I lay awake quite half an hour that night, and I made up my mind—just as seriously as though my feelings were likely to prove an important influence—that I would in no way try to bias my father in his decision about taking a bailiff. But real as was my trouble about this matter that to me was so mighty, it was all put to flight the next morning by an occurrence of more personal and immediate interest. Such is the blessed elasticity of youth. The occurrence was one which not only brought the remembrance of Captain Forrester, and my romantic dreams for Joyce, once more vividly to my mind, but it also gave no small promise of enjoyment to myself. It consisted in the sudden appearance of a groom from the Manor, who delivered into my hands a note for mother.
It was morning when he came; mother was still in the kitchen with Deborah, and Joyce and I had not finished making our beds and dusting our room. But I do not think there was any delay in the answering of that door-bell. I remember how cross I was when mother would insist on finishing all her business before she opened the note; she went into the poultry-yard and decided what chickens and what ducks should be killed for the week's dinners, she went into the dairy to look at the cream, she even went up herself into the loft to get apples before she would go and find her spectacles in the parlor. And yet any one could have imagined that a note from the squire meant something very important. And so, indeed, it did. It contained a formal invitation to a grand ball to be given at the Manor-house. The card did not say a "grand" ball, but of course we knew that it would be a grand ball. We were fairly dazed with excitement. Actually a ball in our quiet little village. Such a thing had not been known since I had been grown up, and I had not even heard of its having occurred since the days when young Mrs. Broderick had come to the Manor as a bride. Of course we had been to dances in town once or twice—once to the Hoads', and once to a county ball, got up at the White Hart Inn, but I think these were really the only two occasions on which I had danced anywhere out of the dancing academy. Joyce, being a little older, could count about three more such exciting moments in her life. The card was passed round from hand to hand, and then stuck up on the mantle-shelf in front of the clock, as though there were any danger that any of the family would be likely to forget on what day and at what hour Squire Broderick had invited us to "dancing" at the Manor.
I wonder what has made the squire give a ball now, said mother. "I suppose it's the prospect of the elections. He thinks he owes it to the county."
Why on earth should he owe the county a ball because of the elections? cried I. "He is not going to stand, and I don't think he can suppose that a ball would be likely to do the Farnham interests much good, if that's the only man they have got to put forward on the Conservative side."
I don't think it's a young girl's business to talk in that flippant way, Margaret, said the mother. Father was not present just then. "I don't think it's becoming in young folk to talk about matters they can't possibly understand."
I was nettled at this, but I did not dare to answer mother back.
You never heard your father talk like that of Mr. Farnham, I'm sure, added mother. "He likes him a great deal better than he does Mr. Thorne, although Mr. Thorne is a Radical."
Well, I should think so! Mr. Thorne is a capitalist, and father doesn't think that men who have made such large fortunes in business ought to exist, cried I, boldly, applying a theory to an individual as I thought I had been taught. "It is no use his being a Radical, nor giving money to the poor, because he oughtn't to have the money. It's dreadful to think of his having bought a beautiful old place like the Priory with money that he has ground out of his workpeople. No, nobody will ever like Mr. Thorne in the neighborhood."
I know squire and he don't hold together at all, answered mother. "Though they do say Mr. Thorne bought the property through that handsome young spark of a nephew of the squire's. The families were acquainted up North."
Who told you that, mother? asked I, quickly.
Miss Farnham said so when she called yesterday, replied mother. "And she said it was Mr. Thorne was going to contest the seat with her brother, so I don't know how Mr. Hoad could have come suggesting that young captain to your father as he did yesterday. A rich man like the manufacturer would be sure to have much more chance."
I was silent. I was a little out of my depth. "I don't believe Mr. Hoad knew anything at all about it," I said. "How could a man be going to contest a seat against the candidate that his own uncle was backing? It's ridiculous. Mr. Hoad has always got something to say."
Margaret, you really shouldn't allow yourself to pass so many opinions on folk, repeated mother. "First Mr. Farnham, and then Mr. Thorne, and now Mr. Hoad. It's not pretty in young women."
Very well, mother, I won't do it again, said I, merrily. "At all events Parliament doesn't matter much, father says so; and anyhow, squire's going to give us a ball, and nothing can matter so much as that."
Nothing did matter half so much to us three just then, it is true. Mother was just as much excited as we were, and we all fell to discussing the fashions with just as much eagerness, if not as much knowledge, as if we had been London born and bred.
You must look over your clothes and see you have got everything neat. Joyce, I suppose you will wear your white embroidered 'India'? said the mother. And from that it was a very natural step to go and look at the white muslin, and at the other clothes that our simple wardrobes boasted, so that we spent every bit of that morning that was not taken up with urgent household duties in turning over frocks and laces and ribbons, and determining what we should wear, and what wanted washing before we did wear it. Yes, I think I thought of my dress that day for the first time in my life. There was no need to think of Joyce's, because she was sure to be admired, but if there was any chance of my looking well it could only be because of some happy thought with regard to my costume; and so when mother suggested that she should give me her lovely old sea-green shot silk to be made up for the occasion, my heart leaped for joy. I was very much excited. For Joyce, because I had quite made up my mind that it was Captain Forrester who had persuaded the squire to give this ball; and for myself, because it was really a great event in the life of any girl, and I was passionately fond of dancing. I spent the afternoon washing my old lace ruffles, and pulling them out tenderly before the fire, and all the time I was humming waltz tunes, and wondering who would dance with me, and picturing Joyce to myself whirling round in the arms of Captain Forrester. I thought of Joyce and her lover so much that it was scarcely a surprise to me when, just as the light was beginning to fade and tea-time was near, I heard a sharp ring at the front door, and running to the back passage window with my lace in my hand, I saw that Squire Broderick was standing in the porch, and with him his nephew Captain Forrester. I heard Joyce fly through the hall to the kitchen. I think she must have seen the two gentlemen pass down the road, and then she ran back again into the parlor, and Deborah went to the door.
Mrs. Maliphant at home? said the squire's cheery voice; and scarcely waiting for a reply, he strode through to the front room.
I threw down my lace, turned down my sleeves, and without any more attention to my toilet I ran down-stairs. Mother had gone to do some little errands in the village and had not come in; Joyce stood alone with the visitors. She had her plain dark-blue every-day gown on, but the soft little frills at her throat and wrists were clean. I remember thinking how fortunate it was that they were clean. She was standing in the window with Captain Forrester, who was admiring our view over the marsh.
It's a most beautiful country, said he. And his eyes wandered from the plain without that the shades of evening were slowly darkening to the face at his side that shone so fair against the little frilled muslin curtain which she held aside with her hand.
The squire sat at the table; he had taken up the morning paper, and I supposed that the frown on his face was summoned there by something that he read in the columns of this the Liberal journal. Captain Forrester left Joyce and came towards me as soon as I entered the room.
Miss Maliphant, I am delighted to meet you again, said he, with his pleasant polished manner that had the art of never making one feel that he was saying a thing merely to be agreeable. "After our little adventure of the other day, I felt that it was impossible for me to leave the neighborhood without trying to make our acquaintance fast."
Oh, are you leaving the neighborhood? said I—I am afraid a little too anxiously.
Well, not just yet, smiled Captain Forrester. "I think I shall stay till over the ball."
Nonsense, Frank, said the squire, rising and pushing the paper away from him. "Of course you will stay over the ball." Then turning to me, he said, merrily, "No difficulty about you young ladies coming, I hope?"
I don't know, Mr. Broderick, answered I. "You must wait and ask mother. It's a very grand affair for two such simple girls as Joyce and me."
Oh, Margaret, I think we shall be allowed to go, put in Joyce, in her gentle, matter-of-fact voice. "You know we went to a very late ball last Christmas in town."
Considering that we had been sitting over frocks all the morning, this would have been nonsense, excepting that Joyce never could see a joke.
I think I shall have to take Mrs. Maliphant in hand myself if she makes any objection, said the squire, "for we certainly can't spare you and your sister."
Joyce blushed, and Captain Forrester turned to her and was going to say something which I think would have been complimentary, when father entered the room. He had his rough, brown, ill-cut suit on, and his blue handkerchief twisted twice round his neck and tied loosely in front, and did not look at all the same kind of man as the two in front of him. I noticed it for the first time that evening. I was not at all ashamed of it. If I had been questioned, I should have said that I was very proud of it, but I just noticed it, and I wondered if Captain Forrester noticed it too. It certainly was very odd that it never should have occurred to me before, that this lover whom I had picked out for Joyce belonged to the very same class as the squire, whom I thought so unsuitable to her. I suppose it was because Captain Forrester was not a landed proprietor, and that any man who belonged to the noble career of soldiering atoned for his birth by his profession.
How are you, Maliphant? said the squire, grasping him by the hand as though there had been no such thing as any uncomfortable parting between them. "I'm glad to see you are none the worse for this cursed east wind. It's enough to upset many a younger and stronger man."
Father had taken the proffered hand, but not very cordially. I am not sure that he ever shook hands very cordially with people; perhaps it was partly owing to the stiffness in his fingers, but I believe that he regarded it as a useless formality. I imagine this because I, too, have always had a dislike to kissings and hand-shakings, when a simple "good-day" seemed to me to serve the purpose well enough.
Pooh! said father, in answer to the squire's remark. "A man who has his work out-doors all the year round, Squire Broderick, needs must take little account whether the wind be in the east or the south, except as how it'll affect his crops and his flock."
The squire took no notice of this speech. It was so very evident that it was spoken with a view to the vexed question.
I've brought my nephew round, said he, and Captain Forrester left Joyce's side as he said it, and came forward with his pleasant smile and just the proper amount of deference added to his usual charming manner. "He wanted to see the Grange," added the squire, again with that frown upon his brow that I could not understand, but which no doubt proceeded, as he had affirmed, from the effect of the east wind upon his temper.
I'm very glad to see you, sir, said father, shortly. "I hear you rendered my daughters some assistance the other day."
Captain Forrester smiled. "It could scarcely be called assistance," he said. "Your daughter"—and he looked at me to distinguish me from Joyce—"would have been capable of driving the horse, I am sure."
Oh, I understood the mare reared, answered father.
Well, she is not a good horse for a lady to drive, allowed Captain Forrester, as though the confession were wrung from him; and I wondered how he guessed that it annoyed me to be thought incapable of managing the mare. "But some women drive as well as any man."
The squire took up the paper again. I did not think it was good-manners of him.
What a splendid view you have from this house, continued Captain Forrester. "I think it's much finer than from our place."
The squire's shoulders moved with an impatient movement. The article he was reading must decidedly have annoyed him.
Yes, answered Joyce; "but you should come and see it in summer or in autumn. It's very bleak now. The spring is so late this year."
Ay; I don't remember a snowfall in March these five years, said father.
But it has a beautiful effect on this plain, continued the young man, moving away into the window again. And then turning round to Joyce, he added, "Do you sketch, Miss Maliphant?"
No, no, answered father for her. "We have no time for such things. We have all of us plenty to do without any accomplishments."
Miss Margaret can sing 'Robin Adair,' put in the squire, "as well as I want to hear it, accomplishments or not."
Indeed, said Captain Forrester, with a show of interest. "I hope she will sing it to me some day."
He said it with a certain air of patronage, which I found afterwards came from his own excellent knowledge of music.
Are you fond of singing? said I, simply. I was too much of a country girl to think of denying the charge. I was very fond of good music; it was second nature to me, inherited, I suppose, from some forgotten ancestor, and picking out tunes on the old piano was the only thing that ever kept me willingly in-doors. Father delighted in my simple singing of simple ditties, and so did the squire; I had grown used to thinking it was a talent in me, my only one, and I was not ashamed of owning up to it. "I'll sing it to you now if you like."
That's very kind of you, said the young man, with a little smile. And I sat down and sang the old tune through. I remember that, for the first time in my life, I was really nervous. Captain Forrester stood by the piano. He was very kind; I don't know that any one had ever said so much to me about my voice before, but in spite of it all I knew for the first time that I knew nothing. I felt angrily ashamed when Joyce, in reply to pressing questions about her musical capacity, answered that I had all the talent, and began telling of the village concerts that I was wont to get up for the poor people, and of how there was one next week, when he must go and hear me sing.
Certainly I will, he answered, pleasantly, "and do anything I can to help you. I have had some practice at that kind of thing."
Why don't you say you are a regular professional at it, Frank? put in the squire, I fancied a little crossly. "He's always getting up village concerts—a regular godsend at that kind of thing."
Frank laughed, and said he hoped we would employ him after such a character, and then he asked what was our programme. Joyce told him. I was going to sing, and Miss Hoad was going to sing—and she sang beautifully, for she had learned in London—and then I would sing with the blacksmith, and Miss Thorne would play with the grocer on the cornet, and glees and comic songs would fill up the remainder. The smile upon Captain Forrester's face clouded just a little at the mention of Miss Thorne.
Miss Thorne is not very proficient on the piano, said he. "Have you already asked her to perform?"
Do you know Miss Thorne? asked Joyce, surprised.
Yes, answered the captain; "she lived in the village where I was brought up as a boy—not far from Manchester. Her father was a great manufacturer, you know."
Yes; we know that well enough. And I glanced uneasily at father; for if he knew that this young fellow was a friend of the Thornes, I was afraid it would set him against him. Luckily, he was busy talking to the squire.
She's a very nice girl, said Joyce, kindly, wanting to be agreeable, although indeed we knew no more of Mary Thorne than shaking hands with her coming out of church on a Sunday afternoon.
Charming, acquiesced the captain; "but she's not a good musician, and I shouldn't ask her to perform unless you're obliged to."
We said we were not obliged to; but Joyce said she wouldn't like to do anything unkind, and she was afraid Mary Thorne wanted to be asked to perform. And then they two retired into the window again, discussing the concert and the view, and I soon saw proudly that they were talking as though they had known one another for years. It generally took a long while for any one to get through the first ice with Joyce, but this man had an easy way with him; he was so sympathetic in his personality—so kind and frank and natural.
That's a most ridiculous article in the Herald, said the squire to father. "I wonder Blair can put in such stuff. He's a sensible man."
I wonder you'll admit even that, squire, answered father, with a little laugh. The paper, I need not say, was the Liberal organ.
Oh, well, smiled the other, "I can see the good in a man though I don't agree with him. But I think that"—pointing to the print—"is beneath contempt."
I don't hold with it myself, answered father; "the man has got no pluck."
Oh no, of course—doesn't go far enough for you, Maliphant, laughed the squire; and at that moment mother came in or I do not know what father would have answered. She came in slowly, and stood a moment in the door-way looking round upon us all. Joyce blushed scarlet, and came forward out of the recess. The squire rose and hastened towards her.
We have been invading your house while you have been away, Mrs. Maliphant, said he. "That wasn't polite, was it? But you'll forgive me, I know."
Mother's eyes scarcely rested on him; they travelled past him to Captain Forrester, who stood in the window.
My nephew, Frank Forrester, said the squire, hastily following her look. The captain advanced and bowed to mother. He could do nothing more, for she did not hold out her hand.
I am very glad to see any friend of yours, squire, said she. And then she turned away from him, and unfastened her cloak, which I took from her and hung up in the hall.
Joyce, lay the cloth, said she. "We'll have tea at once." I left the room with sister.
Never mind, whispered I, outside, as we fetched the pretty white egg-shell cups that always came out when we had any company; "mother doesn't mean to be queer. She is just a little cold now, because she wants Captain Forrester to understand it wasn't with her leave we let him drive us home. But she isn't really cross."
Cross! Oh, Margaret, no—of course not, echoed Joyce. She was taking down a plate from under a pile of cups, and said no more at the moment. I was ashamed and half vexed. That was the worst of Joyce. Sometimes she would reprove one when one was actually fighting her battles.
Of course we ought not to have done it, continued she, setting the cups in order on the tray. "I felt it at the time."
Then, why in the world didn't you say so? cried I.
I didn't know how to say so; you scarcely gave me a chance, answered she. "Of course, I know you did it because I was so stupidly frightened, but it makes me rather uncomfortable now."
Oh, I thought you seemed to get on very well with Captain Forrester, just now, said I, huffily, kneeling down to reach the cake on the bottom shelf. "You seemed quite civil to him, and you didn't look uncomfortable."
Didn't I? I'm glad, answered Joyce, simply. "Of course one wants to be civil to the squire's friends in father's house. And I do think he is a very polite gentleman."
She took up the tray and moved on into the parlor, and I went across into the kitchen to fetch the urn. I had never been envious of Joyce's beauty up to the present time. Nothing had happened to make me so, and I was fully occupied in being proud of it. But if her beauty was of such little account to her that she had not even been pleased by this handsome man's admiration of it—well, I thought I could have made better use of it.
When I went into the parlor again the groups were all changed. Father stood by the fire and the squire had risen. Father had his hands crossed behind his back and his sarcastic expression on, and the squire was talking loudly. Joyce was laying the cloth, and mother stood by the window where sister had stood before; Captain Forrester was talking to her as if he had never cared to do anything else. I could not hear what they were saying, the squire's voice was too loud; but I could see that mother was quite civil.
I never liked that man Hoad, the squire was saying, and I felt a throb of satisfaction as I heard him. "I don't believe he's straightforward. Do anything for money, that's my feeling."
He's a friend of mine, said father, stiffly.
Oh, well, of course, if he's a friend of yours, well and good, answered Mr. Broderick, shortly. "You probably know him better than I do. But I don't like him. I should never be able to trust him."
Perhaps that is because you do not know him, suggested father.
No doubt, no doubt, answered the squire.
I hear he has turned Radical now, added he, coming to the real core of the grievance. "He used to call himself a Liberal, but now I hear he calls himself a Radical, and is going to put up some Radical candidate to oppose us."
Yes, I know, answered father, too honest to deny the charge.
Oh, do you know who it is? asked the squire, sharply.
No, I don't, answered father, in the same way.
The squire paused a moment, then he said, unable to keep it in, "Are you going to support him too?"
The color went out of father's face; I knew he was angry.
Well, Mr. Broderick, I don't know what sort of a candidate it'll be, said he, in a provoking manner. "There's Radicals and Radicals."
The squire smacked his boot with his walking-stick and did not answer. Captain Forrester came forward, for mother had gone to the table to make the tea.
Did I hear you say that you were a Radical, Mr. Maliphant? asked the young man, looking at father.
I am not a Tory, answered father, without looking up. I thought his tone was cruelly curt.
Well, I am a Socialist, answered Frank Forrester, with an air that would have been defiant had it not been too pleasant-spoken. Father smiled. The words must have provoked that—would have provoked more if the speaker had not been so good-tempered.
Ah, I know what you young fellows mean by a Socialist, he murmured.
I should say I went about as far as most men in England, said Frank, looking at him in that open-eyed fixed way that he used towards men as well as towards women.
I should say that you went farther than you can see, said the Squire, laconically.
Frank laughed, good-humoredly. "Ah, I refuse to quarrel with you, uncle," said he, taking hold of the squire's arm in a friendly fashion. It was said as though he would imply that he could quarrel with other people when he liked, but his look belied his words.
If you will let me, I'll come in and have a chat one of these days, Mr. Maliphant, continued he. "When uncle is not by, you know." He said the words as though he felt sure that his request would be granted, and yet with his confidence there was a graceful deference to the elder man which was very fascinating. Why did father look at him as he did? Did he feel something that I felt? And what was it that I felt? I do not know.
I am a busy man and haven't much time for talk, sir, but you're welcome when you like to call, answered father, civilly, not warmly.
The squire had sat down again while his nephew and father were exchanging these few words. He crossed one knee over the other and sat there striking his foot with his hand—a provoking habit that he had when he was trying to control his temper.
There'll be a nice pair of you, said he, trying to turn the matter off into a joke. "It's a pity, Frank, that you have no vote to help Mr. Maliphant's candidate with."
I don't know that any so-called Radical candidate would or could do much in Parliament to help the questions that I have at heart, said Captain Forrester. "As Mr. Maliphant justly observed, there are Radicals and Radicals, and the political Radical has very little in common with those who consider merely social problems."
Father did look up now, and his eyes shone as I had seen them shine when he was talking to the working-men, for though I had not often heard him—the chief of his discourses being given in the village club—I had once been to a large meeting in town where he had been the chief speaker.
One never knows where to have any of you fellows, laughed the squire, rather uncomfortably. "You always led me to believe, Maliphant, that you would have nothing to do with political party spirit. You always said that no party yet invented would advance the interests of the people in a genuine fashion, and now, as soon as a Radical candidate appears, you talk of supporting him."
I am not aware that I talked of supporting him, said father.
But you won't return a Radical, continued the squire, not hearing the remark. "The country isn't ripe for that sort of thing yet, whatever you may think it will be. You're very influential, I know. And if you're not with us, as I once hoped you might be, you'll be a big weight against us. But with all your influence you won't return a Radical. The Tories are too strong; they're much stronger than they were last election, and then Sethurst was an old-fashioned Liberal and a well-known man in the county besides. You won't return a Radical. I don't believe there's a county in England would return what you would call a Radical, and certainly not ours."
I don't believe there is, said father, quietly.
Then why do you want to support this candidate?
I don't, answered father. "I'm a man of my word, Squire Broderick. I told you long ago I'd have nothing to do with politics, and no more I will. If I am to be of any use, I must do it in another way—I must work from another level. The county may return what it likes for all I shall trouble about it."
Well, 'pon my soul, began the squire, but at that moment mother's voice came from the tea-table. She saw that a hot argument was imminent, and she never could abide an argument. I think that father, too, must have been disinclined for one, for when she said, "Father, your tea is poured out," he took the hint at once. The squire looked disappointed for a moment, but I think he was so glad that father's influence was not going to take political shape against his candidate that he forgave all else.
Mother was just making Captain Forrester welcome beside her as the newest guest, when Deborah opened the door and ushered in Mr. Hoad. I had quite forgotten that father had invited him. He stood a moment as it were appraising the company. His eyes rested for less than an instant on Squire Broderick, on Captain Forrester, and then shifted immediately to mother.
Oh, I am afraid that I intrude, Mrs. Maliphant, said he.
Not at all, not at all, Hoad, declared father. "Come in; we expected you."
Mother rose and offered him her hand. Then Captain Forrester, who had been looking at him, came forward and offered his too in his most genial manner. It was not till long afterwards that I found out that he made a special point of always being most genial to those people whom he considered ever so little beneath him.
Oh, how are you, Hoad? said he. "I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't quite sure. I didn't expect to meet you here."
No; nor I you! exclaimed Hoad, gliding with ready adaptability into the position offered him—a quality which I think was perhaps his chief characteristic. "Delighted to see you."
Forrester gave up his place next mother, and sat down beside Joyce. The squire just nodded to Mr. Hoad, and then the conversation became general till the squire and his nephew left, very shortly afterwards.
Three weeks had passed since the day when Captain Forrester drove us out from town. Winter was gliding slowly into spring. The winds were still cold and piercing, and the bright sun and keen air sadly treacherous to sensitive folk, but the snow had all melted and the grass sprung green upon the marsh, throwing the blue of the sea beyond into sharp contrast; the cattle came out once more to feed; yellow-hammers and butcher-birds began to appear on the meadows; and over earth and sea, soft gray clouds broke into strange shapes upon the blue.
I remember all this now; then I was only conscious of one thing—that, in spite of the east wind, I was happy.
Father was well again; he rode over the farm on his cob just as he used to do, and mother had forgotten the very name of a poultice. Joyce and the captain showed every sign of playing in the romance that I had planned for them; no one had mentioned the subject of a bailiff for Knellestone from that day to this; and the squire's ball was close at hand.
How was it possible that I should be otherwise than happy?
It was the very night before the dance. Jessie Hoad, who had consented to sing for our village concert, had been over and we had been having a practice under Captain Forrester's directions. She was a fashionably dressed, fashionably mannered, fashionably minded young woman, and quite content with herself; she generally resented directions, but she had submitted with a pretty good grace to his.
Miss Thorne had also been in. Joyce in this had shown one of those strange instances of obstinacy that were in her. Mary Thorne had asked to come, and she should not be refused. I remember noticing that Captain Forrester and that particularly gay-tempered young lady seemed to be very intimate together; just, in fact, as people who had known one another from childhood would be. They took the liberty of telling one another home-truths—at least Mary Thorne did (I fancied Frank responded less promptly), and did it in a blunt fashion that was peculiar to her. But I liked blunt people. I liked Mary Thorne very much.
Although she was an heiress to money that had been "sucked from the blood of the people"—to money made from a factory where girls and little children worked long hours out of the sunlight and the fresh air—although she lived in a great house that overlooked acres of land that belonged to her—and although my father could scarcely be got to speak to hers—I liked Mary Thorne. She was so frank and jolly, and took it so as a matter-of-course that we were to be friends, that I always forgot that she rode in a carriage when I walked, and that she and I ought, by rights, not to be so much at ease.
That day she was particularly jolly, and she and I and Captain Forrester laughed together till I was quite ashamed to see that I had left Joyce all the entertaining of Miss Hoad to do in the mean time. For the captain had not paid so much attention to Joyce on that day as on most others; I suppose he thought it was more discreet not to do so before strangers.
Both our lady visitors had left, however, by half-past five o'clock, and Captain Forrester stood on the garden terrace now with Joyce alone, while I had returned to the darning of the family socks. It was close upon sunset, and they were looking at the lilacs that were beginning to swell in the bud. Joyce wore a lilac gown herself, I remember. The captain had once admired it, and I had noticed that she had put it on very often since then.
I watched them from the parlor window where I sat with my work. For the first time I was half frightened at what I had done. I wondered what this romance was like that I had woven for Joyce. I felt that she was gliding away out of my ken, into an unknown world where I had driven her, and where I could not now follow her. Was it all happiness in that world?
Although the light was fading, and I wanted it all for my work, I moved away from the window-seat farther into the room. It seemed indelicate to watch them; although, indeed, they were only standing there side by side quietly, and what they were saying to one another I could not have heard if I had wished to do so. But it was my doing that they were alone at all. Joyce had stockings to darn too, but I had suggested that the parlor posy wanted freshening, and that there were some primroses out on the cliff.
Mother was out; she had gone to assist at the arrival of a new member of the population, and such an event always interested her so profoundly that she forgot other things for the moment. Such an opportunity might not occur again for a long time, and I was not going to miss it—otherwise those two had not been alone together before. At least not to my knowledge.
Once Joyce had gone out into the village marketing by herself, and when she had come home she had run straight up into her room instead of coming into the parlor. I had gone up to her after a little while, as she did not come down, and had found her sitting by the window with her things still on, looking out to the sea with a half-troubled expression on her face. I had asked her what was the matter, and she had smiled and said, "Nothing at all," and I had believed her.
However, even in the most open way in the world, Captain Forrester had managed to get pretty well acquainted with Joyce by this time, for he had come to the Grange almost every day since the squire had brought him to pay that first call. He came on the plea of interest in father's views; and though mother, I could see, had taken a dislike to him, simply because he was a rival to the squire, and took every opportunity of saying disparaging things about him to us girls when he was not present, even she felt the influence of the friendly manner that insisted on everything being pleasant and friendly in return, and did not seem somehow to be able to deny him the freedom which he claimed so naturally, of coming to the house whenever the fancy seized him. Certainly it would have been very difficult to turn Captain Forrester out.
Although it was evident enough to every one but father, in his dreamy self-absorption, that the young man came to see my beautiful sister, and was quickly falling hopelessly in love with her, still he was far too courteous to neglect others for her—he was always doing something for mother, procuring her something that she wanted, or in some way helping her; and as for me, he not only took all the burden of the village concert off my shoulders, the musical part of which always fell to my lot, but he also taught me how to sing my songs as I had no idea of how to sing them before, and took so much interest in my voice and in my performance that he really made me quite ambitious for the time as to what I might possibly do. And however much mother might have wished to turn the captain out, there were difficulties attending this course of action.
In the first place, he was the squire's nephew, and she could not very well be rude to the squire's nephew, however much she may have fancied that the squire would, in his heart, condone it; and then father had taken such an unusually strong fancy to the young man, that it would have been more than mother had ever been known to do to gainsay it. This friendship between an old and a young man was really a remarkable thing.
Father was not at all given to marked preferences for people; he was a reserved man, and his own society was generally sufficient for him. Even in the class whose interests he had so dearly at heart—his own class he would have called it, although in force and culture he was very far above the typical representatives of it—he was a god to the many, rather than a friend to the individual. And apart from his friendship with the squire, which was a friendship rather of custom than of choice, I do not remember his having a single intimate acquaintance. For I do not choose to consider that Hoad ever really was a friend in any sense of the word.
I have always fancied that father's capacity for friendship was swallowed up in that one romantic episode of his youth, that stood side by side with his love for our mother, and was not less beautiful though so different.
At first I think Forrester's aristocratic appearance, his knowledge of hunting and horse-flesh, and music and dancing, and all the pleasures of the rich and idle, his polished manners, and even his good coat, rather stood in his light in the eyes of the "working-man;" but it was only at first. Forrester's genuine enthusiasm for the interests that he affected, and his admiring deference for the mind that had thought the problem out, were enough to win the friendship of any man; for I suppose even at father's age one is not impervious to this refined sort of flattery.
Those were happy days in the dear old home, when we were all together, and none but the most trivial cloud of trouble or doubt had come to mar the harmony of our life.
I never remember father merrier than he was at that time. He and Frank would sit there smoking their pipes, and laughing and talking as it does one's heart good to remember. There was never any quarrelling over these discussions, as there used to be over the arguments with the squire. Not that the young man always agreed at once about things. He required to be convinced, but then he always was convinced in the end. And his wild schemes for the development of the people and the prevention of crime, and the alleviation of distress, all sounded so practical and pleasant, as set forth in his pleasant, brilliant language, full of fire and enthusiasm, and not at all like the same theories that father had been wont to quarrel over with the squire in his sullen, serious fashion.
Everything that the captain proposed was to be won from the top, by discussions and meetings among the great of the land. He could shake hands on terms of equality with the poorest laborer over his pot of beer, but it was not from the laborer that the reform would ever be obtained; and he quite refused to see the matter in the sombre light in which father held it, who believed in no reform—if reform there could be—that did not come from the class that needed it, and that should come without bitter struggles and patient, dogged perseverance. And in the end he convinced—or seemed to convince—Frank that this was so.
I noticed how, imperceptibly, under the influence of father's earnest, powerful nature, the young man slowly became more earnest and more serious too. He talked less and he listened more; and truly there was no lack of food.
The great subjects under discussion were the nationalization of land and the formation of trade corporations for the protection of the artisan class. These corporations were to be formed as far as possible on the model of the old guilds of the Middle Ages; they were to have compulsory provident funds for widows, orphans, and disabled workmen; they were to prevent labor on Sundays, and the employment of children and married women in factories; they were to determine the hours of labor and the rate of wages, and to inquire into the sanitary condition of workplaces.
There were many other principles belonging to them besides these that I have quoted, but I cannot remember any more, though I remember clearly how father and Frank disagreed upon the question of whether the corporations were to enjoy a monopoly or not. I suppose they agreed finally upon the point, for I know that Frank undertook to air the matter at public meetings in London, and seemed to be quite sure that he would be able to start a trial society before long. I recollect how absolutely he refused to be damped by father's less sanguine mood; and best of all, I remember the smile that he brought to father's face, and the light that he called back to his drooping eye.
There was only one blot: the squire did not come to see us. No doubt I should not have allowed at this time that it was any blot, and when mother remarked upon it, I held my tongue; but I know very well that I was sorry the squire kept away.
On this evening of which I am thinking, however, the squire did not keep away. I am afraid I had hurried a little over the darning of father's socks, that I might get to the making up of my own lace ruffles for the great event of the next night, and as I was sitting there in the window, making the most of the fading daylight, he came in. I heard him ask Deborah for father in the hall, and when she answered that she thought he was still out, he said he would wait, and walked on into the parlor. He was free to come and go in our house. I fancied that he started a little when he saw me there alone; I suppose he expected to find the whole party as usual.
Oh, how are you? said he, abruptly, holding out his hand without looking at me. "Is your mother out?"
I explained that mother had gone to the village to see a neighbor.
I'll just wait a few minutes for your father, said he. "I want particularly to see him to-night."
Is it about that young man? asked I.
I do not know what possessed me to ask it. It was not becoming behavior on my part, but at his words the recollection of that Mr. Trayton Harrod, whom he had recommended to father as a bailiff, had suddenly returned to me. No mention having been made of him again, I had really scarcely remembered the matter till now, the excitement of the past three weeks had been so great.
He knit his brows in annoyance, and I was sorry I had spoken.
What young man? asked he.
That gentleman whom you recommended to father for the farm, said I, half ashamed of myself.
Oh, Trayton Harrod! exclaimed the squire, with a relieved expression. "Oh no, no, I shall not trouble your father again about that unless he speaks to me. I thought it might be an advantageous thing, for I have known the young man since he was a lad, and he has been well brought up—a clever fellow all round. But your father knows his own business best. It might not work."
It was on my lips to say that of course it would not work, but I restrained myself, and the squire went on:
I'm so delighted to see your father himself again, he said. "There's no need for any one to help him so long as he can do it all himself; and of course you, I know, do a great deal for him," added he, as though struck by an after-thought. "I saw you walking round the mill farm this morning."
Did you? answered I. "I only went up about the flour. I didn't see you."
No, he said. "I was riding the other way."
He walked up to the window as he spoke, and looked out over the lawn.
Somehow I was glad that I had just seen Joyce and Captain Forrester go down the cliff out of sight a few minutes before the squire arrived.
Everybody out? asked he.
Yes, answered I. "Everybody."
He did not ask whether his nephew had been there. He drew a chair up to the table and began playing with the reels and tapes in my work-basket. Mother and Joyce would have been in an agony at seeing their sacred precincts invaded by the cruel hand of man, but it rather amused me to see the hopeless mess into which he was getting the hooks and silks and needles. My basket never was a miracle of orderliness at any time.
Is Miss Joyce quite well? said he at last, trying to get the scissors free of a train of cotton in which he had entangled them.
I felt almost inclined to laugh. Even to me, who am awkward enough, this seemed such an awkward way of introducing the subject, for of course I had guessed that he had missed her directly he had come into the room.
Yes, quite well, thank you, answered I. And then I added, laughing, and seeing that he had got hold of a bit of my lace, "Oh, take care, please, that's a bit of my finery for to-morrow night."
He dropped it as if it had burned him. "Oh dear, dear, yes, how clumsy I am!" cried he, pushing the work-basket far from him. "I hope I have spoiled nothing."
Why, no, of course not, laughed I. "I oughtn't to have spoken. But you see I have only got that one bit of lace, and I want it for to-morrow night."
Oh yes; I suppose you young ladies are going to be very grand indeed, smiled he.
Oh no, not grand, insisted I, "but very jolly. We mean to enjoy ourselves, I can tell you."
That's right, said he; "so do I."
But he could not get away from the subject of Joyce.
Has your sister gone far? asked he, in a minute.
I don't know, I answered, quite determined to throw no light upon the subject of where she was and with whom.
A direct question made it difficult now to keep to this determination.
Do you know if my nephew has been here this afternoon? was the question.
I looked down intently at my work.
Yes, he came, answered I. "He sat some while with father, till father went out."
I did not add any mention of where he had been since. It was a prevarication of course, but I thought I did it out of a desire to spare the squire's feelings. He asked no more questions. He sat silent for a while.
Your father and Frank seem to be great friends, observed he, presently, and I fancied a little bitterly.
Yes, I replied, "Captain Forrester has quite picked father's spirits up. He has been a different man since he had him to sympathize with over his pet schemes."
I felt directly I had said the words that they were inconsiderate words, and I regretted them, but I could not take them back.
Squire Broderick flushed over his fair, white brow.
Yes; my nephew professes to be as keen after all these democratic dodges as your father himself, he said, curtly.
Oh, it's not that, cried I, anxious to mend matters. "Father doesn't need to have everybody agree with him for him to be friends with them."
No, I quite understand, answered the squire, beginning again on the unlucky basket. And after a pause he added, as though with an effort, "Frank is a very delightful companion, I know, and when he brings his enthusiasm to bear upon subjects that are after one's own heart, it is naturally very pleasant."
Yes, I agreed. "That's just it, he is so very enthusiastic. He would make such a splendid speaker, such a splendid leader of some great Democratic movement."
The squire left my work-basket in the muddle in which he had finally put it, and stuck his hands into his pockets.
Do you think so? he said.
Oh yes, I'm sure of it, continued I, blindly. "And I am sure father thinks so too."
Indeed! answered the squire, I thought a little scornfully. "And, pray, how is my nephew going to be a great Democratic leader? Is he going into Parliament? Is he going to contest the county at the next election?"
Why, how can you think he would do such a thing, Mr. Broderick, exclaimed I, "when he knows that you are supporting the opposite side?"
Oh, that would be no objection, said the squire, still in the same tone of voice. "The objection would be that a Radical stands such a small chance of getting in."
Besides, added I, collecting myself, "I am sure he has no wish to go into Parliament. Father and he both agree that a man can do a great deal more good out of Parliament than in it. They say that the finest leaders that there have been in all nations have been those who have got at the people straight—without any humbug between them."
Pooh! said the squire. Then controlling himself, he added, "Well, and does Frank think that he is going to get at the people that way? Does he suppose it will cost him nothing?"
Oh no; I suppose it will cost money, assented I.
Ah! said the squire, in the tone of a man who has got to the bottom of the question at last. "Well, then, I think it's only fair that your father should know that there is very little chance of Frank's being of any use to him. If he is pinning his faith on Frank as a possible representative of his convictions, he is making a mistake, and it is only right that he should be warned. Frank has no money of his own, no money at all. He has nothing but his captain's pay, and that isn't enough for him to keep himself upon."
The squire spoke bitterly. Even I, girl as I was, could see that something had annoyed him to the point of making him lose control over himself.
I don't think father has pinned his faith on Captain Forrester, said I, half vexed. "I don't think there has been any question between them such as you fancy. I think they are merely fond of discussing matters upon which they agree. At all events, I am sure it has never entered father's head to consider whether Captain Forrester had money or not."
Well, I think, for several reasons, it is just as well there should be no mistake about the thing, repeated the squire, vehemently, walking up and down the room in his excitement. "Frank has no money and no prospects, excepting those which he may make for himself. I sincerely hope that he may do something better than marry an heiress, which is his mother's aim for him, but meanwhile he certainly has very little property excepting his debts."
A light suddenly broke upon me. The words "marry an heiress," had suddenly flashed a meaning on Squire Broderick's strange attitude. He was afraid that Captain Forrester was winning Joyce's affections. He was jealous. I would not have believed it of him; but perhaps, of course, it was natural. I was sorry for him. The remembrance of the sad bereavements of his youth made me sorry for him.
After all, though I did not then consider him a young man, it was sad to have done with life so early, to have no chance of another little heir to the acres that he owned, instead of that poor little baby of whom mother had told us. For, of course, there was no chance of that, and Captain Forrester would finally inherit them. I had not thought of that before. No wonder he was bitter, and I was sorry for him. He spoke no more after that last speech. He came and stood over me where I was working.
But after all, said he, presently, in his natural genial tones, "I don't know why I troubled you with all that. You are scarcely the person whom it should interest. I beg your pardon."
I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.
The squire moved to the window, and I put down my work and followed him. The daylight had gone; there was no more sewing to be done that evening without a lamp. As I came up I saw the tall, slight figure of Captain Forrester standing up against the dim blue of the twilight sky, and holding out his hand to help my sister up the last, steepest bit of the ascent to our lawn. I glanced at the squire. His face was not sad nor sorry, but it was angry. He turned away from the window, and so did I, and as we faced round we saw mother standing in the door-way. She had her bonnet and cloak still on; she must have come in quietly by the back door, as she had a habit of doing, while we were talking. How much had she heard of what the squire had said?
He went up to her and bade her good-day and good-bye in one breath. He said he would not wait longer to see father. He went out and away without meeting his nephew. I was very glad that he did, for thus mother went up-stairs at once to take off her things, and being in a garrulous frame of mind, from her experiences of the afternoon with the new-born baby, she stayed up-stairs some time talking to Deborah, and did not come down to the parlor again till after Captain Forrester had taken his leave. So she never knew anything of that long half-hour spent upon the garden cliff at the sun-setting.
I think I saw the dawn that day on which the ball was to be. Whether I did or not, the morning was still very gray and cold when I crept out of my bed and stole to the wardrobe to look at our two dresses. There they hung, carefully displayed upon shifting pegs such as were used in old-fashioned presses: one soft white muslin; the other of that pale apple-green shot silk which had belonged to mother in the days of her youth, and which I had been allowed to make up for the occasion. We had worked at them for days.
Joyce was clever at dress-making: she was clever at all things that needed deftness of fingers. She had fitted me with my frock, and we had both worked together. But now the dresses were finished, the last ruffle had been tacked in; there was nothing more to do, and the day wore away very slowly till evening.
At last the hour came when it was time to dress, and such a washing of faces and brushing of hair as went on in that little attic chamber for half an hour no one would believe.
Joyce insisted on "finishing" me first. She coiled up my hair at the back of my head, brushing it as neatly as she could, and laying it in two thick bands on either side of my temples. It never will look very neat, it is such vigorous unruly hair, this red hair of mine, and to this day always has tendrils escaping here and there over forehead and neck. But she did her best for it, and I was pleased with myself. I was still more pleased with myself when I got on the green shot silk with the lace ruffles. Joyce said she was surprised to see what a change it made in me. So was I.
My skin was very pink and white wherever it was not spoiled by freckles, and the green of the frock seemed to show it up and make the red lips look redder than ever. It is true that my neck and arms were frail still with the frailness of youth, but then my figure was slim too, and my eyes were black with excitement, and shone till they were twice their usual size. I thought, as I looked in the glass, that I was not so very plain. Yes, I was right when I had begged the shot silk. Joyce could wear anything, but I, who was no "fine bird" by nature, needed the "fine feathers."
I was pleased with myself, and I smiled with satisfaction when Joyce declared again that she was quite surprised to see what a good appearance I had. "If you would only keep yourself tidy, Margaret, you have no idea how much better you would look," said she.
It was what Deborah was always saying, but I did not resent it from Joyce—she was gentle in her way of saying it; and I remember that I promised I would brush my hair smooth in future, and wear my collars more daintily. I do not believe that I kept to my resolution, but that evening I was not at all the Margaret of every-day life as I surveyed myself in the glass.
But come, said I, hurriedly—half ashamed of myself, I do believe—"we shall be late if we don't make haste. Do get on, Joyce."
Joyce began brushing out her long golden hair—real gold hair, not faint flaxen—and coiled the smooth, shining bands of it round her little head. It was a little head, such as I have seen in the pictures of the Virgins painted by Italian painters of long ago.
I sha'n't be long, said she.
I sat down and watched her. She would not have let me help her if I had wanted to do so. She would have said that I should only disarrange myself, and that I should be of no use. Certainly nothing was wanted but what she did for herself, and she did it quickly enough. When she stood up before the mirror—tipped back to show the most of her person, for we had no pier-glasses at the Grange—I do not believe that any one could have found a thing to improve in her. Her figure looked taller and slenderer than ever in the long white dress, and the soft little folds of the muslin clung tenderly around her delicate shape, just leaving bare her neck and arms, that were firm and white as alabaster. Her face was flushed as a May rose; her lips were parted in her anxiety to hasten, and showed the little even white teeth within. Her blue eyes were clear and soft under the black lashes.
She moved before the glass to see that her dress was not too long, and bent back her slender throat, upon which she had just clasped mother's delicate little old-fashioned gold necklace with the drops of yellow beryl-stone. It was the only bit of good jewellery in the family, and Joyce always wore it, it became her so well.
Come now, Meg, said she, "I am quite ready. Let's go and see if we can do anything to help mother."
We went down-stairs. Deborah was there in mother's room waiting to survey us all. She had just fastened mother's dove-colored satin gown that had served her for every party she had been at since she was married. Mother had just the same shaped cap on that she always wore; she never would alter it for any fashion, but that night the frill of it was made of beautiful old lace that she kept in blue paper and lavender all the rest of the year. I thought she looked splendid, but Joyce was not so easily pleased.
Dear mother, you really must have another gown before you go anywhere again, said she, shaking out the skirt with a dissatisfied air. "This satin has lost all its stiffness."
Mother looked at it a little anxiously herself, I remember, when Joyce said this. We considered Joyce a judge of dress and the fashions, and of course the squire's ball was a great occasion. But she said she thought it did very well for an old lady, and indeed so did I, although that may perhaps have been because I was very anxious to be off.
Dear mother! I do not think she gave much thought to herself; she was taken up with pride in us. Yes, I do believe that night she was proud even of me.
She smiled when Deborah, with her hand on the door-knob, said, patronizingly, that although she did not hold with bare arms and necks for modest females, she never would have thought that I should have "dressed up" so well. Mother bade her begone, but I think she was pleased.
Dear me! said she, looking at me. "I recollect buying that silk. It must have been in '52, when father took me up to town to see the Exhibition. It was cheap for the good silk it is. It has made up very well."
She turned me all round. Then she went to her jewel-case, unlocked it, and took out a row of red coral beads.
That's what you want with that dress, said she, fastening them round my throat. "And you shall have them for your own. Red-haired women ought to wear coral, folk say. Though for my part, I always thought it was putting on too many colors."
How well I remember my pleasure at that gift! Joyce wanted to persuade me not to wear them; she said the pale green of the frock was prettier without the red beads. But I wouldn't listen to her; I was too pleased with them, and I do not believe that it was entirely owing to gratified vanity; I think a little of it was pleasure that mother thought my appearance worth caring for.
I should not have thought it worth caring for myself two days ago, and I should not have cared whether mother did or not. But something had happened to me. Was it the sight of Joyce and her lover that had made me think of myself as a woman? I cannot tell. All I know is that when we walked into the squire's ball-room a quarter of an hour afterwards, I felt my face flame as I saw his gaze rest upon me for a moment, and I longed most heartily to be back again in my high-necked homespun frock, with no corals round my throat at all. So inconsistent are we at nineteen!
Fortunately my awakening self-consciousness was soon put to flight by other more engrossing emotions. There was a fair sprinkling of people already when we got into the room, and more were arriving every moment. Mr. Farnham and the maiden sister with whom he lived were going busily about welcoming the squire's guests almost as though they were the host and hostess themselves: he was the Conservative member. A quiet, inoffensive old gentleman himself, who would have been nothing and nobody without the squire; but blessed with a most officious lady for relative, who took the whole neighborhood under her wing.
She rather annoyed me by the way she had of trading on the squire's support of her brother. He supported her brother because he was a Conservative, not at all because he was Mr. Farnham, or even Miss Farnham's brother.
Poor Mr. Broderick, I dare say, if the truth had been known, he must often heartily have longed to get rid of them. But the old thing was a good soul in her way, if it was a dictatorial, loud-voiced way, and was very active among the poor, although it was not always in the manner which they liked.
She and mother invariably quarrelled over the advantages of soup-kitchens and clothing clubs; for mother was every bit as obstinate as Miss Farnham, and being an old-fashioned woman, liked to do her charity in a more personal fashion.
I looked with mingled awe and amusement upon their meeting to-night. Miss Farnham had an aggressive sort of head-dress, with nodding artificial flowers that seemed to look down scornfully upon mother's old lace and soft frills. She had not seen me for some time, and when mother introduced me as her youngest daughter, she took my hand firmly in hers, and held it a while in her uncompromising grip while she looked at me through and through.
Well, I never saw such a thing in my life! exclaimed she presently, in a loud voice that attracted every one's attention.
I blushed. I was not given to blushing, but it was enough to make any one blush. I thought, of course, that she was alluding to my attire, in which I had felt so shy and awkward from the moment that I had entered the ball-room, from the moment that I had felt the squire's glance rest upon my neck and arms.
She dropped my hand.
The very image of him, said she, turning to my mother.
Yes, she is very like her father, agreed the mother.
Why, my dear, the very image of him, repeated the aggravating creature. "Got his temper too?" asked she, turning to me again.
I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure, answered I, half amused, but still more annoyed. "I dare say."
Oh, I'll be bound you have, and proud of it too, declared she, shaking her head emphatically. "Girls are always proud to be like their fathers."
I don't suppose it'll make any very particular difference who I'm like, said I. "Things will happen just the same, I expect."
Miss Farnham laughed and patted me boisterously on the back.
I do not think she was an ill-natured woman, although she certainly had the talent of making one feel very uncomfortable.
Well, you're not so handsome as your sister, added she. "But I don't know that you hadn't better thank your stars for that."
With that she turned away from me and sat down beside mother, arranging her dress comfortably over her knees as though she meant to stay there the whole evening.
The people kept coming fast now. The squire stood at the door shaking hands as hard as he could. There was the old village doctor with his pretty granddaughter, and the young village doctor who had inherited the practice, and had just married a spry little wife in the hope of making it more important.
And then there was the widow of an officer, who lived in a solid brick house that stood at the corner of the village street, and had two sons in the ship business in town. And there was the mild-eyed clergyman with his delicate young wife, who had more than enough babies of her own, and was only too thankful to leave the babies of the parish to Miss Farnham or any one else who would mother them.
She was a sweet little woman, with a transparently white face and soft silky hair, and she wore her wedding-dress to-night, without the slightest regard to the fact that it was made in a somewhat elaborate fashion of six years back, and was not exactly suited to her figure at that particular moment. She sat down between mother and Miss Farnham, and must have been considerably cheered by that lady's remark to the effect that she looked as if she ought to be in her bed, and that if she did not retire to it she would most likely soon be in her grave.
I left mother and went up to greet Mary Thorne, who had just come in with her father. He was a great, strong, florid man, rather shaky about his h's, but very much the reverse of shaky in any other way; shrewd and keen as a sharp knife or an east wind.
I don't know that I ever spoke to him but this once in my life. Father had such an overpowering aversion to him that we were not allowed to keep even the daughter's acquaintance long after this, but he made that impression on me: that there was only one soft spot in him, and that for the motherless girl, who was the only person allowed to contradict him.
She contradicted him now.
The squire had gone up to receive them bluntly enough, even I could see; but the squire might be allowed to have an aversion to the man who was going in as a Radical to contest his Conservative's long-occupied seat, though indeed I believe his dislike to the manufacturer was quite as much, because he had bought up one of the old places in the neighborhood with money earned in business. I fancy the Thornes were only invited that night as old friends of Frank Forrester's, and I don't think Frank was thanked for the necessity.
You must have had a rare job, Broderick, lighting this old place up, he was saying as I came up; "all this dark oak, so gloomy looking!"
Oh, papa, how can you! laughed his daughter. "Why, it's what everybody admires; it's the great sight of the whole neighborhood."
Yes, yes; I know, my dear, answered Mr. Thorne; "you mean to say that we should like to live here ourselves. Well, yes, I should have bought the place if it had been in the market, but—"
But you would have done it up, broke in the squire, bristling all over; "whereas there's been nothing new in the Manor since—"
He stopped.
I fancied that he was going to say, "Since I brought my bride home;" but he said, after a pause, "since my father died."
Well, to be sure, I do like a bit of brightness and color, acknowledged Thorne, whose fine house, although in excellent taste, was decidedly ornate and splendid; "and it is more suited to festal occasions."
There, papa, you know nothing about it, declared Mary, emphatically. "I declare I never saw the Manor look better. Those flags and garlands are beautiful."
Oh, my nephew Frank did all that, answered the squire, carelessly; "he likes that sort of thing."
Captain Forrester? repeated the girl, with just a little smile on her frank, fresh face. "Well, it does him credit then. It isn't every one would take so much trouble."
He likes taking trouble, said I. "Just look at the trouble that he has taken over our concert."
He likes playing first-fiddle, laughed Miss Thorne, gayly, her rosy face—that was too rosy for prettiness, although not too rosy for the perfection of health—flushing rosier than ever as she said it; "I always tell him so."
I did not answer. Mr. Thorne and his daughter moved on, and I looked round the room in search of the captain. The place did look very beautiful, although I do not think that I should like now to see its severe proportions and splendid wood wainscoting disfigured by flags and garlands. We were dancing in what used long ago to be the monks' refectory. The house had been built on the site of a part of the monastic buildings belonging to the abbey, and this portion of the old edifice had been retained, while the remainder of the house was in Tudor style. I heard the squire explaining it to the new parson, who had lately come to the next parish. I had heard him explain it before, or I do not suppose that I should have known anything at all about it.
I suppose you consider it shocking to be dancing in any part of the monastery? I could hear him say, laughing; "but it isn't so bad as a friend of mine who gives balls in what used to be the chapel."
The parson was a young man, with a sallow, shaven face and very refined features; the expression of his mouth was gentle, almost tremulous, but his eyes were dark and penetrating.
I'm not quite so prejudiced as that, he said, laughing also, "although I do wear the cloth."
That's right, said the squire, heartily. "We have the remains of a thirteenth-century chapel of the purest period in the grounds, and we don't desecrate that even by a school-feast. You must come and see it in the day-time."
Father came up at that moment. He was dreadfully like a fish out of water, poor father, in this assembly, and looked it. The squire, in a hasty fashion, introduced him to the Rev. Cyril Morgan, and passed on to shake hands with a portly wine-merchant, who had lately retired from business in the neighboring town, and had taken one of the solid red-brick houses that were the remnants of our own town's affluence.
This gentleman introduced his wife, and she had to be introduced to the company, and the host's hands were full. Father moved away with the parson. He looked rather disgusted at first, but the young man looked at him with a smile upon his gentle mouth and in his dark eyes, and said, diffidently, "I have heard a great deal of you, Mr. Maliphant—the whole neighborhood rings with your name. I am proud to meet you."
Of course, I liked that young man at once, and as I went to sit down again beside the mother and Joyce, I was pleased to see across the room that father and the Rev. Cyril Morgan had entered upon a conversation. But, to tell the truth, I soon forgot him; I was too busy looking about me.
I could not help wondering where Captain Forrester could be, and I was quite angry with Joyce for being so dignified and seeming to care so little. She seemed to be quite engrossed with the Hoad girls, who sailed in, followed by their father, just late enough to be fashionable, and to secure a good effect for their smart new frocks.
I am afraid I was not gracious to the Hoads. I could not be so gracious as Joyce, who took all their patronizing over the concert in the utmost good faith. I turned away from them, and continued my search for Joyce's admirer. I disliked them, and I am afraid that I showed it.
But they passed on, Bella, who was the better-looking of the two, pursued by two town-bred youths asking for a place on her card; Jessie, the elder, talking with an old lady of title from the seaport town, who wished her to sing at a charity concert.
They seemed to be very much engrossed; nevertheless, when presently the band struck up the first waltz, they, as well as many other people in the room, turned round to look who was dancing it. They put up their long-handled eye-glasses and fairly stared; for, as soon as the music began, the squire had walked up to my sister and had asked her to open the ball with him.
Mother blushed with pleasure and triumph; her dear blue eyes positively shone. She did not say a word, but I know that if she had spoken she would have said that she was not surprised.
I was not surprised either, but I was very much annoyed, and I was not at all in a good temper with Captain Forrester when, two minutes afterwards, he appeared coming out of the conservatory with Mary Thorne upon his arm. What had he been about? No wonder that his face clouded when he saw that he was too late. But it was his own fault; I was not a bit sorry for him. Mary Thorne was laughing and looking up half-defiantly in his face. She looked as if she were saying one of those rough blunt things of which she was so fond; and she might well say one at this moment to Captain Forrester, although I scarcely supposed it could be on the topic on which he deserved it.
Could she possibly be chaffing him on having missed the first dance with my sister? No; for she had had no opportunity of noticing his devotion to her. She dropped his arm and nodded to him merrily, as much as to bid him leave her—as much as to say that she knew there might be better sport elsewhere. And after a word in reply to what she had said, he did leave her and came across to me.
There was a troubled, preoccupied look on his bright face, which was scarcely accounted for by the fact that he had missed a dance with Joyce. He greeted me and sat down beside me without even asking after father. We sat and watched Joyce float round in the strong grasp of the squire, but I do not think that we were either of us quite so pleased at the sight as was mother, upon whose face was joy unalloyed.
She was simply genuinely proud that the squire should have opened the ball with her daughter. I think she would have been proud of it had there been no deeper hopes at the bottom of her heart. But there were deeper hopes, and as I watched Joyce that night I remembered them.
In the excitement of watching the romance that I had fancied developing itself more quickly and more decisively than I had even hoped, I had at first quite forgotten my fears about the squire wanting to marry Joyce. They had not occurred to my mind at all until that afternoon two days ago, when he had talked so vehemently about Frank's position. But now, as I watched him with her, the notion which I had rather refused to entertain at all before took firmer shape.
I was afraid that the squire really did mean something by this very marked attention to his tenant's daughter. It must needs excite a great deal of comment even among those who knew our rather particular position in the village, and the unusual intimacy between two families of different social standing. Would he have courted that comment merely for the sake of gratifying his old friend? What if he should propose to Joyce—if he should ask our parents' consent to the marriage at once? Would Captain Forrester, the unknown stranger, have any chance beside the friend of years? Would the soldier, who had nothing but what he earned by his brave calling, have a chance against the man who could give her as fine a home as any in the county?
Not with mother; no, I felt not for an instant with mother. But with father?
I knew very well that father, whatever his respect for the man, would never see a marriage between the squire and his daughter with pleasure, and I even thought it likely that he would downright forbid it. But what would be his feelings with regard to the captain? Would they be any different because, belonging by birth to another class, he yet desired to work for the interest of the class that was ours? I could not tell.
I was roused from my dream by the voice of Captain Forrester at my side. He was asking me for a dance—this very next one. There was something in the tone of his voice that puzzled me—a harsh sound, as though something hurt him. Of course I gave him the dance. I was only too delighted.
My feet had begun to itch as soon as I had heard the music, and when I had seen Joyce sailing round, and no one had come to ask me, I had felt very lonely. We stood up, even before the squire had brought Joyce back to mother—we stood up, and with the first bars of the new waltz we set forth. I soon forgot all thought of Joyce, or any one else, in the pure joy of my own pleasure.
I did love dancing. I did not remember that it was Captain Forrester with whom I was dancing, I only knew that it was a man who held me firmly, and whose limbs moved with mine in an even and dreamy rhythm as we glided across something that scarcely seemed to be a floor, to the slow lilt of magic music. I was very fond of dancing. I suppose Captain Forrester guessed it, for he never paused once the whole dance through.
When we stopped, just pleasantly out of breath, as the last chords died slowly away, he said, with his eyes on my face in that way that I have described, "Why, Miss Maliphant, you are a heavenly dancer. Where did you learn it?"
I had six lessons at the academy in the town, answered I, gravely; and I wondered why he burst out laughing, "but Joyce gets out of breath sooner than I do, although she had twelve lessons."
The laughter faded out of his face as I mentioned Joyce's name.
I don't mean to say that Joyce doesn't dance beautifully, I added, hastily, "she dances better than I do, because she is so tall and slight, but she does get out of breath before the end of a waltz."
He did not make any remark upon this. He only said, "Shall we go back to your mother?"
We got up and walked across the room. Miss Thorne was talking to mother, and a clean-shaven, fresh-colored young officer was inscribing his name on Joyce's programme.
Captain Forrester just shook hands with Joyce, and then he came and sat down beside mother and began talking away to her in his most excited fashion, telling her all about the waxing of the floor and the hanging of the banners and the trimming of the evergreen garlands, and how the gardener would put the union Jack upside down, until she was forced to be more gracious with him than was her wont.
Joyce's sweet mouth had the look upon it that I knew well when mother and she had had an uncomfortable passage, but I could not imagine why she should wear it to-night. I could look across upon her programme, and I could see that there were names written nearly all the way down it, although I could not read whose names they were, and especially after my one taste of the joy of waltzing, I was beginning to think that no girl could have cause for sadness who had a partner for every dance. Alas! I had but one, and my spirits were beginning to sink very low. I had forgotten love affairs; I wanted to waltz.
There is a dreadful lack of gentlemen, said Jessie Hoad, who had come up beside us, putting up her eye-glass and looking round the room. "That unfortunate man must have his hands full."
Do you mean Squire Broderick? asked Miss Thorne. "I don't think he considers himself unfortunate. He looked cheerful enough just now, dancing with Miss Maliphant."
Miss Hoad vouchsafed no reply to this; she moved off to where her father was talking to mine in a corner, and passing her arm within his, walked him off without the slightest ceremony to be introduced to the old lady with the handle to her name who had come over from our fashionable seaport.
I thought it was very rude, but Mr. Hoad was not quite as affable himself to-night as he was in the privacy of our own Grange parlor.
I hate that kind of thing, said Miss Thorne to me, in her out-spoken way. "When are there ever men enough at a country dance unless you get in the riffraff from behind the shop counters? We come to meet our friends, not to whirl round with mere sticks."
I thought it was very nice of Miss Thorne, but I wished there were just men enough to dance with me.
The music struck up again and Joyce went off with her partner. I felt as though life indeed were altogether a disappointment; and it did not give me any pleasure to hear Miss Thorne commenting upon Joyce's beauty, nor laughing in her frank, good-natured way about the squire's attentions, any the more than it amused me to hear fragments of the gay descriptions with which Captain Forrester was making the time pass for mother.
But, after all, I began to despair too soon; it was only the fourth dance of the evening. Before it was over the squire came up to me.
I have been so busy, said he, "I haven't been able to come before, but I hope you haven't given all your dances away?"
Although I was new to the ways of the world, an instinct within taught me to say, coolly, "Oh no, not all."
What can you give me? asked he. And he quoted three numbers further on in the evening. "I think, being old friends, we might dance three dances together," added he, with a smile.
Oh yes, cried I. "I should like to dance them with you."
The squire was a beautiful dancer, although he was not a young man; or rather, although he was not what I then considered a young man. I fancied he did not smile at my enthusiastic reply. He even looked rather grave. I was too simple to think of not giving him my programme. I saw him glance at it and then at me. From that moment I did not lack partners, and as far as the company could provide them, good ones.
To be sure I jostled round the room with a raw youth or two, and guided a puffing gentleman through the maze, and let my toes be trodden upon by a tall gentleman with glasses on his nose, who only turned round when he thought of it; but on the whole I enjoyed myself, and it was all thanks to my host. I scarcely knew a man when I went into the room, and certainly, save for that one wild, delightful waltz, Captain Forrester had taken no account of me, although he had sat close to me half the evening, and one would have thought he would have noticed that I was not dancing. But then, of course, he was preoccupied. I could not make him out at all. All the evening I could not once catch him even talking to Joyce, and I am quite sure that when I went in to supper he had not asked her to dance once.
If I had been enjoying myself less I might have thought more of it, but I was too happy to remember it until the breathing-time came, when I went into the dining-room. Then, when I saw Captain Forrester sitting in one of the best places with that horrid old Miss Farnham, and Joyce at a side-table, with scarcely room to stand, and no one but my pet aversion, Mr. Hoad, even to get her something to eat, my blood boiled, and I could scarcely speak civilly to him.
And he seemed so interested too, so wrapped up in what the silly creature was saying, with that nodding old topknot of hers! I was thankful when he rose and took her outside to finish their discussion about the poor-laws in the seclusion of some corner of the drawing-room. I was very angry with him.
I looked suspiciously at the squire, who had taken mother in to supper and sat at the head of the table with her. Mother was smiling happily: she was proud of the honor that the squire was doing to her and hers. But I could not look kindly at the squire. It was infamous if, out of mere jealousy, he had tried to spoil two lives. Instead of being proud that he had done my sister the honor of opening the ball with her, instead of being grateful to him for his kindness to me, and pleased to see all the attention that he was paying to our mother amid the county magnates whom he might have preferred, I was eaten up with this new idea, and felt my heart swell within me as Joyce passed me presently with that calm and yet half-tired look on her beautiful face.
Midnight was long past, and it was nearly time to go home. In fact, father had said that it was time to go home long ago. He had made a new friend in the young parson, and seemed to have passed an hour happily with him, but the parson had left, and he had exhausted every argument that he would consent to discuss with the people whom he met in ordinary society and had been persuaded by Mr. Hoad to speak a civil word on commonplace subjects to his pet aversion Mr. Thorne, and now he was thoroughly sick of the whole thing, and would have no more to do with it.
He came up to mother and begged her to come home, but mother had heard the squire ask Joyce for another dance later on, and I knew very well that she would not leave till that was through; besides, she was the most unselfish old dear in the world, for all her rough words sometimes, and would never have consented to deprive us of an inch of pleasure that she could procure us.
Personally I was very grateful to her. I had a dance left with the squire myself, and besides the pleasure of it, I had been arranging something that I wanted to say to him. I was standing alone in the entrance to the conservatory when he came to claim it. I was looking for Joyce. I had missed her ever since supper. I had thought—I had hoped—that she was with Captain Forrester, but when Miss Thorne told me he was talking politics with Mr. Hoad in the drawing-room, I believed her, and was at a loss to understand my sister's absence. Could she be unwell? But I did not confide my doubts to the squire. He put his arm around me and swept me off onto that lovely floor, and I thought of nothing else.
I remember very clearly how well the squire looked that night—fresh and merry, with bright keen eyes.
That's a pretty frock, Miss Margaret, said he, as we were waltzing round.
Oh, I'm so glad you like it, answered I. "I was afraid it wasn't suitable."
In the excitement of the ball I had entirely forgotten all about my appearance, but now that the squire remarked upon it, I remembered how uncomfortable I had felt in it at first.
Why not suitable? asked he.
Mother bought it at the great Exhibition in '52, said I.
But the real cause of the awkwardness of my feeling had arisen from the fact that I felt unlike myself in a "party frock," and not at all from any fear that the frock might be old-fashioned.
Oh! and Miss Hoad considers that an objection, I suppose, smiled he. "Well, I don't. There's only one thing I don't like," added he, in his most downright manner. "I don't like the trinkets. You're too young for trinkets."
He had felt it. He had felt just what I had felt—that it was unsuitable for a girl like me to be dressed up.
You mean the corals, said I; and my voice sank a little, for I was proud of the corals too, and pleased that mother should have given them to me.
Yes, he answered. "They are very pretty; but," he added, gently, "a young girl's neck is so much prettier."
We waltzed round two turns without speaking. Then he said abruptly, "Perhaps, by-the-way, I ought not to have said that, but I think such old friends as we are may say anything to one another, mayn't we?"
Why, of course, said I, rather surprised.
The speech was not at all like one of the squire's. I had always thought that he said just whatever he liked to any of us. But to be sure, until the other evening, he had never spoken very much to me at all.
I laughed—a little nervous laugh. I was stupidly nervous that night with the squire. "I think we should be very silly if we didn't say whatever came into our heads," said I. "I don't think I like people who don't say what they think. Although, of course, it is much more difficult for me to say things to you than for you to say them to me."
Why? asked he.
Well, of course, because you're so much older, answered I.
He was silent. For a moment the high spirits that I had so specially noticed in him seemed to desert him.
Well, what do you want to say to me that's disagreeable? said he presently, with a little laugh.
Oh, nothing disagreeable, declared I. "It's about your nephew, Captain Forrester."
Oh! said he.
His expression changed. It was as though I had not said what he had expected me to say. But his brow clouded yet more, only it was more with anger than sadness—the same look of anger that he had worn the other afternoon. He certainly was a very hot-tempered man.
I don't think you are fair to him, said I, boldly.
He looked at me. He smiled a little.
In what way not fair to him? said he.
Well, if it had been any one else but me, answered I, "and you had said all that you did say the other day in the Grange parlor, I think the person would have been set against Captain Forrester. Of course it made no difference to me, because I like him so much."
He winced, I fancied.
You don't understand, my dear young lady, said he. "I merely wished that there should be no misunderstandings."
I don't think there were any misunderstandings, answered I. "We always knew that Captain Forrester was not a man of property. He told us so himself."
Well, then, that's all right, said the squire.
We liked him rather the better for it, concluded I, prompted by a wicked spirit of mischief.
The squire did not reply to this. Of course there was nothing to reply to it. It was a rude speech, and was better taken no notice of. He merely put his arm round my waist again, and asked if we should finish the waltz. I was sorry for my discourtesy before we had done, and tried to make up for it.
Although the weather was still very treacherous in spite of the clear sky, couples had strayed out through the conservatory onto the broad terrace outside. I suggested to the squire that we should do the same. He demurred at first, saying it was too cold; but as I laughed at this, and ran outside without any covering over me, he came after me—but he passed through the entrance-hall on his way and fetched a cloak, which he wrapped round me. In spite of my naughtiness, he had that care for the daughter of his old friends.
The moon was shining outside. It made dark shadows and white lights upon the ivied walls and upon the slender gray pillars of the ruined chapel; within, beneath the pointed arches, black patches lay upon the grass, alternated with sharp contrasts of lights where the moonbeams streamed in through the chancel windows.
The marsh was white where the silver rays caught the vapors that floated over it, and dark beyond that brilliant path-way; there was a track of light upon the sea. We stood a moment and looked. Even to me it seemed strange to leave the brightness of within for this weird, solemn brightness of the silent world without. I think I sighed. I really was very sorry now for having made that speech.
We walked round the terrace outside the chapel. We scarcely spoke five words. When we came to the wood that shades the chapel on the farther side we stopped. The path that led into it lost itself in blackness.
It's quite a place for ghosts, isn't it? said I.
Yes; it's not the place for any one else, laughed the squire. "Any one less used to dampness would certainly catch their death of cold."
Oh, you mustn't laugh at ghosts, answered I. "I believe in ghosts. And I'm sure this wood must be full of ghosts—so many wonderful people must have walked about in it hundreds of years ago."
So long ago as that? said he.
He was determined to treat my fancy lightly. But his laugh was kindly. We turned back to the white moonlight, but not before I had noticed a tall, white figure in the black depths, which I should have been quite sure was a ghost if I had not been equally sure of the contrary. The figure was not alone. If it had been, I should have accosted it. As it was, I took the squire's arm and walked away quickly in the direction of the house. The music had struck up again. The swing of an entrancing Strauss waltz came floating out on the night wind.
We must go in-doors, said the squire, not at all like a man who was longing to dance to that lovely air; "I'm engaged for this to Miss Thorne."
Poor man! No doubt he had had nearly enough by that time of playing the host and of dancing every dance; he wanted a few minutes' rest.
I too was engaged, but not to a very delightful partner. After one turn round the room with him, I complained of the heat, and begged him to take me outside. Of course we went towards the ruin.
Of the few couples who had come out, all had gone that way, because from that point there was a break in the belt of trees, and one could see to the marsh and the sea. But we went round the chapel to the wood on the other side.
I say, it looks gloomy in there, doesn't it? said the young man at my side.
Yes, answered I, but I was not looking into the wood now.
I had glanced into the interior of the ruin as we had passed, and I had seen a tall black figure leaning up in the deep shadow against the side of the central arch that stood up so quietly against the soft sky. I felt quite sure that the "ghost," whom I had seen a few minutes before, was close by. I was nearly certain that I saw a white streak that was not moonlight beyond the bend of the arch.
I turned round and went down the lawn a few steps, my companion following. He began to talk to me, but I did not know what he said. I was listening beyond him to another voice. It fell sadly upon my ear.
I've no doubt the girl was right, it said. "I'm sure she was right. I had never noticed it before, but his leading you out to-night before every one was very significant."
It was my sister's voice that answered, but she must almost have whispered the words, for I could not hear them at all.
The man spoke again.
Yes; that's not very likely, answered he, with a soft laugh. "Of course, how could he help it? Oh, I ought to have gone away," he added; "I ought to have gone away as soon as I had seen you. But I couldn't. You see even to-night, when I have tried to keep away from you, you have made me come to you at last. And I didn't think that I was doing you any harm till now."
He emphasized the word "you." I did not notice it then, but I recollect it now.
Again my sister's voice said something; what, I could not hear.
Do you mean that, dearest? do you mean that? said he, softly. "That you would not marry him if you could help it, although he would make such a lady of you? Ah, then I think I can guess something!"
A fiery blush rose to my cheek. I was glad that in the white moonlight my companion could not see it. I ran quickly down the slope of grass onto the gravel walk. It was dreadful, dreadful that I should have listened to these words which were meant for her ear alone.
Come, I called to the lad, who loitered behind; "come, it's cold, we must go in."
He followed me slowly.
I believe there were a man and a girl spooning behind that wall, he said, with a grin.
How I hated him! I have never spoken to him from that day to this, and yet, was it his fault?
We went back into the ball-room. The waltz was over. I had a partner for the last one, but I did not care to dance it. I was watching for Joyce, and when I saw her presently floating round with her hand on Captain Forrester's arm, I thought I was quite happy.
But mother was not happy. She had thought that Joyce would dance the last dance with Squire Broderick. She said that father was tired, and that she wanted to go. And indeed his face looked very weary, and his heavy lips heavier than ever.
No doubt we were all tired, for the squire too had lost the cheerful look that he had worn all through the evening.
I sat and waited for Joyce, and I wondered to myself whether any one would ever make love to me with his heart in his voice.
Time dragged heavily on my hands after the excitement of the squire's ball was over. It was not only that I had to go back to the routine of every-day life—for there was still the concert to look forward to, which gave us plenty of interest—but it was that during a whole fortnight I had been looking for news from Joyce, and that Joyce had said never a word. No; she had rather been more silent than usual, constrained and unlike her own serene and happy self; and I had been frightened, frightened at sight of the torrent that I had let loose, and doubtful whether, in spite of all his democratic theories, this handsome, courtly, chivalrous knight, who was my embodiment of romance, was really a fit mate for the humble damsel nurtured in the quiet shade.
Well, anyhow the torrent rolled on, whether it was really I who had set it free or not, and I was forced to stand aside and watch its course without more ado.
There had been plenty to watch. The village concert had come and gone; it had taken place a week after the squire's ball. Captain Forrester had worked us very hard for it towards the end. We had had practisings every afternoon, and I had rehearsed my solos indefatigably; but, save for singing in the glees and playing an accompaniment now and then, Joyce had taken no active part in the musical performance, and I had fancied that she had kept out of the way a great deal more than she need have done.
On the night of the concert he was, of course, too much excited until the performance was over, to remember even Joyce at first; for he was one of those natures who throw themselves ardently into whatever they take up; and he was just as eager over this entertainment, of which he had accepted the responsibility, as though it were going to be given before a select company instead of before a handful of country bumpkins.
Well, he was rewarded for his pains. The concert was voted a brilliant success, and by a long way the best that had ever been given in the village.
When stars are in the quiet skies, and "Robin Adair," which I sang "by request," as an encore, were greatly applauded, as were also the glees that we had so patiently practised; and though, of course, the crowning point of the evening was Captain Forrester's own song, poured forth in his rich, mellow barytone, we had none of us reason to complain of the reception that we got; and the stone walls of the old town-hall, that had stood since the days when the headsman was still an institution, responded to the clapping of the people.
To be sure, they wanted father to stand up and give them a speech, but he would have nothing to do with that on this occasion; he said it was one of relaxation and not of work; and he always refused to touch upon things that were sacred to him, for mere effect, or in anything but the most serious spirit. He wished them all good-night, and told them so.
When the fright was over I missed father and Joyce. Him I found at once, sitting on the steps with two sobbing little ones on his knees—two little ones whose sisters had run out without them, and whose little hearts had been numbed with fear. Father would generally neglect any grown-up person in preference to a child. But Joyce I could not see.
I felt sure that she must have gone to look after Captain Forrester; but when presently he came back with his hand bandaged, and said that he had seen nothing of Joyce, I was really frightened. I discovered her sitting down in a dark corner of the court-yard, crying.
She said that she had been terrified by the accident, and had run out for safety before any one else. But her manner puzzled me. And for a whole week after that her manner continued to puzzle me.
Frank Forrester came every day to the Grange to see father. They had a new scheme on hand, an original scheme, a pet scheme of my dear father's—the scheme of all his schemes which he held most dear, and one which I know he had had for years, and had never dared hope would find favor with any one. It was a scheme for the succor of those poor children who had either no parents, or whose parents were anxious to get rid of them.
Joyce and I sat in the apple orchard one May afternoon. It was not often we sat idle; but Joyce was going away on the morrow on a visit to Sydenham, and we wanted a few minutes' quiet together.
There was no quiet in-doors; mother was in one of her restless moods, and Mr. Hoad was with father. I supposed he was still harping on that subject of the elections, for I could not tell why else he should come so often; but I could have told him that he might have spared his pains, for that father never altered his mind.
However, on this particular occasion I was glad that he came, for I thought that it might save father from missing Frank too much—although, to be sure, they did not seem to get on so well as before Frank's coming; and I fancied that there was even the suspicion of a cloud on father's face when he closed the door after his man of business.
Who could wonder? Who would like Hoad after Frank Forrester? For my own part, I always avoided him, and that was why I had taken Joyce out-of-doors.
An east wind blew from the sea, and the marsh was bleak, though the lengthening shadows lay in soft tones across its crude spring greenness. The sun shone, and the thorn-trees that were abloom by the dikes made white spots along their straightness—softer memories of the snow that had so lately vanished, kindly promise of spring to come. Under the apple-trees, heavy with blossom, the air was blue above the vivid emerald of the springing grass, and all around us slenderly sturdy gray trunks and angular boughs, softened by a wealth of rose-flushed flower, made delicate patterns upon the sky or against the glittering sea-line beyond the marsh.
But a spring scene, with its frank, passionless beauty, its tenderness that is all promise and no experience, its arrogance of coming life, does sometimes put one out of heart with one's self, I think, although it should not have had that effect on one who stood in the same relation to life as did the spring to the year. Anyhow, I was not in my most cheerful frame of mind that day—not quite so arrogant and sanguine myself as was my wont.
Since the day when Captain Forrester had left the village three weeks ago, things had not gone to my liking. In the first place, I was not satisfied with this engagement of a year's standing, that was to be kept a profound secret from every one around. I thought it was not fair to Joyce. And then, and alas! I fear an even more active cause in my depression of spirits—Mr. Trayton Harrod had been engaged as bailiff to Knellestone farm!
Yes; never should I have expected it. It was too horrible, but it was true. Father and mother had gone up to meet him at dinner at the Manor two days after the captain's departure, and father had been forced to confess that he was a quiet, sensible, straightforward fellow, without any nonsense about him, and that there was no doubt that he knew what he was about.
It was very mortifying to me to hear father speak of him in that way, when I had quite made up my mind that he was sure not to know what he was about. But it seems that I was curiously mistaken upon this point.
Far from being a mere amateur at the business, he had been carefully educated for it at the Agricultural College at Ashford. His father had been of opinion that his own ventures had failed because of a too superficial knowledge of the subject—a knowledge only derived from natural mother-wit and practical observation, and he wished his son to labor under no such disadvantages.
I fancy Mr. Harrod's father had been, as the country-folk say, "a cut above his neighbors" in culture and social standing, and had taken to farming as a speculation when other things had failed. But of course this was no reason why his son should not make a good farmer, since he had been carefully educated to the business.
He was not wanting in practical experience either. He had done all he could to retrieve the fortunes of his father's farm, but the speculation was too far gone before he took the reins; and the elder Harrod had died a ruined man, leaving his son to shift for himself.
All this I had gleaned from talk between my parents and the squire in our own house; but it was mortifying, even though I had not guessed at that time that there was any real danger of his coming to Knellestone. For that had only been settled two days ago, and I could not help fancying that Mr. Hoad was partly to blame.
Of course there was no denying that father had been ill again—not so seriously ill as in the winter, but incapacitated for active life. He had not been able to mount his horse nor to walk farther than the garden plot at the top of the terrace for over a fortnight.
The doctor had suggested a bath-chair; but the idea of a farmer being seen in a bath-chair was positively insulting, and I would rather have seen him shut in-doors for a month than showing himself to the neighbors in such a plight. The idea was abandoned; but gradually, and without any sign, his mind came round to the plan which he had at first so violently repudiated—that of a bailiff for Knellestone.
I do not know whether it was really Mr. Hoad who had anything to do with his decision. He certainly had influence over father, and had been very often at the Grange of late, but it may have been merely the effect which Mr. Harrod himself produced. Anyhow, a fortnight or so after the dinner at the Manor, father announced to us abruptly at the dinner-table that he had that morning written to engage "that young man of the squire's" to come to Knellestone. His manner had been so queer when he said it that nobody had questioned him further on the matter; and as for me, I had been so thoroughly knocked down by the news that I do not think I had spoken to father since!
If my sister's departure had not been arranged—and in a great measure arranged by me—before this news had come, I am sure that I should not have suggested it; for it was the first time in our lives that we had been parted, and, reserved as I was, I felt that I wanted Joyce to be there during this family crisis.
She at least never allowed herself to be ruffled, and though this characteristic had its annoying side, there was comfort in it; and just at that particular moment we needed a soother, for the family was altogether in a somewhat ruffled condition.
Father was cross because of what he had been driven into doing with regard to the bailiff. Mother was cross because the squire had not proposed for Joyce, and Captain Forrester had. And I was cross—more cross than any one—because I was an opinionated young woman, and wanted to have a finger in the management of every pie.
It was a good thing that Joyce took even her own share in these matters more quietly than I took it for her. Nevertheless, even she was a little dismal that evening. How was it possible that she could be happy parted, without even the solace of correspondence, from the man whom she loved? I believe in my secret soul I set Joyce down as wanting in feeling for not fretting more than she did; but she was out of spirits, and mother had agreed with me that Joyce was pale, and had better choose this time for a visit to Aunt Naomi, which had been a promise for a long time. And now it was impossible to put it off.
Joyce came back from a dream with a little sigh, and turned towards me.
Well, did you see Mr. Trayton Harrod this morning, Margaret? asked she. "Deborah says he was here to see father. When does he come for good?"
I don't know, answered I, shortly. "I know nothing at all about Mr. Trayton Harrod." Joyce sighed a little. "Deborah says he is a plain kind of man," continued she—"very tall and broad, and very short in his manners."
He can't be too short in his manner for me, answered I. "He'll find me short too."
Joyce stretched out her hand and laid it on mine. It was a great deal for her to do. In the first place, we were not given to outward demonstrations of affection; and in the second place, Joyce knew that I abhorred sympathy, and that from my earliest childhood I had always hit out at people who dared to pity me for my hurts.
Dear Margaret, said she, "I want you not to be so much set against this young man. Father said he was a straightforward, good sort of fellow, you know; and you can't be sure that he will be disagreeable until you know him."
I don't suppose he is going to be disagreeable at all, declared I. "He may be the most delightful man in the world; I've no doubt he is. I only say that he is nothing to me. I shall have nothing to do with him, and I sha'n't know whether he is delightful or not."
Well, if you begin like that, it will be setting yourself against him, said Joyce, bravely. She paused a moment, and then added, "I'm in hopes it will be a good thing for father. I've often thought of late that the work was too hard for him. Father's not the man he was."
Father's all right, insisted I. "It's always the strongest men who have the gout. You'll see father will walk the young ones off the ground yet when it comes to a day's work. A man can work for his own—he works whether he be tired or not; but a hireling—why should a hireling work when he hasn't a mind to? It's nothing to him; he gets his wage anyway."
This theory seemed to trouble Joyce a bit, for she was silent.
No, said I, "it'll be no go. He won't understand anything at all about it, and all he will do will be to set everybody by the ears."
I don't see why that need be, persisted Joyce. "The squire says that he has been brought up to hard work, and that he has quite a remarkable knowledge of the country."
Yes, what good did his knowledge of the country do him? asked I, scornfully. "He managed his father's farm in Kent, and his father died a bankrupt. I don't call that much of a recommendation."
I had been obliged to come down from my high horse as to this friend of the squire's being one of his own class, an impoverished gentleman who wanted a living, for there was no doubt that he had been born and bred on a farm, and had been, moreover, specially educated to his work, but I had managed to find out something else in his disfavor nevertheless.
My sister was puzzled as to how to answer this.
I did not know that that was so, said she.
Of course it is so, repeated I. "That's why he must needs take a job."
Poor fellow! murmured Joyce.
Nonsense! cried I. "He ought to have been able to save the farm from ruin. It's no good pitying people for the misfortunes they bring upon themselves. The weak always go to the wall."
I did myself injustice with this speech. It did not really express my feelings at all, but my temper was up.
Joyce looked pained. "Perhaps the affairs of the farm were too bad to be set right before he took up the management," suggested she. "At all events, I suppose father knows best."
I can't understand father, exclaimed I, hastily. "He seems to me to take much more interest in plans for saving pauper children than he does in working his own land."
Oh, Margaret! how can you say such a thing? cried Joyce, aghast. "You know that father is often laid by, and unable to go round the farm."
Yes, yes, I know, I hastened to answer, ashamed of my outburst, and remembering that I was flatly contradicting what I had said two minutes before. "Nobody really has the interest in the place that father has, of course. That's why I don't want him to take a paid bailiff. When he is laid by he can manage it through me."
I'm afraid that never answers, said Joyce, shaking her head; "I'm afraid business matters need a man. People always seem to take advantage of a woman."
I tried to laugh. "I wonder what Deborah would say to that?" I said, trying to turn the matter into a joke.
Deborah doesn't attempt anything out of her own province, answered Joyce.
It was another of her quiet home-thrusts. She little guessed how they hurt, or she would never have dealt them—she who could not bear to hurt a fly.
Margaret, began she again, her mind still set on that conciliatory project which she had undertaken, "do promise me one thing before I go. I don't like going away, and it makes me worse to think you will be working yourself up into a fever of annoyance at what can't be helped. Do promise me that you won't begin by being set against the young man. It'll make it very uncomfortable for everybody if you are, and you won't be any the happier. You can be so nice when you like."
I looked at her, surprised. It was so very rarely that Joyce came out of her shell to take this kind of line. It showed it must have been working in her mind for long.
Yes, dear, yes, said I, really touched by her anxiety, "I'll try and be nice."
You do take things so hard, continued she, "and it's no use taking things hard. Now, if you liked you might help father still, with Mr. Harrod, and he might be quite a pleasant addition to your life."
That's ridiculous, Joyce, I answered, sharply. "You must see that he and I could never be friends. All I can promise is not to make it harder for him to settle down among the folk, for it'll be hard enough. However clever the squire may think him, he won't understand this country, nor this weather, nor these people at first, there's no doubt of that. He'll make lots of mistakes. But there, for pity's sake don't let's talk any more about him," cried I, hastily. "I'm sick of the man; and on our last evening too, when I've such a lot to say to you."
What have you to say to me? asked my sister, looking round suddenly, and with an uneasy look in her face.
Oh, come, you needn't look like that, laughed I. "It's nothing horrid like what you have been saying to me. It's about Captain Forrester."
Her face grew none the less grave. "What about him?" asked she, in a low voice.
Well, I'm going to fight for you, Joyce, while you're away, said I. "I don't think you've been over-pleased about having to go to Aunt Naomi, and perhaps you have owed me a grudge for having had a finger in settling it. It will be dull for you boxed up with the old lady and her rheumatism, but you must bear in mind that I shall be working for you here, better than, maybe, I could if you were by."
Why, Meg, what do you want to do? asked my sister, aghast.
I'm going to get mother to make your engagement shorter, said I, getting up and standing in front of her, "and I'm going to make her allow you and Frank to write to one another."
Oh, Meg, how can you? gasped Joyce.
Well, I'm going to, repeated I, doggedly. She did not reply. She clasped her hands in her lap with a nervous movement, and dropped her eyes upon them.
Mother said that the year's engagement was so that you and Captain Forrester should learn to be quite sure of yourselves. Now, how are you to be any surer of yourselves than you are now if you don't get to know one another any better? And how are you going to know one another any better if you never see one another, and never write to one another?
Joyce paused before she replied. She lifted her eyes and fixed them on the channel, of which the long, tortuous curves, winding across the marsh to the sea, were blue now with an opaque color in the growing grayness of the evening.
Perhaps mother don't wish us to know one another any better. Perhaps she wishes us to forget one another, said she at last, slowly.
I know mother wants you to forget one another, because she wants you to marry the squire, said I, bluntly, "but father doesn't."
Oh, Meg, don't, whispered Joyce.
Well, of course you know it, laughed I, a little ashamed of myself, "and you know that I know it. But you never would have married him, dear, so mother is none the worse off if you marry Captain Forrester, and you are not going to forget him because they want you to."
No, murmured she. "But oh, Meg," she added, hastily rising too, and taking my hand, "I don't want you to say anything to them about it. It's settled now, and it's far best as it is. I had far rather let it be, and take my chance."
What do you mean by taking your chance? cried I. "You mean to say that you can trust to your lover not to forget you? Well, I suppose you can. He worships you, and I suppose one may fairly expect even a man to be faithful one little year. But, meanwhile, you will both of you be unhappy instead of being comparatively happy, as you would be if you could write to one another and see one another sometimes. Now, that seems to me to be useless, and I don't see why it need be. At all events, I shall try to prevent it."
You're a good, faithful old Meg, as true as steel, said Joyce, tenderly, taking my hand; "and I suppose you can't understand how I feel, because we are so different. But I want you to believe that I would much rather wait. Indeed, I would much rather wait."
I gazed at her in silence. Once more there stole over me a strange feeling of awe, born of the conviction that Joyce had floated slowly away from me on the bosom of a stream that was to me unknown. Whither did it lead, and what was it like? What was this "being in love," of which I had dreamed of late—for her if not for myself? I laughed constrainedly.
Well, I never was in love, said I, "and perhaps I never shall be. But I feel pretty sure that when a girl loves a man and he loves her, being parted must be like going about without a piece of one's own self. No, Joyce, you can't deceive me. I know that you want to see him every hour and every minute of your life, and that when you don't something goes wrong inside you all the while."
Joyce sighed gently, and drew her shawl around her. "You're so impetuous," sighed she. "Liking one person doesn't make one forget every one else."
Liking, no, said I, and then I stopped.
The marsh-land had grown dark with a passing cloud, and the aspens on the cliff shivered in the rising wind. A window opened in the house behind, and Deborah's voice came calling to us across the lawn.
Well, whatever you two must needs go catching your deaths of cold out there for, I don't know, cried she, as we came up to her. "And not so much as a young man to keep you company! Oh, there's two dismal faces!" laughed she, as I pushed past her. "Well, I was wiser in my time. The men never gave me no thoughts—good nor bad."
No, you never got any one to mind you then as Reuben minds you now, cried I.
But Joyce stopped the retort by asking what we were wanted for.
There's company in the parlor, answered she, speaking to me still. "The squire's come to bid Miss Joyce good-bye, and there's your friend Mr. Hoad."
I made no answer to this thrust, but as we passed through the passage, the door of father's room opened, and the voice of Mr. Hoad said, with a laugh: "No, I'm afraid you will never get any good out of him. A brilliant talker, a charming fellow, but no backbone in him. I was deceived in him myself at first, but he's no go. I should think the less any one reckoned on him for anything the better."
You don't understand him, began father, warmly; but he stopped, seeing us.
My cheeks flushed with anger. There was a grin on Deborah's face, but my sister's was serene.
She could not have understood.
Oh, Margaret, don't say that! pleaded she. And then, after a pause, with a little sigh she added, "I should have thought he would have been wiser than to fall in love with a country girl, when there must be so many town girls who are better fitted to him."
Nonsense! cried I. "The woman who is fitted to a man is the woman whom he loves."
Do you think so? murmured she, diffidently.
Why, of course, I cried, warming as I went on, and forgetting my own doubts in laughing at hers. "A man doesn't marry a woman for the number of languages that she speaks, and that kind of thing—at least not a man like Captain Forrester. I don't know how you can misjudge him so. Don't you believe that he loves you?"
Oh yes, she murmured again; "I think that he loves me."
I said no more for a while. Joyce's attitude puzzled me. That she should speak so diffidently of the adoration of a man who had addressed to her the passionate words which I had overheard, passed my comprehension.
I fell to wondering what was her feeling towards him. More than ever I felt that she had passed beyond me into a world of which I knew only in dreams. I had risen now, and stood over the fire.
I always dreamed of something like that for you, Joyce, said I. "I always felt that you weren't a bit suited to marry a country bumpkin, but I never pictured to myself anything so good as this for you. Mother had grand ideas for you, I know. Oh yes; and you know she had, now," added I, in answer to a deprecatory "Oh, don't!" from my sister. "But I should have hated what she wanted; and I don't believe you would ever have consented. But Captain Forrester is not a landed proprietor; he cares for the rights of the people as father does. He is a fine fellow; and then he is young, and has never loved any one else," added I, dropping my voice.
I suppose I said this in allusion to the squire's first wife.
She did not say anything, and I kneeled down beside her. "Dear Joyce," I whispered—and I do believe my voice trembled—"I do want you to be happy. And though I shall feel dreadfully lonely when you have gone away and left me, I sha'n't be sorry, because I shall be so glad you have got what I wanted you to have."
She squeezed my hand very tight.
Oh, but I sha'n't be married, dear, not for ever so long yet, said she. "Why, you forget, we don't know what father and mother will say."
Why, father and mother can only want what is best for you, answered I. And I believed it. Nevertheless, what father and mother, or at all events what mother thought best, was not what I thought best.
When Captain Forrester came the next morning, I knew before he passed into father's business-room that he was not going to receive a very satisfactory answer. He was expected; his answer was prepared, and I was to blame that it was.
That evening, after the captain's proposal to Joyce, the squire sent down a message to ask whether father would be disengaged; and if he were, whether he might come down after supper to smoke a pipe with him. We were seated around the meal when Deborah brought in the message.
Certainly, answered father. "Say that I shall be pleased to see Mr. Broderick." But when she was gone out, he added, gruffly: "What the deuce can the squire want to see me for? I don't know of anything that I need to talk to him about."
He looked at mother, but mother did not answer. She assumed her most dignified air, and there was a kind of suppressed smile on her face which irritated me unaccountably. As soon as the meal was over, she reminded us that we had the orange marmalade to tie up and label, and we were forced to leave her and father together.
I went very reluctantly, for I wanted to hear what they had to say, and Deborah was in a very inquisitive mood—asking us how it was that the squire had not invited us up to supper at the Manor these three weeks, and when this fine gentleman from London was going to take himself back again to his own home.
I left Joyce to answer her, and found an excuse to get back again to the parlor as fast as I could. Father and mother sat opposite to one another in their high-backed chairs by the fire. Father had not been well since that night of the ball. I think he had caught a chill in the east wind and was feeling his gout again a little. I think it must have been so, or he would scarcely have remained sitting. Knowing him as I did, I was surprised; for I knew by his face in a moment that he was in a bad temper, and he never remained sitting when he was in a bad temper.
Nonsense, Mary, nonsense! he was saying. "I'm surprised at a woman of your good-sense running away with such ideas! Mere friendship, mere friendliness—that's all."
Well, answered mother, stroking her knee, over which she had turned up her dress to save it from scorching at the fire, "it was not only his taking Joyce out to dance first before all the county neighbors, but he took me into supper himself—and, I can assure you, was most attentive to me."
Well, and I should have expected nothing less of him, said father. "The man is a gentleman, and you have been a good friend to him. No man, squire or not, need be ashamed of taking my wife into supper—no, not before ten counties!"
Mother smiled contentedly.
Every one can't be expected to see as you do, Laban, said she. "I think it was done with a purpose."
Oh! And, pray, what purpose? asked father, in his most irritating and irritated tone.
Mother was judicious; perhaps even she was a little frightened. She did not answer just at first. I had slid behind the door of the jam-press in the corner of the room, and now I began putting the rows of marmalade pots in order. She had not noticed me.
I think the squire wishes to marry our eldest daughter, said she, slowly; and then she reached down her knitting from the mantle-piece and began to ply her needles.
There was a dreadful silence for a minute.
I have thought so for a long time, added mother. "I have felt sure that he must have some other reason for coming here so often besides mere friendship for two old people."
Father leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it, as though about to rise, but not rising.
Well, then, if he has any other reason, the longer he keeps it to himself the better, said he, in a voice that he tried to prevent from becoming loud. "But we have no right to judge him until we know," added he. "You've made a mistake, mother. The squire isn't thinking of marrying again. He's no such fool."
I don't see that he'd be such a fool to wish to marry a sweet girl that he has known all his life, remonstrated mother.
He can marry no girl of mine, at least not with my consent, declared father, loudly, his temper getting the better of him. "My girls must marry in their own rank of life, or not at all. I have no need of the gentry to put new blood into our veins. We are good enough and strong enough for ourselves, any day. But come, old lady, come," he added, more softly, trying to recover himself, "you've made a mistake. It's very natural. Mothers will be proud of their children, and women must always needs fancy riches and honors are the best things in the world."
Oh, I don't fancy that, I'm sure, Laban, answered mother. "But I can't think you would really refuse such a true and honest man for Joyce."
Well, then, Mary, look here; you be quite sure that I shall never consent to my daughter marrying a man who must come down a peg in the eyes of the world to wed her, began he, raising his voice again, and speaking very slowly.
He looked mother keenly in the face, but he got no further than that, for I emerged from the jam-cupboard with a pot in my hand; and at the same time Deborah flung open the door and announced Squire Broderick. Mother put down her skirt quickly and father sank back in his chair. There was an anxious look upon the squire's face which puzzled me, but he tried to laugh and look like himself as he shook hands with us.
You mustn't speak so loud, Maliphant, you mustn't speak so loud, if you want to keep things a secret, laughed he. "Marrying? Who is going to be married, if you please?"
Mother blushed, and even father looked uncomfortable.
We were only talking of possibilities, squire, very remote possibilities, said he. "The women are fond of taking time by the forelock in such matters, you know. But now we'll give over such nonsense, and bring our minds to something more sensible. You wanted to see me?"
Yes, answered the squire. "And I have only a few minutes. My nephew leaves to-morrow, and we have some little affairs to attend to."
Your nephew leaves to-morrow! cried I, aghast. They all turned round and looked at me, and I felt myself blush.
He never said so when he was here this afternoon, I added, hurriedly, with a little nervous laugh.
No, I don't suppose he knew it when we were here, answered the squire, evidently ignorant of the captain's second visit alone. "He had a telegram from his mother this evening, begging him to return home at once."
I said no more, and Squire Broderick turned to father. "Can you give me a few minutes?" asked he.
Father rose. It vexed me to see that he rose with some difficulty. He was evidently sadly stiff again, and it vexed me that the squire should see it. Without uttering a word, he led the way to his business-room.
I remained where I was, with the jam-pot in my hand, looking at mother, who sat by the fire knitting. There was a little smile upon her lips that annoyed me immensely.
I think I ought to tell you, mother, that I was behind the jam-cupboard door while you and father were talking, and that I heard what you said, said I, suddenly.
Well, of course I did not expect you to come intruding where you were not wanted, Margaret, said mother; "but I don't know that it matters. I'm not ashamed of what I said."
Of course not, answered I; "and I've guessed you had that notion in your head these months past."
I don't know, I'm sure, what business you had to guess, said mother. "It wasn't your place, that I can see."
And I may as well tell you that I'm quite sure Joyce would never think of the squire if he did want to marry her, continued I, without paying any attention to this remark. I paused a moment before I added, "She couldn't, anyhow, because she's in love with another man."
Mother looked at me over her spectacles. She looked at me as though she did not see me, and yet she looked me through and through.
Margaret, said she, at last, loftily, "I consider it most unseemly of you to say such a thing of your sister. A well brought up girl don't go about falling in love with men in that kind of way."
A girl must fall in love with the man she means to marry, mother; at least, so I should think, said I.
And I marched off into the kitchen with the jam-pot that wanted a label, and did not come out again till I heard the study door open, and the squire's voice in the hall.
Well, you'll come to dinner on Thursday, anyhow, and see him, he was saying; "it need bind you to nothing."
Father grumbled something as he hobbled across, and I noticed again how lame he was that day. The squire, seeing mother upon the threshold of the parlor door, stopped and added, pleasantly, "Maliphant has promised to bring you up to dine at the Manor, so mind you hold him to his word." Mother assured him that she would, and the squire went out.
Well? asked she, turning to father with a questioning look on her face, which was neither so hopeful nor so happy as it had been ten minutes ago.
Well? echoed he, somewhat crossly. Then his frown changing to a smile, he patted her on the arm, and said, merrily, "No, mother, no. Wrong this time; wrong, old lady, upon my soul. The time hasn't come yet when we are to have the honor of having our daughters asked in marriage by the gentry."
Hush, Laban, hush, cried mother, vexed; for the kitchen door stood open, and Joyce was within ear-shot. And then, following him into the parlor, whither I had already found my way, she added, "Maybe I'm not quite such a fool as you think, and the time will come one day, although it's not ripe just yet."
A fool! Who ever called you a fool, Mary? Not I, I'm sure, declared father. "No, you're a true, shrewd woman, and as you are generally right in such matters, I dare say you may prove right now; but all I want to make clear to you is that whatever time the squire's question comes—if it be a question of that nature—his answer will always be the same."
Mother said no more. She was a wise woman, and never pursued a vexed question when there was no need to do so. I, who was not so wise, thought that I now saw a fitting opportunity for putting in my own peculiar oar amid the troubled waters.
I don't think you need trouble your head about it, father, I said. "Joyce will never marry Squire Broderick, even if he were to ask her. She's in love with Captain Forrester."
Father turned round with the pipe he was filling 'twixt his finger and thumb and looked at me.
Margaret, said mother, "didn't I tell you just now that that was a most strange and unseemly thing to say?"
I did not answer, and father still looked at me with the pipe between his finger and thumb.
In love with Captain Forrester, indeed! continued mother, scornfully. "And pray, how do you know that Captain Forrester is in love with Joyce?"
Well, of course, answered I, with a toss of my head, "girls don't fall in love with men unless the men are in love with them first. Who ever heard of such a thing? Of course he's in love with Joyce."
Stuff and nonsense! said mother, emphatically, tapping the floor with her foot, as she was wont to do when she was annoyed. "Captain Forrester and your sister haven't met more than half a dozen times in the course of their lives. I wonder what a love is going to be like that takes the world by storm after three weeks' acquaintance."
There is such a thing as love at first sight, answered I, with what I know must have been an annoyingly superior air. It did not impress mother.
A wondrous fine thing I've been told, was all that she said.
I turned to father, who had not spoken. "Well, anyhow, they're in love with one another," I repeated. "I know it as a fact, and he's coming here to-morrow morning to ask your leave to marry her."
The devil he is! ejaculated father, roused at last.
Mother dropped her knitting. I do believe her face grew white with horror.
I always thought, Laban, it was a pity to have that young man about so much when we had grown-up girls at home, moaned she, quite forgetting my presence. "But you always would be so sure he was thinking of nothing but those politics of yours."
To be sure, to be sure, murmured father.
And he was always so pleasant to all of us, she went on, as though that, too, were something to deplore in him; "but I never did think he'd be wanting to marry a farmer's daughter. And I should like to know what he has got to marry any one upon," added she, after a pause, turning to me indignantly, as though I knew the captain's affairs any better than she did.
His captain's pay, answered I, glibly, although I had been chilled for a moment by this remark. "And why should you consider him a ne'er-do-well because he earns his living in a different way to what you do? He kills the country's enemies, and you till the country's land. They are both honorable professions by which a man gets his bread by the sweat of his brow."
I looked at father; all through I had spoken only to him. He smiled and began to light his pipe. It was a sign that his mind was made up. Which way was it made up?
Joyce is just the girl men do fall in love with, said I, wisely; "and as for her—well, you can't be surprised at her falling in love with a man whom you like so much yourself."
Ay, I do like the young man, agreed father, stanchly. "I can't help it. They're precious few such as he whose heads are full of aught but seeking after their own pleasure."
Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants to marry Joyce? asked I, boldly.
I did not say that I was sorry, lass, said father, calmly.
My heart throbbed with pleasant triumph, but the battle was not over yet.
Well, Laban, I don't suppose you can say that you're glad, put in mother, almost tartly, "after what I've heard you say about girls marrying out of their own class in life."
Captain Forrester is not rich and idle, said I.
No, answered mother, scornfully, "he is not rich, you're right enough there; but he is a good sight more idle than many men who can afford to keep a wife in comfort. I know your sort of play soldiers that never see an enemy."
He's rich enough for a girl of mine, replied father. "As to his being idle, I hope maybe he's going to do better work saving the lives of innocent children than he could have done slashing at what are called the nation's foes."
Yes, yes, said mother, a trifle impatiently. "I make no doubt you're right. I've nothing against the young man, but I can't believe, Laban, as you really mean to say that you'd give your girl to him willingly."
Well, answered father, "I'm bound to say I'm surprised at the news; but we old folk are apt to forget that we were young once; and when I was a lad I loved you, Mary, so we mustn't be hard on the young ones. It's neither poverty nor riches, nor this nor that, as makes happiness; it's just love; and if the two love one another, we durstn't interfere."
I don't understand you, Laban; indeed I don't, cried poor mother, beside herself with anxiety. "It's not according to what you were saying a few minutes ago, and you can't say it is."
Father was silent. I suppose he could not help knowing in his heart that the objections to Captain Forrester must be practically the same as those to Squire Broderick, with the additional one that he was almost a stranger to us. But his natural liking for the young man obscured his vision to plain facts. Father and I were very much alike; what we wanted to be must be. But when I look back at that point in our lives, I pity poor mother, who was really the wisest and the most practical of us all.
Well, mother, the lass must decide for herself, said father. "She's of age; she should know her own mind."
Joyce knows her own mind well enough, said I. "She has told Frank Forrester that she will marry him subject to your approval."
I wonder she took the trouble to add so much as that, said mother at last. "Young folk nowadays have grown so clever they seem to teach us old folk."
There was a tremor in her voice, and father rose and went across to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.
Meg, go and tell your sister to come here, said he in a moment. "You need not come back."
I was hurt at the dismissal, and I waited in the passage till Joyce came out from the interview; but her face was very white, and all that she would say was: "Oh, Margaret, let them settle it. I don't want to have any will of my own."
I was very much disappointed, and was fain to be agreeably surprised, when on the following morning I heard that, after mature deliberation, our parents had decided to allow the captain a year's probation.
I had been afraid that mother would entirely override all father's arguments; she generally did.
The affair was not to be called an engagement—both were to be perfectly free to choose again; but if at the end of that time both were of the same mind, the betrothal should be formally made and announced.
Mother must, however, have been very hard in her terms; for the young folk were neither to meet nor to write to one another, nor to have any news of one another beyond what might transpire in the correspondence that father would be carrying on with Frank on outside matters.
Frank told me the conditions out in the garden, when I caught hold of him as he came out of father's study. The whole matter was to be a complete secret, shut closely within our own family. This mother repeated to me afterwards, I guessed very well with what intent. But although Frank must have guessed at a possible rival in his uncle, he absolutely refused to be cast down.
The thought even crossed my mind that I should have liked my lover to have been a little more cast down. But no doubt he felt too sure of himself, even after the slight shock of surprise that it must have been to him to find his suit not at once accepted.
Nevertheless, as he passed out of the room where he had taken leave of Joyce alone, he bent forward towards me as I stood in the hall, and said, gravely, "Miss Margaret, I trust her to you. Don't let her forget me."
My heart ached for him, and from that moment it was afire with the steadfast resolve to support my sister's failing spirits and preserve for her the beautiful romance which had so unexpectedly opened out before her.
Joyce had been gone a week before Mr. Trayton Harrod arrived. I had preserved my gloomy silence on the subject of his coming, although I was dying to know all about it; and as father had given in to my mood by telling me no particulars, it so happened that I did not even know the exact day of his arrival.
It was a Monday and baking-day. There was plenty to do now that Joyce was gone, and I did not do her work as she did it. Mother was constantly reminding me of the fact. It did not make me do the work any quicker, or like doing it any better; but, of course, it was natural that mother should see the difference, and remark on it.
At last, however, the baking and mending and dusting was all done, and mother gave me leave to take a little basket of victuals to an old couple who lived down by the sea. I had been very miserable, feeling pitiably how little I had done at present towards fulfilling my promise to Joyce of trying to make things pleasant, and sadly conscious that I was not in mother's good books, or for that matter, in father's either, for which I am afraid I cared more. He had scarcely spoken a word to me all the week.
Poor father! Why did I not remember that it was far worse for him than it was for me? But as I ran across the lawn, with Taff yelping at my heels, I do not believe that I gave a thought to his anxieties, although I must have seen his dear old head bending over the farm account-books through the study window as I passed. I was so glad to have done with the house-keeping that I forgot everything else in the tender sunshine of a May afternoon that was flecking the marsh with spots of light, shifting as the soft clouds shifted upon the blue sky. How could any troubles matter, either my own or other people's, when there was a chance of being within scent of the sea-weed and within taste of the salt sea-brine?
I whistled the St. Bernard, and we set off on a race down the cliff. My hat flew off, I caught it by the strings; all the thickness of my hair uncoiled itself and rippled down my back. I felt the hair-pins tumble out one by one, and knew that a great curly, red mass must be floating in the wind; but I had a hundred yards to run yet before I came to the elms at the foot of the hill—and Taff was hard to beat.
Alongside the runnels that hemmed the lane, a ribbon, bluer than the sea or sky, ran bordering the green; it was made up of thousands of delicate veronica blossoms, opening merry eyes to the sun, and the red campion dotted the bank under the cliff, and the cuckoo flowers nodded their pale clusters on edges of little dikes. But I did not see the flowers just then; I ran on and on, jumping the gate that divides the marsh from the road almost as Taffy jumped it himself—on and on along the dike, without stopping, till I came to the first thorn-tree that grows upon the bank; and there, at last, I was fain to throw myself down to rest, out of breath and trembling.
What a run it was! I remember it to this day. It drove away all my ill-temper; and as I sat there twisting up my hair again, and laughing at Taff, who understood the joke just as if he were a human being, I had no more thought of anything ajar than had the white May-trees that dotted the marsh all along the brown banks of the dikes, and lay so harmoniously against the faint blue of the sky, where it sank into the deeper blue of the sea beyond.
Dimly, beyond the flaxen stretch of plain that was slowly flushing with the growing green, one could see the little waves rippling out across the yellow sands, with the sunlight flashing upon their crests; over the meadows red and white cattle wandered, and little spotless lambs played with their mothers on the fresher banks; tufts of tender primroses grew close to my hand, fish leaped in the still gray waters of the dike, birds sang in the belt of trees under the Manor-house, lapwing made strange bleating and chirping sounds amid the newly sprouting growth of the rushes that mingled softly with the faint gold of last year's mown crop; the cuckoo's note came now and then through the air. The spring had come at last.
I tied on my hat again and jumped up. I began to sing, too, as I walked. I was merry. What with Captain Forrester, and what with the trouble about the bailiff, and what with Joyce's departure, and the household duties falling upon me, I had not been out among my favorite haunts for a long time, and the sight of the birds and the beasts and the flowers was new life to me. I noted the marks of the year's growth as only one notes them who knows the country by heart; I knew that the young rooks were already on the wing, that the swifts and the swallows had built their nests, that the song-thrush was hatching her brood, and that a hunt along the sunny, sandy banks under the lea of the hill would discover the round holes where the little sand-martin would be laboriously scooping her nest some two feet deep into the soft ground.
I promised myself a happy afternoon when next I should have leisure, searching for plovers' eggs along the banks of the dikes where the moor-hen and lapwing make their homes; but to-day I dared not loiter, for the old couple for whom I was bound lived under the shadow of the great rock, where the marsh ends and the land swells up into white chalk-cliffs fronting the sea; and that was four good miles from where I now was. Taff and I put our best legs foremost, vaulting the gates that separated the fields, and crossing the white bridges over the water, until at last we came to where the dike meets the sea, and the Martello towers stud the coast.
I confess we had not always walked quite straight. Once my attention had been caught by the hovering of a titlark in the vicinity of a bank by the way-side, and I had not been able to resist the temptation of climbing a somewhat perilous ascent to look for the nest, whose neighborhood I guessed. It was on the face of a curious sort of cliff that lay across the marsh; one side of it sloped down into the pasture-land, but the other presented a gray, rugged front to the greensward below, and told of days when the sea must have lapped about its massive sides, and eaten its way into the curious caves where now young oaks and mountain-ash clove to the barren soil.
About half-way up the nethermost bank of this cliff I found the nest of the titlark beneath a heather bush. But in it sat a young cuckoo alone and scarcely fledged, while lying down the bank, about a foot from the margin of the nest, lay the two little nestlings of the parent bird. I picked them up and warmed them in my hand, and put them back in the nest, where they soon lifted their heads again. Then I stood a moment and watched. The young cuckoo began struggling about till it got its back under one of them, and, blind as it still was, hitched it up to the open part of the nest, and shoved it out onto the bank. Once more I picked the poor little bird up and put it back into its mother's nest. Then seeing that the cruel little interloper seemed to have made up its mind to try no more ejecting for the moment, I slid down the bank again and went on, promising myself, however, to look in upon this quarrelsome family on my way home.
This little adventure delayed us, but we ran a great part of the remainder of the way to make up for it, and reached old Warren's cottage somewhat out of breath, and I with red cheeks and hair sorely dishevelled by the journey. However, as we were old friends, we were soon restored by the kindly welcome that we got. Taffy lay down on the hearth with the great Persian cat, and I took my seat in the chimney corner, Mrs. Warren insisting on preferring the bed for a seat.
It was a funny little hut, nestled away under the shadow of the towering cliff, with the sea lapping or roaring within fifty yards of it, and the lonely marsh stretching away miles and miles to the right of it. No one knew why Warren had built it, but some fancied that he still had smuggled goods hidden away in the caves of the cliffs, and if so, he naturally chose a dwelling-place hard by, and not too much under the eye of man. It was a poor hovel, better to die in than to live in, one would have thought; but old Warren seemed to be of a contented disposition, and to enjoy his life well enough, although as much could not apparently be said of his wives, of whom he had had three already. The present one had lasted the longest, the former two having been killed off in comparatively early life (according to Warren) by the loneliness of their life and the terrors of the elements which they had witnessed.
Warren was a dramatic old fellow, and could tell many a story of shipwreck and disaster, and even (when pressed) of encounters between the revenue-cutters and the smugglers' boats, of dangerous landings on this dangerous bit of coast, and of nights when it was all the "boys" could do to get their kegs of spirits safely ashore and buried in the sand before morning. This afternoon he was in particularly good spirits. Something in the color of the land and the sea and in the direction of the wind had reminded him of a day when the fog had come up suddenly and had caused disaster, although, to my eye, the heavens were clear and fair as any one could wish. I soon drew from him the account of a terrible struggle between the Government officers and the smugglers, when the fog had given the latter a miraculous and unexpected triumph, and this led on to the tale—oft-repeated but never stale—of the wreck of the Portuguese "merchant," when the "lads" picked up the wicker bottles that floated ashore, and drank themselves sick with eau-de-cologne in mistake for brandy.
This was my favorite story; but it was hard to know whether to laugh or to cry when Mrs. Warren number three would shake her head sympathetically at the tearful account of the demise of Mrs. Warren number two, who "lay a-dying within, while the lads drank the spirits without," and old Warren was forced to take a drain himself to help him in his trouble.
The time always passed quickly for me with the funny old couple in their funny old hovel under the cliff, and it was late afternoon before I got out again onto the beach. Warren's memories had not been awakened by mere fancy; his prophecy was right. There was a heavy sea-fog over the marsh, blown up by a wind from the east. I gathered my cloak around me and set off walking as fast as I could. The mist was so thick that the dog shook himself as he ran on in front of me; the damp stood in great drops on the bristles of his shaggy coat and of my rough homespun cloak; it took the curl even out of my curly hair, which hung down in dank masses by the side of my face.
I could not see the sea, though I could hear it lapping on the shore close by; I could not even see the dike at my left, and yet it was not thirty yards away. I knew the way well enough, however, and the fog only made an amusing variety to an every-day walk. I started off merrily, avoiding the road, which was not the shortest way, and making, to the best of my belief, a straight line across the marsh, as I had done hundreds of times before. But a mist is deceptive, and I could not have been walking more than a quarter of an hour when I felt the ground suddenly give way beneath me, and I found myself disappearing into one of the deep ditches that intersect the marsh between the broader dikes.
I knew that there was brackish water at the bottom of the ditch, and though I did not mind a ducking, I did not care for a ducking in dirty water, and so far from home. By clutching onto the docks and teasels on the bank, I managed to hold myself up and get my heels into the soil, and then, with one spring, I landed myself on the opposite bank. My petticoats would not escape Deborah's notice, but my feet were dry, and even my skirts would not attract immediate attention.
But how had I got to the ditch? and where was I now? Yes, I must have borne farther to the left than I had intended; but it did not much signify—one way across the marsh was as good as another to me, and I had better keep to this side now, and go home under the lea of the hill. There would be the advantage that I might be able to find my little titlark again. I whistled, for I could not see the dog, and presently my call was answered by a loud barking close in front of me, and lifting up my face, I vaguely saw Taff chasing some larger object before him into the mist.
I knew at once that in coming to this side of the ditch I had landed myself among a herd of the cattle that had now taken up their summer quarters upon the marsh. I was not afraid of the cattle; I had seen them there ever since I had been a child, browsing in the warm weather; they were part of the land. But I wondered just where I had got to, and I stopped to think where the sea was, and where the dike. Without these two landmarks I was somewhat bewildered. The cattle closed around me. They, too, seemed to be doubtful about something, but they kept their eyes on me. I wished Taff would not bark so.
I turned round, and once more began walking briskly in the direction which I thought was the right one. A great brown beast stood just in front of me. I had not noticed him before, but he had come up over a mound of the uneven marsh-land and stood staring at me with head gently rocking. Up till now I had not had a moment's uneasiness, but I began to wonder whether the marsh cattle were always safe. I moved, and the bull moved too. Taff barked louder than ever, and the bull began to bellow softly. I was never so cross with the dog in my life, and I could not punish him, for I dared not take my eyes off the brown beast.
I moved forward till I had passed the place where the bull stood. But now it was worse than ever. The mist was so thick, and I had so entirely lost my way, that I dared not retreat backward for fear of falling into an unseen dike, and some of the dikes were deep at this time of the year. I began to run gently, but my heart failed me as I heard behind me the bull following, still bellowing softly. If I were only on the right road there must be a gate soon, but I feared I was not on the right road. Taff kept running round in front of me, hindering my speed. I felt that the creature was gaining on me. I don't think I was ever so frightened before. I don't remember that my presence of mind ever so entirely failed me as it did on that day. But my legs seemed as though they were tied together. I stood still, waiting, and then I think I must have fallen to the ground.
I knew that the bull must be close upon me, and it was no more than what I expected when I felt myself suddenly lifted up by the waist and flung to what seemed to me an immense distance through the air. For a moment I lay stunned. The bellowing of the bull, the barking of the dog, the murmur of the sea—all mingled in my ears in one great booming sound. Then slowly I became conscious that there was a human presence beside me in the fog. I opened my eyes. I was lying close under a five-barred gate. The bull was on the other side of it; Taffy lay whining beside me, and over me stood a big, tall man, looking down at me quietly.
Are you hurt, miss? said he.
I struggled into a sitting posture, and pulled myself up on my feet by the help of the gate.
No; no, thank you, answered I. But my head was dizzy, and my arm ached dreadfully.
I'm afraid I flung you over rather hard, said he. "But there wasn't time to do it nicely."
You flung me over! cried I, aghast.
To be sure, answered he, "Did you think it was the bull?"
He gave a short laugh, scarcely a laugh, it was so very grim and quiet. But when he laughed his smile was like a white flash—I remember noticing it. I gazed at him. Angry as I was—and I was absurdly, childishly angry—I could not help gazing at this man, who could take me up like a baby and fling me over a five-barred gate in a twinkling.
He was very broad and strong, his eyes were dark brown, his hair was black and curling, and so was his beard. He had neither a pleasant face nor a handsome face—until he smiled. I was not conscious at the time of any of these details; but there in the fog I thought he looked very imposing.
I'm afraid if it had been the bull he would have flung you farther, and hurt you more, said he. "You lay there very handy for him."
How I hated myself for having fallen to the ground!
Come, Taff, said I, giving the dog a little kick, "get up."
The dog sprang to his feet with his tail between his legs. No wonder he was frightened and surprised. I had never done such a thing to him before. But I had a vague feeling that if he had not hindered me I should have got over the gate alone, and I was savage at the idea of having needed help from a man.
Good-evening to you, said I, curtly, nodding my head in the direction of the man, but without looking at him again.
Good-evening, answered he, raising his hat. "I hope you'll be none the worse for your fall."
I vouchsafed no answer to this speech, but strode on down the track as fast as my aching limbs and dizzy head would allow me to do. The sea murmured on the beach at my right. I could not see it for the fog, but I could hear it. After a while I think it must have lulled my anger to rest. The sea has always been a good friend to me, in its storms as in its calm. I like to see it rage as I dare not rage, and I like to see it calm as I cannot be calm. The restless sea has taught me as many things as the quiet marsh; they are both very wide. And that day I am sure it lulled my irritable temper.
Before long I began to think that I, to say the least of it, had treated my deliverer with scant courtesy. When I got to the farm that divides the marsh from the beach I turned round to see if he were following. The fog was beginning to lift. The distant hills of the South Downs rose out of the sea of vapor, and were as towering mountains in the mystery, lying dim and yet blue against the struggling light of the sunset behind. The white headland that I had left detached itself boldly against the sea-line—for the mist was only on the level land now, where it lay like a sheet a few feet above the marsh, so that the objects on the ground itself shone, illumined by the slanting rays of the sun, till each one had a value of its own in the scene. Through the golden spray of the sunlit vapor the red and the white cattle shone like jewels upon the brown land, where every little line of water was like a snake in the vivid light; and as I turned and looked towards the gray cliff, where I had climbed the bank after the bird's-nest an hour ago, the long line of hill behind, dotted with fir-trees and church-steeples and little homesteads, lay midway in the air through the silver veil.
I stood a while looking back. I do not know that I was conscious of the wonder of the scene, but I remember it very vividly. At the time I think I was chiefly busy wishing the stranger to come up that I might rectify my lack of courtesy. I saw him at last. He came in sight very slowly, and stood a long while leaning against the last gate lighting his pipe. I watched him several minutes, and he never once looked along the path to see if I was there. Why was I annoyed? I had dismissed him almost rudely. He did but do as he was bid. And yet I do believe I was annoyed; I do believe I was unreasonable to that point.
When I came into supper that evening my friend of the fog was standing beside father on the parlor hearth-rug. Directly I saw him, I wondered how I could have been such a fool as not to have guessed at once that that was Mr. Trayton Harrod. But it had never occurred to me for a moment; and when I recognized in the man to whom I had promised to be friendly, also the person who had presumed to take me by the waist and pitch me over a gate, all my bad temper of before swelled up within me worse than ever, and I felt as though it would be quite impossible for me even to be civil. And yet I had since promised somebody, even more definitely than I had promised Joyce, that I would do my best to make matters run smoothly.
On that very evening father had made an appeal to my better feelings. It seems that, while I had been out, Reuben Ruck and mother had had a real pitched battle. Mother had told him to do something in preparation for the arrival of the bailiff, which he had refused to do; and upon that mother had gone to father, and had said that it was absolutely necessary that Reuben should leave.
When I came home I had found father standing on the terrace in the sunset. It was a very unwise thing for him to do, for the air was chill. I wondered what had brought him out, and whether he could be looking for me. The little feeling of estrangement that had been between us since he had settled for the bailiff to come to the farm had given me a great deal of pain, and a lump rose in my throat as I saw him there watching me come up the hill. It was partly repentance for the feelings I had had towards him, partly hope that he was going to want me again as he used to do.
Where have you been, lass? said he, when I reached him. "You look sadly."
I laughed. The tears were near, but I laughed. My arm hurt me very much, and my head ached strangely; but I was so glad to hear him speak to me again like that.
The mist has taken my hair out of curl, said I; "that's all. I have been down to the cliffs to take old Warren some tea. Did you want me?"
Yes, answered he; "I want to have a talk with you."
Well, come in-doors then, said I. "You know you oughtn't to be out so late."
We went into the study. Mother and Deb were getting supper ready in the front dwelling-room. There was no lamp lit; we sat down in the dusk.
Your mother and Reuben have had a row, Meg, began father, with a kind of twinkle in his eye, although he spoke gravely.
A row! echoed I; "what about?"
About Mr. Trayton Harrod, answered father; "she wants me to send Reuben away."
Send Reuben away! cried I, aghast. "Why, it wouldn't be possible. There would be more harm done by the old folks going away than any good that would come of new folks coming; that I'll warrant."
That's not the question, said father, tapping the table with his hand. "Mr. Harrod has got to come, you know, and if the old folks don't like it, why, they'll have to go."
There's one thing certain, added I, "Reuben wouldn't go if he were sent away fifty times."
Father laughed; the first time I had heard him laugh for a fortnight.
Well, he'll have to be pleasant if he does stay, said he.
Oh, you none of you understand Reuben, said I. "He's not so stupid as you all think. He'll be pleasant if he thinks it's for our good that he should be pleasant. He wishes us well. But he'll want convincing first. And," I added, with a little laugh, "maybe I want convincing myself first."
And it was then that father appealed to my better feelings.
Yes, Meg, said he, "I know that. I've seen that all along, and maybe it's natural. We none of us like strangers about. But I thought fit to have Mr. Harrod come for the good of the farm, and now what we all have to do is to treat him civilly, and make the work easy for him." I was silent, but father went on: "And what I want you to do, Meg, is to help me make the work easy for him. It won't be easier to him than it is to us. If his father had not died beggared I suppose he would have had his own by now. It is a hard thing for children when their parents beggar them." It being dark, I could not see his face, but I heard him sigh, and I saw him pass his hand over his brow. "Mother is right," he added. "We ought to make him feel it as little as we can, and as Joyce is away, you're the daughter of the house now, Meg. I want you to remember that. I want you to do the honors of the house as a daughter should. What a daughter is at home a wife will be when she is married."
I shall never marry, said I, with a short laugh. "But I'll behave properly, father, never fear."
That's right, my lass, said father, who seemed to take this speech as meaning something more conciliatory than it looks now as I set it down. "He is coming to-night to supper. Mother means to ask him to come every night to supper. She would have liked to give him house-room, but that don't seem to be possible. So we mean to make him welcome to our board."
All right, said I. "I suppose mother knows best."
Yes, echoed father; "mother always knows best. She's a wise woman, that's why every one loves her."
Again I promised to do what I could to resemble mother—to conciliate Reuben, and to make myself agreeable to our guest. And yet, alas! in spite of all that, I could not conquer my petty feelings of ill-temper when I came into the parlor and found that the man to whom I intended to be polite was the man who had offended me by being polite to me. What a foolish girl I was! As I look back upon it now I am half inclined to smile. But I was only nineteen.
Mr. Harrod had his back towards me when I came into the room. But I could not have failed to recognize the broad, strong shoulders and the very black curly hair. I must have been the more changed of the two, for I had brushed and braided my locks, which curled all the merrier for the wetting, and I had put on another dress. Nevertheless, his eyes had scarcely rested upon me before his mouth broke again into that smile that showed the strong white teeth.
I hope you're none the worse, miss, said he. "I was afraid you had got a bad shaking."
Deborah, who was bringing in the supper, looked at me sharply. Mother had not yet come in, and father was in a brown-study, but the remark had not escaped old Deb. She could not keep silence even before a stranger.
I thought you looked as if you had been up to some mischief again, said she. "Your face is a nice sight."
I flushed angrily. I think it was enough to make any girl angry. It was bad enough to know that I was disfigured by a scratch on my cheek without having a stranger's attention attracted to it, and running a risk besides of a scolding from mother, who came in at the moment. Luckily she did not hear what Deborah had said. She was too much engaged in welcoming her guest, which she did with that gentle dignity that to some might have looked like a want of cordiality, but to me seems, as I look back upon it, to be just what a welcome should be—hospitable without being anxious. But when we were seated at the supper-table she noticed the mark on my face.
It's only a fall that I got on the marsh, said I, in answer to her inquiry. "It isn't of the slightest consequence."
She said no more, neither did Mr. Harrod. I must say I was grateful to him. He saw that I wished the matter to be forgotten, and he respected my desire; but I have often wondered since, what construction he put upon my behavior. If he thought about me at all, he must have considered me a somewhat extraordinary example of a young lady, but I do not suppose that he did consider me at all. Of course I was nothing but a figure to him; he had plenty to do feeling his level in the new life upon which he had just entered.
I am sure that Mr. Harrod was a very shy and a very proud man. When mother said that she should expect him every evening to sup at the Grange, he refused her invitation with what I thought scant gratitude, although the words he used were civil enough; and when father spoke of his friendship with the squire, he said that he was beholden to the squire for his recommendation, but that he should never consider himself a friend of a man who was in a different station of life to himself.
I think in my heart I admired him for this sentiment, and father should also have approved of it; but if I remember rightly, mother made some quiet rejoinder to the effect that it was not always the people who were on one's own level that were really one's best friends. I recollect that she, who was wont generally to sit and listen, worked hard that evening to keep up the conversation.
Dear mother! whom with the arrogance of youth I had never considered excellent excepting as a housewife or a sick-nurse. County news, the volunteer camp, the drainage of the marsh, the scarcity of well-water, the want of enterprise in the towns-people, the coming elections—dear me, she had them all out, whereas father and I, who had undertaken, as it were, to put our best legs foremost, sat silent and glum. To do myself justice, I had a racking headache, and for once in my life I really felt ill, but I might have behaved better than I did.
Mr. Harrod began to thaw slowly under the influence of mother's kindness. She had such a winning way with her when she chose, that everybody gave way before it; and I noticed that even from the very first, when he was certainly in a touchy frame of mind towards these, his first employers, Mr. Harrod treated mother with just the same reverential consideration that every one always used towards her.
In spite of it all that first evening was not a comfortable time. Father and Mr. Harrod compared notes upon different breeds of cattle and upon different kinds of grains; but there was a restraint upon us all, and I think every one was glad when mother made the move from the table and father lit his pipe. I have no knowledge of how they got on afterwards over their tobacco; when I rose from the table the room swam around me, and if it had not been for Deborah, who, entering on some errand at the moment, took me by the shoulders and pushed me out of the door in front of her, I am afraid I should have made a most unusual and undignified exhibition of myself in the Grange parlor. As it was I had to submit to be tucked up in bed by the old woman, and only persuaded her with the greatest difficulty not to tell mother of my accident, some account of which, as was to be expected, she wrung from me in explanation of Mr. Harrod's words in the parlor.
I'd not have been beholden to him if I could have helped it, were the consoling words with which she left me; and as I lay there, aching and miserable, I became quite convinced that any comradeship between myself and my father's bailiff had become all the more impossible because of the occurrence of the afternoon.
I got up the next morning just as usual. Nothing should have induced me to confess that there was anything the matter with me, although my arm was so stiff that it was with the greatest pain that I carried in the breakfast urn, and my head ached so from my fall that it was hard enough to put a good face upon it when mother remarked again upon the disfigurement that I had upon my cheek. But although I gave no sign, I was not used to being ill, and it did not improve my temper.
Things were not comfortable in the house, and I did nothing to make them better. To be sure, I kept my promise of talking to Reuben, but I'm afraid that I did not even do that in a manner to be of any use. I met Mr. Harrod as I passed out into the stable-yard, and he asked me how I did? That alone put me out.
To have been asked how I did by any one that morning would have annoyed me, but to be asked how I did by the man who was somehow connected with my doing ill annoyed me specially. I fancied it would have been in better taste if he had not remarked upon a body's appearance when she was looking her worst; and anyhow it seemed to me an unnecessary formality. I feel really ashamed now to write down such nonsense, but there is no doubt that such were my feelings at the time. I do not think that I even answered him by anything more than a "good-morning," but passed on as though I had the affairs of the world on my shoulders.
I found Reuben rubbing down the mare who was to go into town with father. She neighed as I came in, and stretched out her neck. I had no sugar, but she licked my hand nevertheless; and I remembered Reuben's compliment to me about my ability to win the love of beasts. It consoled me a little at a time when I thought I should always stand aloof, not only from the love but even from the comradeship of human beings. And it gave me courage to say what I wanted to say to Reuben. It was something to know that I was at least the old man's favorite.
Reuben, I began, plunging boldly into the matter, "whatever made you behave so badly to father's bailiff when he came round the place?"
There had been a special cause of complaint that very morning when father had first taken Mr. Harrod round the farm, so I had a handle upon which to begin.
Don't you know, I went on, "that this gentleman has got to be master over you?"
Master! repeated Reuben, stopping his work, and looking straight at me; "no, miss, I knows nothing about that."
I had used the word on purpose to draw out the whole sting at once.
Yes, continued I, "he's going to be father's bailiff."
Bailiff! repeated Reuben, again putting on his most stolid air. "I knows nothing about that."
Well, explained I, trying neither to laugh nor to be annoyed, "that means that he is going to manage the land and give orders the same as father, so that there'll be two masters instead of one."
Reuben continued rubbing down the mare's coat till it began to shine like satin.
I've heard tell, answered he at last, "there's something in the Book that says a man don't have no call to serve two masters."
This time I did laugh outright. "Oh, that's different, Reuben," said I—"that's different; but these two masters will both be good, and both will want you to do the same thing."
Do ye know that for sure, miss? asked Reuben, again, and I had a lurking suspicion that he did not ask in a perfectly teachable spirit. "I've heard tell as when there be two masters, they always wants a man to do just the opposite things."
I paused a moment. I did not know what to answer, for it seemed to me as though there might be a great deal of truth in this.
But I said, bravely, "Oh no, Reuben."
Reuben scratched his head. "Well, miss, Farmer Maliphant, he have been my master fifteen year come Michaelmas, and he have been a good master to me. Many another would have turned me away because o' the drink. It was chill work at times down there on the marsh when I was with the sheep, and the drink was a comfort. I nigh upon died o' the drink, but Farmer Maliphant he have been patient with me, and he give me another chance when others would have sacked me without a word. And now I be what parson calls a reformed character."
Well, you are quite right to avoid drinking, Reuben, said I, chiefly because I did not know what to say.
Yes; but I don't mind tellin' you, miss, continued Reuben, confidentially, "that farmer he have more to do with making a pious man of me than parson had; not but what I respec's the Church; but bless you, parson wouldn't ha' given me nothing for giving up o' my bad ways, and where's the use of doing violence to yerself if ye ain't a goin' to get something by it?"
Reuben wiped his brow. This long and unwonted effort of speech was almost too much for him.
Nay, parson he didn't offer me no reward, added he, "but farmer he did. He says to me, 'Reuben,' he says, 'if you give up the drink you shall stay on as long as I'm above-ground;' and three times I backslided, I did, and three times he give me another chance; and now as I'm a respectable party, and a honor to any club as I might belong to, I means to stick to my old master, and not be for going after follerin' any other mammon whatsomever."
I brightened up at this declaration.
Well, I'm glad of that, Reuben, said I. "I'm sure we none of us want you to leave us after all these years."
Lord bless you, I ain't a-going to leave, answered he, simply.
Then that's all right, answered I. "If you have made up your mind to do as you're bid, I know father will be true to his word, and will never turn you off so long as he is alive."
Ay, the master'll be true to his word, echoed the old man, nodding his head, "and I'll be true to mine, but I won't go follerin' after no new masters. One master's enough for me, and him only will I serve."
He gave the mare a smack upon her haunches, and turned her off; the light of reason faded from his face, and I knew that it was absolutely useless to say another word to him on the subject. I turned to go within, and in the porch, with a bowl in her hand, stood Deborah facing me, with an exasperating smile on her wide red face, and something more than usually aggressive in her broad, strong figure. I looked round and saw that the gate of the yard was open, and that Mr. Harrod, with his heavy boots and gaiters on, ready for work, stood just behind me. I could have cried with vexation.
Mr. Maliphant is waiting, said he, going up to the animal that Reuben had just finished harnessing, and fastening the last buckle himself. "I'll drive the cart round to the front myself." And he took the reins and jumped up while Reuben, in gloomy silence, tightened up one of the straps. I went and opened the gates, and with a nod of thanks to me, Mr. Harrod dashed out.
I cannot tell whether it was the strap that he had fastened himself, or whether the one that had been Reuben's doing, but something galled the mare. She reared and began to kick. Without a smile upon his face, and without moving an inch, Reuben said, "Ay, it takes a man to hold that mare."
You fool! cried I, quite forgetting myself. "It isn't the man, it's the harness."
I flew down the gravel after the cart. The horse was still kicking violently. Every muscle on Mr. Harrod's dark face was set in hard lines.
Leave her alone, cried he, as I approached; "don't touch her."
Something in his voice cowed me, and apparently cowed the horse also, for she was quiet in an instant, her sides only quivering with nervousness. I sprang to her and unloosed the cruel strap. She turned to me, and I held her by the bridle and patted her neck. Mr. Harrod got down and examined the cart. Fortunately it was not materially hurt.
What can Reuben have been about to tighten that so, said I. "It was enough to madden any horse."
He did not answer.
I'm afraid he was angry at your giving him an order, said I. "You must excuse him. He's an obstinate old fellow, but he is a good servant, and he has been with us many years."
It's the most natural thing in the world that he should dislike me at first, answered Trayton Harrod, with that smile of his that was such a quick, short flash. "I rather like the sort of people who resent interference. But I don't suppose it was his doing for a moment. I buckled this up wrong."
He pointed to his part of the job. Father came up, and they drove off quietly together. I went back into the yard, musing on his words.
I don't believe you'll find Mr. Harrod an unjust master, Reuben, said I.
Reuben took no notice; but Deborah laughed, and said, grimly:
Well, he's a fine-grown young man, anyhow; and he'll know how to drive a mare, I don't doubt.
But I paid no attention to her words. I was wondering why Mr. Harrod had said that he rather liked people who resented interference.