A fortnight passed. I had seen little or nothing of Mr. Harrod till one afternoon when, with a volume of Walter Scott under my arm, I had taken my basket to get some plovers' eggs off the marsh. I had wandered a long way far beyond that part of the dike that lay beneath the village and was apt to be frequented by passers-by, and I had already about a dozen eggs in my little basket, when I heard some one whistling down behind the reeds on the opposite side of the bank.
It might have been a shepherd. There was a track across the level here, and none but the shepherds knew it; but somehow I did not think it was a shepherd. I sat down upon the turf, for the bulrushes in the dike had not yet grown to any height, and I did not want to be seen.
Taff! called a voice.
Yes, it was Mr. Harrod. I had missed the St. Bernard when I had been coming out, and had wondered where he had gone, for I had wanted him for a companion—Luck, the sheep-dog being out with Reuben. I wondered how it was that Mr. Harrod could have taken him.
I sat quite still among the rushes, where I had been looking for the birds'-nests. I did not want to be seen, and, as far as I remembered, there was no plank over the dike just here. But there was some one who knew the marsh better than I did. It was the dog. As soon as he got opposite to where I was, he began barking loudly, and then he ran back some hundred yards and stood still, barking and wagging his tail, and as plainly as possible inviting his companion to follow him.
Mr. Harrod must have loved dogs almost as much as I did, for he actually turned back, and when he came to where Taff stood he laughed. There was evidently a plank there, and I suppose he must have guessed that he was expected for some reason to cross over. He did so, and Taff followed. The dog tore along the path to me, and Mr. Harrod followed slowly. He did not seem at all surprised to see me. He came towards me with a book in his hand.
I think you must have dropped this, he said, handing it to me. "We found it just down yonder."
He said "we." It must have been the sagacity of that wretched dog which had betrayed me, for there was no name in the book. I took it reluctantly; I was rather ashamed of my love of reading. Girls in the country were not supposed usually to be fond of reading. If it hadn't been for those good old-fashioned novels in father's library, mother would have considered the Bible, and as much news as was needed not to make one appear a fool, as much literature as any woman required. A love of reading might be considered an affectation in me, and there was nothing of which I had such a wholesome horror as affectation.
I took the book in silence—my manners did not mend—and stooped down to pat the dog. I wanted to move away, but I didn't quite know how to do it. Taffy wagged his tail as if he hadn't seen me for weeks. Foolish beast! If he was so fond of me, why did he go after strangers so easily?
Taff knows the marsh, said I, for the sake of saying something.
Famously, said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. We are the best of friends."
I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog?
Taff will follow any one, I said, roughly.
It was not true, for Taff had never been known to follow any one before; and even as I said it, I wondered if Mr. Harrod were one of those whom "the beasts love," but he took no notice of my rudeness.
What have you got there? asked he, looking into my basket.
Plovers' eggs, answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer the beach."
Lapwings' eggs, corrected he, taking one in his hand.
Oh no! plovers' eggs, insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' eggs in the shops in town as well as here."
Yes, smiled he. "They are sold as plovers' eggs all over the London market also, but the lapwing—or the pewit, as you call it—lays them for all that. It is a bird of the plover family, but it should not properly be called a plover."
I bit my lip.
Of course those are not all plovers' eggs, said I, taking up one of a creamy color spotted with brown, which was quite different to the gray ones mottled with black, that seemed to have been designed to escape detection on the gray beach, where they are generally found. "This is a dabchick's egg."
I see you know more about birds than most young ladies do, said Mr. Harrod; "but I should call that a moor-hen's egg. And as for the gray plover, it is a migratory bird; it does not breed in England."
I suppose I still looked unconvinced, for he added, pleasantly, "Come, I'll bet you anything you like; and if we can be lucky enough to find a bird on the eggs, I'll prove it you now."
He turned round and began walking slowly along the bank of the dike, close to the water's edge. I gave Taff a friendly cuff to keep him quiet, for he was rather excitable, and it was necessary that we should be very wary if we wanted to surprise the bird sitting.
Mr. Harrod crept cautiously along, and I followed; I was as anxious now as he was, and by this simple means I was entrapped into a walk with my sworn enemy. A brown bird with a long bill got up among the reeds, and flew in a halting manner down to the water. It was a water-rail, and Mr. Harrod said so—for these birds are rarer upon the dike than the moor-hens and pewits, of which there are a great number, and I suppose he imagined I would not know it.
Something moved in the growing rushes at our feet; but it was only a couple of black moor-hens, who took to their heels, so to speak, with great velocity, and made little flights in the air with their legs hanging down and their bodies very perpendicular. We stood and laughed at them a minute, they were so very absurd out of their proper element; but when they took to the water they were pretty enough, the little red shields standing out upon their black foreheads as they jerked their heads in swimming.
I came upon a mother moor-hen presently tending her little brood; the large flat nest, built of dried rushes, lay in the overhanging branches of a willow-shrub, and she stood on the bank hard by. She did not fly or run away as other birds do when frightened, but stood there croaking as if in anger, and fluttering anxiously round the place where the six little balls of black down showed their red heads above the edge of the nest.
I held Taff by the collar, to prevent his doing any mischief, and we left the poor faithful mother undisturbed. We had not found any plovers' eggs since we had begun to look. They are always hard to find, being laid upon the open ground, sometimes on the very beach, where they almost look like little pebbles themselves, and sometimes in furrows and clefts of the earth, but always without any nest to mark the place. I suppose I had pretty well scoured this particular reach.
About a hundred yards farther on, however, the strange cry that distinguishes the bird we sought fell upon our ears; a cock lapwing flew up, his long feathery crest erect, and tumbled over and over in the air in the manner peculiar to his kind, uttering all the while the plaintive "cheep, cheep" that means distress and anxiety.
Mr. Harrod held out a warning hand behind him as he crept forward gently on tiptoe, and I was obliged to be silent, although I was particularly anxious to speak. Presently he beckoned to me to advance, and as I did so I saw the hen-bird running along the bank as close to the ground as possible, while in a furrow close by my feet lay the pretty, gray-spotted eggs that we were looking for.
Mr. Harrod turned and looked at me with a little smile, which I chose to think was one of triumph. "That proves nothing," said I. "I call that bird a plover, a green plover. I can't help it if you call it something else. Of course, I know there's another sort of plover; the golden plover, but no one could confuse the two, for this one has got a crest on its head which it lifts up and down when it likes."
Oh, I beg your pardon, answered he. "I see you know all about it. It's only a confusion of terms."
I flushed and stooped down to pick up the eggs.
No, don't, said he; "let the poor thing have them. You will see, she will fly back as soon as we have gone away."
We stepped back into the path, and surely, in a moment, the two parents met in the air, tumbling over together, and still uttering their plaintive cry. Then presently the hen-bird floated down again and returned to her patient duty; and soon her mate followed her also, and both were hidden among the rushes.
I turned round with a little laugh. I had thought I was annoyed; but the fact is, I was too happy to be annoyed.
The panoply of a tender gray sky, fashioned of many and many soft clouds, floating over and past one another, and lightening a little where the sun should have been, was spread over the placid ground; the sea was gray, too, beyond the flats, melting into the gray sky, the white headland in the distance, and the gray towers along the shore seemed very near and distinct; sheep wandered up and down the banks of the dike, cropping steadily; the air was soft and kindly. My heart beat with a sense of satisfaction that was unlike anything I had ever felt before; and yet many was the time that I had been out on the marsh on just such a soft day, among the birds and the beasts whom I loved.
Listen, said I, presently, breaking the pleasant silence, as a loud, screaming bird's note, by no means beautiful, but full of delightful associations, came across the marsh. "The swifts are beginning to sing; that means summer indeed."
A little company of the lovely black birds came towards us, flying wildly in circles above the dike, sipping the water as they skimmed its surface, and then away again over the meadows.
I wonder how it is that they are so black and glossy when they come over to us, and so gray and dingy when they go away? said I.
Have you noticed that as a fact? asked he.
Oh yes, I replied; and I am sure that I was very proud to be able to say so. "They come for May-Day, looking as smart as possible; and they don't look at all the better for their seaside season when they leave at the end of August."
I expect they moult in those other countries to which they go when they leave us. But I haven't noticed very many swifts about here, anyhow. Perhaps the country is too wild for them.
Well, we have plenty of swallows, said I, "and martins too. And I don't know why swifts should be so much more particular than the rest of their family. But I have a standing disagreement upon that point with our old servant Reuben. He swears that there are only eight pairs of swifts in the village, and that the same birds come back every year to the same place."
That sounds rather incredible, said Mr. Harrod.
So I say, rejoined I. "But he insists that he has counted the pairs, and that they are always the same number. And as, of course, there must be a pair of young to every pair of old birds when they leave us, he argues that the parent birds refuse to allow the young ones to inhabit the same place when they return. Reuben is as positive about it as possible," added I, laughing. "These swifts live under the eaves of the old church; and I do believe he greets them as old friends every year."
I shouldn't venture to say that he was mistaken, said Mr. Harrod. "So many curious things happen among beasts and birds, and swifts are particularly amusing creatures. Reuben appears to be quite a naturalist."
I had quite forgotten my self-imposed attitude of defiance in the keen interest of this talk; but something in the tone of this remark roused it afresh.
If that means some one who knows about birds and things, yes—he is, answered I, with a shake of my head—a foolish habit which I know I had when I wanted to be emphatic. "Probably a much better naturalist than people who learn only from books. He taught me all I know," added I, proudly, and not for a moment perceiving the construction that might be put upon this remark. "I used to be out here with him whole days when I was a child, and we both of us got into no end of scrapes for 'doing what we ought not to do, and leaving undone what we had to do.' Oh, but it was fun!" added I, with a sigh.
My companion laughed. "Delightful, I am sure," said he; "and it did you a great deal more good than sticking to books, I'll be bound."
He looked at me straight as he said this, as though he were taking my measure.
I did stick to my books, too, cried I, quickly, anxious that he should not think me an ignoramus. "Mother was always very particular about that."
Yes, yes, of course, said he. And then he added, with what I fancied was a twinkle of fun in his eye, "'The Fair Maid of Perth' is not every young lady's choice."
I blushed. Perhaps, after all, he did not think me ridiculous for reading novels. I was half angry, half ashamed, but it never occurred to me to wonder why I should care what this new acquaintance said or thought.
We didn't read novels in lesson-time, said I, stiffly; "we didn't read many novels at all. Father and mother don't hold with novels for girls, and mother don't hold with poetry either, but father likes Milton and Shakespeare."
I dare say they are quite right, said my companion. "But you are not of the same mind I suppose?"
No, answered I, boldly, determined to be honest. "I think Sir Walter Scott's novels are lovely; and I like poetry—all that I can understand."
Mr. Harrod laughed. "I don't think I should have been willing to admit there was anything I couldn't understand when I was your age," he said.
I looked at him surprised. He talked as though he were ever so much older than I was, although he did not look more than six or seven and twenty. I forgot that even then there would be years between us. I always was forgetting that I was scarcely more than a child.
I think that would be silly, said I, loftily. I forgot another thing, and that was that I had shown Mr. Harrod pretty constantly since he had been at the Grange, that I was not fond of admitting there was anything I could not understand, and that if there were any shrewdness in him, he must have set it down by this time as a special trait in me.
Well, anyhow you understand the 'Fair Maid of Perth,' added he.
Yes, answered I. "The heroine is like my sister, beautiful, and dreadfully good."
I was ashamed directly I had said it: praising one's sister was almost like praising one's self.
Indeed, said he; "that's not a fault from which most of us suffer, but then very few of us have people at hand ready and generous enough to sing our praises."
I might have taken the speech as a compliment, I suppose, but it seemed so natural to praise Joyce that I confess it rather puzzled me.
You must miss your sister, added Mr. Harrod.
Of course I do, cried I, warmly. "Luckily she isn't going to be away for long, or I don't know what mother would do. She's mother's right hand in the house. I'm no use in-doors."
You always seem to me to be very busy, said Harrod.
Oh no, insisted I; "it was father I used to help."
Don't you help him now? asked he.
No, I answered, shortly; and as I spoke the recollection of my grievance swept over me, and brought the tears very close, "he doesn't need me."
Mr. Harrod did not say a word, he did not even look at me, and I was grateful to him for that; but I was sure that he had understood, and I grew more sore than ever, knowing that I had let him guess at my sore place. We walked on in silence.
I used to love the Waverley novels when I was a lad, said he, changing the subject kindly.
Don't you now? asked I.
I dare say I should if I read them, but I have to read stiffer books now—when I read at all.
Books on agriculture! I suppose, said I, scornfully; "but father says a little practical knowledge is worth all the books in the world."
It did not strike me at the moment how very rude this speech was; but Mr. Harrod smiled.
Your father is quite right, Miss Maliphant, said he. "Books are of little use till tested by practical knowledge; but after all, if they are good books, they were written from practical knowledge, you know, and perhaps it would take one a lifetime to reap the individual knowledge of all that they have swept together."
I only know what father said, repeated I, half sullenly.
Perhaps you don't remember it all, said he. "I think your father would agree with me this time; he is a very wise man, and I fancy I have stated the case pretty fairly."
I should think he was a wise man! I exclaimed, and I think my pride was pardonable this time. "All the country-side knows that."
I know it, he answered. "One can't go into a cottage without hearing him spoken of with love and reverence."
Yes; I never saw any one so sorry for people as father is, answered I. "I'm frightened of people who are ill and unhappy; but father—he wants to help them—well, just as I wanted to help the beasts and birds," I ended up with a laugh.
As I spoke the curious twittering note of the female cuckoo sounded in one of the trees upon the cliff, and immediately from four different quarters, one after the other, the reply came in the two distinct notes of the male bird. I stood still upon the path, and looked about me. The sound, and perhaps partly what I had just said, reminded me of one of the objects of my walk.
I declare I had almost forgotten, I cried, and without another word of explanation I dashed up the bank of the cliff, Taff following.
Mr. Harrod stood below on the path. A few minutes more were enough to enable me to find the bush, which I had marked with a bit of the braid off my cloak on that memorable evening a few nights ago.
The lark's nest was still there. The cruel little cuckoo sat in it alone, while hovering in the air, close at hand, was the foolish mother waiting, with a dainty morsel in her beak, till I should be gone, and she could safely feed the vicious little interloper who had destroyed her own brood. The bodies of the little titlarks lay upon the bank. I jumped down to the path again and told Mr. Harrod the tale.
I wish I had put the cuckoo out, I said. "I hate cuckoos—all the more because every one admires them." And I remember that all the way home I kept reverting to that distressing little piece of bird-tragedy.
We returned by the sea-shore. It was a longer way, but I declared that I must have a sight of the ocean on this soft, calm day. And soft it was, and calm and gray and mild. The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Only behind the village on the hill the clouds lifted a little towards the horizon, and left a line of whiter light, against which the trees and houses detached themselves vividly; the marsh was uniform and sober.
When we had climbed the steep road and were at the Grange gates, Mr. Harrod held out his hand and said, as he bade me good-night, "I don't see why you shouldn't be of just as much use to your father as ever you were, Miss Maliphant. Please be very sure that no one ever would or ever could replace you to your father."
He spoke as though it were not altogether easy for him to do so; but there was a ring of honest kindliness in his voice that left me mute and almost ashamed. He held my hand a moment in his strong grip, but he did not look at me; and then he turned and almost fled down the road, as if he, too, were almost ashamed of what he had said.
And I had not answered a word. I stood there surprised, perplexed, and even a little frightened, surrounded by new and curious emotions, which I did not even try to unravel.
I do not suppose that I had the dimmest notion at the time that this man, whom I considered my foe, had sprung surely, and as soon as I saw him, into that mysterious blank space that exists in every woman's imagination, waiting to be filled by the figure that shall henceforth bound her horizon. I do not suppose that I guessed at my real feelings for a moment. If I had done so, I am sure that it would only have aggravated my hostile attitude, whereas my first most unreasonable mood was beginning slowly to lapse into one of friendly interest, and of eager desire to be of use.
It is poor sport keeping up an attitude of defiance towards a person who is entirely unconscious of one's intention; and whether Mr. Harrod was really unconscious of my intention or not, he certainly acted as if he were, and was, as far as his reserved nature would allow, so friendly towards me, that I could not choose but be friendly towards him in return. Anyhow, it is true that ere three weeks had passed, that began to happen which Joyce had so anxiously desired: Mr. Harrod and I began to make friends over our common interests.
A certain amount of defiance had begun to be transferred in me from him, whose coming I had so bitterly resented, to those who shared that resentment of mine.
Reuben was still sadly refractory. Luckily he was not much among the men; but where there's a will there's a way; and I'm afraid he had influence enough to do no good. And Deborah troubled me more. Although mother was for the bailiff, because he was the squire's friend, and also because, I think, she was really far more anxious about father's health than she allowed us to guess, and wanted him to be saved work—Deborah had not really allowed herself to be convinced as she generally was.
She was not unreasonable; she was too clever to be unreasonable, and she loved us all too dearly to resent any step which she chose to believe was for the good of any of us. But I am sure she never believed that this step was for the good of any of us. From beginning to end she never liked Trayton Harrod. And what specially annoyed me about her at this time was that she pretended to be trying to make me like him; and as I innocently began to change my own feelings, so I naturally began to resent this attitude in her.
On the very afternoon of which I am thinking, I resented Deborah's attitude. I had been in the kitchen making cakes (when Joyce was away it was I who had to make the cakes), and Deborah had taken advantage of the opportunity to follow up the line already begun by my sister, and to beg me, for father's sake, to forget my grievance and to be gracious to the young bailiff. As may be imagined, Deborah did not consider that she was bound to show any consideration in the matter of what she said to us girls.
I know it comes hard on you, my dear, said she. "There's lots of little jobs you used to do afore, and no doubt did just as well, that'll be this young man's place to do now, and he won't notice whether you mind it or no. 'Tain't likely. But so long as he don't interfere with what we've got to do, we'll mind our own business and never give him a thought. You see, child, it's your father has got to say whether the young man's a-helping or a-hindering. Maybe he'll find out these chaps, that have learned it all on book and paper, don't know the top from the bottom any better nor he do himself. But that's for them to settle atween 'em, and it's none of our lookout."
I don't know why this speech should specially have irritated me, but it did. Even if I had begun to guess that I was growing to like Mr. Harrod better than I had intended to like him, I certainly should not have been glad that any one else should guess it. But the fact is that I believe I had lived the last fortnight without any thought, and that this speech of Deborah's roused me to an investigation of my feelings which was annoying to me.
I have no intention at all of being rude, Deb, exclaimed I. "I leave that to you. I don't think it's lady-like to be rude."
Deb laughed.
Oh, come now, none of your hoighty-toightyness! exclaimed she. "Who carried on up-stairs and down when first squire talked about a bailiff to master at all? I haven't nursed you when you were a baby not to know when you're in a bad temper. It's plain enough, my dear."
I know I have a bad temper, said I; "but I don't see that that has anything to do with the matter."
I suppose something in the way I said it must have touched old Deb, who had a soft heart for all her rough ways, for she said in her topsy-turvy way:
Well, there—no more I don't see that it has. All I mean is that if you let him alone he'll let you alone, and no harm done. You'll have the more time for your books and for looking after your clothes a bit. You know I've often told you you'll never get a beau so long as you go about gypsying as you do.
Deborah, how dare you! cried I, angrily. "You know very well that—"
That I wouldn't have a lover for anything in the world, I was going to say, and deeply perjure myself; but at that very moment mother opened the door and looked into the kitchen. She had her spectacles still on her nose, and an open letter in her hand.
Margaret, I want you, said she, shortly, "in the parlor."
I can't come just now, mother, answered I. "The cakes will burn."
Deborah will see to the cakes, said mother, and I knew by her tone of voice that I must do as she bade me. "I want you at once."
I knew what it was about. Two days ago I had had a letter from Joyce. It gave me no news; she had got on with her tapestry; she had trimmed herself a new bonnet; Aunt Naomi's rheumatism was no better; she hoped that father's gout had not returned—no news until the very end. Then she said she had been to the Royal Academy of pictures in London, with an old lady who lived close to Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met Captain Forrester.
Certainly this was a big enough piece of news to suffice for one letter. But why had Joyce put it at the very end? and why did she hurry it over as quickly as possible, making no sort or kind of comment upon it? It was another of the things about Joyce that I could not make out. Why was she not proud of her engagement? Why did she never care to speak of it? I thought that if I were engaged to a man whom I loved I should be very proud of it, whereas she always seemed anxious to avoid the subject.
Of course it was horrible to be parted from him, but then it should lighten her burden to speak of it to some one who sympathized with her as I did. But I knew well enough why it was. It all came from that overstrained notion of duty. She had promised mother that she would not see Frank, and would not write to Frank, and would not speak of Frank, and she kept so strictly to the letter of this promise that she would not speak of him even to me.
When first I had read Joyce's letter I had been angry with her for a cold-hearted girl, but now I was not angry with her. I admired her, but I made up my mind that her passion for self-sacrifice should not wreck her life's happiness if I could prevent it. Face to face it was difficult to scold Joyce. There was a kind of gentle obstinacy about her which took one unawares, and was very hard to deal with. But in a letter I could speak my mind, and I would speak my mind—not only to her, but, what was far more difficult, to mother also. So that when mother put her head in at the kitchen door and summoned me to the parlor, I guessed what it was about, and I knew pretty well what I was going to say. She put the letter into my hand and sat down, looking up at me over her spectacles as I read it, with her clear blue eyes intent and a little frown on her white brow. It was from Aunt Naomi, and it said that a young man named Captain Forrester had just been to call upon Joyce; she thought she noticed a certain confusion on Joyce's part during his presence, she therefore wrote at once to know whether his visits were sanctioned by her parents, as she did not wish to get into any trouble.
Oh, what a horrid old woman she was! "How could people be narrow-minded and selfish to such a point as that?" I said to myself. Mother watched me, and Deborah came into the room to lay the cloth. It was just curiosity that brought her.
It's a ridiculous letter, said I, roughly, throwing it down with an ill grace, and looking defiantly, not at mother, but at the old woman, who regarded me with reproving eyes. "Why in the world shouldn't Joyce receive a visit from a gentleman—still more from the man she's going to marry?"
She's not going to marry him, at least not with my free consent, said mother, putting her lips together in a set curve that I knew.
Well, then, of course it will be a great pity, but I suppose it will have to be without your consent, said I, rashly.
Well, I'm sure! ejaculated Deborah, under her breath, and looking at me with something like remonstrance. Mother rose with dignity, and turning to the table she said, "Deborah, would you be so kind as to fetch in the cold ham?"
Of course Deborah knew that she was being sent out of the room that I might have a piece of mother's mind, and my own was a struggle between pleasure that Deborah should for once be set down, and anger that she should know the reason of her dismissal. She stayed a moment, setting the forks round the table to a nicety of precision; then, as she passed out of the room she gave me a friendly nudge, and looked at me a moment with a sort of humorous kindliness in her shrewd gray eyes.
Mother took up the letter again. "Do you know how Captain Forrester knew where Joyce was staying?" asked she.
No, how should I know? answered I. "Joyce told me that she had met him accidentally at the Royal Academy. I suppose he found out where she was. Where there's a will there's a way."
But he undertook not to try and see her, remarked mother, severely. "His conduct is dishonorable."
Well, you might make some allowances, cried I. "It shows he loves her; it shows she will be happy with him. And look here, mother," added I, in a sudden frenzy of frankness, "I believe that if I were to get the chance of doing anything to help to bring them together, I should do it."
Mother looked at me fixedly. "No, you wouldn't," said she at last. "You're headstrong and mistaken, but you're honest. You've taken your word you wouldn't interfere nor mention the matter to any one for a year, and you'll keep your word."
I knew very well that she was right, but I said boldly, "Joyce is my sister, I love her, I want her to be happy, and I shall do what I can to make her so."
Still mother looked at me. "You forget that I want Joyce to be happy too," said she. "If she is your sister she is also my daughter." There was a tremble in her voice, whether of anger or distress, I did not know.
Of course I know very well that you care about her and her happiness, said I; "but perhaps you don't see what is best for it. How can old people, whose youth is past ever so long ago, remember how young people feel? They can't know what young folk need to be happy as well as others of their own age can."
Maybe they can look ahead a bit better, though, said mother, without deigning to argue with me. "Be that as it may, I don't think I'll ask you to teach me what's best for my children's happiness. I may be all wrong, of course, but I mean to try and have my own way as long as I can, though I know very well we can't expect the duty and reverence we used to pay our parents when I was your age."
I felt that the rebuke was deserved, and I was silent.
At all events, it's no business of yours, continued mother. "If the thing has got to be fought out, I would rather fight it out with Joyce herself. If she insists upon marrying the young man, I suppose she can do so. She is of age."
I did not answer her, but I laughed. The idea of Joyce insisting upon doing anything was too ridiculous. And, of course, mother knew this quite well, so that it was not quite fair of her.
Having once begun to laugh, the spell of my ill-humor was, however, broken, and it was in a very different tone of voice that I said, "Come, mother, you know very well that sister is far too gentle, and loves you far too much, ever to do anything against your wish, so that's ridiculous, isn't it?"
Mother smiled. "Yes, yes, she's a good girl," she said. "You are both of you good children, but you mustn't be so self-sufficient and headstrong."
Well, I suppose I am headstrong, said I; "I'm sorry for it. But Joyce isn't. I do think she ought to be put upon less than folk who are. I believe if nobody fought Joyce's battles she'd let herself be wiped right out."
And sure enough, by the afternoon post there came a letter from Joyce which satisfied mother more than it did me. It explained that Captain Forrester had come to Sydenham uninvited and unwelcome; and it begged mother to believe that he would never come again.
Thursday was the day for making the butter, and one Thursday in the beginning of June of the year I am recording, I walked along the flag-stones of the court-yard towards the dairy, that stood somewhat detached from the house. I hummed softly to myself as I went; I was happy. I could not have told why I was happy—for Joyce was away, and I should have been lonely. But the June was fair and pleasant, and I was young and strong.
Mother had a special pride in her dairy. The broad, low pans stood in their order on the dressers along the white-tiled walls, each of the four "meals" in its place; the household cream set apart, and other clean pans ready for the fresh setting. The warm summer breeze came through the trellised shutters, that let the air in day and night, and through the open door, around which the midsummer roses clustered thickly and the honeysuckle twined its sweet tendrils.
Beyond the door one could see the square of grass-plot, with the wide border running round it, in which old-fashioned flowers stood up against the brick wall; and over the wall one could see just a little strip of marsh and sea in the distance. Mother had not come in yet; but Reuben had churned before daybreak, and now Deborah stood lifting the butter out of the churn ready for the washing and pressing.
Have you seen Reuben anywheres about? said she, sharply, as I came in.
I knew by her voice that she was annoyed.
Yes, said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?"
I want a few fagots for my kitchen fire; but nowadays there's no getting no one to do nothing, answered she. "Reuben was never much for brains, but he used to be handy; but now—if there's nothing, there's always something for Reuben to do."
Dear me! How's that? asked I.
Deborah was silent. She had said already far more than was her wont—for Deborah was not one to talk, and generally kept her grievances to herself.
The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning, said she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean."
I was turning up my sleeves. "Dear me! Then it'll take a long time?" said I. I hated washing the butter; it was dull work.
Sure enough it will, laughed Deborah, grimly. "What do you want to be doing? You haven't half the heart in the work that your sister has!"
Ah no, I agreed. "I'm not so clever at it as Joyce is."
You can be clever enough when you choose, said the old woman, sagely. "I dare say you could be clever enough teaching this Mr. Harrod his way about the farm if you were wanted to."
I looked up quickly. I think I blushed. Why did Deb say that? But why should I blush because she had said it?
Indeed, I shouldn't think of trying to teach Mr. Harrod anything, said I, trying to laugh.
What! Has he turned out sharp enough to please you after all? asked she, with that peculiar snort which it was her fashion to give when she wanted to be disagreeable. "I thought you were of a mind that nobody could be clever enough over this precious farm, unless you was to show them how."
Fiddlesticks! said I.
It was very annoying of Deborah to want to put me in a bad temper when I had come in in such a good one.
Have you seen your father? asked she, presently.
No, replied I. "Does he want me?"
He was asking for you. Wanted you to go up and show this young chap the field where he wants the turnips put.
The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she could not leave me and him alone?
Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough by this time to find it for himself, I said.
I did not look at Deborah, but I knew very well that her face wore a kind of expression of defiant mischief with which I was familiar.
I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man, said she, provokingly.
But there was a very different ring in her voice when she spoke again in a few minutes, and when I looked up I saw that an unwonted gentleness had overspread her hard, rough features.
If you haven't seen your father since breakfast, she added, "maybe you don't know as he's had another o' them queer starts at his heart."
No. What kind of thing? asked I, frightened.
Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad. There, you needn't be terrified, added she; "it's nothing bad much—only lasted a minute or two. He called and asked me for a glass of water, and I fetched the missis. He was better afore she came. But it's my belief he's neither so young nor so well as he was."
This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke—we were too serious.
And it's my belief he's fretting over something, Margaret, added she, gravely. "So if this here new chap saves him any bother, I suppose folk should need be pleased."
I wondered whether Deborah meant this as an excuse for my being pleased, or as a rebuke for my not being pleased. I think now that she meant it as neither, but rather as a rebuke to herself. I took it to heart, however, and the tears rushed to my eyes.
Had I been really anxious to save father all possible worry over this innovation? Had I done all I could to help Mr. Harrod settle down in his place? I was not sure. I thought I would do more, and yet I thought I would not do more. Oh, Margaret, Margaret! were you quite honest with yourself at that time? I took up a fresh lump of butter and began washing it blindly.
Come, come, you're not going the right way about it! You'll never get the milk out that way! cried Deborah, coming up to me.
No, no—I know, answered I, impatiently; and then, incoherently, "but, oh dear me! what is the right way?"
Deborah laughed, but gently enough. She was a clever old woman, and she knew that I was not alluding to the butter.
Well, I don't rightly know myself, said she, without looking at me. "What you thinks the right way, most times turns out to be the wrong way; and when you make folk turn to the right when they was minded to turn to the left, it's most like the left would ha' been the best way for them to travel after all. I've done advisin' long ago; for it's a queer tract of country here below, and every one has to take their own chance in the long-run."
This speech of Deb's had given me time to choke down my ridiculous tears and put on my usual face again; for I should indeed have been ashamed to be caught crying when there was nothing in the world to cry about; and just as she finished speaking, mother's figure came past the window, walking slowly, Squire Broderick at her side.
Oh dear me! whatever does squire want at this time o' day? cried I, impatiently. "He shouldn't need to come so often, now Joyce is away."
Deborah looked at me warningly. The latticed shutters, although they looked closed, let in every sound; and indeed I don't know what possessed me to make the speech, for I had no dislike to the squire. I suppose I was still a little ruffled.
You might keep a civil tongue in your head? grumbled Deborah, angrily.
The squire was, I have said, a great favorite with the old woman, who was, so to speak, on the Tory side of the camp, although she would have been puzzled to explain the meaning of the word.
Mother was talking to the squire in her most doleful voice—a voice that she could produce at times, although she was certainly not by nature a doleful woman.
It has upset me very much, she was saying, and I knew she was alluding to father's indisposition. "He says it is only rheumatics, and I hope it is; but it makes me uneasy. He's not the man he was, and I can't help fancying at times that he has something on his mind that worries him."
The very same words that Deborah had used; but what father should have specially to worry him I could not see.
He gives too much thought to these high-flown notions of his, Mrs. Maliphant, that's what it is, answered the squire, testily. "It's enough to turn any man's brain."
Oh, I don't think it's that. I think it cheers him up to think of the misery of the working-classes, declared mother, simply, without any notion of the contradiction of her speech. "I'm sure he's quite happy when he gets a letter from your nephew about the meetings over this children's institution. It's a notion of his own, you see, and he's pleased with it, as we all are with what we have fancied out. Not but what I do say it is a beautiful notion," added mother, loyally. "I pity the poor little things myself; no one more."
This was true. It was the only one of father's "wild notions" that mother had any touch of.
I noticed that the squire had frowned at the mention of Frank's name. He always did; I thought I knew why.
Yes; that's all very fine, ma'am, he said, "but the trouble is that it won't make his crops grow. No; and paying his laborers half as much again as anybody else won't make his farm pay."
Mother looked at the squire anxiously.
Do you think the farm doesn't pay? asked she. "Do you suppose it's that as is making Laban fidgety?"
How should I know, my dear lady? answered the squire, in the same irritable way—he was very irritable this morning—"Maliphant knows his own affairs."
Mother was silent.
Well, I hope this young fellow is going to do a deal o' good to the farm, and to my husband too, added she, cheerfully. "I look to a great deal from him, and I can't be grateful enough to you, Squire Broderick, for having settled the matter for us. He's a plain-speaking, sensible young man, and I like him very much."
Yes, Harrod is a thorough good-fellow, answered the squire, warmly. "He is plain-speaking, too much so to his elders sometimes; but it's because he has got his whole heart in his work. He cares for nothing else, and you can't say that of every man that works for another man's money."
They had stopped outside the window, and had stood still there, talking all this while. I suppose mother forgot that Deb and I were bound to be inside doing our business, and that the lattice was open.
I like him very much, continued she; "but I don't think Laban fancies him much, nor yet Margaret. Margaret set her face against his coming from the first, you see. It was natural, I dare say. She had been used to do a good bit for her father; and when Margaret sets her face against anything—well, you can't lead her, it's driving then. It's just the same when she wants a thing. You may drive and drive, but you won't drive her away from that spot. It's very hard to know how to manage a nature like that, Mr. Broderick, especially when you've been used to a girl that's as gentle as Joyce is. But there, they both have their goods and their ills. Far be it from their mother to deny that."
Squire Broderick laughed, and then mother laughed too, and they both came forward round the corner and in at the door. Mother started a little when she saw me, and the squire smiled curiously. But I did not smile; I was boiling over with anger.
Why, Deborah, you have set to work early, said mother, without looking at me. "Why didn't you call me?"
I didn't know as there was any need to call, answered Deborah, roughly, and I believe in my heart that she was the more rough because she didn't like mother's speech about me. "You've your work to do, ma'am, and I've mine. I supposed as you'd come when you wanted to, but that was no reason why Margaret and I should wait about, twirling our thumbs."
Mother did not reply. I felt the squire's gaze still upon me, and I looked up and gave him a bold, angry glance. I am sure that my eyes must have flashed, and I think that my lips were set in the hard lines that mother used to tell me made me look so ugly. I hated the squire to look at me, and he seemed to guess it, for he turned away at once, and afterwards I remembered how he had done it, and that somehow his face had looked almost tender.
But mother did not seem to care a bit that I should have overheard what she said; she began turning up the skirt of her soft gray gown, and rolling up her sleeves. Mother always wore gray when she did not wear the old black satin brocade that had belonged to her own mother, and which only came out on high-days and holidays. She had said she would never put on colors again when our little brother died many years ago; and I am glad she never did, for I should not like to remember her in anything but the soft tones that became her so well. Black, gray or white—she never wore anything else.
The dairy is not what it is when Joyce is at home, said she, deprecatingly, to the squire.
Well, to be sure, ma'am, I don't see what's amiss with it, declared Deborah. "It's hard as them as go away idling should be put above them as stay at home and work."
I looked at Deborah in surprise. She was not wont to set Joyce down.
Why, the place looks as if you could eat off the floor. What more do you want, Mrs. Maliphant? laughed the squire, coming up and standing beside me. "And I'm sure nobody could make up a pat better than Miss Margaret."
Margaret has been more used to out-door work, said mother, at which Deb gave one of her snorts, I did not know why, except out of pure contradiction, for she had blamed my butter-making herself five minutes before.
You seem to have plenty of cream, said the squire, walking round.
Yes, answered mother; "our cows are doing well now, though Daisy will give richer cream to her pail than all the rest put together." Then she added, without looking at me, "Margaret, you need not do any more just now. Your father was asking for you. Go to him, and come back when he has done with you."
I wiped my arms silently, and turned down my sleeves. I had not said a single word since she had come in. She looked at me, but I would not return her glance. I was a wrong-headed, foolish girl, and when I thought that mother had been unjust to me I tried to make her suffer for it.
I walked straight out of the dairy without a word to any one, and it was not till I was outside that I saw that the squire had followed me. He was talking to me, so I had to listen him.
Yes, I said, vaguely, in answer to him—for of course the remark, although I had not entirely caught it, had been about my sister, "yes, Joyce is very well; but she is not coming back just yet. I don't want her to come back just yet. I think it's so good for her to be away. When she is at home, mother wants her every minute. It isn't always to do something, but it's always to be there. And Joyce is good. She always seems pleased to have no free life of her own. But she can't really be pleased. I couldn't. Anyhow, it can't be good for her to be so dreadfully unselfish; do you think so?"
In my eagerness I was actually taking the squire into my confidence. He smiled.
Miss Joyce always appeared to me to be very contented, doing the things about the house that your mother wished, said he. "You mustn't judge every one by yourself. People generally try to get something of what they want, I fancy. Your sister isn't so independent as you are."
No, agreed I, gloomily, "she isn't. She's what folk call more womanly. I never was intended for a woman. Father always says I ought to have been a boy."
I don't think women are all unwomanly because they're independent, said the squire. And then he added, in a lower voice, "I don't think you're unwomanly."
We had come round by the lawn, and we stood there a moment before the porch. The bees were busy among the summer flowers, and the scent of roses and mignonette, of sweet-peas and heliotrope, was heavy upon the air. The sun streamed down on our heads and upon the green marsh beneath the cliff and upon the sea in the distance. It was a bright, hot, June day. I was just going in-doors, when the squire laid his hand on my arm.
Wait a minute, Miss Margaret, I want to say something to you, he said.
I looked at him, surprised. Was he going to ask me to intercede with Joyce for him? If so, he had come very decidedly to the wrong person. But something in his face made me look away.
I won't keep you long, said he.
And then he paused, while I waited with my face turned aside.
I don't think you'll take what I'm going to say amiss, Miss Margaret, he went on at last. "I've known you such a long time—ever since you were a little girl—that I don't feel as though I were taking a liberty, as I should if you were a stranger. I don't suppose you remember how I used to help you scramble out of the dikes when you got a ducking on the marsh after the rainfalls, and how I used to take you into the house-keeper's room at the Manor to have your frock dried, so that you should not get into a scrape? But I remember it very well, and the cakes that you used to love with the blackberry jam in them, and the rides that you used to have on my back after the school feasts."
He paused a moment, as though for an answer. I gave him none, but I remembered all that he alluded to very well.
You don't mind my speaking, do you? repeated he again.
Oh no, I don't mind, answered I, with a little laugh.
Having known you like that all your life, I care for you so much, continued he, "that I can't bear to see you doing yourself an injustice."
I looked at him now straight. I felt annoyed, after all, at what I knew he was going to say. But the kindness and gentleness of his face disarmed me.
You mean that I don't behave well to my mother, said I, the flush of sudden vexation dying away from my face. "Mother doesn't understand me. I can't always be of the same mind as she is. I don't see why people need always be of the same mind as their relations; but it doesn't follow that they're ungrateful and heartless, because they are not. I've heard mother say that she doesn't believe that I care any more for her than for any tramp upon the high-road; but that isn't true."
The squire laughed.
No; of course it isn't true, said he, "and Mrs. Maliphant doesn't think it."
Oh yes, I think she does sometimes, persisted I. "She would like me to be like Joyce. But I shall never be like Joyce!"
No, assented the squire, decidedly, "I don't think you ever will be. But it was not specially with reference to your mother that I was going to speak to you, although what I was going to say bears, I fancy, on what vexed her to-day."
I bit my lip. Was he going to refer to Mr. Harrod? He paused again.
Your father is very much harassed and troubled, I fear, Miss Margaret, he said next. "I have noticed, with much grief of late, how sadly he seems to have aged."
Do you think so? said I. "I don't know what he should have to be harassed about."
The conduct of a farm is a very harassing thing: it takes all a man's thought and care. And even then it doesn't always pay, said the squire, gravely.
I did not answer; I was puzzled.
Your father is getting old, continued he, "and it is hard for a man, when he is old, to give as much attention to such things as in youth and strength."
I don't think he is so very old, I said, half vexed; "but perhaps he doesn't care so much about farming as some people do. Perhaps he cares more about other things."
Perhaps, said the squire, evasively. Then starting off afresh, he added, quickly, "I had hoped that this new bailiff would have relieved him of some anxiety; but I am afraid there are inconveniences connected with his presence which, to a man of your father's temperament, are particularly galling."
Well, I suppose it's natural that a man who has been his own master all his life should mind taking a younger one's advice, said I, pretty hotly this time.
Of course it is, agreed the squire; "but all the same, the farm needs a younger man's head and a younger man's heart in it before it'll thrive as it ought. And now I'm coming to what I wanted to say, Miss Margaret. You can do more than any one else to smooth over the difficulties. You must persuade your father to let Harrod have his own way. He's a headstrong chap, I can see that; and he'll do nothing, he'll take no interest, if he's gainsaid at every step. Nobody would. There are many kinds of modern improvements that are needed at Knellestone. Your father has always stood against them, because he fancied it wasn't fair to the laborers; but they'll have to come, and I know very well Harrod won't stay here long and not get them. No man who is honest to his employer would. Now, you must be go-between," he went on, still more earnestly, although speaking in a low voice. "You must get your father to see things reasonably, and you must be friendly to Harrod: show him that you take an interest in his improvements, and persuade him that your father does also. So he will, when he sees how they work. I can see that a vast deal depends upon you, Miss Margaret. You're a clever girl; you can manage it—if you will."
I turned my face farther aside than ever; in fact, I think I turned my back. I did not answer—I did not know what to answer.
And you will, I know, added he, in a persuasive voice. "I quite understand that it isn't pleasant to you at first, but it will become so when you see that you can do a great deal to make things smooth when difficulties occur. I am sure it must be a great comfort to you to think of how much there still is in which you can help your father—quite as much as there used to be in the past, when you had it more your own way. No one else can help him as you can help him."
Oh, I don't really think he wants help, said I—but rather by way of saying something than from conviction.
Well, I think he wants more than you fancy, persisted the squire. "I would not for worlds cast a shadow over your young life, Miss Margaret," he went on, earnestly; "but I feel that it is the part of a true friend that I should, in a certain measure, do so. Your mother is a tender helpmeet and an admirable nurse, I know; but there are other things needed for a man besides physic and poultices. The time may come when he may turn to you for some things, and I think you should make yourself ready for that time."
He said no more. But after a few moments he held out his hand.
Good-bye, said he. "Whenever you want a friend, I don't need to tell you that you have got one at the Manor."
He was gone, and I had stood there with downcast head, and had answered never a word. I did not at the time understand all that he had said, nor what he had meant by his doubts and his fears, although in after-years his words came back to me very vividly, as did also other words of Deborah's; but one thing was very clear to me even then, and that was that everybody—from Joyce and Deborah to mother and the squire—considered that I ought to make friends with the new bailiff, and that I had not yet done so sufficiently.
From that time forth I gave myself up unreservedly to following the squire's advice. Yes, I did not even shrink from any possible charge of inconsistency. Deborah might laugh at me if she liked, Reuben might look askance out of his stolid silence, mother might ponder; but I had been convinced; I knew what I had to do, and I would stand Trayton Harrod's friend. That was what I argued to myself. Was I quite honest? At all events I was very happy.
One morning—it must have been about a week after the squire's words to me—I had occasion to go out onto our cliff to plant out some cuttings that Joyce had procured and sent me from London. Reuben was in the orchard hard by, mowing the grass under the apple-trees. He did such work when hands were few. The orchard was only divided by a wall from the garden, and Reuben and I kept up a brisk conversation across it.
I've heard say as Mister Harrod be for persuading master to have new sorts o' hops planted along the hill-side this year, miss, Reuben was saying.
Indeed, said I. "Well, I suppose ours aren't a good sort, then."
That's for them as knows to say, replied the old man. "The Lord have made growths for every part, and it's ill flyin' in the face of the Lord."
Well, Mr. Harrod knows, declared I.
Nay, miss, he warn't born and bred hereabouts. But I says to him, 'You ask Jack Barnstaple,' says I. 'He knows,' says I.
You said that to Mr. Harrod, Reuben! I exclaimed.
Yes, miss, he answered, "I did."
Well, then, I think it was very rude of you, Reuben. That's all I have to say.
Nay, miss, I heard you say as how a stranger wouldn't be o' no good to master, grinned Reuben. "They don't understand."
If I said that I made a great mistake, answered I, half angrily. "I think Mr. Harrod is a great deal of use."
Well, miss, if he be agoing to have Goldings planted in instead of Early Prolifics, he won't get no change out o' the ground, that's what I say. They won't thrive for nobody, and they won't do it to please him.
Reuben shouldered his scythe as he said the last words, and went off to a more distant part of the orchard, and I set to work at my planting. I knew pretty well by this time that it was worse than waste of time taking Mr. Harrod's side against Reuben.
I wondered what he would have thought if he could have heard me taking his side. But I don't think he thought much about having a "side." He was too eager about his work.
I set to planting my cuttings busily—so busily that I did not hear steps on the gravel behind me, and looked up suddenly to see Mr. Harrod on the path beside me. He did not say anything, but stood a while watching me. At last I stood up, with the trowel in my hand, and my face, I do not doubt, very red and hot beneath my big print sun-bonnet.
Did you meet Reuben just now? asked I, rather by way of saying something.
No, answered he; "I've come straight from your father's room. He wants you."
Does he? Well, I can't go this minute. I must finish this job. I've neglected it for a week. What does he want me for?
I kneeled down and began my work again.
He and I have been discussing a new scheme, said Mr. Harrod, without answering my question.
What, about co-operation, and children's schools and things? cried I, with a smile. "Is he going to press you into it too?"
Oh no; about the farm, answered he. "His possessions in hops are very small, and there's a fine and unusual chance just turned up of making money. I want him to take on another small farm—specially for hops."
To take on another farm! repeated I.
Yes, said he; "but he doesn't take to it. I think he must have something else in his head. But the matter must be decided at once, for I hear there's another man after it."
Where is it? I asked, a secret glow of satisfaction at my heart to think he should come and tell me of this as he did.
It's 'The Elms,' he answered, "below the mill on the slope yonder."
I stood up and stopped my gardening to show I took an interest in what he was saying. "I know 'The Elms' well enough," I said, "but I didn't know it was to let."
Yes, he replied. "Old Searle left his affairs in a dreadful mess when he died, and the executors have decided to sell the crops at a valuation, and let the place at once without waiting till the usual term."
Dear me, what an odd thing! said I. "I thought farms were never let excepting at Michaelmas."
Never is a long word, smiled Mr. Harrod. "It is unusual. But I suppose the executors don't care for the expense of putting in a bailiff till October. Anyhow, they appear to want to realize at once; and it's a good chance for us."
"
It's all hop-gardens at 'The Elms,' isn't it?' asked I. Yes, chief part.""
"
It seems to me it must either be a very poor crop, or they must want a good price for it so late in the season, said I, not ill pleased with myself for what I considered the rare shrewdness of this remark.
But Mr. Harrod smiled again. "The price will be the average of what the crops fetched during the past three years," said he. "That's law now. I should say about �36 to the acre. Leastways, that would be the price ready for picking, but there'll be a reduction at this time of year. That'll be a matter for private bargain."
Yes, said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking."
Of course, said the bailiff, half testily. "But it's just about the best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They will plant those Early Prolifics about here. I suppose it's because they can get them sooner into the market. But they're a poor hop. Now, the plants at 'The Elms' are all Goldings or Jones."
But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil, said I.
They; who are they? retorted Harrod. "They know nothing about it."
No; I dare say you're right, I hastened to say. "Only hops are always considered risky, aren't they?"
Everything is risky, answered he, more gently. "But as I have an interest in selling the crop to advantage if it turns out well, I don't believe your father could go very far wrong over it."
Well, if you think it would be such a safe speculation, of course father ought to be persuaded to go in for it, said I.
I really think so, answered Harrod, confidently.
But perhaps he doesn't think he can afford the rent of it, suggested I, after a pause; "perhaps he hasn't the ready money."
I can scarcely believe that, Miss Maliphant. Your father passes for a rich man in the county, answered he, with a smile. "No; he thinks the property is good enough as it has stood all these years; but, as a matter of fact, it would be a far more valuable one if it had better hop-gardens. Hops are the staple produce of the county, and I am sorry to say he doesn't stand as well in that line as many of the farmers about; he wants some one to give him courage to make this venture. Unluckily, he has not confidence enough in me, and Squire Broderick is away in London."
Is the squire away? asked I.
Yes; I have just inquired, by your father's wish.
I'll go and talk to father, said I, with youthful self-confidence, gathering up my tools, and too happy in feeling that I was the supporter of the man who but a fortnight ago I had sworn to treat as an open enemy to be troubled by any misgivings.
As I might have known, I did not do very much good. But what Mr. Harrod had said was true—father was in some way preoccupied. I think he had had a letter from Frank Forrester about the Children's Charity Houses Scheme, and it had not been a satisfactory one; for when I went into his business-room I found him busily writing to Frank, and I could not get him to pay any attention to me until after post-time. Then he let me speak.
Meg, child, he said, when I had done, "I don't feel quite sure that you know a vast deal yourself about such things, but maybe you're right in one item, and that is, if I engage a man to look after my property, I ought to be willing to abide a bit by his advice. So we'll have a drop o' tea first, and then we'll go up and have a look at these hops of his."
And that is what we did. Mr. Harrod didn't come into tea, but we met him outside and walked up the hill together. It was still that bright June weather of the week before; we never had so hot and fair a summer I believe as that year. After our hard long winter the warmth was new life, and the long evenings were very exquisite. The breath of the lilac—just on the wane—of the bursting syringa, of the heavy daphne, lay upon the air, and was wafted from behind garden walls up the village street.
As we passed the old town-hall and came out at the end of the road, the white arms of the mill detached themselves against the bright sky where the sun, sinking nearer to the horizon, rayed the west with glory. Father stood a moment on the crest of the hill looking down into the valley, upon whose confines the broad meads of the South Downs swelled into rising ground again; a stream wound across the plain, that was intersected by dikes at intervals; far to the left lay the sea—a dim, blue line across the stems of the trees, breaking into a little bay in the dip of the hill where the valley met the marsh.
The Elms stood on the brow of the hill nearer the sea; the hop-gardens that belonged to it lay close at our feet. We went down the hill among the sheep and the sturdy lambs that leaped lightly still after their dams; father walked slowly in front, Mr. Harrod and I followed. The hop plantations covered the slopes, and swept across the valley to the other side. We left the house to our left above us, and went down into the valley.
The hops, according to their sort, had grown to various heights: some three feet, some less, and the women and girls from the village had been out during the last month tying them, so that they were now past the second bind.
Father and Mr. Harrod walked in a critical way through the lines of plants, examining them carefully. Here and there Trayton Harrod pinched off the flower of a bine that had been left on.
It's very strange, said he, "that pruning and branching of the hops used not to be done some years ago. I read in an old book that the practice was first introduced since farmers noticed how hailstones, nipping off the bine-tops early in the summer, made the plants grow stronger."
They walked on again, Harrod showing father where the Jones hops grew, and where the Goldings, and arguing that, for purposes of early foreign export, the Jones hops easily took the place of the Early Prolifics, and came to a far finer, taller growth, while for later introduction into the market the Goldings were the best grown. Father stated the same objections that Reuben had stated—Trayton Harrod fighting each one vigorously, and coming off victorious, as he somehow always did.
We walked on through the gardens and then up by the house and back along the brow of the hill.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the crimson of the after-glow lay, a lump of fire, in the purple west, and sent rays of redness far into the heavens on every side, washing the clouds with a hundred tints from the brightest rose to the tenderest violet, the faintest green, the softest dove-color above our heads. Behind the village and its houses a row of dusky-headed pines stood tall or bent their trunks, bowed by the storm-winds, across the road; father stopped there a moment and looked at the glowing sky from between their red stems. The hills lay round the plain, wonderfully blue; the sunset gilded the quiet little stream upon the marsh till it looked like a streak of molten metal. He had not spoken a word, and now he sighed, half impatiently, as he turned homeward. I remember that Mr. Harrod left us at that point. He promised to be in to supper, and father and I walked on alone.
When we got to the dip of the road where the hill begins to go down towards the sea-marsh, we met Mr. Hoad coming up in his smart little gig, with his daughter Jessie at his side. I was for passing them with merely a bow, for they showed no signs of stopping, and I desired no conversation with either of them; but father stopped the gig.
Hoad, can you spare me a few minutes? asked he. "I should be much obliged to you. Miss Jessie, you'll come in and have a cup of tea," added he, courteously.
Miss Jessie said that she should be very pleased to come; but she did not look pleased, and for the matter of that I fear neither did I. I could not think why father should want Mr. Hoad's company again so soon; but I supposed it must be about that letter of Frank's. He had evidently seemed annoyed about it, although I did not know at that time why it was.
I took Jessie Hoad into the parlor while the two men went into the business-room. Mother was rather flurried when I announced, in my blunt way, that these visitors were going to stay to tea. The presence of a strange woman always did trouble mother a bit, and Jessie having been the head of her father's house since her mother died, she considered her in the light of a housewife. I knew that she was longing to have her best china out and the holland covers off in the front parlor. She was far too hospitable, however, to allow this feeling to be apparent, and she rose at once to welcome her guest.
I'm very pleased to see you, Miss Hoad, said she; "I'm sorry Joyce is away."
Oh, not at all; pray don't mention it, Mrs. Maliphant, declared Jessie, in her hard, high voice, sitting down and settling her dress to advantage. "Of course I'm sorry to miss Joyce, but I'm very glad to see you and Margaret."
My blood boiled to hear her call us like that by our Christian names, and to see the way she sat there with her little smart hat and her little nose turned up in the air, chatting away to mother in a patronizing kind of way, and keeping the talk quite in her own hands with all the town news she had to tell.
Yes, the Thornes' is a beautiful house, she was saying, "all in the best style, and quite regardless of expense. I assure you the dessert service was all gold and silver the other night when father and I dined there. Of course it was a grand affair. All the county swells there. But the thing couldn't have been done better in London, I declare."
Indeed! answered mother. "I haven't much knowledge of London."
No, of course not, said Jessie. "But you have seen the Thornes' house, I suppose?"
No, answered mother. "We don't go there. My husband and Mr. Thorne don't hold together."
Oh, indeed! exclaimed Jessie; "that's a pity. He and his daughter are the nicest people in the county. But as I was saying to Mary Thorne, there's something very quaint in your old house, and I can't help fancying the new style does copy some things from the old houses."
Oh, I can't believe that, said I, half piqued. "It wouldn't be worth its while."
She looked round at me, a little puzzled, I think, but any rub there might have been between us was put a stop to by the entrance of father and Mr. Hoad from the study.
Mr. Hoad was, if anything, in better spirits than ever; his eyes were bright, and he rubbed his hands as a man might do when anything had gone to his satisfaction. Father's brow, on the contrary, was heavy. We sat down to tea. Mr. Harrod came in a little late. He was about to retire when he saw that we had company; but mother so insisted on his taking his usual seat that it would have been rude to refuse, although I could see that he did not care for the society.
Mother introduced him to Miss Hoad, who just looked up under the brim of her hat, and then went back to her muffin as if none of us were much worth considering. There was altogether an air about her as though she wanted to get over the whole affair as soon as possible. And she did. That bland father of hers had not time for more than half the pleasant things that he usually said to us all before she whipped him off.
It'll be quite too late to pay our call at 'The Priory' if we don't go at once, papa, said she, rising, and looking at a dainty gold watch at her waist. I suppose she did not trust the time of our old eight-day clock that stood between the windows, yet I'll warrant it was the safer of the two.
She turned to mother.
I'm sorry to have to run away so soon, said she, with an outward show of cordiality, "but you see it's very important to leave cards on people like the Thornes directly after a large party. And if I don't do it to-day I must drive out again on purpose to-morrow."
Have you been dining at Thorne's, Hoad? asked father.
Yes, answered the solicitor. "He's a rare good-fellow, and he gave us a rare good dinner."
Father did not say a word, and the Hoads took their leave.
I'll let you have that the first thing in the morning, said Mr. Hoad, as he shook hands with father.
Father nodded, but otherwise made no remark. When the visitors were gone he turned to Mr. Harrod: "I've made up my mind to rent 'The Elms,'" said he, shortly. "We'll drive into town to-morrow and see Searle's executors about it."
That's right, sir, said Harrod, cheerfully. "I feel sure it will turn out a sound investment."
'The Elms!' exclaimed mother. "Are you thinking of that, Laban?"
Yes, answered he. "Harrod advises it."
Well, of course I shouldn't like to set myself against Mr. Harrod, said mother, half doubtfully. "But I should have thought our own farm was enough to see after. It seems a deal of responsibility and laying out of money."
There's no farm to speak of at 'The Elms,' ma'am, answered Harrod. "It's all hop-gardens. That's why I advised Mr. Maliphant buying it."
Dear, said mother, nowise reassured. "Isn't that very risky? I've always heard of hops as being riskier than cows, and I'm sure they're bad enough, though Reuben will have it they're nothing to sheep at the lambing."
Harrod had frowned a little at first, but now he smiled. "There's a risk in everything," he said. "You might break your leg walking across the room."
You'll live up at the house, Harrod, put in father. "I've been sorry there's been no better place for you up to the present time."
Oh, I've done very well, laughed the young man; "but it'll be best I should go over there now. It's only a step for me to get here of mornings."
Well, I'm glad of that at any rate, said mother. "Father's quite right. It wasn't fitting for you as our bailiff not to have a proper place. And now you'll have it. Meg, you and I must go up and see as everything's comfortable. And we must get a woman in the place to see after him. Old Dorcas's niece might do. She's a widow—she'd want to take her youngest with her, but you wouldn't mind that," added she, turning again to Harrod. Her mind was full of the matter now. So was mine. We were quite at one upon it, and discussed it the whole evening. Nevertheless, I found time to wonder now and then how it was that it was only after his talk with Mr. Hoad that father had made up his mind to take on "The Elms." It rather nettled me. Mr. Hoad could not possibly know as much about farming as did Trayton Harrod.
However, the thing was done, that was the main thing. Mr. Harrod had had his way, and I tried to flatter myself that I was in some way instrumental in procuring it.
The time was coming near when Joyce was to come home, and I had done positively nothing in the matter in which I had promised to fight her battle. It is true that she had begged me not to fight her battle, but I wanted to fight it, and I was vexed with myself that I had so allowed the matter to slide. In the one tussle that I had had with mother, I had been so worsted that I felt, with mortification, my later silence must look like a confession of defeat.
The fact is that I had been thinking of other things. Trayton Harrod and I had had a great many things to think of. He had started a new scheme for the laying on of water.
Our village abounded in wells; they, too, were the remnants of the affluence of the town in by-gone days, but they were all at the foot of the hill.
Trayton Harrod wanted to bring the water from the spring at the top of Croft's hill, in pipes through the valley, and up our own hill again. He wanted to form a co-operation among the inhabitants for the enterprise. If this was impossible, he wanted father to do it as a private undertaking, and to repay himself by charging a rental to those people who would have it brought to their houses. But he met with opposition at every turn. The inhabitants of Marshlands were a stubborn lot; they did not believe in the possibility of the thing; they did not care for innovations; they had done very well all these years with carts that brought the water up the hill and stored it in wells in their gardens, and why not now? He had not gained his point yet, either in one way or in the other, and I had been very busy fighting it for him; that was how it had come to pass that I had forgotten Joyce's business.
Mother and I sat in the low window-seat of the parlor straining our eyes over the mending of the family socks and stockings by the waning light of the June evening. Mother had missed Joyce very much. I had not been all that a daughter should have been to her since I had been in sole charge; I had been preoccupied, and she had missed Joyce much more, I knew very well, than she chose to confess. Knowing this as I did, I thought the moment would be well chosen to speak of what should affect Joyce's happiness; I thought her heart would be soft to her. But on this point I was mistaken. Mother did not alter her opinion because her heart was soft. She could be very tender, but she was most certainly also very obstinate.
I opened the conversation by alluding to the letter which father had had from Captain Forrester.
That scheme of his for poor children doesn't seem to be able to get started as easily as he hoped, I said. "I'm sorry. It would have been a beautiful thing, and father will break his heart if it falls through."
He seems to think the young man hasn't gone the right way to work, said mother. "I could have told him he wasn't the right sort for the job."
I tried to keep my temper, and it was with a laugh that I said, "Well, if anything could be done I'm sure he would do it, if it was only for the sake of pleasing Joyce."
Mother said nothing. She prided herself upon her darning, and she was intent upon a very elaborate piece of lattice-work.
He would do anything to please Joyce. I never saw a man so much in love with a girl, I said.
Have you had great experience of that matter? asked mother, in her coolest manner. "Because if you have, I should like to hear of it; girls of nineteen don't generally have much experience in such matters."
I can see that he is in love well enough, said I, biting my lip. Then warming suddenly, I added: "I don't see why, mother, you should set your face so against the young man? You want Joyce to be happy, don't you?"
Yes, said mother, quietly. "I want her to be happy."
Well, it won't make her happy never to see the man she loves, cried I; "no, nor yet to have to wait all that time before she can marry him. I've always heard that long engagements were dreadfully bad things for girls."
Mother smiled. "I waited three years for your father," she said, "and I'm a hearty woman of my years."
Perhaps you were different, suggested I.
Maybe, assented mother. "Women weren't so forward-coming in my time, to be sure."
I don't see that Joyce is forward, cried I.
No, Joyce is seemly behaved if she is let alone. She'll bide her time, I've no doubt, said mother.
I felt the hidden thrust, and it was the more sharply that I replied, "You're so fond of Joyce, I should have thought you wouldn't care to make her suffer."
Mother gave a little sigh. She took no notice of my rude taunt.
The Lord knows it's hard to know what's best, said she. "But I'd sooner see her pine a bit now than spend her whole life in misery, and there's no misery like that of a home where the love hasn't lasted out."
The earnestness of this speech made me ashamed of my vexation, and it was gently that I said: "But, mother, I don't see why you should think a man must needs be fickle because he falls in love at first sight. I don't see how people who have known one another all their lives think of falling in love. When do they begin?"
I don't know as I understand this mighty thing that you young folk call 'falling in love,' said mother. "I was quite sure what I was about when I married your father."
Well, now, mother, I don't see how you can have been quite sure beforehand, argued I, obstinately. "You have been lucky, that's all."
Nay, it's not all luck, said mother. "It isn't all plain sailing over fifty or sixty years of rubbing up and down; and they'd best have something stouter than a mere fancy to stand upon who want to make a good job of it."
I don't see what they are to have stouter than love to stand upon, said I. "And I always thought love was a thing that came whether you would or not, and had nothing to do with the merits of people."
It was all a great puzzle. Did mother make too little of love, and did I make too much?
That's not love, said mother; "that's a fancy. I misdoubt people who undertake to show patience and steadiness in one thing, before they have learned it in anything else."
What has Frank Forrester done, I should like to know? asked I, feeling that she was too hard on him.
Nothing, my dear, answered mother, laconically.
And I sighed. It was very evident there would be no convincing mother, and that if there was to be any relaxation in the hardness of the verdict for Joyce, it must come through father, and not through her.
She rose and moved away, for the light had waned, and we could not see to work.
If I loved a man I'd take my chance, was my parting shot.
Then, my dear, it's to be hoped you won't love a man just yet, said mother, as she went out of the room.
And that was all that I got by my endeavor to further my sister's cause with mother. I think, however, I soon forgot the annoyance that my failure caused me; it was driven out of my head by other and more engrossing interests.
Mother and I had been up at "The Elms" that very day getting things in order for Mr. Harrod. We had found a tidy widow woman to wait on him, and mother had put up fresh white dimity curtains from her own store to brighten up his little parlor. When he came in to supper he was full of quiet delight. I forget what he said; he was not a man of many words; he was always wrapped up in his business; but I recollect that, however few they were, they were words of affectionate gratitude to mother for a kind of care which he seemed never to have known before, and I know that I was grateful to him for them—so sensitively responsible is one for the actions of another who is slowly creeping near to one's heart.
Harrod sat some time with mother on the lawn discussing the qualities of cows; she wanted father to give her a new one, and she wanted Harrod to find her one as good as Daisy, if such a thing were possible. He listened with great patience to her reminiscences of past favorites, and promised to do his best; but I could see that there was something on his mind.
I fell to wondering what it was. I fell to wondering whether Trayton Harrod ever thought of anything else but the work he had to do, the dumb creatures that came his way in the doing of it, and the fair or lowering face of the world in which he did it. I soon learned what it was. It was something that had been discussed many times, but it had never been discussed as it was discussed that evening.
Father came out with his pipe a-light; his rugged old face wore its most dreamy and contented expression. He had evidently been thinking of something that had given him pleasure; but I do not think it had to do with the farm. But Mr. Harrod went to meet him, and they strolled down the garden together, and stood for about ten minutes talking hard by the bed where the golden gillyflowers and the purple iris bloomed side by side.
Well, you know what I have told you, Mr. Maliphant, said Harrod. "You never can make the farm pay so long as you hold these theories. Your men work shorter hours and receive higher wages than anybody else's; and, added to that, you absolutely refuse to have any machinery used. It'll take you twice as long to get in your hay and your wheat as it will take the other farmers. How can you possibly compete with them?"
I don't want to compete with them, said father—"not in the sense of getting the better of them. I merely want the farm to yield me sufficient for a modest living; I don't need riches."
Well, and you won't do it in the way you are going on, said Harrod, calmly. "You won't do so, unless you allow me to stock the farm with the proper machines, and to get the proper return of labor out of the men."
What is the proper return? asked father, his eye lighting up. "That I should get three times the profit the laborer gets? I'm not sure of it. My capital must be remunerated, of course; but I am not sure that that is the right proportion." His heavy brows were knit, his hair was more aggressive than ever, his lower lip trembled.
Harrod stared. He had not yet heard father give vent to his theories, and he stared.
And as for machines, continued father, "I don't choose to have them used, because I consider it unjust that hands should be thrown out of work in order that I may make money the faster. My notions may be quixotic, but they are mine, and the land is mine, and I choose to have it worked according to my wish."
Certainly, sir, answered Harrod, stiffly. "Only, as I'm afraid I could not possibly make the farm succeed under these conditions, I would prefer to throw up my situation."
Very good, said father; "that is as you wish." And he moved on into the house.
Mother looked at Mr. Harrod a moment as though she were about to beg him to take no notice, and to recall his hasty resignation. Her eyes had almost a supplicating look; but apparently she seemed to think that her appeal would be best made to father, for she hurried after him through the open door.
Trayton Harrod and I were left alone on the terrace. His mouth was set in a hard curve that was all the more apparent for his clean-shaven chin; his eyes seemed to have grown quite small. I was almost afraid to speak to him. He stood there a moment, with his hands in his pockets, looking out across the marsh where the coming twilight was already beginning to spread brown shades, although there was still a reflection of the distant sunset upon the clouds overhead. He looked a moment, and then he turned to go; but I could not let him go like that.
My heart had gone down with a sudden, sick feeling when he had said he must leave Knellestone. I can remember it now. I did not ask myself what it meant. I suppose I thought, if I thought at all, that it was anxiety for the welfare of the farm; but I remember very well how it felt.
Oh, Mr. Harrod, you don't really mean that! said I, hurriedly.
Mean what? answered he, without relaxing a muscle of his face.
That you will give up your work here.
Indeed I do, answered he, with a little hard laugh, showing those white teeth of his. "A man must do his work his own way, or not at all."
I did not know what more to say. But he did not offer to go now; he stood there, with his hands in his pockets and his back half turned to me.
Do you think so? said I, at last, doubtfully.
Well, if I can't do my work here so that it should be to your father's advantage, I'm cheating him, Miss Maliphant—that's evident, isn't it? And I have a particular wish to be an honest man. There was bitterness in his voice.
I see that, said I. "Only, if you go away the work will be done much less to father's advantage than if you stay—even though you can't do it just as you wish."
That has nothing to do with me, answered Harrod, in his hardest voice. "I should harm my reputation by remaining here."
A wave of bitterness swept over me too at that.
I see, I replied, coldly. "You are considering your own interest only. Well, we have no right to expect any more. You have only known us a short time."
He did not speak, and I walked forward to the palisade that hedged the garden, and leaned my arms upon it, looking out to the sea. After a little while he came to my side.
Well, you see, said he, in a softer voice, "a man is bound to consider his own interests to that extent at least—so far as doing his work honestly is concerned. I consider a man a thief who doesn't do what he has to do to the best of his lights."
I quite understand that, answered I. "I quite understand that it would be more comfortable for you to go away."
I should be very sorry to go away, replied he, simply. "I like the place, and I like the work, and I like the people."
Then why do you go? asked I, bluntly.
A man must have his convictions, repeated he, doggedly.
I looked up at him now.
Yes, I said, firmly. "Father has his convictions too. They are not your convictions, but he cares just as much about them. You ought to make allowances for that."
I make every allowance for it, answered he; "only, I don't see how the two lots can mix together."
You said just now that a man must do his work his own way, or not at all, I went on, without heeding him. "But I don't see that."
This time Mr. Harrod did more than smile, he laughed outright. I suppose even in the short time that we had been friends he had learned to know me well enough to see something amusing in my finding fault with any one for obstinacy. But I was not annoyed with the laugh; on the contrary, it restored my good-temper.
Well, I don't see why you shouldn't go a little way to meet father, insisted I, boldly. "Of course he won't give in to you about everything; it isn't likely he should. But you might do a great many things that he wouldn't mind, which would make the farm better; and then, when he saw they made it better, and that the laborers went on just as well, maybe he would let you do a few more. I can't discuss it," added I, seeing that Harrod was about to speak, "because I can't understand it. But I see one thing plain, and that is that folk think the farm wants doing something with that father doesn't do—and if so, you're the man to do it."
I paused. Had I not followed the squire's instructions well? Had I not done my very best to "smooth over difficulties?"
I don't think that I am the only man who could do it, by any means, answered Harrod. But he said it doubtfully—pleasantly doubtfully.
It made me bold to retort with greater determination: "Well, I think so, then. And if you say you are comfortable here, if you say you like the place—and the people," added I, hurriedly, "why don't you try, at least, to stay on and help us?"
He did not reply. We stood there what must have been a considerable time looking before us silently. The wane of the day had fallen into dusk, the brown had settled into gray, now that the gold of the sunset reflections had faded; the marsh-land was very still and sweet, the sheep were not even white blots upon it, so entirely did the tender pall harmonize all degrees of hue, so that the kine seemed no longer as living beings, but as mysterious shapes bred of the very land itself; even the old castle, so grand and solid in the day-time, was now like some phantom thing in the solitude—every curve and every circle defined more clearly than in sunlight, yet the whole transparent in the transparent gloaming of the air.
The most solid thing in all this varied uniformity, this intangible harmony, was a clump of trees in the near distance that told a shade blacker than anything else; for the turrets of the distant town lay only as a faint mass of purple upon the land, the little lights that twinkled in it here and there alone betraying its nature; long, living lines of strange clouds, that were neither violet nor gray nor white, lay along the blue where sea and sky were one.
Before you came, said I, at last, in a low voice, "I used to think that I could help father as well as any man. I thought that I understood very nearly as much about farming as he did. I thought I could do much better than a stranger, who would not understand the land or the people. But now I think differently. I see how much more you know than I had dreamed of. You have made me feel very foolish."
I am sorry for that, said he. "It was far from my intentions—very far from my thoughts."
He said no more, neither did I. Perhaps, to tell the truth, I was half sorry for what I had said, half ashamed of even feeling my inferiority, more than half ashamed of having confessed it to any one. Ashamed, sorry—and yet—
Mother called us to go in-doors.
If your father asks me to remain, I will remain, and do my best, said Trayton Harrod, as we walked slowly up the lawn.
And the glow that was upon my heart deepened. It was a concession, and wherefore was it made?
For two days not a word was spoken on the sore subject between father and Mr. Harrod, and on the evening of the second day the squire returned from town.
Father and I had gone down on the morning after the quarrel to see the sheep-shearing at the lower farm. By a corruption of the name of a former owner the country-folk had come to call it "Pharisee Farm," and Pharisee Farm it always was. It lay on the lower strip of marsh towards the castle, with the southern sun full upon it. As we came down the hill I heard steps behind us, and without turning I knew that Trayton Harrod was following us. Father gave him good-day quite civilly, and I held out my hand. I do not know why I had got into the habit of giving my hand to Trayton Harrod; it was not a usual habit with me.
It has turned a bit cooler, Mr. Maliphant, hasn't it? said Harrod.
Yes, answered father; "but we must be glad we have had the rain before we had to get the hay in."
That we must, replied Harrod. "The hay looks beautiful."
We were passing along through the meadows ready for the scythes; they stretched on every side of us. Meadows for hay, pastures for sheep, there was scarcely anything else, save here and there a blue turnip-field or a tract of sparsely sown brown land, where the wheat made as yet no show. The one little homestead to which we were bound made a very poor effect in the vast plain; there was nothing but land and sea and sky. A great deal of land, flat monotonous land, more monotonous now in its richness and the brilliant greenness of its early summer-time than it would be later when the corn was ripe and the flowering grasses turning to brown: an uneventful land, relying for its impressiveness on its broad simplicity, that seemed to have no reason for ending or change; above the great stretch of earth a great vault of blue sky flecked with white vapors and lined with long opal clouds out towards the horizon; between the land and the sky a strip of blue sea binding both together; sea, blue as a sapphire against the green of the spring pastures. Far down here upon the level we could not see the belt of yellow shingle that from the cliff above one could tell divided marsh and ocean: right across the wide space it was one stretch of lightly varied tints away to the shipping and the scattered buildings at the mouth of the river.
We walked on, three abreast. Our talk was of nothing in particular; only of the budding summer flowers—yellow iris, and meadowsweet along the dikes, crowfoot making golden patches on the meadows, scarlet poppies beginning to appear among the growing wheat—but I don't know how it was that, in spite of father's presence, there was a kind of feeling in my heart as though Trayton Harrod and I were quite on a different plane to what we had been two days ago; I don't know why it was, but I was very happy.
The sheep were gathered in the fold when we reached the farm, and Tom Beale, the shepherd, was clipping them with swift and adroit hands. Reuben and his old dog Luck were there also; they were both of them very fond of having a finger in the pie of their former calling, but I think there was no love lost between them all. Luck could be good friends enough with Taff, but he never could abide that smart young collie who followed Tom Beale's lead; and as for Reuben, he was busy already passing comments in a low voice to father on the way in which Beale was doing his work.
Father humored the old man to the top of his bent—he was very fond of Reuben—but Beale went his way all the same, and sent one poor patient ewe after another out of its heavy fleece, to leap, amazed and frightened, among the flock, unable to trace its companions in their altered condition. One could scarcely help laughing, they looked so naked and bewildered reft of their warm covering, and just about two-thirds their usual size.
Ay, the lambs won't have much more good o' their dams now, chuckled Reuben. "They're forced to wean themselves, most on them, after this, for there are few enough that knows one another again."
They do look different, to be sure, laughed I.
You might get your 'tiver' now, Reuben Ruck, said Beale, "if you have a mind to give a hand with this job. They're most on 'em tarred."
The "tiver" was the red chalk with which the sheep were to be marked down their backs, or with a ring or a half-ring round their necks, according to the kind and the age. A shepherd had been tarring them on their hindquarters with father's initials, each one as it leaped from out of its fleece.
The work went on briskly for a while, and we were all silent watching Reuben mark the two and three and four year olds apart.
It's a pity there aren't more Southdowns among the flock, put in Harrod at last.
I turned round and looked at him warningly. It was a mistake, I thought, that under the strained relations of the moment he should choose to open up another vexed question.
Southdowns! echoed Reuben, who was listening. "You'd drop a deal o' master's money if you began getting Southdowns into his flocks."
I bit my lip, furious with the old servant for his officiousness, but to my surprise father himself reprimanded him sharply for it, and, turning to his bailiff, led him aside a few steps and discussed the question with him at length. My heart glowed with pleasure as I overheard him commission Harrod to go to the fair at Ashford next week and see if he could effect some satisfactory purchase. I was quite pleased to note Reuben's surly looks. How sadly was I changing to my old friends! And yet so much more pleased was I to see the honest flush of satisfaction on Harrod's face as father left him, that I felt no further grudge against the old man, and nodded to him gayly as I followed father across the marsh.
When we reached the bottom of the hill we met the squire. He was coming down the road full tilt with the collie who was his constant companion, and before we came within ear-shot I could see that his face was troubled. I knew him well enough now to tell when he was troubled.
Why, Maliphant, what's this I hear? said he, as he came up to us.
Father leaned forward on his stick, looking at the squire with a half-amused, half-defiant expression in his eyes.
Well, Squire Broderick, what is it? asked he.
I hear in the village that you have leased 'The Elms,' answered the other, almost severely.
I happened to be looking at father, and I could see that his face changed.
Yes, he said, quietly, "I have. What then?"
The squire laughed constrainedly.
Well, he began, and then he stopped, and then he began again. "'Tis a large speculation. What made you think of it?"
Mr. Harrod advised father to take on 'The Elms,' I put in, quickly. I was vexed with the squire for saying anything that was a disadvantage to Trayton Harrod in the present state of affairs.
Harrod! cried the squire. He began beating his boot with his stick in that way he had when he was annoyed. "I thought it was Hoad," he said at last beneath his breath.
Father's eyes were black beads. "Pray don't trouble yourself to think who it was who advised me, squire," said he. "If it's a bad speculation nobody is to blame but myself. I am entirely my own master. I was told 'The Elms' was to be had, and I chose to take it. My hop-gardens were not as extensive as I wished."
He had raised his voice involuntarily in speaking. A man passing in the road turned round and looked at him.
Hush, father, whispered I.
It was one of his own laborers, one of father's special friends.
Wait a bit, Joe Jenkins, I'm coming up the road. I want a word with you, said father.
He held out his hand to the squire, but without looking at him, and then went on up the hill. I stayed a moment behind. The squire looked regularly distressed.
Your father is so peppery, he said, "so very peppery."
Well, I don't understand what you mean, said I, but not in allusion to his last remark. "Why isn't the thing a good speculation?"
Oh, my dear young lady, it's very difficult to tell what things are going to turn out to be good speculations and what not, answered he. "At all events, I'm afraid you and I would not be able to tell."
It was very polite of him no doubt to put it like that, but I did not like it: it was like making fun of me, for of course no one had said that I should be able to tell.
I understood that you thought a great deal of Mr. Harrod's judgment, said I, coldly.
So I do, so I do, repeated the squire, eagerly. "I believe it to be most sound."
Well, anyhow, father won't have it much longer, sound or unsound, unless things take a different turn, continued I, with a grim sense of satisfaction in hurting the squire for having hurt Harrod's case with father.
Why, what's up? asked he.
They have had a quarrel, explained I, carelessly. "Mr. Harrod wanted father to reduce the men's wages, and to make them work as long hours as they do for the other farmers hereabouts, and of course father wasn't going to do that, because he thinks it unjust."
I knew it would come—bound to come, muttered the squire beneath his breath.
And then he wanted him to buy mowing-machines for the haymaking, continued I, "and you know what father thinks of machines. So he refused, and then Mr. Harrod said that if he couldn't manage the farm his own way he must leave."
Dear! dear! sighed good Mr. Broderick. And dear me, how little I realized at the time all that it meant, his taking our affairs to heart as he did! "This must be set straight."
I tried my best, concluded I. "It's no good talking to father; but Mr. Harrod promised me that he would take back his word about leaving if father asked him to."
The squire looked at me sharply. "Harrod promised you that?" he asked.
Yes, repeated I, looking at him simply, "he promised me that."
The squire said no more, but his brow was knit as he turned away from me.
I'll go and see Harrod, said he. "Can you tell me at all where I shall find him?"
He's down at Pharisee Farm at the sheep-shearing, said I. "He and Reuben are having a quarrel over Southdowns. He wants to have Southdowns in the flock. But if he goes away there'll be no Southdowns needed."
Mr. Broderick made no answer to this, he strode on down the road. But when he had gone a few steps he turned.
By-the-bye, will you tell your father, he said, "that my nephew came down with me last night? I believe he wants to see him on some affair or other. No doubt he'll call round in the afternoon."
He went on quickly, and I stood there wondering. Frank Forrester back again at the Manor! Did he suppose that Joyce had returned? Did he hope to see her? Poor fellow! He little knew mother.
Father, said I, as I joined him on the hill, "do you know that Captain Forrester has come down again?"
He stopped, he was a little out of breath; I even fancied that his cheek was flushed.
You don't say so! said he. "He gave me no idea of it in his letter. No idea at all."
A light had kindled in his eye.
When does your sister come home? he asked.
She was to have come next week, answered I. "But I suppose mother will put it off now."
Yes, Meg, said he, with a twinkle in his eye, "I suppose she'll put it off. And yet the lad is a good lad, but mother knows best, mother knows best."
We turned up the road, and as we came to the corner of the village street we saw two figures coming along towards us. One of them was Mary Thorne and the other was Captain Forrester. I had not known the Thornes were back at the Priory: they had left it for the London season.
The two were laughing and talking gayly. She came forward cordially as soon as she saw me and held out her hand. Her round, rosy face shone with merriment, and her brown hair caught the sunlight. She spoke to me first while Frank was shaking father warmly by the hand.
How are you, Mr. Maliphant? cried he. "It's delightful to see you again. You see I could not keep away. I had to come down and get a fresh impetus, fresh instructions."
Mary Thorne laughed. "Oh, he talks of nothing else," said she. "He's quite crazed over this wonderful scheme, I can assure you, Mr. Maliphant."
Father's brow clouded, and to be sure I could not bear to hear her talk like that, though why, I could not exactly have told.
And so we made it an excuse to snatch a couple of days from balls and things, and come down here for a breath of fresh air, she continued.
I wondered why she said "we." But Frank explained that.
Mr. Thorne is quite interested in the affair, I can assure you, Mr. Maliphant, said he. "He's going to put a splendid figure to head our subscription list."
Father did not say a word. His shaggy eyebrows were down over his eyes.
Oh, well, father never is stingy with his money; I must say that for him, said Mary. "He'll give anything to anything." Then turning to me, she added: "We're going to squeeze in a garden-party next week, before we run up to town again. They say one must give entertainments this electioneering-time. At least that Mr.Hoad says so, and he seems to have done a great deal of this kind of thing from what he says. We did two dinners before we went up to London, but a garden-party is jolly—it includes so many. You'll come, won't you? All of you. You're just about the only people I care to ask, you know."
She ran on in her frank, funny way—always quite transparent—not noticing father's scowl and Frank Forrester pulling his mustache, and trying to catch her eye. If she had she would have turned the matter off; she was no fool, but what she had said was what she thought.
Father answered before I could speak. "My eldest daughter is away, Miss Thorne," he said, "and I'm sorry to say Margaret must refuse your kind invitation. My girls are farmer's children, and are not used to mixing with folk in other stations of life."
I felt the color fly to my face, for it was a discourteous speech, and not even perfectly honest, for Mary Thorne had met us at the squire's house although we were only farmer's daughters. It mortified me to have father do himself injustice before Frank Forrester.
But Mary took it charmingly. For a moment she looked astonished, then she said, with a merry laugh: "Ah, I see what it is, Mr. Maliphant; you're a Tory. I beg your pardon, I forgot you were the squire's friend. I'm dreadfully stupid about politics. I'm quite ashamed of myself."
Father seemed about to reply, but was stopped by a merry laugh from Frank, whom Mary, however, silenced by a pretty little astonished stare.
Oh, pray don't apologize, said she to father. "Only don't you try to tell me another time that your daughters are not used to good society. I know better," added she, smiling at me. "I know who was voted the best dancer at the squire's ball. And as for your eldest daughter—well, we know how many heads she has turned with her beauty."
She glanced up teasingly at Captain Forrester as she spoke. She was a little woman, and had to glance up a long way; but although he laughed, his face was troubled; and I could see he was trying to catch my eye.
Well, good-bye, said Mary to me. "I'm sorry you mayn't come."
I took the hand which she offered, but when she held it out afterwards to father he only bowed with laborious politeness. I think I blushed with annoyance as we turned away, but he made no allusion to the meeting; only his brightened humor of five minutes ago had evaporated, and his features were working painfully.
I shall go and fetch little David Jarrett, Meg, said he. "The sun is warm now, and it'll do him good to lie a bit in the garden. Go home and tell mother."
I went, and a quarter of an hour later he carried the boy in—a poor little delicate fellow, whose father had knocked him down in a drunken fit, and who had been a cripple ever since. We had heard of the misfortune too late to be of much use; for continued want of proper nourishment on a sickly frame had caused the accident to set up a disease from which the poor child was scarcely likely to recover; but all that could be done father had had done, and he was his special favorite among many friends in the younger portion of the community. We spread a mattress on the garden bench and laid him there, and mother sent me out with port-wine and strengthening broth for him, and father spent all the afternoon beside the little fellow, reading and talking to him.
Beyond alluding to Captain Forrester's arrival when mother spoke of it, he made no mention of his young friend or of what had hurt him in the passing meeting with him. But when Frank came, as promised, in the evening, the storm broke.
He came in just as if he had not been away from us these two months; just as kindly, just as interested in all we had been doing, just as easy and charming. But when, I fancied a trifle diffidently, he opened up the subject of the charity scheme, father suffered no misunderstanding to abide.
I know Thorne is an old friend of your family's, my lad, he said, "and I understand that you can't throw off an acquaintance of your youth; but as to this affair, I want to make it quite clear that I'll have no influence of his to start the school with. If I could help it I'd have none of his money. I can't help that, and the 'big figure' must stand; but I'll have none of him, or the likes of him, on any committee that may be formed, not while I'm in it."
Father always became vernacular when he was excited.
Very well, sir, smiled Frank. "It's your affair, and I must be led by you. I think you're mistaken. You miss the valuable help of a large and influential class, and why you should forbid manufacturers to remedy an evil which they may have been partly instrumental in increasing, I don't know. But you have your reasons, and I am in your hands."
Yes, I have my reasons, repeated father, laconically.
And then the conversation became general, and Frank, with his usual amiable courtesy, drew Trayton Harrod into it, as far as the somewhat morose mood of the latter would allow. He seemed to have taken no fancy to the new-comer, and responded but surlily to his interested questions upon the country and country matters.
Frank Forrester was always interested in everything; always seemed to be most so in the subject which he thought interested the particular person to whom he was speaking. But Harrod would betray no enthusiasm on his own pursuits to an outsider. He was very surly that night. I think he was not well. Mother taxed him with it. As I have said, she took a motherly interest in him always. He allowed that he had a bad headache, and rose to leave. I recollect that she went up-stairs to fetch him some little medicament. Father, too, followed him out into the hall. They stood there some five minutes talking, during which time I am afraid that I tried more to listen to what they were saying than to what Frank Forrester took the opportunity to say to me.
I brought my mind to it, however, and told him what I could about Joyce. There was so little to tell; there was always so little to tell about Joyce—nothing very satisfactory to a lover in this instance.
And I was forced to allow what he half gayly asserted—that mother was none the more cordial to him than she had been in the past. He did not seem to be cast down about it, he only asserted it. He did not seem to be in any way cast down. He looked at me with those wide-open brown eyes just as confidently and gayly as ever, and bent towards me with his tall, slim, lissome figure, and took my two hands in his and told me to tell Joyce that he had come hoping to see her for a moment, even though it had been but in mother's presence.
She forbade me to see her against your mother's wishes, said he, "but openly there would have been no harm."
I felt quite sure that he loved her just as much as ever, and I willingly promised to give his messages to her.
But I hurried over the little interview; I wanted to get out into the hall before Harrod left, and I shook hands with Frank hastily as I heard mother coming down-stairs with the physic.
I was too late, nevertheless. Frank had kept me for a last word, and the front door closed as I came out of the room. I went up to bed in a bad temper.
Trayton Harrod did not leave Knellestone. I think we had to thank the squire for that. Father and he being so proud and obstinate, they would never have come to an understanding alone, nor would either certainly have accepted me for a mediator.
I don't know whether Mr. Broderick persuaded father to ask his bailiff to remain, or how the matter was arranged. I only know that a few days after the squire's return I met Harrod down at the haymaking on the eastern marsh, and that he told me he was not going to leave us. I remember very well how he told it me with a smile; not that quick flash which I have sometimes noticed before as being characteristic of him when moved to sudden mirth, but a kind of half-smile that had something triumphant in it.
Yes, he said, looking round on the meadows that were ready for the scythe, "we shall have a mowing-machine on them before the week's out."
That was all; but the words told me he was going to remain. I know I looked up with an answering smile of satisfaction, but it faded as I saw Jack Barnstaple's gloomy eye fixed on me. The very silence of a faithful servant reproved me for my disloyalty. For in my first content I had forgotten that satisfaction to such a speech was disloyalty to father, to the horror of machines that had always been my creed till now.
I'm sorry— I began, but then I stopped, confused. I was too honest to tell a lie. How could I say that I was sorry he had triumphed? He turned and said some word to the laborer, and I had time to lose my sudden blushes. Had he noticed them? I think I scarcely cared. I was strangely happy.
All that day I was happy. In the eventide we followed the last wagon up the hill. Tired horses, teased to madness by the ox-fly in the heat, tired men shouldering their forks, tired women in curious sun-bonnets, and girls not too tired yet to laugh with the lads, went before, and we two followed afterwards, not at all tired of anything—at least I speak for myself.
A long line of flame marked the horizon behind the hill and upon the red sky, the houses of the village, the three roofs and the square tower of the old church, the ivied grayness of the ancient gate-way, and the solitary pines that marked the ridge here and there, all lay dark upon the brightness, their shapes defined and single. Close behind us the sea was cool and fragrant. Upon the hem of the wide soft sands that shone in sunset reflections, a regal old heron had fetched his evening meal from out of the little pools that the sea had left, and unfolding his huge pinions, sailed away in a queer oblique and apparently leisurely flight to the tall trees that were his inland home. We left the haymakers to take the road, and followed the heron across the marsh.
A wheat-ear's nest that I found in a furrow and carried home with its five little dainty blue eggs gave rise to a discussion about the rarity of these pretty little structures compared with the numbers of the tiny builders who are so plentiful in harvesting that the shepherds make quite a perquisite from the sale of them; an old hare that the bailiff started from its form on the unbeaten track made him wonder at the unusual size of these marsh inhabitants, and as we came along the dike where the purple reeds were already growing tall, I remember his noticing how changing was their color on the surface as they swayed in great waves beneath the breeze, how blue one way, how silver-gray the other; I recollect every word that we spoke.
It was commonplace talk enough, but it was the talk that had first begun to bind us together, and now there was beginning to be something in it that made every word very much the reverse of commonplace to me. What was it?
I did not ask myself, but I knew very well that since that night when Trayton Harrod had promised to try and remain on Knellestone, because I had asked him to do so, that something had grown very fast, so fast that I was conscious of a happy state of guilt, and wondered whether old Deborah knew anything about it as she watched me bid the bailiff good-bye at the gate while she was picking marjoram on the cliff-garden above our heads.
I know that at first I was angry because of her keen little dark eyes and her short little laugh, and I loftily refused to discuss either with her or with Reuben the advantages of Mr. Harrod's remaining on the farm, or the indignity of having machinery at Knellestone and Southdowns on the marsh. There was no delay about either of these matters. Mr. Harrod was a prompt man. I recollect the very day he bought the sheep—yes, I recollect it very well. It was a very hot day, one of the first days of July. He had had the mare—my restive mare—put into the gig, and had started off very early in the morning to Ashford market. It was a long way to Ashford market, but you could just do it and get back in the day if you started very early, and if you had a horse like my mare to go. There was a haze over the sea and even over the marsh; down in the hayfield, where I had been all the morning, the heat was almost unbearable. When five o'clock came I went in to mother in the parlor.
It's such a nice evening for a ride, mother, said I. "I think I'll just take that pot of jelly over to Broadlands to old Mrs. Winter. She'd be pleased to see me."
Mother looked up, surprised. "I thought you didn't care for riding that old horse," said she.
Well, I can't have the mare, so it's no use thinking of it, I answered.
You can't have her to-day, because the bailiff has got her, but you can have her to-morrow, said mother. "And it's full late to start off so far."
I walked to the window and looked out. "I think I'll go to-day," said I. "It may blow up for rain to-morrow. As likely as not we shall have a storm. It's light now till after nine."
Very well, said mother; "you can please yourself. You'd better take some of that stuff for the old body's rheumatism as well."
So I put on my habit and set out. It was quite true that the old black horse did not go so well as the mare, but for some reason best known to myself I had a particular desire to ride to Broadlands that particular afternoon.
I let the poor beast go at his own pace, however, for the heat was still very great; the plain was opal-tinted with it, and the long, soft, purple clouds above the sea horizon had a thundery look. I jogged along dreamily until I was close beneath the old market-town upon the hill. Somehow the memory of that winter drive with Joyce, when we had first met Captain Forrester, came back to me vividly. I don't know how it was, but I began to think of how he had looked at her, of how he had bent towards her hand just a moment longer than was necessary in parting from her. I wondered if those were always the signs of love. I wondered if a man might possibly be in love and yet give none of those signs.
I rode on slowly, watching the rising breeze sweep across the meadows, swaying the long grass in a rhythmic motion like the waves of a gentle sea. I had passed the town by this time, and had come down the little street paved with cobble-stones, and through the grim old gate onto the marsh again. The river ran turbidly by, between its mud banks and across its flat pastures to the sea a mile beyond. Above the river the houses of the town stood, in steps, up the hill, flanked by the dark gray stone of the old prison-house, and crowned by the church with its quaint flying-buttresses; the wall of the battlements hemmed the town; beneath it lay the marsh and then the sea.
This was all behind me; around and in front was the faint, gray flat land, scarcely green under the creeping haze of heat, with the breeze undulating over the long grass, and the light-house, the brightest spot on the scene as it shone white through the mist, on the distant point of beach.
I took the shortest way, avoiding the regular road, and was soon lost upon the grassy sea. The soft, bright monotony of the landscape was scarcely broken by a single incident, save for the Martello towers that stood at regular intervals along the coast, or the sheep and cows that were strewn over the pasture-land lazily cropping and chewing the cud; there was not a house within sight, and even the low line of the downs had dipped here into the flatness of the marsh.
I tried to whip the horse into a canter, but the poor beast felt the heat as I did, and I soon let him fall again into his own jog-trot. It was not at all my usual method of riding, but that day I did not mind it so much; I had my thoughts to keep me busy. They were pleasant thoughts—if so vague a dream was a thought at all—and kept me good company. The dream was a dream of love, but I am not sure whether that time Joyce was the heroine. I think, if I had been asked, that I should have said that there was no heroine to my dream—that it was far too vague, too entirely a dream to have one.
I rode on for another hour across the hot plain before I came to the village of Broadlands. It lay there sleepily upon the bosom of the marsh, with scarce a tree to shelter it from the fierce midsummer sun or the wild sea winds, and until my horse's hoofs were clattering up the little street I scarcely saw man, woman, or child to tell me that the place was alive. But around the Woolsacks some half-dozen men lounged, smoking, and a fat farmer in a cart had stopped in the middle of the road to exchange a few observations on agricultural news. It was the inn at which Trayton Harrod must have put up in the middle of the day for dinner.
This farmer had evidently returned from market. I wondered how long it would be before Trayton Harrod would also come along the same road and stop at the Woolsacks for a drink. I don't think I deceived myself as to there being a little hope within me that I might meet him somewhere on the road. But I reckoned that he could not possibly be as far on his homeward route yet a while, for he probably had had much farther to come than the farmer in the cart, and had not reached the market so early.
I trotted on up the street to Mrs. Winter's cottage, which stood at the extreme end of the village, looking out along the Ashford road. I am afraid that all the time I was in the cottage—although I gave all mother's messages, and inquired with due attention after every one of the old lady's distinct pains—my eyes were ever wandering along that dusty road and listening for horse's hoofs in the distance.
But Mrs. Winter noticed no remissness on my part—she was too pleased to see me, too glad to have news of mother, who had been her friend and benefactress these many years past. I took her a pair of stockings that I had knit for her in the long winter evenings, and I can remember now the matter-of-fact way in which she received the gift, and how, when I said that I hoped they would fit, she answered, with happy trustfulness, "Oh yes, miss; the Lord he knows my size."
We drank tea out of the white-and-gold cups that had been best ever since I could remember, and then she kissed me and bade me be going lest the darkness should overtake me.
I laughed, and declared that the long twilight would more than last me home; for I did not want to be going until I was sure that Mr. Harrod was on my road; the vague hope that I had had of meeting him had grown into a settled determination to wait for him if I could. But the old lady would not be pacified by any assurances that I was not afraid of darkness; and to be sure there was a strange shade in the air as I got outside and mounted the black horse again.
When I got beyond the village again I saw what it was—there was a sea-fog creeping up the plain. Such fogs were common enough in the hot weather, and gave me no concern at all; but I saw with some dismay that the sun must have set some time, for the twilight was falling in the clear space that still existed above the mist.
I looked back upon the road. Surely he could not have passed. I could not bear to give up the hope of this ride home with him, and yet I scarcely dared loiter lest mother should grow anxious. I put the beast to a gentle trot and rode forward slowly. I knew of no other way that Harrod could have taken, and I felt sure that he had not passed that cottage without my knowledge.
But the mist thickened. I could not see before me or behind; it was not until I was close upon it that I could tell where the path branched off that led across the meadows to the town. It did not strike me at the time that I was foolish to take it; I only wondered whether Harrod would be sure to come that way. I only thought of whether I should recognize the sound of the mare's trot, for that was the only means by which I could be sure of his approach before he was close upon me.
I rode on slowly, listening always. I rode on for what seemed to me to be a very long time. The mist was chill after the hot day, and I had no covering but my old, thin, blue serge habit, which had seen many a long day's wear.
The fog gathered in thickness, and darkened with the darkness of the coming night. I began to think that, after all, I had made a mistake in taking the short-cut. Perhaps Mr. Harrod had kept to the high-road, as safer on such a night; perhaps thus I should miss him. I was not at all afraid of the fog, but I was very much afraid of missing the companion for whose sake I had come this long ride on a hot day. And with the fear in my mind that I might miss him, I did a very foolish thing—I turned back upon my steps. I put the horse to a canter, and turned back to regain the high-road. I rode as fast as I could now, urging the beast forward; but though I rode for a much longer distance than I had ridden already since I left Mrs. Winter's cottage, I saw no trace of the road.
I stood still at last and tried to determine where I was. My heart was beating a little. Presently—through the stillness, for the air was absolutely lifeless—I heard the sound of voices. I listened eagerly. But, alas! there was no sound of horse's hoofs: the wayfarers, whoever they were, were on their feet. Mr. Harrod could scarcely be one of them. I stopped, waiting for them to come up. They were tramps. Their figures looked wavering and uncertain as they came towards me through the mist. They walked with a heavy lounging gait, smoking their clay pipes.
Can you tell me if I'm in the right way for the high-road? said I, as they came within ear-shot.
They stopped, and one of them burst into a laugh and said something afterwards in an undertone to his companion.
You're a long way from wherever it is you're bound for, said he; and as he spoke he came up to me and took hold of the horse's bridle.
Something in his face displeased me. I gave him a sharp cut across it with my whip. He yelled with rage, but he let go the bridle; and another cut across the horse's neck sent him forward with his hind-hoofs in the air. I had never known him answer like that to the whip before. I think he can have liked the look of the men no better than I did.
Before I knew that there was a dike before me, I found myself safely landed on the other side of it; and it was only then that I pulled the poor old beast up and looked round. Of course I could see nothing: the mist would have been too thick, even had the growing darkness not been sufficient to obscure any object not close at hand. But I could hear no voices, and I felt that I was safe.
How a girl, with nothing but a little whip in her hand, had prevailed against two strong men—even though she was on a horse and they on foot—I did not pause to consider. I was safe; but the little adventure had frightened me, and I thought I would try to get home as fast as I could.
But how? I was absolutely uncertain where I was. I had crossed a dike, which I should not have done; but one dike was much like another, and that was no guide. I could see nothing, and I could hear nothing.
Nothing? Yes; as I listened I did hear something. It was the sound of distant waves lapping gently upon the beach. I must indeed have strayed far from the high-road if I had come near enough to the sea to hear the sound of its waves. I stopped and waited again. I thought I would wait until those men had got well ahead. Then, after a while, I put the horse across the dike again, and went forward slowly, straining every nerve to determine whether the sound of the sea was growing louder or less in my ears.
I felt sure after a while that it was growing less, and yet I could not be absolutely certain, for there was a strange feeling in my head; and I was soon obliged to acknowledge to myself that I was getting very sleepy. The mist, I knew, was apt to make people sleepy if they were out long in it; but I had often been out in a sea-fog before, and I had never felt so sleepy. I wondered what o'clock it was. I struggled on a little longer, but I felt that unless I were to walk I should fall off the horse, so I got down and led him on by the bridle. For another reason it was better to walk—I was chilled to the bone.
I turned the end of my habit up over my shoulders, and although it was wringing wet, it served as a kind of poultice; but I cannot say that I was either cheerful or comfortable. The night was perfectly still, the mist perfectly dense. Once a hare, startled I suppose by the sound of the horse's hoofs, ran across in front of me, and retreated into his form; but I think that that was the only time I saw a living thing.
I got so used to the silence and loneliness that when at last another sound began to mingle with the monotonous tread of the weary beast, I scarcely noticed it. Perhaps it was because it was only an increase of the same sound: it was the tread of another weary beast. But whether that was the reason, or whether it was that I was gradually growing more and more sleepy, certain it is that the sound grew to a point, and then began slowly to fade away again before I was quite conscious of its existence. Then suddenly I realized what it might be, and with all the strength of my being I shouted through the mist.
Once—twice I shouted, and then I stood still and listened. The sound of the hoofs and the wheels—yes, the wheels—still went on faintly. My heart grew sick, and again I shouted into the night; this time it was almost a cry. The wheels stopped. I shouted again, and there came back a faint holloa that told me how much fainter still must have been my own voice through the fog.
I leaped onto the horse, and urged him forward as near as I could tell in the direction of the voice. And all the time I continued shouting.
Thank Heaven! I heard the answering cry clearer and clearer each time. At last—at last I saw a horse and gig just discernible through the steaming darkness.
Who is there? cried a voice; and—how can I describe my happiness?—it was the voice of Trayton Harrod.
I don't think I answered. I think there was something in my throat which prevented me from answering; but he must have recognized me at once, for he gave vent to an exclamation which I had never heard him use before—he said, "Great heavens!" Then he got down out of the gig, and came towards me quickly.
Miss Margaret! he exclaimed. "How did you ever get here?"
I had recovered my usual voice by this time, and I replied, quietly enough, to the effect that I had been on an errand to Broadlands, and had lost myself coming home in the fog.
Lost yourself! I should think you had lost yourself, ejaculated he, half angrily. "I was uncertain of my own road before you called, but I know well enough that you are entirely out of the beaten track here."
Oh, then I'm afraid I shall have made you miss your way too, said I, apologetically.
I don't know what had come to me, but I was so glad to see him that I could not bear he should be angry with me.
That doesn't signify in the least, said he. "It's you of whom I am thinking. I am afraid you must be cold and tired, and I fear we shall be a long while getting home yet." He was close to me now. "You had better get into the gig," said he; "I'll tie the horse to it."
He held out his hands to help me down, and I put mine in his.
Why, you are chilled to the bone, murmured he. "You'll take your death of cold."
He lifted me from the horse, for indeed I was numb with the penetrating damp, and led me to the gig. Then he took the horse-cloth which lay across the seat and wrapped it round me as tightly as he could.
Haven't you a pin? he asked.
I tried to laugh but I could not; something stuck in my throat.
I thought women always had pins, he added.
Then I did laugh a little; but I must have been very much tired and overwrought, for the laugh turned into a sort of sob. I could only hope he did not notice it. He made no remark, at all events; he only wrapped the rug as closely as he could around me, and took hold of my hands again, as though to feel if they were any warmer. He held them in his own a long time; he held them very fast. The blood seemed to ebb away from my heart as I stood there with my hands in his. My face was turned away, but I felt that his keen dark eyes were fixed upon mine, concernedly, tenderly. A strange, new happiness filled my whole being; I did not know what it meant, but I knew that I wanted to keep on standing there like that, in spite of the cold and the dampness and the dark; I knew that what I felt was sweeter than any joy that had come to me before in my life.
But Trayton Harrod took away his hands. He passed his arm round my waist, and holding me by my elbows so as not to displace the plaid which he had wrapped so carefully around me, he helped me up into the gig. I let him do just what he liked. I, who had been so defiant and proud before, and who thought that I scorned such a thing as a beau, I was letting this man behave to me just as Captain Forrester might have behaved to Joyce; I was as wax in his hands. I did not think of that at the time; I do not know that I ever thought of it. It only strikes me now as I write it down.
I sat there without saying a word while Harrod fetched the horse and tied him to the back of the gig. I was not conscious of anything, save that I was perfectly contented, and waiting for him to come up and sit beside me. All my fatigue had disappeared, all my desire to be home, all my remembrance of mother's anxiety.
But why should I dwell further upon all this? If any one ever reads what I have written, they will understand what I felt far better than I can describe it. Every one knows that love is self-absorbed, and, save towards the one being for whom it would sacrifice all the world, utterly selfish. And what I was slowly beginning to feel was love.
We moved away into the misty night. Mr. Harrod did not speak for some time. He was busy enough trying to find out which was the right way. We had no clew. The sound of the sea, it is true, had grown faint in our ears, so that we were farther inland; but, excepting for the dike which I had crossed after my meeting with the tramps, we had no landmark to tell us where we were.
Harrod thought he remembered the dike; but how far it was from the high-road that we wished to reach, we could neither of us exactly determine. The tract of country was a little beyond our usual beat, or we should have been less at a loss. But there was no sign or sound yet of the market-town through or by which we must pass before we reached our own piece of marsh-land.
There was no doubt about it that we were lost on the marsh, and all that we could do was to jolt slowly along, avoiding dikes and unseen pitfalls, and waiting quietly for the day to show us our whereabouts. Luckily, in these midsummer nights the hours betwixt dusk and dawn are but short. Only Harrod seemed to be concerned about it; he kept asking me whether I was warm; he kept begging me not to give up and go to sleep. I suppose he was afraid of the fever for me. But for my own part I felt no inconvenience; I was not cold, and I had no more inclination to go to sleep.
I do not remember that we talked of anything in particular; I do not remember that we talked much at all. I think I was afraid to speak; I think I was afraid that even he should speak; the silence was too wonderful, and the vague sense of something unspoken, unguessed, was sweeter than any words. It was the deepest silence I have ever felt; there wasn't so much as the sound of a bird, or of a stirring leaf, or of the breath of the sleeping cattle; even the gentle moaning of the sea was hushed now in the distance; it was as though we two were alone in the world.
Sometimes I could see that smile of Mr. Harrod's flash out even in the darkness as he would turn and ask if I was quite warm, and sometimes he would merely bend over me and wrap the rug—tenderly, I fancied—more closely around me. Ah, it was a midsummer-night's dream! But at last nature was stronger than inclination—I was young and healthy—and I dropped asleep. When I awoke, a promise of coming light was in the east, the sea was tremulous with it, and long purple streaks lined the horizon. Overhead the sky was fair, although the thick, white fog still lay in one vast sheet all around us. Out of it rose the market-town straight before us, dark and sombre, out of the shining sea of mist.
We were trotting now along the beaten track towards it, and Mr. Harrod was urging on the weary mare with one hand, while the other was round my waist. The gig was narrow for two persons, and I suppose I should have risked being thrown out in my unconscious state if he had not done so. He took away his arm as soon as I stirred, and I shook myself and looked at him. Had my head been resting on his shoulder? and if it had, why was I so little disturbed?
I am afraid I have been asleep, said I.
Yes, answered Mr. Harrod, "you have been asleep. I hadn't the heart to rouse you again, you were so tired. But we shall soon be at home now."
Why, we've got back into the track! I exclaimed.
Yes, laughed he. "When the town began to appear through the mist it was a landmark to me, though I believe I tumbled over the path at last by a mere chance."
He said no more. We were soon out into the high-road again, and climbing the street of the town. We were the only stirring people in it, and this made me feel more conscious of my strange adventure than all the hours that I had spent alone on the marsh with my companion.
For the first time I began to wonder what mother would say. Once out of the town, we sped silently along the straight, familiar road that led towards our own village. The mist was beginning slowly, very slowly, to clear away, and the hills upon which our farm stood loomed out of it in the distance. In the marsh, on either side of us, the cattle began to stir like their own ghosts in the white vapor, and gazed at us across the dikes with wondering, sleepy eyes.
The stars were all dead, and above the mist the quiet sky spread a panoply of steely blue, while out above the sea the purple streaks had turned to silver and sent rays upward into the great dome. Hung like a curtain across the gates of some wonderful world unseen, a rosy radiance spread from the bosom of the ocean far into the downy clouds above that so tenderly covered the naked blue—a radiance that every moment was more and more marvellously illumined by that mysterious inward fire, whose even distant being could tip every hill and mountain of cloudland with a lining of molten gold. Unconsciously my gaze clung to the spot where a warmth so far-reaching sprung from so dainty a border-land of opal coloring; and when at last the great flame was born of the sea's gray breast, I felt the tears come into my eyes, I don't know why, and a little sigh of content rose from my heart. I was tired, for the sunrise had never brought tears to my eyes before.
I hope you'll be none the worse, said Harrod, glancing at me uneasily, and urging the horse with voice and hand; "but I'm afraid your parents will have been sadly anxious anyhow."
Alas! I had not thought of it again. I sat silent, watching where the familiar solid curves of the fortress upon the marsh began to take shape out of the fog.
If I hadn't met you I should have been out on yonder marsh now, I said.
I thought he would have said something about being glad he had met me, but he did not. He only answered, "I ought not to have allowed you to fall asleep."
I laughed at that. "If it had not been for you I should be asleep now on that bank where I first heard you," I declared. "And I should have got my death of ague by this time, I suppose."
Still he said nothing. There was some misgiving on his mind which no words of mine removed. I felt it instinctively. Even when I said—and as I write it down now I marvel how I could have said it—even when I said, softly, "Well, I regret nothing. I have enjoyed myself," he did not reply.
I wondered at it just for a moment, but no mood of his could damp my complete content. Even though, as I neared home, I began to be more and more uneasy about my parents' anxiety, no cloud could rest on the horizon of this fair, sweet dawn of day. I could not see beyond the barrier of that ever-widening, ever-brightening curtain of glorious light; but there it was, making glad for the coming of the blessed sun that would soon fill the whole space of heaven's free and perfect purity.
The coldness of the sky and of all the world was slowly throbbing with the wakening warmth. What was there beyond that burning edge of the world, beyond that sea of strange, exultant brightness?
We began to climb the hill, and on the garden terrace stood my father. He was waiting for me just as he had waited for me on that night in May when he had told me to be friends with Trayton Harrod.