name.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He did not make any remark upon this. He only said, "Shall -we go back to your mother?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Captain Forrester just shook hands with Joyce, and then he came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I thought it was very nice of Miss Thorne, but I wished there -were just men enough to dance with me.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -fragments of the gay descriptions with which Captain Forrester was -making the time pass for mother.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Although I was new to the ways of the world, an instinct within -taught me to say, coolly, "Oh no, not all."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," cried I. "I should like to dance them with you."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<p>I remember very clearly how well the squire looked that night—fresh -and merry, with bright keen eyes.</p> - -<p>"That's a pretty frock, Miss Margaret," said he, as we were waltzing -round.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm so glad you like it," answered I. "I was afraid it -wasn't suitable."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why not suitable?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"Mother bought it at the great Exhibition in '52," said I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered. "They are very pretty; but," he added, -gently, "a young girl's neck is so much prettier."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"Why, of course," said I, rather surprised.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Why?" asked he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, of course, because you're so much older," answered I.</p> - -<p>He was silent. For a moment the high spirits that I had so -specially noticed in him seemed to desert him.</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you want to say to me that's disagreeable?" said -he presently, with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>"Oh, nothing disagreeable," declared I. "It's about your nephew, -Captain Forrester."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" said he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I don't think you are fair to him," said I, boldly.</p> - -<p>He looked at me. He smiled a little.</p> - -<p>"In what way not fair to him?" said he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He winced, I fancied.</p> - -<p>"You don't understand, my dear young lady," said he. "I merely -wished that there should be no misunderstandings."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, that's all right," said the squire.</p> - -<p>"We liked him rather the better for it," concluded I, prompted -by a wicked spirit of mischief.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It's quite a place for ghosts, isn't it?" said I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"So long ago as that?" said he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I say, it looks gloomy in there, doesn't it?" said the young man -at my side.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered I, but I was not looking into the wood now.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>It was my sister's voice that answered, but she must almost have -whispered the words, for I could not hear them at all.</p> - -<p>The man spoke again.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He emphasized the word "you." I did not notice it then, but I -recollect it now.</p> - -<p>Again my sister's voice said something; what, I could not hear.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>A fiery blush rose to my cheek. I was glad that in the white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"Come," I called to the lad, who loitered behind; "come, it's cold, -we must go in."</p> - -<p>He followed me slowly.</p> - -<p>"I believe there were a man and a girl spooning behind that wall," -he said, with a grin.</p> - -<p>How I hated him! I have never spoken to him from that day to -this, and yet, was it his fault?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>No doubt we were all tired, for the squire too had lost the cheerful -look that he had worn all through the evening.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Time</span> 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.</p> - -<p>Well, anyhow the torrent rolled on, whether it was really I who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -had set it free or not, and I was forced to stand aside and watch its -course without more ado.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"When stars are in the quiet skies," and "Robin Adair," which I -sang "by request," as an <i>encore</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The children were to be taught a trade, and were to be honorably -placed in situations when they left the home.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Was Joyce cold-hearted? Was that why her face was so calm -and so beautiful.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>She said this with grim determination, and went off grumbling.</p> - -<p>Deborah wanted Joyce to marry the squire, and I fancy she suspected -me of furthering her acquaintance with the captain.</p> - -<p>I did not go in as Deborah suggested, not until close upon the -time when I was afraid mother would come home.</p> - -<p>Joyce was sitting in the big arm-chair with her hands clasped -across her knees, gazing into the fire.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye—till to-morrow morning," said he, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>She did not answer, and he turned to me.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, Miss Margaret," he said, and there was a ring in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -his voice—an impressiveness even towards me—which seemed to -say that something particular had happened.</p> - -<p>When he was gone, I felt that I must know what it was. This -barrier of reserve between two sisters was ridiculous.</p> - -<p>"Joyce," said I, half impatiently, "have you nothing to tell me?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered she, simply; "Captain Forrester wants to marry -me."</p> - -<p>I did not reply. Now that it had come to this pass as I wished, -I was frightened, as I have said.</p> - -<p>But Joyce was looking up at me with an appealing look in her -eyes. I stooped down and kissed her.</p> - -<p>"You dear old thing," I said; "I'm so glad. I hoped he had—I -have hoped all along he would."</p> - -<p>"I thought you wished it," she said, with child-like simplicity.</p> - -<p>I laughed.</p> - -<p>"Of course I knew from the very beginning that he would fall in -love with you," I said.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense!" cried I. "The woman who is fitted to a man is the -woman whom he loves."</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?" murmured she, diffidently.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," she murmured again; "I think that he loves me."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>I suppose I said this in allusion to the squire's first wife.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>She squeezed my hand very tight.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I went very reluctantly, for I wanted to hear what they had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>Mother smiled contentedly.</p> - -<p>"Every one can't be expected to see as you do, Laban," said she. -"I think it was done with a purpose."</p> - -<p>"Oh! And, pray, what purpose?" asked father, in his most irritating -and irritated tone.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>There was a dreadful silence for a minute.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> - -<p>Father leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on the arm of -it, as though about to rise, but not rising.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Mother blushed, and even father looked uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Your nephew leaves to-morrow!" cried I, aghast. They all -turned round and looked at me, and I felt myself blush.</p> - -<p>"He never said so when he was here this afternoon," I added, -hurriedly, with a little nervous laugh.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I said no more, and Squire Broderick turned to father. "Can -you give me a few minutes?" asked he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Of course not," answered I; "and I've guessed you had that -notion in your head these months past."</p> - -<p>"I don't know, I'm sure, what business you had to guess," said -mother. "It wasn't your place, that I can see."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p> - -<p>"A girl must fall in love with the man she means to marry, -mother; at least, so I should think," said I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, you'll come to dinner on Thursday, anyhow, and see him," -he was saying; "it need bind you to nothing."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Father turned round with the pipe he was filling 'twixt his finger -and thumb and looked at me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Margaret," said mother, "didn't I tell you just now that that -was a most strange and unseemly thing to say?"</p> - -<p>I did not answer, and father still looked at me with the pipe between -his finger and thumb.</p> - -<p>"In love with Captain Forrester, indeed!" continued mother, -scornfully. "And pray, how do you know that Captain Forrester -is in love with Joyce?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"A wondrous fine thing I've been told," was all that she said.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"The devil he is!" ejaculated father, roused at last.</p> - -<p>Mother dropped her knitting. I do believe her face grew white -with horror.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"To be sure, to be sure," murmured father.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"His captain's pay," answered I, glibly, although I had been -chilled for a moment by this remark. "And why should you con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>sider -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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants -to marry Joyce?" asked I, boldly.</p> - -<p>"I did not say that I was sorry, lass," said father, calmly.</p> - -<p>My heart throbbed with pleasant triumph, but the battle was not -over yet.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Captain Forrester is not rich and idle," said I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I don't understand you, Laban; indeed I don't," cried poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, mother, the lass must decide for herself," said father. -"She's of age; she should know her own mind."</p> - -<p>"Joyce knows her own mind well enough," said I. "She has told -Frank Forrester that she will marry him subject to your approval."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>There was a tremor in her voice, and father rose and went across -to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Meg, go and tell your sister to come here," said he in a moment. -"You need not come back."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I had been afraid that mother would entirely override all father's -arguments; she generally did.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Frank told me the conditions out in the garden, when I caught<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Joyce</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>An east wind blew from the sea, and the marsh was bleak, though -the lengthening shadows lay in soft tones across its crude spring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She at least never allowed herself to be ruffled, and though this -characteristic had its annoying side, there was comfort in it; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -just at that particular moment we needed a soother, for the family -was altogether in a somewhat ruffled condition.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>was</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Joyce came back from a dream with a little sigh, and turned -towards me.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"He can't be too short in his manner for me," answered I. "He'll -find me short too."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -to do with him, and I sha'n't know whether he is delightful or -not."</p> - -<p>"Well, if you begin like that, it <i>will</i> 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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>This theory seemed to trouble Joyce a bit, for she was silent.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>My sister was puzzled as to how to answer this.</p> - -<p>"I did not know that that was so," said she.</p> - -<p>"Of course it is so," repeated I. "That's why he must needs -take a job."</p> - -<p>"Poor fellow!" murmured Joyce.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I did myself injustice with this speech. It did not really express -my feelings at all, but my temper was up.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I tried to laugh. "I wonder what Deborah would say to that?" -I said, trying to turn the matter into a joke.</p> - -<p>"Deborah doesn't attempt anything out of her own province," -answered Joyce.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Yes, dear, yes," said I, really touched by her anxiety, "I'll try -and be nice."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"What have you to say to me?" asked my sister, looking round -suddenly, and with an uneasy look in her face.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Her face grew none the less grave. "What about him?" asked -she, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Why, Meg, what do you want to do?" asked my sister, aghast.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Meg, how can you?" gasped Joyce.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I know mother wants you to forget one another, because she -wants you to marry the squire," said I, bluntly, "but father doesn't."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Meg, don't," whispered Joyce.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"<i>Liking</i>, no," said I, and then I stopped.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, you never got any one to mind you then as Reuben minds -you now," cried I.</p> - -<p>But Joyce stopped the retort by asking what we were wanted -for.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"You don't understand him," began father, warmly; but he -stopped, seeing us.</p> - -<p>My cheeks flushed with anger. There was a grin on Deborah's -face, but my sister's was serene.</p> - -<p>She could not have understood.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Joyce</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>What a run it was! I remember it to this day. It drove away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I confess we had not always walked quite straight. Once my at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>tention -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I could not see the sea, though I could hear it lapping on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Are you hurt, miss?" said he.</p> - -<p>I struggled into a sitting posture, and pulled myself up on my -feet by the help of the gate.</p> - -<p>"No; no, thank you," answered I. But my head was dizzy, and -my arm ached dreadfully.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I flung you over rather hard," said he. "But there -wasn't time to do it nicely."</p> - -<p>"You flung me over!" cried I, aghast.</p> - -<p>"To be sure," answered he, "Did you think it was the bull?"</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>How I hated myself for having fallen to the ground!</p> - -<p>"Come, Taff," said I, giving the dog a little kick, "get up."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Good-evening to you," said I, curtly, nodding my head in the -direction of the man, but without looking at him again.</p> - -<p>"Good-evening," answered he, raising his hat. "I hope you'll be -none the worse for your fall."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -refused to do; and upon that mother had gone to father, and had -said that it was absolutely necessary that Reuben should leave.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Where have you been, lass?" said he, when I reached him. -"You look sadly."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered he; "I want to have a talk with you."</p> - -<p>"Well, come in-doors then," said I. "You know you oughtn't -to be out so late."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Your mother and Reuben have had a row, Meg," began father, -with a kind of twinkle in his eye, although he spoke gravely.</p> - -<p>"A row!" echoed I; "what about?"</p> - -<p>"About Mr. Trayton Harrod," answered father; "she wants me -to send Reuben away."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"There's one thing certain," added I, "Reuben wouldn't go if he -were sent away fifty times."</p> - -<p>Father laughed; the first time I had heard him laugh for a fortnight.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, he'll have to be pleasant if he does stay," said he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>And it was then that father appealed to my better feelings.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I shall never marry," said I, with a short laugh. "But I'll behave -properly, father, never fear."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"All right," said I. "I suppose mother knows best."</p> - -<p>"Yes," echoed father; "mother always knows best. She's a wise -woman, that's why every one loves her."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I hope you're none the worse, miss," said he. "I was afraid -you had got a bad shaking."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I thought you looked as if you had been up to some mischief -again," said she. "Your face is a nice sight."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -never consider himself a friend of a man who was in a different station -of life to himself.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Reuben," I began, plunging boldly into the matter, "whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -made you behave so badly to father's bailiff when he came round -the place?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know," I went on, "that this gentleman has got to -be master over you?"</p> - -<p>"Master!" repeated Reuben, stopping his work, and looking straight -at me; "no, miss, I knows nothing about that."</p> - -<p>I had used the word on purpose to draw out the whole sting at once.</p> - -<p>"Yes," continued I, "he's going to be father's bailiff."</p> - -<p>"Bailiff!" repeated Reuben, again putting on his most stolid air. -"I knows nothing about that."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Reuben continued rubbing down the mare's coat till it began to -shine like satin.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But I said, bravely, "Oh no, Reuben."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Well, you are quite right to avoid drinking, Reuben," said I, -chiefly because I did not know what to say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Reuben wiped his brow. This long and unwonted effort of speech -was almost too much for him.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I brightened up at this declaration.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Lord bless you, I ain't a-going to leave," answered he, simply.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"You fool!" cried I, quite forgetting myself. "It isn't the man, -it's the harness."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Leave her alone," cried he, as I approached; "don't touch her."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What can Reuben have been about to tighten that so," said I. -"It was enough to madden any horse."</p> - -<p>He did not answer.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe you'll find Mr. Harrod an unjust master, Reuben," -said I.</p> - -<p>Reuben took no notice; but Deborah laughed, and said, grimly:</p> - -<p>"Well, he's a fine-grown young man, anyhow; and he'll know -how to drive a mare, I don't doubt."</p> - -<p>But I paid no attention to her words. I was wondering why Mr. -Harrod had said that he rather liked people who resented interference.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Taff!" called a voice.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I think you must have dropped this," he said, handing it to me. -"We found it just down yonder."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"Taff knows the marsh," said I, for the sake of saying something.</p> - -<p>"Famously," said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. -We are the best of friends."</p> - -<p>I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog?</p> - -<p>"Taff will follow any one," I said, roughly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What have you got there?" asked he, looking into my basket.</p> - -<p>"Plovers' eggs," answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer -the beach."</p> - -<p>"Lapwings' eggs," corrected he, taking one in his hand.</p> - -<p>"Oh no! plovers' eggs," insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' -eggs in the shops in town as well as here."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I bit my lip.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -escape detection on the gray beach, where they are generally found. -"This is a dabchick's egg."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -nest to mark the place. I suppose I had pretty well scoured this -particular reach.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered he. "I see you know all -about it. It's only a confusion of terms."</p> - -<p>I flushed and stooped down to pick up the eggs.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I turned round with a little laugh. I had thought I was annoyed; -but the fact is, I was too happy to be annoyed.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -been out on the marsh on just such a soft day, among the birds and -the beasts whom I loved.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Have you noticed that as a fact?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"That sounds rather incredible," said Mr. Harrod.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>He looked at me straight as he said this, as though he were taking -my measure.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I dare say they are quite right," said my companion. "But you -are not of the same mind I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Well, anyhow you understand the 'Fair Maid of Perth,'" added he.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered I. "The heroine is like my sister, beautiful, -and dreadfully good."</p> - -<p>I was ashamed directly I had said it: praising one's sister was almost -like praising one's self.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You must miss your sister," added Mr. Harrod.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You always seem to me to be very busy," said Harrod.</p> - -<p>"Oh no," insisted I; "it was father I used to help."</p> - -<p>"Don't you help him now?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I used to love the Waverley novels when I was a lad," said he, -changing the subject kindly.</p> - -<p>"Don't you now?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"I dare say I should if I read them, but I have to read stiffer -books now—when I read at all."</p> - -<p>"Books on agriculture! I suppose," said I, scornfully; "but father -says a little practical knowledge is worth all the books in the -world."</p> - -<p>It did not strike me at the moment how very rude this speech -was; but Mr. Harrod smiled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I only know what father said," repeated I, half sullenly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I should think he <i>was</i> a wise man!" I exclaimed, and I think -my pride was pardonable this time. "All the country-side knows -that."</p> - -<p>"I know it," he answered. "One can't go into a cottage without -hearing him spoken of with love and reverence."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I declare I had almost forgotten," I cried, and without another -word of explanation I dashed up the bank of the cliff, Taff following.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -passed, that began to happen which Joyce had so anxiously desired: -Mr. Harrod and I began to make friends over our common interests.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I don't know why this speech should specially have irritated me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Deb laughed.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I know I have a bad temper," said I; "but I don't see that that -has anything to do with the matter."</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Deborah, how dare you!" cried I, angrily. "You know very -well that—"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Margaret, I want you," said she, shortly, "in the parlor."</p> - -<p>"I can't come just now, mother," answered I. "The cakes will -burn."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -Academy of pictures in London, with an old lady who lived close to -Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met Captain Forrester.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It's a ridiculous letter," said I, roughly, throwing it down with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -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?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, of course it will be a great pity, but I suppose it -will have to be without your consent," said I, rashly.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Mother took up the letter again. "Do you know how Captain -Forrester knew where Joyce was staying?" asked she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"But he undertook not to try and see her," remarked mother, -severely. "His conduct is dishonorable."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Still mother looked at me. "You forget that I want Joyce to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I felt that the rebuke was deserved, and I was silent.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Have you seen Reuben anywheres about?" said she, sharply, as I -came in.</p> - -<p>I knew by her voice that she was annoyed.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Dear me! How's that?" asked I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning," -said she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"Ah no," I agreed. "I'm not so clever at it as Joyce is."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I looked up quickly. I think I blushed. Why did Deb say that? -But why should I blush because she had said it?</p> - -<p>"Indeed, I shouldn't think of trying to teach Mr. Harrod anything," -said I, trying to laugh.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Fiddlesticks!" said I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Have you seen your father?" asked she, presently.</p> - -<p>"No," replied I. "Does he want me?"</p> - -<p>"He was asking for you. Wanted you to go up and show this -young chap the field where he wants the turnips put."</p> - -<p>The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she -could not leave me and him alone?</p> - -<p>"Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough -by this time to find it for himself," I said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man," said she, -provokingly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No. What kind of thing?" asked I, frightened.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke—we were -too serious.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"No, no—I know," answered I, impatiently; and then, incoherently, -"but, oh dear me! what is the right way?"</p> - -<p>Deborah laughed, but gently enough. She was a clever old -woman, and she knew that I was not alluding to the butter.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You might keep a civil tongue in your head?" grumbled Deborah, -angrily.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The very same words that Deborah had used; but what father -should have specially to worry him I could not see.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>This was true. It was the only one of father's "wild notions" -that mother had any touch of.</p> - -<p>I noticed that the squire had frowned at the mention of Frank's -name. He always did; I thought I knew why.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother looked at the squire anxiously.</p> - -<p>"Do you think the farm doesn't pay?" asked she. "Do you suppose -it's that as is making Laban fidgety?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother was silent.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Harrod is a thorough good-fellow," answered the squire, -warmly. "He <i>is</i> 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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why, Deborah, you have set to work early," said mother, without -looking at me. "Why didn't you call me?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"The dairy is not what it is when Joyce is at home," said she, -deprecatingly, to the squire.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I looked at Deborah in surprise. She was not wont to set Joyce -down.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"You seem to have plenty of cream," said the squire, walking -round.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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 <i>be</i> pleased. <i>I</i> couldn't. Anyhow, it -can't be good for her to be so dreadfully unselfish; do you think so?"</p> - -<p>In my eagerness I was actually taking the squire into my confidence. -He smiled.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Wait a minute, Miss Margaret, I want to say something to you," -he said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I won't keep you long," said he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> - -<p>And then he paused, while I waited with my face turned aside.</p> - -<p>"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>I</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."</p> - -<p>He paused a moment, as though for an answer. I gave him none, -but I remembered all that he alluded to very well.</p> - -<p>"You don't mind my speaking, do you?" repeated he again.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, I don't mind," answered I, with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire laughed.</p> - -<p>"No; of course it isn't true," said he, "and Mrs. Maliphant doesn't -think it."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, I think she does sometimes," persisted I. "She would -like me to be like Joyce. But I shall never be like Joyce!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I bit my lip. Was he going to refer to Mr. Harrod? He paused -again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?" said I. "I don't know what he should have -to be harassed about."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>I did not answer; I was puzzled.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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. <i>You</i> 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -Miss Margaret. You're a clever girl; you can manage it—<i>if you -will</i>."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"And you <i>will</i>, 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 <i>you</i> 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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't really think he wants help," said I—but rather by -way of saying something than from conviction.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He said no more. But after a few moments he held out his -hand.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," said he. "Whenever you want a friend, I don't -need to tell you that you have got one at the Manor."</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Indeed," said I. "Well, I suppose ours aren't a good sort, -then."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, Mr. Harrod knows," declared I.</p> - -<p>"Nay, miss, he warn't born and bred hereabouts. But I says to -him, 'You ask Jack Barnstaple,' says I. 'He knows,' says I."</p> - -<p>"You said that to Mr. Harrod, Reuben!" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Yes, miss," he answered, "I did."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I think it was very rude of you, Reuben. That's all -I have to say."</p> - -<p>"Nay, miss, I heard you say as how a stranger wouldn't be o' no -good to master," grinned Reuben. "They don't understand."</p> - -<p>"If I said that I made a great mistake," answered I, half angrily. -"I think Mr. Harrod is a great deal of use."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -what I say. They won't thrive for nobody, and they won't do it to -please him."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Did you meet Reuben just now?" asked I, rather by way of -saying something.</p> - -<p>"No," answered he; "I've come straight from your father's -room. He wants you."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>I kneeled down and began my work again.</p> - -<p>"He and I have been discussing a new scheme," said Mr. Harrod, -without answering my question.</p> - -<p>"What, about co-operation, and children's schools and things?" -cried I, with a smile. "Is he going to press you into it too?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"To take on another farm!" repeated I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"It's 'The Elms,'" he answered, "below the mill on the slope -yonder."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Dear me, what an odd thing!" said I. "I thought farms were -never let excepting at Michaelmas."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It's all hop-gardens at 'The Elms,' isn't it?' asked I.</p> - -<p>"Yes, chief part."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking."</p> - -<p>"Of course," said the bailiff, half testily. "But it's just about -the best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They <i>will</i> -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."</p> - -<p>"But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil," said I.</p> - -<p>"<i>They</i>; who are <i>they</i>?" retorted Harrod. "They know nothing -about it."</p> - -<p>"No; I dare say you're right," I hastened to say. "Only hops -are always considered risky, aren't they?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I really think so," answered Harrod, confidently.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Is the squire away?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"Yes; I have just inquired, by your father's wish."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>We walked on through the gardens and then up by the house -and back along the brow of the hill.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>did</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"I'm very pleased to see you, Miss Hoad," said she; "I'm sorry -Joyce is away."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -patronizing kind of way, and keeping the talk quite in her own -hands with all the town news she had to tell.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Indeed!" answered mother. "I haven't much knowledge of -London."</p> - -<p>"No, of course not," said Jessie. "But you have seen the -Thornes' house, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"No," answered mother. "We don't go there. My husband -and Mr. Thorne don't hold together."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I can't believe that," said I, half piqued. "It wouldn't be -worth its while."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>She turned to mother.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Have you been dining at Thorne's, Hoad?" asked father.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered the solicitor. "He's a rare good-fellow, and he -gave us a rare good dinner."</p> - -<p>Father did not say a word, and the Hoads took their leave.</p> - -<p>"I'll let you have that the first thing in the morning," said Mr. -Hoad, as he shook hands with father.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"That's right, sir," said Harrod, cheerfully. "I feel sure it will -turn out a sound investment."</p> - -<p>"'The Elms!'" exclaimed mother. "Are you thinking of that, -Laban?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered he. "Harrod advises it."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I've done very well," laughed the young man; "but it'll be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -best I should go over there now. It's only a step for me to get here -of mornings."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm glad of <i>that</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I opened the conversation by alluding to the letter which father -had had from Captain Forrester.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Mother said nothing. She prided herself upon her darning, and -she was intent upon a very elaborate piece of lattice-work.</p> - -<p>"He would do anything to please Joyce. I never saw a man so -much in love with a girl," I said.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said mother, quietly. "I want her to be happy."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother smiled. "I waited three years for your father," she said, -"and I'm a hearty woman of my years."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you were different," suggested I.</p> - -<p>"Maybe," assented mother. "Women weren't so forward-coming -in my time, to be sure."</p> - -<p>"I don't see that Joyce is forward," cried I.</p> - -<p>"No, Joyce is seemly behaved if she is let alone. She'll bide her -time, I've no doubt," said mother.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Mother gave a little sigh. She took no notice of my rude taunt.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, now, mother, I don't see <i>how</i> you can have been quite sure -beforehand," argued I, obstinately. "You have been lucky, that's all."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -whether you would or not, and had nothing to do with the merits of -people."</p> - -<p>It was all a great puzzle. Did mother make too little of love, and -did I make too much?</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What has Frank Forrester done, I should like to know?" asked -I, feeling that she was too hard on him.</p> - -<p>"Nothing, my dear," answered mother, laconically.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She rose and moved away, for the light had waned, and we could -not see to work.</p> - -<p>"If I loved a man I'd take my chance," was my parting shot.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>Harrod stared. He had not yet heard father give vent to his -theories, and he stared.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Very good," said father; "that is as you wish." And he moved -on into the house.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Harrod, you don't really mean that!" said I, hurriedly.</p> - -<p>"Mean what?" answered he, without relaxing a muscle of his face.</p> - -<p>"That you will give up your work here."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Do you think so?" said I, at last, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That has nothing to do with me," answered Harrod, in his hardest -voice. "I should harm my reputation by remaining here."</p> - -<p>A wave of bitterness swept over me too at that.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I quite understand that," answered I. "I quite understand that -it would be more comfortable for you to go away."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Then why do you go?" asked I, bluntly.</p> - -<p>"A man must have his convictions," repeated he, doggedly.</p> - -<p>I looked up at him now.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I make every allowance for it," answered he; "only, I don't see -how the two lots can mix together."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -"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."</p> - -<p>I paused. Had I not followed the squire's instructions well? Had -I not done my very best to "smooth over difficulties?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>It made me bold to retort with greater determination: "Well, <i>I</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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Before you came," said I, at last, in a low voice, "I used to -think that I could help father as well as any <i>man</i>. 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."</p> - -<p>"I am sorry for that," said he. "It was far from my intentions—very -far from my thoughts."</p> - -<p>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 in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>feriority, -more than half ashamed of having confessed it to any one. -Ashamed, sorry—and yet—</p> - -<p>Mother called us to go in-doors.</p> - -<p>"If your father asks me to remain, I will remain, and do my best," -said Trayton Harrod, as we walked slowly up the lawn.</p> - -<p>And the glow that was upon my heart deepened. It was a concession, -and wherefore was it made?</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It has turned a bit cooler, Mr. Maliphant, hasn't it?" said Harrod.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered father; "but we must be glad we have had the -rain before we had to get the hay in."</p> - -<p>"That we must," replied Harrod. "The hay looks beautiful."</p> - -<p>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 sim<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>plicity, -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"They do look different, to be sure," laughed I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It's a pity there aren't more Southdowns among the flock," put -in Harrod at last.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Southdowns!" echoed Reuben, who was listening. "You'd drop -a deal o' master's money if you began getting Southdowns into his -flocks."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why, Maliphant, what's this I hear?" said he, as he came up -to us.</p> - -<p>Father leaned forward on his stick, looking at the squire with a -half-amused, half-defiant expression in his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Well, Squire Broderick, what is it?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"I hear in the village that you have leased 'The Elms,'" answered -the other, almost severely.</p> - -<p>I happened to be looking at father, and I could see that his face -changed.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said, quietly, "I have. What then?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> - -<p>The squire laughed constrainedly.</p> - -<p>"Well," he began, and then he stopped, and then he began again. -"'Tis a large speculation. What made you think of it?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>He had raised his voice involuntarily in speaking. A man passing -in the road turned round and looked at him.</p> - -<p>"Hush, father," whispered I.</p> - -<p>It was one of his own laborers, one of father's special friends.</p> - -<p>"Wait a bit, Joe Jenkins, I'm coming up the road. I want a -word with you," said father.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Your father is so peppery," he said, "so very peppery."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I understood that you thought a great deal of Mr. Harrod's judgment," -said I, coldly.</p> - -<p>"So I do, so I do," repeated the squire, eagerly. "I believe it to -be most sound."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why, what's up?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I knew it would come—bound to come," muttered the squire -beneath his breath.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire looked at me sharply. "Harrod promised you that?" -he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes," repeated I, looking at him simply, "he promised me that."</p> - -<p>The squire said no more, but his brow was knit as he turned away -from me.</p> - -<p>"I'll go and see Harrod," said he. "Can you tell me at all where -I shall find him?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mr. Broderick made no answer to this, he strode on down the -road. But when he had gone a few steps he turned.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Father," said I, as I joined him on the hill, "do you know that -Captain Forrester has come down again?"</p> - -<p>He stopped, he was a little out of breath; I even fancied that his -cheek was flushed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You don't say so!" said he. "He gave me no idea of it in his -letter. No idea at all."</p> - -<p>A light had kindled in his eye.</p> - -<p>"When does your sister come home?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"She was to have come next week," answered I. "But I suppose -mother will put it off now."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>I wondered why she said "we." But Frank explained that.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Father did not say a word. His shaggy eyebrows were down over -his eyes.</p> - -<p>"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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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 <i>were</i> only farmer's daughters. It mortified -me to have father do himself injustice before Frank Forrester.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Father seemed about to reply, but was stopped by a merry laugh -from Frank, whom Mary, however, silenced by a pretty little astonished -stare.</p> - -<p>"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 <i>she</i> has turned -with her beauty."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, good-bye," said Mary to me. "I'm sorry you mayn't -come."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -to the meeting; only his brightened humor of five minutes ago had -evaporated, and his features were working painfully.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Father always became vernacular when he was excited.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have my reasons," repeated father, laconically.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"She forbade me to see her against your mother's wishes," said -he, "but openly there would have been no harm."</p> - -<p>I felt quite sure that he loved her just as much as ever, and I willingly -promised to give his messages to her.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 -<i>was</i> disloyalty to father, to the horror of machines that had always -been my creed till now.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>—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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother looked up, surprised. "I thought you didn't care for -riding that old horse," said she.</p> - -<p>"Well, I <i>can't</i> have the mare, so it's no use thinking of it," I answered.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Very well," said mother; "you can please yourself. You'd -better take some of that stuff for the old body's rheumatism as -well."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>This farmer had evidently returned from market. I wondered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Can you tell me if I'm in the right way for the high-road?" said -I, as they came within ear-shot.</p> - -<p>They stopped, and one of them burst into a laugh and said something -afterwards in an undertone to his companion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Who is there?" cried a voice; and—how can I describe my -happiness?—it was the voice of Trayton Harrod.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Miss Margaret!" he exclaimed. "How did you ever get here?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Lost yourself! I should think you had lost yourself," ejacu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>lated -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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, then I'm afraid I shall have made you miss your way too," -said I, apologetically.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He held out his hands to help me down, and I put mine in his.</p> - -<p>"Why, you are chilled to the bone," murmured he. "You'll take -your death of cold."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Haven't you a pin?" he asked.</p> - -<p>I tried to laugh but I could not; something stuck in my throat.</p> - -<p>"I thought women always had pins," he added.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"I am afraid I have been asleep," said I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Why, we've got back into the track!" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"If I hadn't met you I should have been out on yonder marsh -now," I said.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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 <i>could</i> -have said it—even when I said, softly, "Well, I regret nothing. I -have enjoyed myself," he did not reply.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I laughed aloud merrily.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, what nonsense, Meg!" murmured she. "You know well -enough they don't mean it."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"He came down for a few days a week ago, you know," I added.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -"I told you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had -even remembered to give that great piece of news.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, you told me," replied Joyce, in a slow voice.</p> - -<p>"He inquired a great deal after you, of course," I went on. "He -asked me to give you a great many messages."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Won't they spot?" said I, diffidently.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Time enough to think of that when the day comes," answered -Joyce, I thought a trifle sadly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I looked at her open-mouthed.</p> - -<p>"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>I</i> wanted a thing very badly I -should love to fight for it—I should <i>have</i> to fight for it."</p> - -<p>Joyce sighed a little sigh, and sat down by the window, looking -out into the deepening twilight.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I don't think that a woman ought to fight to have her own -way," added she, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>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 <i>are</i> an unreasonable girl! Good gracious me! -When Frank lifts a finger you are angry with him."</p> - -<p>Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below.</p> - -<p>"I don't think you know <i>what</i> you mean nor <i>what</i> you want," -added I, impatiently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<p>Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I -know that it will be all as it is ordained."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"So it is," said I. "Of course."</p> - -<p>"I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate -with father."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>I looked at her defiantly. So many people had said the same -thing during the last few months.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I <i>am</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -seem pretty in one of us girls, dear. Something's good for mere -manners. We don't think enough of them."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I took off my dress and hung it up, and shook out my red mop -of hair before I said another word.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, you do like him?" cried Joyce.</p> - -<p>"Who said I didn't?" answered I. "He's a downright honest -fellow, with no nonsense about him."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch," laughed I, -awkwardly.</p> - -<p>"You <i>are</i> 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."</p> - -<p>"Well, of course, I <i>did</i> 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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I see," said Joyce. "Then he <i>is</i> clever?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," answered I. "He's clever."</p> - -<p>Joyce paused.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I laughed, not ill pleased.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, Joyce," said I. "I expect what you and I think clever -wouldn't really be so."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh no," said I; "we don't quarrel."</p> - -<p>And then we both said our prayers and got into bed.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - - -<p>Two whole days passed without Mr. Harrod coming to the -Grange. I dare say nobody else noticed it; I dare say <i>I</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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What way, if you please?" asked I, haughtily.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Joyce, however, would not come; she begged off on the score of -many household jobs that had got behind-hand in her absence, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Blow the Agricultural College," muttered Jack Barnstaple.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I saw smiles upon the men's faces, and Reuben shook his head.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>A faint provoking smile spread over Reuben's lips. "Young folk -holds together," said he, laconically. "'Tis in nature."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -verse fascinated me and I read on, although I didn't understand much -that I read.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, do you know if Harrod is at home?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"No, he's not," answered I, glancing up at the clean windows; -"and I've been putting up fresh curtains meanwhile."</p> - -<p>"They look delicious," said the squire, with a little awkward laugh, -not quite so hearty as usual. "What care you take of him!"</p> - -<p>"Mother is a dreadful fidget, you know," murmured I.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>I flushed up angrily. A child!</p> - -<p>"Do you understand it?" asked he.</p> - -<p>I struggled for a moment between pride and truthfulness. "No," -said I, "not all. Do you?"</p> - -<p>He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being -cross.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you?" said I, for want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She -looks better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"As you're so fond of reading, you ought to get hold of a bit of -Shakespeare," said he.</p> - -<p>"Should I like that?" asked I. "I like poetry when it sounds -nice, but I like the Waverley novels best."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Father keeps all those nice bound books in the glass-case," said -I, "and I don't believe mother would let <i>me</i> have them."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"He's no more lonely than you are, Mr. Broderick," said I, "and -yet you always seem to be quite happy."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"So you think I am always quite happy?" said he at last.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," I replied, lightly; "I think you're one of the jolliest -people I know."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 <i>must</i> 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You should marry," said I, boldly.</p> - -<p>He looked at me in blank astonishment.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"No," said I, gravely; "I agree with father."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I think you're quite right," I said, shortly. "They do."</p> - -<p>"It takes a very great attachment to bridge over the ditch," said -he, meditatively.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!"</p> - -<p>The voice made me start, but the tone of it sent a thrill through -me.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I took no harm from the other night," said I.</p> - -<p>"Well, you may thank your stars that you didn't," answered he; -"and you certainly will get wet through now."</p> - -<p>I laughed contentedly. "<i>That</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"To 'The Elms!'" cried he, in a disappointed tone. And then, -in a lower voice, "To put up the curtains for me."</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered I, demurely, "mother sent me?"</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"By Jove!" said Harrod. "That's close. I hope you're not -frightened of a storm."</p> - -<p>"Frightened!" repeated I, scornfully.</p> - -<p>"Some girls are," said he, half apologetically, looking at me with -admiration.</p> - -<p>"Not I, though," I laughed.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Can you run?" said he. "We must get away from these trees."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You're wet through," said he, laying his hand upon my arm.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It won't hurt me," murmured I. "Nothing hurts me. I'm so -strong."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Not yet," he said, gently; and although there was no need for -it, he still held my hand in his.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I made no reply. I came out once more into the path, and, turning, -held out my hand.</p> - -<p>"The storm is over," I said. "Good-night."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I must see you home," said he. "It's getting quite dark."</p> - -<p>He walked forward with me, but the spell was broken, only my -heart still beat against my side.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>I had forgotten it; we were, in truth, neither of us presentable.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - - -<p>Trayton Harrod did come to supper the next day.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -always just slightly bent, like some regal lily or drooping tulip. -She talked a little more, and she blushed seldomer.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Ah, I dare say it may be a matter of management," agreed the -squire. "I hadn't a very good shepherd at the time."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The squire laughed, a laugh in which Mr. Hoad—subdued as he -always was by Mr. Broderick's presence—ventured to join.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>My cheek flamed, and Mr. Hoad went down one step lower still in -my estimation.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I could have said that Reuben declared it was not possible, but I -would not have told on Reuben for worlds.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I wonder you haven't thought of using it before for the Manor," -put in father. "You must need a deal of water there."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Neither do we think it will pay for one individual," said he. -"We intend to make many individuals pay for it."</p> - -<p>He said "we" and I was pleased.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, they'll come to see which side their bread's buttered on in -the long-run," declared Harrod, confidently.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It ought to be a fine crop," he said. "Maliphant paid a long -price for it."</p> - -<p>"How do you know what price he paid for it?" asked Harrod, -sharply.</p> - -<p>I fancied Mr. Hoad looked disconcerted for a moment, but he -soon recovered himself.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Father and the squire came up the lawn again; I wondered what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Father turned round sharply.</p> - -<p>"It never was of much use," said Mr. Hoad, answering instead. -"The way by the lane is nearly as short, and much cooler."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Hoad looked uneasy, and did not reply; and the squire burst -into a loud laugh.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Thorne!" exclaimed mother. "No, never!"</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I understand he's a very charitable man," said mother, who always -would have fair play.</p> - -<p>"Yes," echoed Joyce. "You don't know, father, what a deal of -good Mary Thorne does among the poor."</p> - -<p>Father rose; he was trembling. I saw a fire leap in his eye.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I shall not back the candidate," said father, grimly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No," laughed the squire. "He has done for himself with you -over this right-of-way."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>His face had grown purple with emotion; his voice quivered with -it; his hand shook.</p> - -<p>I saw mother look at him anxiously, and I saw a sullen expression -settle down upon Mr. Hoad's detested face.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He laughed, and asked what we wanted to talk about, and at the -same time Mr. Hoad came forward to take his leave.</p> - -<p>He smiled, shaking hands with mother, but his smile was a sour -one, and I noticed that he scarcely touched father's hand.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother looked up eagerly. The subject was one quite to her own -mind, but the news was startling.</p> - -<p>"Never to Nance Upjohn of Bredemere Farm?" asked she.</p> - -<p>"The very same, Mrs. Maliphant," replied the squire. "Folk say -they are to be married at Michaelmas."</p> - -<p>"Heart alive!" ejaculated mother, lapsing into the vernacular in -her excitement. "Isn't old squire in a fine way?"</p> - -<p>"I believe he doesn't like it," agreed Mr. Broderick, evasively.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why not, pray?" asked father, rousing from his reverie.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why not, pray? The Upjohns come of as good a stock as we -do, though they haven't been so long upon the soil."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, Laban," said mother, half annoyed.</p> - -<p>"No; I wouldn't let any girl of mine wed where it was made a -favor to receive her," continued father, hotly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You'd best come in-doors," said mother, still annoyed. "It's -getting chill, and you've been out too long already, I believe."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Your father is so emphatic, so very emphatic," he murmured; -"but I hope, Miss Margaret, that you do not misunderstand me."</p> - -<p>I looked at him a little surprised. I could not see how it could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -signify to him whether I misunderstood him or not. If it had been -Joyce it would have been different.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, I don't misunderstand you," said I, a little hurriedly, -for I wanted to get in-doors. "It was quite clear."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad to hear it," said I, and I ran in-doors.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>We set forth, Harrod driving mother in the cart with the steady -old black horse, and I riding Marigold alongside.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Wasn't that Mr. Hoad I saw up atop of the hill with you and -Laban?" asked mother, just after we had set out.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> - -<p>Harrod nodded.</p> - -<p>"What does the man want meddling with farming?" asked mother. -"I shouldn't have thought he was a wiseacre on such-like."</p> - -<p>Harrod shrugged his shoulders; he evidently didn't intend to -commit himself.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You're not going?" asked Harrod, quickly.</p> - -<p>"No, no," answered mother. "I don't hold with that kind of -amusement for young folk. There's too many strangers."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you want us to go?" asked I, softly.</p> - -<p>He didn't reply; he whipped up the horse a little instead.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother laughed, but Harrod did not laugh.</p> - -<p>"And if they can't have their way, there's nothing they wouldn't -do to spite a fellow," added he.</p> - -<p>"Why, what has Mr. Hoad been doing to spite you?" asked -mother.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He spoke so bitterly that I looked at him in sheer astonishment.</p> - -<p>"I thought Mr. Hoad seemed to have taken quite a fancy to you -last night," said mother.</p> - -<p>Harrod laughed harshly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Good gracious!" said mother. "Whatever could Mr. Hoad want -to get of you?"</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, ma'am, I don't know that he wanted to get any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>thing," -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."</p> - -<p>Mother was silent, but I said, boldly, "No more do I."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mother declared that only business had brought her out now; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I saw the squire start and look at me—look at me in a sharp, inquiring -sort of way.</p> - -<p>"I did not intend to give that impression," he said.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I think you exaggerate, Miss Margaret," murmured he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, so I do hope a fortune will be made," smiled he.</p> - -<p>"Ah, but you said it as if it might have been quite the contrary," -insisted I.</p> - -<p>"Did I?" repeated he, humbly.</p> - -<p>"Yes," declared I. "If you don't think Mr. Harrod manages -well, you should tell him so; you are his friend."</p> - -<p>The squire was silent, moodily silent.</p> - -<p>"Ah, who can tell what is good management in hops?" sighed -he at last. "The most gambling thing that a man can touch. All<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"Do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous -risk?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course he must know it," answered the squire.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty—they -offended me.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," laughed I; "he used to play with us when we were -little girls and he was a young man."</p> - -<p>"A young man!" smiled Harrod. "What is he now?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I should think he must be nearly thirty-five," said I, gravely. -"And you know he's a widower."</p> - -<p>"Indeed! Well, he's not too old to marry again," smiled Trayton -Harrod, looking at me.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh, is it to be a match?" he asked, carelessly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, dear no," laughed I. "Joyce—"</p> - -<p>I was going to say, "Joyce cares for some one else," but luckily I -remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time.</p> - -<p>"Joyce doesn't even think he likes her," I added instead.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>I made an effort to understand him, for I think I was in a -dream.</p> - -<p>"Yes, she's so beautiful!" I murmured.</p> - -<p>"Beautiful!" echoed he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She shook hands with Harrod and then with the squire, who -joined us with mother. We all went together into the cow-shed.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -was roused from a brown-study by a curious remark of Trayton -Harrod's.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"She does her work," answered the bailiff. "I don't know if -she's pleasant-spoken. I never speak to her."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I want no more than duty," repeated Harrod. "Talking, unless -you have something to say, is waste of time."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>This speech of mother's comes back to me vividly now, but at the -time I was scarcely conscious of it.</p> - -<p>Trayton Harrod's words—"I shouldn't be such a fool"—were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you read a great deal of evenings?" Joyce was saying.</p> - -<p>And Harrod answered, shortly, "No, I don't so much as I used to -do. I am too much taken up with other things."</p> - -<p>Simple words enough, but they set my heart aflame, yet left me -sick and sore.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She reared and kicked. My thoughts were elsewhere, and it -served me right that, for the first time in my life, she threw me.</p> - -<p>I heard a scream from mother, and the next moment I felt that a -man's arm had helped me up from the ground.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Yet it was only for a moment.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> - -<p>I lifted my head.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - - -<p>On the day following I met Frank Forrester in the lane by the -vicarage.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"I am very well," said I, looking at him.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why weren't you at the garden-party yesterday?" asked he. -"It was quite gay."</p> - -<p>"Yesterday! Was it yesterday?" said I, half disappointed. "We -weren't allowed to go, you know. We wanted to go very much."</p> - -<p>He looked at me in that open-eyed way of his for a moment, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -then he shifted his glance away from my face and laughed a little -uneasily.</p> - -<p>"Was I the cause?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The slightest possible touch of scorn curled Frank's lip under the -silky brown mustache.</p> - -<p>"That's a pity," said he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It makes things rather uncomfortable to drive a theory as far as -that," laughed Frank.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>It was rather a foolish remark, and he took no notice of it.</p> - -<p>"Your sister is well, I hope," was all he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, she's well," I answered.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I did not know exactly what to say, and yet I would not let this -golden opportunity slip.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze.</p> - -<p>"Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible!" -ejaculated he.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange," -said he, softly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"That notion?" repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of -voice.</p> - -<p>I looked at him.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something -or other that father and you have got up between yourselves."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<p>Still he looked puzzled.</p> - -<p>"Some school, or something for poor children," explained I, I -think a trifle impatiently.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Well, you must come and talk it over with father," said I, somewhat -puzzled. "He thinks a great deal of you."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I understand," said I; "but who is going to do the work?"</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>I flushed with anger; I thought the remark unjustifiable.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Who are they?" cried I, my lip trembling. "They had best -mind their own business."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Of course it was neither the prospect of mother's cold welcome -nor the thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"He's come to see father," said I, shortly.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Why not?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -the better. But it's my belief she's got more sense in her head than -some folk give her credit for."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I laid my hand on her arm to detain her, but at that moment -Trayton Harrod appeared round the corner from the garden.</p> - -<p>"Where's Reuben?" asked he, with a thunder-cloud upon his -brow.</p> - -<p>"That's more than I can tell you," answered Deb, shortly. "I'm -not the man's keeper."</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I'm not suspecting Reuben," answered Harrod, "but I look to -Reuben to help me to find out who's to blame."</p> - -<p>"Well, if there's wrong been done against master, so he will,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He moved across the yard to the outer door, but midway he -stopped, listening.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'll see your father another time," he said to me as he went -past.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"The master'll be busy all the evening," she said; and her inhospitality -decided me to make a bold move.</p> - -<p>"Father is at liberty now," I said. "Please come this way." And -he had no choice but to follow me round to the front.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"How are you, lad?" he cried, heartily. "Why, I didn't know -you were near the place at all. When did you come?"</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -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 <i>he</i> 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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> - -<p>He did not say that I had persuaded him. I liked him for that, -but I said it for him.</p> - -<p>"<i>I</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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"All right, my girl," answered father, without looking at her. "I -understand."</p> - -<p>And then he turned again to Frank. "You'll stay and have a bit -of dinner with us?" he said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>Who could have resisted him? Mother put out her hand.</p> - -<p>"You're welcome to our board, captain, if you will stay," said she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He turned to me and shook hands with me warmly. Then he -stopped in front of Joyce.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Father and he went along the passage together, talking; and it -was father who showed him out of the front door.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - - -<p>The next morning I was still more sorry that I had brought Frank -to the Grange.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"What affair?" asked he, although I knew that he knew perfectly -well what I meant.</p> - -<p>"Well, about those water-pipes that you fancy the men have -stamped upon to spite you," laughed I, ill-naturedly.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I was sorry for the words as soon as I had said them, for it was an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -insulting speech to a man in his position; but I wouldn't show any -humility.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," he answered, coldly. "I must do the best I can, -of course, in managing the Sussex people. But, anyhow, it is <i>I</i> who -have to do it."</p> - -<p>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 <i>might</i> be Jack Barnstaple. I don't say it is, -but it <i>might</i> be. It isn't Reuben."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Shot!" cried I, with angry eyes. "No one shall shoot that dog -while I have a word to say in the matter."</p> - -<p>And I ran across to where Luck was coming to meet me, his tail -wagging with pleasure.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Shoot him!" growled Reuben, looking round to the bailiff, who -had followed me. "Shoot my dog?"</p> - -<p>"He's not <i>your</i> 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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You are mistaken," said Trayton, coldly. "The poor beast is -ill and weary. It would be a far greater kindness to shoot him."</p> - -<p>"Well, he <i>sha'n't</i> be shot, then, so there's an end," cried I, testily, -rising to my feet and looking Harrod in the face.</p> - -<p>"Oh, very good; of course it's not my business," said he.</p> - -<p>He turned away up the slope. But the spirit of annoyance was -in Reuben as it was in me that day.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"This rain is not enough to hurt," growled Harrod, without looking -round.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>Harrod turned round, with a muttered imprecation.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I tell you the weather hasn't broken up, man. This rain is nothing," -growled Harrod again, striding up the bank as he spoke.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>How could I bear to let him go from me like that? Was it for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> -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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Harrod," I called. He turned at once and waited for me.</p> - -<p>"You're going to London one of these days, aren't you?" I said, -breathlessly, for I had run up the bank.</p> - -<p>"One day before the hop-picking begins," he said, hurriedly, impatient -to get on; "but not before the harvest is all in."</p> - -<p>He turned, walking on, and I walked by his side.</p> - -<p>"Well, when you go, I want you to do something for me," I said. -"I want you to buy some books for me."</p> - -<p>"Buy some books!" ejaculated he. "What books?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"The squire!" cried I, vexed. "And pray, why should I ask the -squire?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Harrod might be under a delusion? Somehow -it gave me pleasure to think that it might be possible.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How can you say such a thing?" said Harrod, sternly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Rude!" echoed he, turning to me quickly. "Why, when were -you rude?"</p> - -<p>"Just now, about the hops and everything."</p> - -<p>He laughed aloud, quite merrily. "Good gracious! surely we -are good friends enough to stand a sharp word or two," cried he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I turned my back to the clouds and faced the golden moon.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Are you afraid to go, Meg?" father had asked, seeing me hesitate. -"I'll go myself."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> - -<p>"There," said he, patting my cheek, "I thought she hadn't lost -her pride."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The vicar's young wife spoke to him as he went out in father's -arms.</p> - -<p>"You've got a very kind friend, David," she said to the child, in -her weak, whining voice. "I hope you're very grateful."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to take you to the Grange to-day for a bit of roast -beef, David. What do you say?" asked father.</p> - -<p>"I should like to go to the Grange," said David, without making -any allusion to the roast beef.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, did you see anything of that good-for-nothing nephew of -mine up in London?" asked the squire again.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The squire frowned, and mother turned away from Miss Farnham.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>This was a parting thrust at father, but he did not seem to have -even noticed it.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -sort. Dear me, I know at least five things he has taken up wildly -for the time being, and wearied of in six months."</p> - -<p>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!"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> - -<p>I could not bear to acknowledge it, yet I could not but instinctively -feel that it was so.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The earth was the same, although the eyes with which I saw it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The field was hot and golden, the hill behind cool and dark.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>The squire laughed, and I grew scarlet with vexation.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, indeed," said I, trying to speak quietly. "I'm only just beginning -to learn that I know nothing."</p> - -<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Broderick," I said, striking a bold tangent, "when is Captain -Forrester coming down again to the Manor?"</p> - -<p>He looked at me, surprised.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, perhaps not," I said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"He might come for the election," said I. "I think he ought -to come for the election."</p> - -<p>The squire laughed again.</p> - -<p>"On which side do you suppose he would throw in his interest, -Miss Margaret?" he said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"But, upon my soul, I scarcely know myself," added he. "The -lad is a slippery sort of fellow."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I think it's very unfair of you to say that of your own nephew," -I said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p> - -<p>The squire fixed his blue eyes upon me with an amused expression.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"We might put out," he said, "though it's touch and go if it'd -be worth while. Do you want to go out?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I should like to go," said I. "It's a long while since I've -been on the water."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"I've my shrimpin' to do," said he. "And we can't go afore the -turn o' the tide, anyhow."</p> - -<p>"All right," answered I. "I'll wait a bit."</p> - -<p>"There won't be more than a handful of codling and p'r'aps a -sole," declared the old man, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"Never mind," answered I.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Father's well," I said.</p> - -<p>"He have got a bailiff to look after the place now, haven't he?" -asked Eben. "Don't work very well, do it?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes; it works all right," said I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> -and the blue bugloss and sea-gillyflower bloom sparsely upon the -dry soil.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I often come here," I said. "It is but a step."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What is your name for it?" I repeated.</p> - -<p>"Windhover," he answered.</p> - -<p>"Ah yes, it's a pretty name," I said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He laughed, and so did I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I thought that was one of his own favorite things," said I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Well, you hurry on and meet the squire," said I, just a trifle -nettled at the way he said it. "<i>I'm</i> going out in the boat with old -Eben."</p> - -<p>"That'll make you very late," said Harrod.</p> - -<p>"I mean to go," said I, obstinately.</p> - -<p>He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head a little, reprovingly. -The smile made me forget everything.</p> - -<p>"Won't you put the squire off a little to come out with me?" I -begged, wistfully. "It's so beautiful on the sea."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Is this the right time to take up nets?" he asked of the fisherman.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'll go out in one boat with the young lady, if you'll take the -other," he said.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>He looked from me to Harrod.</p> - -<p>"It works all right, eh?" he asked of me.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I should think it'll kill off all the old folk in the village," said she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Dorcas expected him home to-day," said father; "but she didn't -know what time."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Yes, I felt <i>that</i>, although I recognized Frank Forrester's fascination, -and declared to myself that he had fascinated, and always -would fascinate, my sister Joyce.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>It would be true for me, but was it true for Joyce? Was it only -that we were different?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You're not looking well, Miss Maliphant," he said at last. "The -heat tells on you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, indeed," answered she, in a low voice, "I'm quite well. I -never have such a color as Margaret has, you know."</p> - -<p>"But I think you work too hard in the house. You don't get -out-doors enough."</p> - -<p>She laughed a little shy laugh.</p> - -<p>"I like working," said she. "I'm not so fond of out-doors as -Meg is."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"How did you like London?" asked Joyce. "It must have been -very hot there."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I wondered what it was. A smothered exclamation came from -Joyce.</p> - -<p>"You like it," asked he, in a pleased tone.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, I think it's lovely," answered she, "lovely!" I had -never known Joyce so enthusiastic over anything.</p> - -<p>"Well, Miss Maliphant, will you—" he began, and then he stopped.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"At least," said Joyce, "I think it would be lovely for a lady to -wear in town."</p> - -<p>Then it was some article of dress.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>She was quite distressed. Why was she so much distressed over -it?</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> -turned away hastily as I came in, and I could see that she dried her -eyes furtively; she had been crying.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Joyce looked up with her patient, gentle eyes.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said he, speaking at last; "things aren't pretty if they -don't suit."</p> - -<p>"Well, of course, finery is <i>not</i> in our line; at least not in—in my -line," I stammered.</p> - -<p>I added the last words so low that I don't think he heard them. -He almost snatched it out of my hand.</p> - -<p>"No, thank Heaven, it's not," he answered. "So we'll say no more -about it."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I took it; but a chill fell upon my heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"No," he answered, quickly. "Did you give me a commission? -I'm very sorry if I forgot any wish of yours."</p> - -<p>"A commission to buy me some of those books that you have in -your library," I said.</p> - -<p>I saw him bite his lip as though vexed. Perhaps he <i>was</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Did I think myself a very lucky girl?</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - - -<p>Frank Forrester did not come down to Marshlands for the -elections. He did not come, but he was very near coming.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I suppose my father knows what he is about," answered I, -proudly.</p> - -<p>"Does he?" retorted she. "It's more than any one else knows, -then."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>It was true, but I should not have said it.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Jessie was going to retaliate, but the other stopped her.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Mary Thorne laughed in a sort of self-conscious way; I wondered -why.</p> - -<p>"Who is coming to speak at the meeting?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He has been a long while making up his mind," said Jessie.</p> - -<p>"Well, it is awkward for him, you see," said the other. "He -naturally doesn't care to go against his uncle."</p> - -<p>"It's worse to go against one's principles," declared Jessie, loftily.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Is he going to stay at the Manor or at the Priory?" I put in, -bluntly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I hope he's not ill?" I said.</p> - -<p>She did not answer at once.</p> - -<p>"I hope nothing has happened to him?" I repeated.</p> - -<p>I saw her fingers close tightly over the yellow envelope until they -were quite white.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"But he's not much hurt, not badly hurt?" I cried, in a fury of -anxiety. "Do speak!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Father is so fond of him," I said. "I should be so sorry if he -were hurt."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> - -<p>"They say only slightly injured; no cause for alarm," she answered. -"But one never knows."</p> - -<p>She turned away her head. I knew very well that she was crying. -I ought to have been sorry; I was only angry.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"I'll give him your message," I answered. "But I know perfectly -well he won't speak."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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—<i>must be</i>—heart-broken.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>What was there in anything there to vex and sour and wound -me? Yet I went in hastily, letting the door slam behind me.</p> - -<p>"Good gracious me! Fancy sitting in-doors this lovely fine even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>ing!" -said I. "We sha'n't have so many more of them that we -need waste one. The summer is nearly over."</p> - -<p>"Why, what's the matter, Meg?" asked father. "Let folk please -themselves, child."</p> - -<p>"Oh, dear, yes; they can please themselves," I answered.</p> - -<p>"Is that all you came in-doors to say?" laughed he again.</p> - -<p>Harrod was busy filling his pipe, ramming in the tobacco with a -stern hand, while Joyce bent forward again over her work.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"I told her so," said I, curtly; "but she would not take my -word."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Joyce did not raise her head, but I saw a little frown trouble her -smooth brow.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"I am quite sure he <i>was</i> going to speak," said I; "but—"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"God bless my soul!" cried father, starting up from his chair. -"Why didn't you say so? Not killed?"</p> - -<p>My eyes were on Joyce's face. She had looked up anxiously, but -she had not changed color one bit.</p> - -<p>"No, not killed," answered I, slowly; "but I don't know how -badly hurt. The telegram didn't say."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Men shouldn't ride in steeple-chases," said Harrod. "It's the -most dangerous of all riding—and only for amusement, after all."</p> - -<p>"I should have thought Captain Forrester was such a splendid -rider that he could have managed any horse," said Joyce.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Poor lad!" I heard the old voice murmur again as I closed the -door.</p> - -<p>"Father's sorry," said I, as I turned round and faced my sister.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said she; "of course. Who could help being sorry?"</p> - -<p>"Some folk seem to be able to help it very well," laughed I. "<i>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."</p> - -<p>Joyce looked at me aghast. "Good gracious, Meg!" said she, in -a half-frightened whisper, "what is the matter?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Why, what was I to say?" said she. "I am very sorry, and I -sincerely trust that it is nothing serious."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"He knows very well how sorry I am," said Joyce.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Very well, <i>I'll</i> write, then," I said, with ill-concealed anger. "I -like writing letters, and I am not afraid of mother."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Don't think me heartless, Meg," she murmured.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> -attitude towards the squire, giving place of late to a curious sort of -half-unwilling consideration and tenderness.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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 <i>will</i> forget, and things perhaps be -even as I hoped for."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe Joyce hasn't taken it to heart," said I, doggedly.</p> - -<p>"Well, her eyes aren't so heavy as yours by a long way," answered -mother. "I don't know what's come to <i>you</i> 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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Maliphant will take things so hard," added the bailiff, and -the words sounded sadly familiar to me.</p> - -<p>Father came in presently and handed me a letter addressed to -Frank.</p> - -<p>"Take that up to the Manor presently, Meg," said he; "and get -the address and ask for news."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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 common<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>place -simple things. Feeling hurt me too much, and Reuben did -not foster feeling.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Ah, well, you aren't either of you going yet a while," said I, consolingly. -"There's lots of life in you both."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Whom do you mean?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He nodded his head to and fro with an air of profound wisdom, -and I burst out laughing.</p> - -<p>It did me good. I had not laughed that day.</p> - -<p>"What? You mean the young sheep-dog, I suppose?" I said.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, He is sending us glorious weather for the crops, anyway," -said I, with determined cheerfulness. "It's quite too hot for -me."</p> - -<p>"Ay, so be it for the 'ops, miss," grinned the old man.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it," cried I.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"They're thicker than that back yonder," said he, "where the 'op-gardens -be."</p> - -<p>"Well, what harm do the mists do?" laughed I. "The hops -haven't got the rheumatics."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Reuben delivered this speech in a low tragic whisper, and with the -most ominous of expressions, holding my arm the while.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Reuben, you always were a gloomy creature," said I. "I -believe you like making the worst of things."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Where's father?" asked I, sharply.</p> - -<p>I looked at Joyce, but she did not reply.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, I suppose the news of Captain Forrester's accident upset -him," said I. "He is so very fond of him."</p> - -<p>There was silence. The fact of Joyce's not speaking somehow exasperated -me.</p> - -<p>"Do you think that was the reason, Joyce?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered.</p> - -<p>And when she spoke I saw why it was she had not spoken before: -she had been crying.</p> - -<p>"Dear me!" said I, half frightened. "Is he so bad as that?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Which did he mean? Father's illness, or Joyce's distress?</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The fire was dead to-night, but the sense of the glow was there—too, -too brightly.</p> - -<p>"I must go and see about father," I repeated, in a kind of dull -voice. I wondered to hear the sound of it myself.</p> - -<p>"Don't <i>you</i> 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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>She got up and glided across the room, and out of the door, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> -that soft way she had. Harrod had sat down again to the table -and the papers.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter with Joyce?" I asked, bluntly, almost before -the door had closed.</p> - -<p>He looked at me with those honest eyes of his. I could see that -he scorned to make any pretence, any evasive answer.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Harrod," said I, roughly, "Reuben has been talking to me -outside. He thinks the hops are looking very badly."</p> - -<p>He laid down the pen, and looked up, with an underlip that -quivered a little.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, did father think the hops looked well, then?" asked I.</p> - -<p>I thought Harrod winced.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>My chance of reconciliation that evening was over.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>Deborah came in with a candle. She had forgotten to give us -one. I was sorry she brought it.</p> - -<p>"Lord bless my soul, Margaret, you startled me," said she. -"Whatever are you doing? Why don't you get to bed?"</p> - -<p>"Joyce hasn't come up yet," I said.</p> - -<p>She put down the candle, and came up to me and took hold of -me by the shoulders.</p> - -<p>"You've been frettin'," said she, sharply, looking down into my -eyes. "Now, whatever is that for?"</p> - -<p>"How dare you say such a thing?" answered I, pulling myself -away. "I've not been fretting. I've nothing to fret about."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It's not true," cried I, with flaming eyes. "She did love him -always, and she loves him just as much now."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"You're talking nonsense, Deb," cried I, hotly. "Mate with his -own class, indeed! We're as good as he any day."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I tell you Joyce does care for him," reiterated I, savagely.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> -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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!"</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"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 <i>his</i> 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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Poor Deb," murmured I, softly, "poor Deb!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, how can you talk so?" cried I. "Why, you wouldn't have -loved him."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm very glad you didn't do it that way at all events, -Deb," said I.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> -came out; I was just starting for the Manor with the basket of -jelly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Father's underlip swelled portentously; it was the sign of a -storm within him; but he controlled himself and did not reply.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>Father looked towards me, and said, quietly, "Well, be off, my -girl."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk nonsense to my girl, Hoad, if you please," cried father, -angrily. "She doesn't understand that kind of stuff."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<i>would</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Has Hoad been with your father?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I answered. "He has only just left him."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I suppose he is very much annoyed about the failure of this -election," he said.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," answered I, not caring at all about the election. -"I don't know why he should mind so very much."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I do," growled Harrod, striking his left hand smartly with -a newspaper which I now saw he held in his right. "The vil—"</p> - -<p>He stopped himself, and set his teeth.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he <i>was</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I suppose he doesn't often read it before the evening, does he?" -added Harrod.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes he does," said I. "I'll do my best. What is there -in it—something bad about hops?"</p> - -<p>The preoccupied look changed into one of simple annoyance and -anger.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I spoke gently, but the frown deepened almost into a scowl on the -bailiff's face.</p> - -<p>"What on earth makes you think hops have anything to do with -the matter?" cried he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>had</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Why, Miss Margaret, this is an honor for an old bachelor," said -he. "It's worth while being ill for—or <i>saying</i> 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."</p> - -<p>I smiled. I did not know what to say—how to begin.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What, have I been missed?" said he, with just the very tiniest -bit of sarcasm in his good voice.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>His face fell, and I was sorry.</p> - -<p>"He's had more practice with me," he laughed.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"The boy's right enough," repeated the squire, in the same manner.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I remember it very well," answered he. "I meant what I -said."</p> - -<p>"I knew you did," said I. "That's why I've come." He came -close up to me.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"It's about Joyce," I said.</p> - -<p>He started, but he did not look distressed, rather more surprised. -"I'm dreadfully unhappy about Joyce," I repeated.</p> - -<p>"Indeed!" answered he, concernedly. "How's that?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Yes, tell me," he repeated.</p> - -<p>"Do you remember that ball you gave here at the Manor last -spring?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes, I remember," answered he, I thought sadly.</p> - -<p>"Well, Joyce was engaged to Captain Forrester that night," said I.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p> - -<p>I saw his face grow stern as it had grown when he had warned -me about Frank at first.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"Yes, it would be possible if they really cared for one another, -Miss Margaret," he said, presently; "but it would be hard."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, yes, too hard," cried I. "They <i>have</i> met. I managed -it once. But now I want them to meet again."</p> - -<p>"That's why you were so anxious that Frank should come down -for the elections," he said. "I wondered why you were so anxious."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He dropped his eyes from my face, where they had been fastened, -and got up and walked away towards the window.</p> - -<p>"There is no one to do any nursing here," he said. "Frank can -go to his mother to be nursed."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>There was a silence.</p> - -<p>"You <i>will</i> ask him to come, won't you?" repeated I, softly.</p> - -<p>The squire turned round. His face was quite hard.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He paused, and I wondered why, especially of late, he had made -sure that there was nothing in it.</p> - -<p>"If your sister cares for Frank, I am very sorry," he went on, -gently; "but I cannot but hope that you are mistaken."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I am not mistaken," cried I, vehemently, starting to my feet.</p> - -<p>He looked at me with a strange pity in his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I can only hope she will forget him," added he.</p> - -<p>"Forget him!" cried I. "Do you think girls so easily forget the -men they love?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I don't think that Joyce will ever forget Frank," repeated I, doggedly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it," cried I.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I was silent—dumfounded.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Joyce will never choose again," muttered I.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The squire came towards me, he came quite close. The room was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You must surely know that it is not really so," he added.</p> - -<p>And then I snatched away my hand.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, I am not cruel," answered the squire. "I am only doing -what is right—what I believe to be best for your sister."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>I stood still—even to my heart—waiting for the squire to speak.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"There is nothing to forgive," answered he. "But tell me what -made you think that?"</p> - -<p>"Oh no, no; don't make me say any more," I implored.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you must tell me that," insisted he.</p> - -<p>"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>I</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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Not Joyce!" cried I, genuinely surprised, genuinely disappointed, -and for a moment forgetting all my many emotions.</p> - -<p>"No," he said, gravely.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" I murmured.</p> - -<p>"I mean that I love <i>you</i>," answered he.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How is it that you didn't guess it?" asked he, tremulously.</p> - -<p>I did not answer; I could not. I believe I covered my face with -my hands.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," said he.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," murmured I, mechanically.</p> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - - -<p>One morning about a week after my visit to the Manor, mother -and I chanced to be alone together in the dairy.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> -loyal, should have chosen <i>me</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> -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 <i>something</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I looked round quickly. I was alarmed.</p> - -<p>"Why on earth should <i>I</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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>She had guessed part of the truth, but what a little part of it! I -was silent, and she looked at me sharply.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You'll please to keep such remarks to yourself, Margaret," said -mother, coldly. "You can't possibly know anything at all about the -matter."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Am I to understand that you <i>have</i> been talking nonsense to the -squire, then, Margaret?" asked she, in her most dignified manner.</p> - -<p>It was not in me to tell a lie.</p> - -<p>"I told the squire that Joyce and Frank were engaged," said I, -"if that's talking nonsense."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Engaged!" ejaculated she at last, with a withering accent of -scorn.</p> - -<p>"Well, it's the truth," insisted I, doggedly.</p> - -<p>"No, it's not the truth, Margaret," replied mother, emphatically. -"<i>You</i> may choose to consider them engaged, but <i>I</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 <i>never</i> considered herself engaged to -the captain."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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 con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>versation -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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What possessed you to do that?" he cried, out of breath. "You -might have had a serious accident. It was folly."</p> - -<p>I did not answer. Indeed the pace at which I was going made -speech difficult, and he could not expect it.</p> - -<p>"You're going too hard, Miss Maliphant," cried he again. "Stop -the mare, if you please."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Don't, don't," cried I, petulantly. "You only chafe her; leave -her alone."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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—<i>that</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"Now, Miss Maliphant," said he, quietly, after a panting minute -or two, "won't you be so kind as to give me that whip?"</p> - -<p>I looked at him; my cheek was burning, my bosom rose and fell -wildly.</p> - -<p>"No," answered I; "why should I?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"I wasn't in the least bit frightened," I said, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"Upon my word you're a splendid girl," said he, still looking at me.</p> - -<p>I felt my face grow redder than ever, but what I had said was no -mere boast.</p> - -<p>"But <i>I</i> was frightened," added he; and then, in a very gentle -voice, "You won't do it again, will you?"</p> - -<p>His temper had done me good, his tenderness was almost too -much for me.</p> - -<p>"No," murmured I; and the sense that he <i>cared</i> made my voice -tremble so that I dared say no more.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"Will you promise me not to be so foolish again?" repeated he, -gently. "There's no fun in breaking one's neck, you know."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was self-possessed. It was I who was shy and who could find -no words.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid we shall have a pocketful of wind," said he, looking -up anxiously at the sky.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"'Tis the Lord sends mists and 'eat, rain and gales, and we've got -to submit, whether or no," murmured Reuben behind my back.</p> - -<p>"I've thought of late Mr. Harrod seemed anxious about the crop," -said mother, "but it's <i>my</i> belief it's above the common."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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 <i>his</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Some one stirred in the house. It was father; he was coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"It's a rough night, a very rough night, Meg," he said, sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>In the morning I was sorry that I had done so. The little lad was -dead.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>looked</i> like—I felt -wretched. The post had brought me the reply to my letter to Frank -Forrester, and it was not what I wanted.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>He said nothing, he gave no outward sign of trouble; he got up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> -and went out, and we cleared away the breakfast-things. We were -not given to expressing ourselves.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What did my father think of it?" And "he was afraid it would -be a long while before he should <i>find time</i> to come to Marshlands -again."</p> - -<p>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 <i>found time</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>Some one came into the room. I crushed the letter into my pocket -and started up.</p> - -<p>It was Trayton Harrod. He wore that same harassed, preoccupied -look that I had noticed in him before; it maddened me, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> -I might have known well enough why he was preoccupied—there was -anxiety enough on the farm.</p> - -<p>"Where's your father?" asked he, quickly.</p> - -<p>"He's out," I answered, shortly.</p> - -<p>"I wanted him particularly," said Harrod again.</p> - -<p>"Well, he's out," repeated I. "He has gone to Mrs. Jarrett's. -The little boy died last night."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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>I</i> -help you?"</p> - -<p>He smiled, but gravely. "No," answered he; "I'm afraid this time -your father must decide for himself."</p> - -<p>"Is it ruin?" I asked, after a minute. "I suppose so."</p> - -<p>He started and looked at me sharply. "What do you mean?" he -asked. "No, I sincerely hope it's nothing of the kind."</p> - -<p>"Oh," answered I, "I was afraid there wasn't a chance after this -gale of anything but ruin to the whole crop."</p> - -<p>"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 <i>must</i>, 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?"</p> - -<p>I flushed. "Not that I know of," said I; "but how should I -know? He never comes to the Grange now."</p> - -<p>I jerked out these sentences foolishly, incoherently.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>The heat in my face grew to fire. "I don't care whether he comes -back or not," stammered I.</p> - -<p>"No, no, of course not," answered Harrod, quickly, as though he -were afraid he had said a foolish thing; "but <i>I</i> care very much. I -have pinned my faith on the squire."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I want to have a long talk with you one of these days," he added, -gravely.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>My eyes must have flamed, for he stopped.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I have had a letter from Frank Forrester," said I. Her face -flushed slightly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Meg!" said she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p> - -<p>Joyce flushed a little deeper, but she did not answer a word to -my cruel and unjust accusations; she was always patient and -gentle.</p> - -<p>"What did he say?" she asked, presently.</p> - -<p>"What <i>could</i> 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?"</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Why?" cried I, vehemently. "Because if you had had a grain -of feeling in you, you <i>must</i> 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 <i>think</i> 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 <i>must</i> 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!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry," said Joyce, penitently. "Don't be angry. Perhaps -you don't quite understand, although you think you understand so -well. I <i>am</i> proud, and I don't think I am fickle; but I am not cold -either."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>Her face grew very pale, but she neither winced nor struggled. -"Don't, Meg," she said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I will," cried I, fiercely. "Which is it, tell me?"</p> - -<p>"It's neither," repeated she.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"If you are not heartless," I said, in a low voice; "if you <i>can</i> -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 <i>do</i> you care for, then?"</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" said she, below her breath, trying to draw -back.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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—"</p> - -<p>"Well?" asked I, scornfully. "Then? What then?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Ah, you do mean to keep your word to Frank, then?" asked I.</p> - -<p>"I mean to keep my word to him if he wishes it," answered she, -in a low voice.</p> - -<p>Her face ought to have shamed me, but it raised the devil in me.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Meg, how can you?" murmured Joyce.</p> - -<p>Yes, how could I? The evil spirit was stronger than myself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You!" exclaimed Joyce. "Where?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>Her voice flew at me like a shaft from a bow. I felt myself grow -cold.</p> - -<p>"How dare you?" I cried. "How dare you?"</p> - -<p>I could say no more—I was paralyzed—I had no words.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Go away, go away!" I stammered, wildly. "I want you to go -away."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Father came into the parlor; he came across to where I was, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> -laid his hand upon my head. The touch of it seemed to pass into -me and soothe my troubled spirit.</p> - -<p>"God help us to forget our troubles in those of others, Meg," he -said, gravely, after some minutes.</p> - -<p>And then I remembered that he had just come from the death-bed -of that little lad whom he had loved so well.</p> - -<p>I think there were tears in my eyes then.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But father pushed his plate aside untouched, and turned to the -bailiff with his business manner.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"We'll see first how many will be needed, sir," answered Harrod, -trying to be cheerful.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," said Joyce, but in a tone that said she knew very -well.</p> - -<p>"Well, well, we've all expected it this long while past," said Deb. -"I'm glad it's come at last."</p> - -<p>She plunged her hands into the dish-tub once more, and looked -up with a comical expression of triumph on her ugly old face.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, faintly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't you?" answered she. "Perhaps Meg does. Eh, do you -know, Margaret?"</p> - -<p>"I think you had better mind your own business, or talk of things -you know something about," said I, tartly.</p> - -<p>But Deb only laughed good-humoredly.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you make no doubt it's your pretty face the squire's -after, eh, Joyce?" persisted she, mercilessly.</p> - -<p>Joyce flushed painfully.</p> - -<p>"Don't, Deb, don't," said she.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It wouldn't take me long to think what answer I should give -<i>you</i>," 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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"The squire is fond of us all, I know," I answered, evasively. -"He has known us such a long time."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Still I was silent. I stood by the table, twisting the fringe of the -table-cover in my hand.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Did the squire ask you to ask me my mind?" I said then, hurriedly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Squire Broderick was speaking mostly about your sister," an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>swered -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."</p> - -<p>"Gently, gently, mother," murmured father, in remonstrating -tones.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Mother looked at me. I fancied there was a half-apologetic look -in her eyes.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I went back to my occupation of pulling the fringe of the table-cover.</p> - -<p>"But there's no need for you to say anything yet a while, lass," -said father, after a few minutes.</p> - -<p>It was the first time he had spoken, and I looked at him reassured.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>There was silence. Mother seemed to be actually stupefied.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mother had found her tongue.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I can't marry the squire, mother, because I don't love him," said -I, humbly.</p> - -<p>Mother rose from her seat in all the height and breadth of her -soft gray skirts.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It's no use," said I, doggedly. "I suppose folk <i>are</i> different;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> -but I can never marry a man I don't love as he loves me. I can't -help it. That's the truth."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> - -<p>Father smiled, but sadly. "Yes, we must all fight our own fight," -he said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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 <i>his</i> 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."</p> - -<p>I looked up at father anxiously.</p> - -<p>"Would you have liked to see me the squire's wife, father?" -asked I.</p> - -<p>He held out his hand, beckoning me to him, and I went and knelt -down at his side.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>My heart swelled big within me, and I could not speak.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, father," whispered I.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid when I'm gone, Meg, that mother won't be so well off -as I had hoped to leave her."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> -comes, but the doctor has told me that I carry a disease within me -that may kill me at any moment."</p> - -<p>I felt all the blood ebb away from my heart. I clasped his hand -tightly, but I did not speak.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Doctors are often wrong," murmured I, faintly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I was silent. I began to see his drift.</p> - -<p>"The squire will always be our friend," I said. "He has told -me so."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Will it?" said I, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> -she, using the well-known topsy-turvy phrase that I had known ever -since I was a child. "It's late enough."</p> - -<p>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."</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - - -<p>A week went by—silent, uneventful—the world of action and -emotion as leaden as the sky was leaden above our heads.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>When I went into the parlor at tea-time, mother and the bailiff<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> -were there alone. They were evidently engaged in a deep and earnest -conversation.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Hoad must be going soon or he will have a dark drive -home," he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The library window stood ajar as we crossed the lawn.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I stopped, paralyzed. Had Joyce heard?</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Some one stepped forward inside the room and fastened the window. -I heard no more.</p> - -<p>"Come down onto the terrace," said Harrod, authoritatively. -"We can wait for your sister there."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What did that man mean?" cried I, looking at him straight in -the eyes.</p> - -<p>We had not spoken to one another frankly and freely for some -time, but this had roused me.</p> - -<p>"The fellow is a low cur," he said.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Trayton Harrod was silent.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Harrod, if you know, you must, please, tell me," said I, -firmly.</p> - -<p>He had looked away from me, but now he turned his face to me -again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"From Hoad!" repeated I. "Not as a favor?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Harrod was silent.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps your father hasn't got the money, Miss Margaret," said -Harrod, slowly, after a pause.</p> - -<p>"Not got it!" cried I. "How much is it?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The rent!" echoed I, under my breath. "The rent is due to -Squire Broderick."</p> - -<p>"Yes," agreed Harrod.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"No, of course," said Harrod, quickly.</p> - -<p>And then he was silent. I flushed hot in the dim light.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>A sudden revelation came to me.</p> - -<p>"Was that what the article was about that you tried to keep out -of father's way?" I asked.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"Not any that I can see," said Harrod, sadly.</p> - -<p>"Won't there be any money coming in for the hops?" I asked -again, eagerly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, if the season had been good for the hops!" echoed Harrod. -And then he stopped short.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span> -failure. His work: that was the first thing with him, and he had -failed in it.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Must something be done at once?" I asked, anxiously.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered he, briefly, "at once."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What can be done?" asked I, in answer to that brief, terse -declaration.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Borrowed!" cried I. "From whom could we borrow it, even if -we would? There is nobody who would lend us money."</p> - -<p>"Yes, there is one man," said Harrod, quietly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I flushed again. I did not look at him.</p> - -<p>"Father would never think of asking Squire Broderick to lend him -money," I said, quickly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I moved away a couple of steps, but he didn't follow, and I -stopped.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I stood still where I was.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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—<i>he</i> to <i>me</i>!</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Mr. Harrod, I don't know how you dare to talk to me so," said -I, fiercely, but under my breath.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"You have seen it!" ejaculated I, dumfounded. "Why, it was -Joyce! We all thought it was Joyce!"</p> - -<p>"I did not think it was Joyce," said he.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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, <i>he</i> does not seem to be -of that opinion, from what your mother tells me."</p> - -<p>Mother! That was what they had been discussing so secretly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Why is it never going to come to anything?" asked Trayton -Harrod.</p> - -<p>"That's my own business," said I, defiantly.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>His tone unaccountably irritated me, but his allusion to our friendship -touched me nevertheless.</p> - -<p>"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 mis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>taken -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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>I did not answer, and he went on:</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"A girl can't marry to please her father," said I, "and <i>my</i> father -is the last one to wish it."</p> - -<p>"Of course," said he, persistently, "neither your father nor your -friends would wish you to marry against your will for <i>any</i> advantage -that might result. But why should it be against your will? -The squire is such a good-fellow."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't ask me to talk about it," cried I. "I know he is -good; I know all you say."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"It isn't that. I can't marry the squire, because I don't love -him, and there's an end," cried I, desperately.</p> - -<p>I wished he had never spoken to me about it; I could not understand -how he <i>could</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Harrod, however, again followed me.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Can't you understand," said I, in a low voice, "that perhaps I -cannot love the squire because I love somebody else better?"</p> - -<p>He was silent—he did not even look at me. He gave no sign of -being surprised at my revelation.</p> - -<p>"Are you sure of that?" he said, after a pause. "And is he as -worthy of you as Squire Broderick?"</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"The squire gives you the best he has," said Trayton Harrod. -"Does the man you think you love do as much?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"How can I tell?" said I, as well as I could speak the words for -shame and heartache.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>I did not look at him, but I felt him start.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>"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. <i>She</i> might have brought herself to marry one -man while she loved another."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"What makes you think she is in love with another man?" asked -he, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>My heart almost stopped beating, waiting to see where the shaft -would strike.</p> - -<p>It struck home. "Engaged!" muttered he.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span></p> - -<p>I came slowly up the cliff again—cold, stunned. What had I -done? Where should I go?</p> - -<p>"Margaret! Margaret!" came a loud, terrified cry from the porch.</p> - -<p>It was the voice of my sister Joyce.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - - -<p>That night father was struck down with the stroke that was to -end in his death.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>He stepped inside at once, and I told him what had happened, -there in the hall, in a quick, low whisper.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>My heart swelled at the recollection of that scene, but I did not -cry. I wonder if he thought me heartless.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How did it happen?" asked the squire.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Ah, if we could only have kept that man away from him!" -murmured the squire.</p> - -<p>"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!"</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Father wants to see you, Squire Broderick," said she, eagerly. -"He heard your voice and he wants to see you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, then he <i>is</i> conscious again!" cried I, joyfully.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Joyce; "he is conscious."</p> - -<p>She said it with a marked accent on the word.</p> - -<p>"But—" asked the squire.</p> - -<p>"He can't speak," added she.</p> - -<p>I turned my face away from them.</p> - -<p>"That means he is dying," said I. "The doctor said it might be -before dawn."</p> - -<p>All at once a cowardly, horrible longing to run away took possession -of me.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Come," said she, turning again to the squire, "he is impatient."</p> - -<p>She turned up the stairs, flitting softly in her blue flannel dressing-gown, -with the golden hair slipping a little from its smooth coils.</p> - -<p>The squire followed. I sat down on the old oaken bench below -to wait.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>He took my hand and led me up the stairs, so that we entered -father's room together.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>"I know," he said, tenderly; "be at rest. I will take care of them -all."</p> - -<p>Not I will take care of <i>her</i>. "I will take care of them all."</p> - -<p>My heart went out to him in thanks. He had said I should have -courage. He had given me courage.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Yes, though I knew well enough that I loved him far too well to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>He turned away his head; I could not help noticing that he looked -embarrassed.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I see that things aren't going at sixes and sevens," murmured he.</p> - -<p>"You!" cried I, aghast. "Oh, but that isn't fitting."</p> - -<p>Still he looked awkward. "Don't you trouble your head about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>Something in his whole manner froze me, but I cried, eagerly, -almost angrily, "But he <i>must</i> 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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Shall I bring the lamp, mother?" asked I.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>That night the wave we had been watching so long broke over -our heads.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Meg," he said, distinctly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Meg," said he, slowly, "mother will be very lonely when I'm -gone. You will take care of mother."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I answered, firmly.</p> - -<p>"You've always been a good girl, my right hand," continued -he. "Take care of them both."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>His eyes were closed, and I drew my arm as well as I could from -his grasp, and flew to the door.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>When I got back to father, his eyes were open again—fixed on -that picture opposite to him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He was wandering.</p> - -<p>"Laban!" cried mother, with a low cry.</p> - -<p>A smile broke through that gray shadow, as light had burst through -the purple clouds when the sun rose.</p> - -<p>His lips seemed to move as if in some request.</p> - -<p>"'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,'" began -mother, in a broken voice.</p> - -<p>There was a long silence in the room, and then a sound: it was a -sob from our mother's heavy heart.</p> - -<p>His voice was still forever.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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?"</p> - -<p>"I haven't heard, mother," said I, faintly; "but I believe he has -been away."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You and he haven't had a quarrel, have you?" said mother, after -a bit.</p> - -<p>"A quarrel!" repeated I, faintly. "Oh no!"</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But I—sorely as I too longed for that presence that she mourned—<i>I</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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I see. Is Mr. Harrod expected home?" asked I, lamely.</p> - -<p>"Home!" repeated she, gaping. "Why, he's left the place this -month past. All his traps went last week."</p> - -<p>I suppose my face showed how my heart had sunk down, for she -added, half compassionately, "Didn't you know he was going, miss?"</p> - -<p>I pulled myself together. Miserable as I was, there was an instinct -within me that did not want strangers to guess at my misery.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I'll go up with you and look round the house," said I.</p> - -<p>"It ain't tidied yet, miss," answered she, apologetically. "I was -just going to wash and settle it all up."</p> - -<p>"Never mind," insisted I. "I want to look for a book," and I -led the way up the hill.</p> - -<p>"Lor'! you won't find anything there," laughed she, following. -"There isn't anything in the place."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"I think it would be unwise," answered he, evasively. "I think -any one who manages your property will have enough to do without -it."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Broderick," said I, suddenly, looking him full in the face, -"has Mr. Harrod left us for good?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered, firmly, "for good."</p> - -<p>I could not speak for a moment, then trying hard to steady my -voice, I said, "Did you know it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered. "I knew it."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>He took out his note-book and wrote it down, handing me the -leaf that he tore out.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Yes—some day," said I, in a dull way. And I don't think I -even turned round again to look at him.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 Aus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>tralia, -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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>was</i> something to keep him!</p> - -<p>Two days after the discovery of Trayton Harrod's letter my sister -told me that she had broken off her engagement with Frank Forrester.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But her face, though stained with tears, which mine was not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span> -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!</p> - -<p>But he was gone, and it was through my fault.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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 Deb<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>orah's -more openly expressed upbraiding, but mother's silent reproach -made my heart sick.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> -now, living practically very much the same life as we had always -lived.</p> - -<p>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 <i>should</i> 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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>—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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>must</i> have her forgiveness!</p> - -<p>I cannot imagine how I had endured so long without it. I had -hungered for <i>his</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"O Joyce, darling," I cried, seizing her hand wildly, "don't cry! -I can't bear it."</p> - -<p>She did not answer, she was afraid of trusting herself to speak,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span> -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."</p> - -<p>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 <i>not</i> to come back quite well," said I, -in a low voice, "I think, Joyce, I should die. It's all my fault."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, no, Meg," she said, softly. "Not your fault, dear. -Things like that are never any one's fault."</p> - -<p>She thought I only meant that my love for Harrod had stood in -the way of her accepting his, because <i>she</i>, brave and unselfish in what -I used to call her coldness, would have given him up to me.</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"O Joyce, darling, don't look like that!" cried I, in an agony. -"Speak to me. Say something."</p> - -<p>She closed her hand over mine, and her lips moved, but I could -not hear a word.</p> - -<p>"I shall never, never forgive myself so long as I live," murmured -I, a sob rising in my throat; "but if <i>you</i> do not forgive me, Joyce, -I think I shall die, Joyce."</p> - -<p>"Poor Meg!" murmured my sister at last, and then the lump that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> -had been rising in my throat broke into a sob, and the tears rushed -to my eyes.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Can you forgive me, Joyce?" I faltered. "Yes, I think <i>you</i> can. -You are good enough."</p> - -<p>"Forgive you!" echoed she, faintly. And her sweet mouth breaking -into the tremulous smile that was its familiar ornament, she -added, "Dear, <i>you</i> have been unhappy too."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> -have thought of her grief, and yet I do not think that it intensified -it; I think, somehow, my tears did her good.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>But it was not <i>his</i> 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 <i>he</i> should be ashamed of me, if he should take away his friendship -from me because I had done an unworthy thing.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Above the lonely plain the night is blue and vast.</p> -</div> - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - - -<p class="space-above2"></p> - -<div class="transnote"> - <h2 id="end_note" class="nopagebreak" title="">Transcriber's Notes.</h2> - -<p><a href="#Page_35" title="">Page 35</a>: changed ofter to after</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_142" title="">Page 142</a>: changed You've sister to Your sister</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_146" title="">Page 146</a>: changed heeard to heard</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_215" title="">Page 215</a>: removed the word 'the' from 'said the mother'</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_233" title="">Page 233</a>: changed instincttively to instinctively</p> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -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-h.htm or 63202-h.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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