Mother never scolded me at all for my adventure, and of course I was much more sorry than I should have been if she had done so.
As I stood there in the cool, gray dawn, with my wet habit, the dew-drops still standing on the curls of my red hair, my face—I make no doubt—pale with distress, and my gray eyes at their darkest from the same cause, I suppose I looked rather a sorry spectacle, and one that melted her heart; anyhow, I know that she put her arm round me and gave me a hasty kiss before she pushed me forward to meet father. For a moment I felt something rise in my throat, and I suppose I ought by rights to have cried. But I did not cry; I was too happy in spite of it all, and luckily neither father nor mother was of those people who expect one to cry because one is sorry.
As I have said, they neither of them said a word of rebuke. I gave my explanation, and it was accepted; father only declared that it was a very good thing Trayton Harrod had met me when he did; and mother only remarked that "least said soonest mended." I suppose they were both glad to have me safe home. And that drive with father's bailiff, which had meant so much to me, was thus buried in sacred silence.
It was the day that Joyce was to come home. As I dressed myself again after the couple of hours' sleep, which I could not manage to do without, I remembered that it was the day for Joyce to come home. How was it that I had not thought of it? How was it that I had not thought of it all yesterday, nor for many yesterdays before it?
I was conscious that even my letters to my sister had been fewer and more hurried than they were at the beginning of her absence. I was angry with myself for it, for I would not have believed that any length of absence could have made her anything but the first person of importance in my life. But of course now that she was home again, everything would be as before.
I felt very happy to think that I was to see her again. I begged the gig to go down to the station and meet her myself. The mare was used to me now, so that even Joyce would not be nervous. Her face lit up with her own quiet smile as she saw me, breaking the curves of the sweet mouth, and depressing, ever so little, that short upper lip of hers, that always looked as if it had been pinched into its pretty pout. She looked handsomer than ever; I don't know whether it was because it was so long since I had seen her, but I thought she was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I pitied poor Frank more than ever for having to wait so long for a sight of her.
Why, Meg, said she, as she came out with all her little parcels, "how tanned you are! I declare your hair and your face are just upon one color."
I laughed aloud merrily.
Well, if my face is the color of my hair, it must be flame indeed, I cried. "But I've been out haymaking, you see, all the time that you, lazy thing, have been getting a white skin cooped up in a London parlor. Oh, my dear! I wouldn't have been you."
No, you wouldn't have liked it, answered she. "I was pleased to be of use to poor old aunt, but it was rather dull, and I must say I'm glad to be home."
Everybody has missed you dreadfully, said I. "As for mother and Deb, they can't tell me often enough that I can't hold a candle to you."
Oh, what nonsense, Meg! murmured she. "You know well enough they don't mean it."
My dear, I don't mind, cried I. "I know it well enough, and I can do my own bit of work in my own way all the same. But mother has missed you and no mistake," added I, "though as likely as not she won't let you guess it. She wanted you home long ago, only then Captain Forrester came down again."
A troubled shade came over Joyce's face, as I had noticed it come once or twice before, at mention of her lover's name.
He came down for a few days a week ago, you know, I added. "I told you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had even remembered to give that great piece of news.
Oh yes, you told me, replied Joyce, in a slow voice.
He inquired a great deal after you, of course, I went on. "He asked me to give you a great many messages."
She did not answer. A blush had crept up on her dainty cheek, as it was so apt to do. But we had reached the hill, and I jumped down and walked up it, giving her the reins to hold. And when we got to the top, Deborah was there hanging clothes in the back garden ready to catch the first sight of us along the road, and Reuben at the gate looking half asleep because he had been out the best part of the night with Jack Barnstaple, looking for me in the fog. There was no time for any more private talk.
Mother, it is true, did not come to the gate, that not being her way, and when we got inside, you might have thought Joyce had been no farther than to market from the way in which she received her; but that meant nothing, it was only Maliphant manners, and father said no more than, "You're looking hearty, child," before he took me away to write out his prospectus for him because his hand was stiff.
It was not till late in the evening that I got time to have a chat with Joyce in the dear old attic bedroom that she and I had always shared, and I was anxious for a chat. She had brought back two new gowns for us, and apart from all I had to say to her, I wanted to see the new gowns. I had never cared for clothes till quite lately; I used to be rather ashamed of a new frock, as though folk must think me a fool for wearing it, and had been altogether painfully wanting in the innocent vanity which is supposed to be one of a young girl's charms. But lately it had been different. I wanted to look nice, and I had my own ideas of how that was to be achieved. Alas! when I saw the gowns, I knew that they did not meet my views.
Joyce was settling her things—laying aside her few laces and ribbons with tender care; she opened the heavy old oak press and took out the gowns with pride. I think that she was so busy shaking them out that she did not see my face; I hope so, for I know it fell. The gowns were pale blue merino, the very thing for her dainty loveliness, but not, I felt instinctively, the thing for a rough, ruddy colt like me.
Won't they spot? said I, diffidently.
That's what mother said, replied she, a little sadly; "but, dear me, they're our only best frocks; we sha'n't wear them o' bad weather."
I am so glad I said no more, for she had brought me a book from London—it was a novel by a famous author of whom we had heard; the author was a woman, and I had expressed a great wish to read it in consequence. I was very pleased to think that Joyce should have remembered it. I recollect that I kissed her for it, and I thought no more about the frocks, I only felt that it was nice to have sister home. I had not known until now how much I had missed her.
I wonder how we shall all get on when you go away for good and marry that young man of yours? said I. "It don't seem as if the place were itself somehow when you are not there."
Time enough to think of that when the day comes, answered Joyce, I thought a trifle sadly.
Well, yes, maybe, said I, doubtfully; "and yet it isn't so very far off, you know. And if only you had a little more determination in you it might be a great deal nearer."
You seem to be very anxious to get rid of me just as soon as you have got me home, said she, with just the merest tone of wounded sensibility in her voice.
Of course I laughed at that—it wasn't really worth answering. But I could have said that since three weeks ago, I had learned that which made me think it harder than ever that Joyce should be separated from the man she loved. I had not thought much of her or her concerns of late, but now that she was close to me I felt very sorry for her. When Joyce had gone away I had been conscious of a curious feeling of inferiority with regard to her as though she knew some secret which was to me sealed, but now—now I felt that there was a rent in the cloud that divided us; I felt that I could look into her world, I felt that I was on her level. And it was only with a more delicate feeling of sympathy than formerly that I began to give her some of the messages with which Frank had intrusted me.
I could not exactly pretend that he had looked very miserable, but I could assure her of his continued ardent devotion to her, and this I did most fervently. Somehow, when I had entered upon this task I began to feel that it was rather a queer compliment to assure a girl that her lover was not forgetting her, and I asked myself why I felt obliged to do it.
She listened quietly to all that I repeated to her of the short interview, but when I began to speak of my endeavors to induce mother to cut the term of the engagement short, she interrupted me with that serene air of determination which I knew there was no gainsaying.
Meg, she said, "I want you never to do that again. I want you to understand once and for all that if things don't come naturally, it's because I believe that they oughtn't to come at all. If Frank cares for me as he says, he will care for me just as much at the end of a year, and I had rather wait and see."
I looked at her open-mouthed.
I think you're a queer girl, I said at last. "I shouldn't have thought you wanted to punish yourself for the sake of putting a man to a test. But I suppose I don't understand. That's the sort of way mother talks, and I know it's very wise, and all that; but, dear me, I think it's all stuff wanting to sit down and wait till the wave comes over you. I'm sure that if I wanted a thing very badly I should love to fight for it—I should have to fight for it."
Joyce sighed a little sigh, and sat down by the window, looking out into the deepening twilight.
It was close upon midsummer, and the evenings were exquisitely long and luminous, the twilight stretching almost across to the dawn. After the heat of the day, lovely soft gray mists rose in transparent sheets off the marsh below us, and floated upward towards the hill. It was not a thick fog, as it had been the night before, but just a ghostly veil thrown across the land, above which lights twinkled amid dark houses on the distant hill. There was not a breath of wind, and in the silence the lapping of the sea came faintly to our ear. Joyce looked out into the mist.
Of course, continued I after a while, "I'm not engaged to a man, and so I don't know what I should do if I were."
I think you would do what you do in other matters, answered Joyce. "I think you would try very hard to get your own way. But then you and I are not alike."
No, we were not alike, I felt that. And I supposed that my sister was right, and that the only difference lay in my being more obstinate.
I don't think that a woman ought to fight to have her own way, added she, in a low voice.
I considered a moment before I understood what she meant. "Do you mean to say that if any one fights, it ought to be the man?" asked I. "Well, you are an unreasonable girl! Good gracious me! When Frank lifts a finger you are angry with him."
Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below.
I don't think you know what you mean nor what you want, added I, impatiently.
Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I know that it will be all as it is ordained."
When Joyce talked about things being as they were ordained, it always put me in a horrible temper; and it was either this or some little feeling of awkwardness in my mind about Harrod which made me reply very shortly when she began asking me presently about the new bailiff.
From some motive entirely incomprehensible to myself, there arose within me a sudden dislike to the idea that Joyce should guess at my liking for him. And so when she asked what he was like, I replied, gruffly, "Oh, like many other men—plain and very obstinate."
This was true, but the impression that I gave in saying it was false; I knew that perfectly well, but I was too proud to change it, although in my heart I felt ashamed that I should be guilty of any sort of deception towards my dear, simple Joyce, and when I was really so glad to have her back again.
She looked distressed for a moment, but then she brightened up and said, gayly, "Well, many a good-fellow is plain, and as for being obstinate, that should be to your liking."
So it is, said I. "Of course."
I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate with father.
I laughed. "Oh, birds of a feather, you know," said I. "We're all obstinate together. But we none of us waste words, so we get on first-rate."
Joyce sighed a little. "Mother said what a good-fellow he was, but father wouldn't say a word about him to me," she said. "Of course he never does. But I don't think he's looking well. He has aged so of late."
I looked at her defiantly. So many people had said the same thing during the last few months.
Good gracious, Joyce! I cried. "You're always saying that. Father's hale and hearty enough. Folk are bound to grow older. And I can tell you one thing, he's not half so touchy as he was. He and squire haven't had more than two rows since you left. That's a very good sign."
Yes, I am glad of that, agreed Joyce. "The squire's too good a friend to quarrel with. And though of course I know the quarrels never meant anything, they used to make me uncomfortable, Meg, and worse than ever when you used to follow father's way. It didn't seem pretty in one of us girls, dear. Something's good for mere manners. We don't think enough of them."
I was silent. My manners were certainly of the worst when my heart did not go with them. But I was conscious that I was not quite the same girl as I had been when my sister left. Even to the squire I was different; since his talk to me on the garden terrace I had felt no inclination to be anything but gentle to him.
Of course, if father quarrels with the bailiff it's as bad for his own health as if he quarrelled with the squire, went on my sister, concernedly.
Why, dear me, Joyce, who said he quarrelled with him? cried I. "I only said they were both obstinate. Father wouldn't think of quarrelling with his bailiff."
I took off my dress and hung it up, and shook out my red mop of hair before I said another word.
Then I added, "And I think Mr. Harrod is very considerate towards father. He's far too good a fellow not to be respectful to an old man." I felt bound to say that much for honesty.
Well, then, you do like him? cried Joyce.
Who said I didn't? answered I. "He's a downright honest fellow, with no nonsense about him."
It wasn't quite what I felt about Trayton Harrod, but it was as near as I could get to the truth, and it seemed to give Joyce some idea of my liking him, for she turned round with a brightened face, and laid her hand on my shoulder.
Oh, Meg, you can't think how pleased you make me by saying that, she murmured, softly; "I have been afraid you would just set your face against the poor man out of mere obstinacy, and make things unpleasant for everybody. You do sometimes, you know. And when you never mentioned him in your letters, I made sure that was the reason. I thought you were just making yourself as disagreeable as ever you could to show you hated his coming to Knellestone."
Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch, laughed I, awkwardly.
You are tetchy when you have a mind to be, you know, though you can be so bright when you're pleased that one's forced to love you. That's just the pity.
Well, of course, I did hate a bailiff coming to Knellestone, answered I; "but now that I see how much cleverer he is about farming than we are, I'm pleased."
I see, said Joyce. "Then he is clever?"
Oh yes, answered I. "He's clever."
Joyce paused.
Well, then, she said, diffidently, "I hope before long you'll be real good friends. I have often thought, Meg, that the folk here aren't bright enough for you. I believe if you weren't set down in a country village you'd be a real clever girl."
I laughed, not ill pleased.
Oh no, Joyce, said I. "I expect what you and I think clever wouldn't really be so."
I know more than you think, said Joyce, sagely, nodding her pretty head with an authoritative air. "I don't mean book-learning clever, I mean mother-wit. And do you know, Meg, I do so hope that Mr. Harrod being here may make a difference to you! But you don't seem to have seen much of him yet."
Oh yes, said I, evasively. "He comes in to supper most nights; and of course one meets out-doors now and then in a country place."
Well, concluded Joyce, with a sort of air of resignation, "of course it wasn't to be expected you'd be great friends just at once. It's a great deal to be thankful for you don't quarrel."
Oh no, said I; "we don't quarrel."
And then we both said our prayers and got into bed.
But for a long while I lay awake thinking—wondering why I had pretended that I did not like the new bailiff, and whether I really was a clever girl; and—shall I confess it?—hoping a little that the pale blue dress would become me. And then, as I fell asleep and far into my dreams, the memory of my ride with Trayton Harrod shone through the mist, and I thought again of that bar of silver promise across the dawn beyond which I had not been able to see.
Two whole days passed without Mr. Harrod coming to the Grange. I dare say nobody else noticed it; I dare say I should not have noticed it if—if I had not thought that he would come to inquire how I did after our adventure. I was always supposed to resent being asked how I did: and here I was, quite hurt because a young man whom I had known not three months had omitted to do so.
I took covert means of finding out that father and Reuben had seen him, and that he was well; and I am quite sure that I blushed with pleasure when, on the morning of the third day, mother said that she was certain the white curtains at "The Elms" must be getting soiled, and suggested that I should carry up a new pair. Harrod was becoming quite a favorite with her, or she would never have taken so much trouble for his comforts—it was no necessary duty on her part. I blushed, but I did not think that any one had noticed it.
When mother had left the kitchen, however, with the key of the linen press, I saw that two little black eyes were fixed on me with a merry twinkle. They made me angry for a moment, I don't know why; but it was a shame to be angry with old Deb, especially when her dear old red face was so kindly and affectionate: it was not always wont to be so.
Well, well, I'm glad to see folk are for forgiving that poor young man for being bailiff at Knellestone, said she, with good-humored banter. "When I see'd what a fine masterful chap it were, I had my doubts it ud end that way."
What way, if you please? asked I, haughtily.
Deborah laughed. "What do you say, Joyce?" said she, turning to my sister, who was intent upon some one of the household duties that she was so glad to be back at. "They aren't quite so hard on the young man as they were for going to be, are they?"
I don't quite understand, said Joyce, with perfectly genuine innocence. "Why should mother be hard upon him? It isn't his fault if he's father's bailiff. Besides, I'm sure mother sees how useful he is to father."
Deb laughed louder than ever. "There, bless you, my dear," said she; "you never could see round a corner; but you've more common-sense than the lot of 'em. Why should folk owe the man a grudge, to be sure? All the same, your mother'll spoil him afore she's done with him. Curtains, indeed! I never knowed a bailiff as needed 'em before."
Mother came back at that moment with the things, and I hastened to beg Joyce to accompany me up to "The Elms" after dinner. Somehow, although in my heart I knew that I was longing to see Trayton Harrod again, a sudden shyness had come over me at the thought of meeting him, and I wanted Joyce to be there.
Joyce, however, would not come; she begged off on the score of many household jobs that had got behind-hand in her absence, and mother said that I might just as well go alone and get the thing done with Dorcas's help, for that of course the bailiff was sure to be out at that time of day.
So alone I was forced to go. Most likely, as mother said, Mr. Harrod would be out; but I took Taff with me—a dog was better than most human beings; and with Taff at my heels I felt my self-consciousness evaporate.
I crossed the lane and skirted the brow of the hill behind the pine-tree lane; the mill-arms faced the village with a west wind, but the breeze had dropped since morning, and the air was heavy and thunderous. I thought I would go round by the new reservoir and see how the work was getting on. Mr. Harrod would very likely be there: it was that one among his new ventures about which at the moment he was the most excited, and the pipes were just about to be laid; even if I met him he was not obliged to know that I was going to "The Elms."
My heart began to beat a little as I drew near the group, but the bailiff was not there; only old Luck, the sheep-dog, ambled towards me wagging his tail, and I knew that Reuben could not be far off. Sure enough, there he was among the men, who were just leaving off work, talking to Jack Barnstaple.
I want to know whatever he needs to come stuffing his new-fangled notions down folk's throats as have thriven on the old ones all their lives? the latter was saying. "We don't understand such things hereabouts. We haven't been so well brought up. He'd best let us alone."
Yes, I telled him so, said Reuben, sagely, shaking his stately white head, that looked for all the world like parson's when he had his hat off; "but these young folk they must always be thinking they knows better than them as has a life's experience. But look 'ere, lads, we hain't been educated at the Agricultural College at Ashford, ye know."
Blow the Agricultural College, muttered Jack Barnstaple.
Yes; and so he'll say when he finds out he's none so sure about these Golding 'ops. And so master'll say when he finds as he's dropped all his money over pipes and wells as was never meant to answer.
What do you mean by that, Reuben? said I, coming up behind him. And I am sure that my cheeks were red, and my eyes black, as father would declare they were when the devil got into me. "What was never meant to answer?"
Reuben looked crestfallen, for of course I know he had not expected me to be within hearing, and the other men began to pack up their tools for going home.
Well, miss, it don't stand to reason that a man can expect water to go uphill to please him, said Reuben, with a grim smile.
Water finds its own level, Reuben, explained I, sagaciously; "Mr. Harrod told me that, and father said so too. The spring is on yonder hill, and if the pipes are laid through the valley to this hill, the water is bound to come to the same level."
I saw smiles upon the men's faces, and Reuben shook his head.
There's nothing will bring water uphill saving a pump, miss, said Jack Barnstaple, gloomily. He always said everything gloomily—it was a way he had.
Nay, added Reuben, looking at me with those pathetic eyes of his that seemed to say so much that he can never have intended; "it may be a man or it may be a beast, but some one has got to draw the water uphill afore it'll come. It may run down yonder hill, but it won't run up this un of its own self. 'Tain't in nature."
Well, Reuben, I advise you to keep to talking of what you can understand, said I, crossly. "I should have thought you would have had sense enough to know that Mr. Harrod must needs know better than you."
A faint provoking smile spread over Reuben's lips. "Young folk holds together," said he, laconically. "'Tis in nature."
I flashed an angry glance at the old man, but I saw a lurking smile—for the first time in my experience—on the face of stolid Jack Barnstaple, who had lingered behind the others. My face went red, as red as my red hair, and I stooped down to caress the dog. What did the man mean? what had Deb meant that morning in the kitchen? But I raised my head defiantly.
Well, I think you had just best all of you wait and see, said I, severely. "You'll feel great fools when you find you have made a mistake."
I was alluding to the water scheme; but it struck me afterwards that the men might have misunderstood me. But it was too late to correct the mistake, and without another word I ran down the hill to the path that led to "The Elms."
My cheeks were hot with the consciousness that I had a secret that could be guessed even by Reuben Ruck; the consciousness made my heart beat again very fast; but it need not have done so: as was to have been expected, Mr. Harrod was not at home.
Dorcas and I put up the curtains together, and then I was left alone in the little parlor while she went to make me a cup of tea. It was the first time I had been alone in that room—his room.
A bare, comfortless, countryman's and bachelor's room, but more interesting to me than the daintiest lady's parlor. By the empty hearth the high-backed wooden chair in which he sat; beside the wide old-fashioned grate the hob upon which sang the kettle for his lonely breakfast; in the centre of the rough brick floor the large square oaken table at which he ate; on the high chimney-piece the pipes that he smoked, the tobacco-jar from which he filled them, a revolver, and an almanac; on the walls two water-color drawings, one representing an old gentleman in an arm-chair, the other the outside of a country house overgrown with wistaria; standing in the corner a handsome fowling-piece, which I had seen him carry; in the bookshelf between the windows the books that he read.
I wandered up and looked at them: a curious assemblage of shabby volumes, although at that time they embodied to me all that was highest in culture. That was ten years ago, and I was in love. Had it not been so I might have remembered that father's library was at least as good.
Milton, a twelve-volumed edition of Shakespeare, a Bible, a Pilgrim's Progress, a volume of Cowper's Poems, a volume of Percy's Reliques, Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Sir Walter Scott's Novels, Byron, Burns, some odd volumes of Dickens, and then books on Agriculture, the authors and their titles strange to me; this is all I remember. A mixed collection—probably the result of several generations, but not a bad one if Trayton Harrod read it all and read it well.
I looked at it sadly. Save the Walter Scott Novels, the Burns Poems, the Bible, and the Pilgrim's Progress, I knew none of them excepting by name, and not all of them even then. I felt very ignorant and very much ashamed of myself; for I never doubted that Harrod read and knew all these books, and how could a man who knew so much have anything in common with a girl who knew so little? I resolved to read, to learn, to grow clever. Joyce had said that I was clever, Joyce might know; why not?
I took the volume of Milton down and sat upon the low window-seat reading it. It was rather dreadful to be immediately confronted with Satan as an orator, for I had never been used to consider him as a personage, but rather as a grim embodiment of evil too horrible to be named aloud. But the rich and sonorous flow of the splendid verse fascinated me and I read on, although I didn't understand much that I read.
My thoughts wandered often to notice that the square of carpet was threadbare, and that I must persuade mother to get a new one; or to gaze out of the window upon the sloping bosom of the downs whereon this house stood lonely—a mark for all the winds of heaven; in the serene solitude the sleepy sheep strayed idly—cropping as they went—white blots upon the yellow pastures. And all the while I was listening for a footstep that I feared yet hoped would come, longing to be away and yet incapable of the determination which should take me from that chance of a possible meeting. But, long as I have taken to tell it, the time that I waited was not ten minutes before a heavy foot made the boards creak in the passage and a hand was on the door-knob. I started up, my cheeks aflame—the volume of Milton on the floor. But when the door opened it was Squire Broderick who stood in the opening. I don't think the red in my face faded, for I was vexed that he should see me there, and I fancied that he looked surprised.
Oh, do you know if Harrod is at home? asked he.
No, he's not, answered I, glancing up at the clean windows; "and I've been putting up fresh curtains meanwhile."
They look delicious, said the squire, with a little awkward laugh, not quite so hearty as usual. "What care you take of him!"
Mother is a dreadful fidget, you know, murmured I.
And at the same time you took a turn at Harrod's library, smiled he, picking up the volume which lay near my foot. "Milton! Rather a heavy order for a child like you, isn't it?"
I flushed up angrily. A child!
Do you understand it? asked he.
I struggled for a moment between pride and truthfulness. "No," said I, "not all. Do you?"
He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being cross.
Come, I'm not going to confess my ignorance to you, he laughed. "I'm too old;" and he took hold of my arm to help it into the sleeve of my jacket, which I was trying to put on.
But at that moment Dorcas brought in the tea, and of course I was obliged to stay and have some, and even to hand a cup to the squire to please her; country-folk stand on ceremony over such things, and I did not want to offend Dorcas.
You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you? said I, for want of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She looks better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks."
I am glad of that, said he, glancing at me, although of course he must have been thinking of sister; "they're the only ones worth having." And then, although he promised to come in and welcome her home, he went back to our first subject of talk.
As you're so fond of reading, you ought to get hold of a bit of Shakespeare, said he.
Should I like that? asked I. "I like poetry when it sounds nice, but I like the Waverley novels best."
But Shakespeare is novel and poetry too, said the squire. "I'm no great reader of anything but the news myself, but I like my Shakespeare now and again."
Father keeps all those nice bound books in the glass-case, said I, "and I don't believe mother would let me have them."
The squire laughed. "Your mother thinks girls have something better to do than to read books," smiled he. "Reading is for lonely bachelors like Trayton Harrod."
He's no more lonely than you are, Mr. Broderick, said I, "and yet you always seem to be quite happy."
He did not answer, and I was sorry for my thoughtless words, remembering that brief episode in his life when he had not been lonely.
So you think I am always quite happy? said he at last.
I blushed. Somehow the question was of a more intimate kind than the squire had ever addressed to me before, for although he had spoken familiarly to me on my own account, he had never allowed me to know any feeling of his own. I was afraid he must be going to speak to me about Joyce.
Oh yes, I replied, lightly; "I think you're one of the jolliest people I know."
Well, you're right, so I am, said he, gayly; "and I'm blessed in having rare good friends. But it does sometimes occur to me to think that I am pretty well alone in the world, Miss Margaret."
He looked round at me in his frank way, but I noticed that the hand which held his stout walking-stick trembled a little. I blushed again. It was very unusual for me, but he made me feel uncomfortable; I did not want him to tell me of his love for my sister, for I felt that if he did I must tell him of her secret engagement to his nephew, and that would be breaking my promise to my parents. Suddenly an idea struck me; I thought I would take the bull by the horns.
You should marry, said I, boldly.
He looked at me in blank astonishment.
Of course, added I, "there's no one hereabouts that would be good enough for you—unless it might be Mary Thorne, and she is only a manufacturer's daughter. You must have a real lady, of course. You should go and spend a bit of time up in London, and bring back a nice wife with you. Wouldn't it brighten up the country-side!"
I marvel at myself for my boldness; I, scarcely more than a child, as he had said, to a man so much older than myself! But the squire did not seem in the least offended, only he looked very grave.
You don't approve of people not marrying in what is called their own rank of life, I see, he said presently, with a twinkle of humor in his eye.
No, said I, gravely; "I agree with father."
Ah! said the squire, with the air of a man who is getting proof of something that he has affirmed. "I told Frank so the other day. As a rule, the farmer class consider it just as great a disadvantage to mate with us as we do to mate with them."
I bit my lip. So he did consider it a falling down for a gentleman to marry a farmer's daughter! Well, let him just keep himself to himself, then. But what business had he to go meddling with Frank's opinions? I was very angry with him.
I think you're quite right, I said, shortly. "They do."
It takes a very great attachment to bridge over the ditch, said he, meditatively.
There came a time when I remembered those words of his, but at the moment I scarcely noticed them. I thought I heard a footstep on the gravel without, and my fear of being surprised by the master of the house came back stronger than ever, because of the presence of the squire.
I must be getting home now, said I, hastily. "I'm afraid there's a storm coming up;" and even as I spoke, a deep, low growl echoed round the hills.
The squire fully agreed that there was no time to be lost if one did not want to get a drenching, and on the slope outside we parted company, he promising once more to come up in the evening and see Joyce.
The bailiff was not within sight. I had got over my visit quite safely; but, alas! I am not sure that I was relieved. I walked homeward as fast as I could, for heavy drops had begun to fall, and flashes of light rent the purple horizon. The sun had set, leaving a dull red lake of fire in the cleft, as it were, of two purple-black cloud-mountains; above the lake a tongue of cloud, lurid with the after-glow, swooped like a vulture upon the land, where every shape of hill and homestead and church-spire lay clearly defined, and yet all covered as if with a pall of deathly gloom.
The storm advanced with terrible swiftness. By the time I had crossed the hop-gardens and was climbing the opposite lane, it had burst with all its strength, and was tearing the sky with seams of fire, and emptying spouts of rain upon the land. I was not afraid of a storm, but certainly I had never seen a fiercer one.
I ran on, forgetful for the moment of everything but the desire to be home, and thus it was that I did not notice footsteps behind until they were alongside of me, and Mr. Harrod's voice was saying, almost in my ear, "Miss Maliphant!"
The voice made me start, but the tone of it sent a thrill through me.
I should have thought that one piece of foolhardiness was enough for one week, added he, with a certain look of feeling, veiled under roughness, that always seemed to me to transform his face.
I took no harm from the other night, said I.
Well, you may thank your stars that you didn't, answered he; "and you certainly will get wet through now."
I laughed contentedly. "That won't hurt me," I said. "I've been up at 'The Elms' to put up fresh curtains." I hadn't meant to tell him, but a sudden spirit of mischief, and I don't know what sort of desire to know the effect of the speech on him, prompted me.
To 'The Elms!' cried he, in a disappointed tone. And then, in a lower voice, "To put up the curtains for me."
Yes, answered I, demurely, "mother sent me?"
What he would have answered to that I don't know; for at that moment the sky seemed suddenly to open and to be the mouth of a flaming furnace full of fire, far into the depths of the heavens; it was the hour that should have been twilight, but it was dark, save when that great sheet of blue light wrapped the marsh in splendor; then the brown and white cattle huddled in groups on the pastures, the heavy gray citadel on the plain, the wide stretch of sea that, save for the white plumes of its waves, was ink beyond the brown of its shallows, the wide stretch of monotonous level land, the rising hill, with the old city gate close before is—all was suddenly revealed in one vivid panorama and faded again into mystery. The thunder followed close upon the lightning—a deafening crash overhead.
By Jove! said Harrod. "That's close. I hope you're not frightened of a storm."
Frightened! repeated I, scornfully.
Some girls are, said he, half apologetically, looking at me with admiration.
Not I, though, I laughed.
But as I spoke my heart stood still. We had climbed the hill and had reached a spot where the trees overshadowed the road, nearly meeting overhead; a fiery fork crossed the white path in front of us, there was a kind of crackle in the wood, and a blue flame seemed to dart out of the branch of an elm close at hand.
Great God! ejaculated Trayton Harrod under his breath, and he flung his arm around me and dragged me to the other side of the path.
I had said an instant before that I was not frightened, and I had spoken the truth; but if I had said now that I was not frightened it would have been because the sweet sense of protecting strength, which this danger had called forth, had brought with it a happiness stronger than fear.
Can you run? said he. "We must get away from these trees."
I could not speak, something was in my throat, but I obeyed him. We ran till we reached the abbey, where it stood in the great open space of its own graveyard, and there we drew aside under the shadow of the eastern buttress, protected a little by the projecting arch.
You're wet through, said he, laying his hand upon my arm.
I laughed again, not in the sort of exultant way I had laughed when he had asked me if I was afraid of lightning, but in a low, foolish kind of fashion.
It won't hurt me, murmured I. "Nothing hurts me. I'm so strong."
Oh yes, you're the right sort, I know, said he; "but all the same, you ought to have stayed at 'The Elms' till it was over. If I had been there I should have made you stay."
How angry those words would have made me a week ago! But now they thrilled me with delight, and with that same tender fear and longing of fresh experience that had haunted me ever since the night upon the garden cliff. Could he really have "made" me do anything?
I shouldn't have stopped, I said; "no, not for any one. I'm not afraid of a storm." But I think there was very little of my old defiance in the tone. He laughed gently, and I added, "I don't see any use in waiting here."
I advanced forward into the open, but as I did so a fresh flash rent the clouds and illumined the ground all about us, revealing darkest corners in its searching light. He took me by the hand and drew me once more into the shadow—not only into the shadow of the buttress this time, but of the ruined roof of a transept, where only the lightning could have discovered us.
Not yet, he said, gently; and although there was no need for it, he still held my hand in his.
My foolish heart began to beat wildly. What did it mean? Was that coming to pass about which I had wondered sometimes of late? I wanted to get away, and yet I could not have moved for worlds. I waited with my heart beating against my side.
But he did not speak, he only held my hand in his firmly, and I felt as though his eyes were upon me in the dark. I may have been wrong, but I felt as though his eyes were upon me.
All at once in the ivied wall above our heads an owl shrieked. We started asunder, and I felt almost as though I must have been doing something wrong, so hard did my heart thump against my side.
Fancy that poor old barn-owl being able to frighten two sensible people, laughed Trayton Harrod. "But upon my word I never heard him make such a noise before."
I made no reply. I came out once more into the path, and, turning, held out my hand.
The storm is over, I said. "Good-night."
Oh, I must see you home, said he. "It's getting quite dark."
He walked forward with me, but the spell was broken, only my heart still beat against my side.
You'll come in to supper? said I, when we reached the gate. I felt myself speaking as one in a dream. The only thing that I was conscious of was a strange and foolish longing that he should not go away from me.
He did not answer for a moment, but then he said: "I'm afraid I mustn't. I'm drenched through; I shouldn't be presentable."
I had forgotten it; we were, in truth, neither of us presentable.
Well, you must come to-morrow, said I, in as matter-of-fact a tone as I could muster. "Mother expects you, and my sister is home now."
He stepped forward in front of me and opened the front door, which always stood on the latch. The brightness from within dazzled me for a moment as he stood aside to let me pass, and there in the brightness stood Joyce.
How well I remember it! She had on a soft white muslin dress, that fell in straight, soft folds to her feet, and made her look very tall and slender, very fair and white. The light from the lamp fell down on her shining golden hair; her blue eyes were just raised under the dark lashes, gentle and serene. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, there flashed upon me a sense of the contrast between myself and her.
I stood there an instant in my dripping old brown frock looking at her. Then I turned round to introduce Mr. Harrod. But the house door had closed behind me again. He was gone.
Trayton Harrod did come to supper the next day.
I remember that mother upbraided him for having been so many days absent, and that he made some kind of an excuse for himself; and I remember that I blushed as he made it, and felt quite awkward when he shook hands with me and asked if I had taken any cold of the night before. But I was happy—very, very happy. I was happy even in fancying that I saw a certain self-consciousness in him also, in the persistence with which he talked to mother, and in something that crossed his face when our eyes met, which was almost as often as his were not fixed on Joyce, where she sat in her old place by the window.
Every one always was struck with Joyce at first, and I had been so anxious that Harrod should duly admire her that I had purposely refrained from saying much to raise his expectations, so that no doubt his surprise was as great as his admiration; and I had never seen my sister look handsomer than she did that night.
There was a little increased air of dignity about her since she had been to London, and had been thrown a little more on her own resources, which sat with a pretty style upon her serene and modest loveliness. She looked people in the face as she never used to do, raising her eyes without lifting that little head of hers that was always just slightly bent, like some regal lily or drooping tulip. She talked a little more, and she blushed seldomer.
She did not talk much to Mr. Harrod, but then he was very busy explaining his scheme of water-supply to Mr. Hoad, who had dropped in to supper. But she talked quite brightly to Squire Broderick when he came, as he had promised, to bid her welcome home, and shone in her very best light, just as I had wished she should shine—the beautiful hostess of our home.
It was a happy evening, typical of our happy home-life, that, flecked as it may have been by little troubles, as the summer sky is flecked with clouds, was yet fair and warm as the bright July days that followed one another so radiantly.
Ah me, how little I guessed that night that there were not many more such happy family parties in store for us when we should sit around that board united, and without a gap in the family circle! It is good that we cannot see into the future. No gathering cloud disquieted me that night; no fears for myself nor for any of those whom I loved; I was absorbed in that one throbbing, all-engrossing dream which was slowly beginning to fill my life.
Absorbed, yet not quite so much absorbed but that I could feel sorry for my sister's sake that one who had been there was now absent: where Frank Forrester had been Trayton Harrod now was. I could not honestly say to myself that I wished it differently, but I was sorry for Joyce. She, however, did not seem to be depressed, she was very bright; the gladness she had in being at home again gave her beauty just that touch of sparkle which it sometimes lacked.
It was a warm evening, and when supper was over we drew our chairs around the low porch that led onto the lawn, and took our ease in the half-light. It was very rarely that we sat thus idle, but sometimes, of summer evenings, mother was fond of a bit of leisure herself, and she never made us work when she was idle. The scent of the sweet-peas and the roses came heavy upon the air; the dusk was still luminous with lingering daylight, or with heralding a moon that had not yet risen.
I hear you have got Southdowns into your flock, Harrod, said the squire. "I hope you won't have any difficulty with them. I feel confident they ought to do, but when I tried the experiment it certainly failed."
Perhaps they weren't carefully looked after, answered Harrod. "Of course you have got to acclimatize animals just as well as people, and the more carefully the more delicate they are."
Ah, I dare say it may be a matter of management, agreed the squire. "I hadn't a very good shepherd at the time."
I don't leave it to a shepherd, said Harrod. "Shepherds are clever enough, and there are plenty of things I learn from them and think no shame of it; but they know only what experience has taught them, and these shepherds have no experience of Southdowns. Besides, they are a prejudiced lot, and they set their faces against new ventures."
The squire laughed, a laugh in which Mr. Hoad—subdued as he always was by Mr. Broderick's presence—ventured to join.
Yes, you're right there, he said. "You get it hot and strong, I dare say, all round. They snigger at you pretty well in the village for this water scheme of yours, I can tell you, Mr. Bailiff."
My cheek flamed, and Mr. Hoad went down one step lower still in my estimation.
I dare say, said Harrod, shortly, and he said it in a tone of voice as much as to say, "and I don't care."
But it's a very clever thing, isn't it? asked dear old mother, in her gentle voice. "I never could have believed such a thing was possible."
I could have said that Reuben declared it was not possible, but I would not have told on Reuben for worlds.
It's not a new discovery, answered the squire, who had taken no notice of the solicitor, and took mother's question to himself, "but it's a very useful one."
I wonder you haven't thought of using it before for the Manor, put in father. "You must need a deal of water there."
I felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing father stand up for Harrod; for, as far as I knew anything of their discussions, I had fancied he was not very keen upon the scheme.
I had thought of it, answered Mr. Broderick; "but I didn't think I could afford it. I didn't think it would pay for one individual."
I fancied father was vexed at this. He began tapping his foot in the old irritable way, which I had not noticed in him of late; for, as I had remarked to Joyce on her return, I thought he was far less peppery than he used to be, and I fancied it was a good sign for his health.
Neither do we think it will pay for one individual, said he. "We intend to make many individuals pay for it."
He said "we" and I was pleased.
Well, of course I shall have the water laid on to the Manor, and am grateful to the man who started the thing, said the squire, in a conciliatory tone; "but I'm a little doubtful as to your making a good job of it all round. Marshlands folk are very obstinate and old-fashioned."
Oh, they'll come to see which side their bread's buttered on in the long-run, declared Harrod, confidently.
But Mr. Hoad smiled a sardonic smile, and the squire added: "I'm afraid it will cost you a good bit of money meanwhile, Maliphant. However, as I sincerely hope you are going to make your fortune over these new hop-fields, it won't signify." It was, to say the least of it, an indiscreet speech, not to say an unallowable one; for I believe there is nothing a man dislikes so much as having his affairs talked of in public. It was not at all like the squire, and I could not help thinking, even at the time, that Harrod must have in some way nettled Mr. Broderick, although I was very far from guessing at the cause of the annoyance.
Father rose and walked slowly down to the edge of the cliff. I could not tell whether he did it to keep his temper or to conceal his trouble, for I fancied he looked troubled as he passed me.
The hops are a splendid crop now, said Harrod, without moving, as he lighted a fresh pipe. He never allowed himself to show if he were vexed.
But the squire did not reply. He rose and followed father. I'm sure he was sorry for what he had said. It was the solicitor who answered.
It ought to be a fine crop, he said. "Maliphant paid a long price for it."
How do you know what price he paid for it? asked Harrod, sharply.
I fancied Mr. Hoad looked disconcerted for a moment, but he soon recovered himself.
Well, to tell the truth, he did me the honor to ask my advice, he replied, with a sort of smile that I longed to shake him for. "No offence to you, Mr. Harrod, I hope," he added, blandly. "I know Maliphant holds your opinion in the highest reverence; but—well, I'm an old friend."
My blood boiled in the most absurd way; but Harrod was far too wise to be annoyed, or at any rate to show it. He only remained perfectly silent, smoking his pipe.
Father and the squire came up the lawn again; I wondered what they had said to each other. The evening was fresh and fragrant after the rain of the night before upon the hot earth; the dusky plain lay calm beneath us; the moon had just risen and lit the sea faintly in the distance; nature was quiet and sweet, but I felt somehow as though the pleasure of our evening was a little spoiled. Mother tried to pick up the talk again, but she was not altogether lucky in her choice of subjects.
Why, squire, the girls tell me the right-of-way is closed across that bit of common by Dead Man's Lane, said she. "Do you know whose doing it is?"
Father turned round sharply.
It never was of much use, said Mr. Hoad, answering instead. "The way by the lane is nearly as short, and much cooler."
It depends where people are going whether it is as short, said father. "It's a flagrant piece of injustice. Do you know who's to blame for it?"
Mr. Hoad looked uneasy, and did not reply; and the squire burst into a loud laugh.
Why, the Radical candidate, to be sure, said he, with a pardonable sneer in his hearty voice. "Those are the men for that kind of job."
Mr. Thorne! exclaimed mother. "No, never!"
Ay, said father under his breath; "a man who can rob his fellow-creatures in big things won't think much of robbing them in little things!"
You shouldn't run down your own party, Maliphant, laughed the squire. "Thorne is no particular friend of mine, but robbery is too big a word."
I understand he's a very charitable man, said mother, who always would have fair play.
Yes, echoed Joyce. "You don't know, father, what a deal of good Mary Thorne does among the poor."
Father rose; he was trembling. I saw a fire leap in his eye.
It's easy to give back with your left hand half of what you robbed with your right, said he, in a low voice, that yet resounded like the murmur of distant thunder; "but it isn't what those who are struggling for freedom will care to see in their representative."
Oh, I don't believe in a Radical party—here anyhow, said the squire, abruptly; "not even if you began to back the candidate, Maliphant."
I shall not back the candidate, said father, grimly.
No, laughed the squire. "He has done for himself with you over this right-of-way."
When I see a man who declares he is going into Parliament on the people's side deliberately try to rob the people of their lawful possessions, I feel more than ever that the name of Radical is but a snare, said father.
His face had grown purple with emotion; his voice quivered with it; his hand shook.
I saw mother look at him anxiously, and I saw a sullen expression settle down upon Mr. Hoad's detested face.
Now, Laban, don't go getting yourself into a heat, said mother, in her quiet, sensible voice. "You know how bad it is for your health, and it's unpleasant for all parties besides."
I can't make head or tail of the Radicals myself, began the squire, who, it must be remembered, spoke ten years ago. But mother interrupted him.
Come, come, squire, said she, in the pretty familiar way in which she always addressed him, "we'll have no more politics. The girls and me don't understand such talk, and it isn't civil to be leaving us o' one side all the evening."
He laughed, and asked what we wanted to talk about, and at the same time Mr. Hoad came forward to take his leave.
He smiled, shaking hands with mother, but his smile was a sour one, and I noticed that he scarcely touched father's hand.
I suppose Hoad is in a bad temper because you won't take up Thorne's cause, said the squire, as soon as the solicitor had passed up the passage.
Father gave a grunt of acquiescence, and the squire turned to us with most marked and laudable intent to obey mother and change the talk.
Have you heard the news? he asked. "Young Squire Ingram is to be married to Miss Upjohn. I heard it yesterday riding round that way."
Mother looked up eagerly. The subject was one quite to her own mind, but the news was startling.
Never to Nance Upjohn of Bredemere Farm? asked she.
The very same, Mrs. Maliphant, replied the squire. "Folk say they are to be married at Michaelmas."
Heart alive! ejaculated mother, lapsing into the vernacular in her excitement. "Isn't old squire in a fine way?"
I believe he doesn't like it, agreed Mr. Broderick, evasively.
Why not, pray? asked father, rousing from his reverie.
I always noticed that once he had been brought to arms upon the real interest of his life, he was the more ready to take fire upon secondary subjects, even remotely connected with it. No one answered him, and he repeated his question.
Why not, pray? The Upjohns come of as good a stock as we do, though they haven't been so long upon the soil.
To be sure, put in mother, quickly. "And I've been told she's as well schooled as any town miss. I don't mean to say she isn't good enough for the young squire, only I've heard say the old gentleman is so terribly particular."
Yes, indeed, she's as well-behaved and pretty a young woman as you could find anywhere, declared Mr. Broderick, warmly. "Old Ingram can have no objection on anything but the score of connection."
Connection! What's that? exclaimed father. "If the girl comes of a different stock to the lad, why must it needs be of a worse one? Faith, if I were neighbor Upjohn, 'tis I would have the objection."
Nonsense, Laban, said mother, half annoyed.
No; I wouldn't let any girl of mine wed where it was made a favor to receive her, continued father, hotly.
There are plenty among the gentry too that would make it no favor at all to receive a nice young woman just because she came of another class, added mother, with a vexed manner. "There's good honest folk all the world over, and bad ones too."
Right you are, old woman, answered father, after a moment's hesitation, with generous repentance. "There's some among them that I'm proud to shake by the hand. But all the same, a prejudice is a prejudice, and a class is a class."
You'd best come in-doors, said mother, still annoyed. "It's getting chill, and you've been out too long already, I believe."
He rose with the habit of obedience, and we all stood up, but he tottered as he walked. I saw Harrod, who was beside him, stretch out his arm.
He did not take it, he walked in bravely, the others following—all but myself and the squire. I saw he was troubled—I saw he wanted to speak to me, and I did not like to move.
Your father is so emphatic, so very emphatic, he murmured; "but I hope, Miss Margaret, that you do not misunderstand me."
I looked at him a little surprised. I could not see how it could signify to him whether I misunderstood him or not. If it had been Joyce it would have been different.
Oh no, I don't misunderstand you, said I, a little hurriedly, for I wanted to get in-doors. "It was quite clear."
I was vexed with the squire. I was angry with him for having seemed to make light of Harrod's knowledge and of Harrod's schemes.
I thought it was not fair of him before father—and when he had always bidden me fight the bailiff's battles for the good of the farm. So I answered, a little proudly, "You can't grumble if father and I have our pride of class as well as you yours."
No, I don't grumble, said he, with a smile, and yet I fancied with something half like a sigh too. "Only I, personally, have very little pride of class."
I'm glad to hear it, said I, and I ran in-doors.
I wanted to say good-night to Trayton Harrod. But in the parlor there was nobody but my sister, leaning up against the open casement and looking out into the fragrant summer night.
What are you doing? I asked, abruptly. "Where are they all?" And as I spoke I heard a step die away on the gravel outside.
I have just let Mr. Harrod out, answered she, "and I came to close up the windows. I think mother has gone up-stairs with father. I don't believe he is well."
I did not answer. It was Joyce's place again, now that she was home, to close the front door after the guests. But it was the first time that Harrod had left the Grange without bidding me good-night. When Joyce asked me where the squire was I did not care. It was she who hastened out to meet him and made mother's apologies; it was she who let him out as she had let out the bailiff.
It needed a sudden scare about my dear father to bring me back to myself. He had had a bad fainting fit—the worst we had ever seen him in. It was the bell ringing up-stairs, and mother's frightened voice calling, that waked me from a dream. And the evening ended badly, as I had had a silly presentiment that it would end.
The next morning the sun shone, and the world was as gay as ever. Father declared himself well and hearty; complained of no pain and betrayed no weakness, was merry at the breakfast-table over a letter of Frank Forrester's, and withdrew with it as usual to his study, where he spent more and more time opposite the portrait of Camille Lambert, and left farm matters more and more to his bailiff.
For me the sun shone the more brightly because of a short, delightful ten minutes with Trayton Harrod, in which we said nothing in particular, but that chased away the tiny shadow of disappointment that had crossed the horizon of my sweet, dawning experience, and banished it—disgraced and ashamed—into oblivion.
It was a very short ten minutes. Miss Farnham and the vicar's wife had been to call, and the Hoad girls had come to ask us to go to a ball at the town-hall. "Oh, do come," they had said, "and bring the bailiff;" and my dignity had flamed into my cheek, and I had been grateful to mother for promptly refusing for us, and even to old Miss Farnham for declaring that we were more sensible than most girls, and weren't always on the watch for new occasions to pinch in our waists. Miss Farnham, I recollect, had declared afterwards that it was only a dodge to catch father.
It was after the guests had left, and while we were waiting for mother to get her bonnet on for a drive, that Harrod and I got those short ten minutes to ourselves.
Joyce had gone to Guestling to lunch with some friends, and mother had proposed to Harrod to drive us over to fetch her, so that at the same time she might look at a cow which he had found for her there for sale.
We set forth, Harrod driving mother in the cart with the steady old black horse, and I riding Marigold alongside.
I saw as soon as we set out that he was just a little shade out of spirits. It troubled me at first, but I soon guessed, or thought I guessed, what it was about.
Wasn't that Mr. Hoad I saw up atop of the hill with you and Laban? asked mother, just after we had set out.
Harrod nodded.
What does the man want meddling with farming? asked mother. "I shouldn't have thought he was a wiseacre on such-like."
Harrod shrugged his shoulders; he evidently didn't intend to commit himself.
Mr. Hoad wouldn't wait to hear if other folk thought him a wiseacre before he'd think he had a right to interfere, laughed I. "Those smart daughters of his came inviting Joyce and me to a ball just now."
You're not going? asked Harrod, quickly.
No, no, answered mother. "I don't hold with that kind of amusement for young folk. There's too many strangers."
Why don't you want us to go? asked I, softly.
He didn't reply; he whipped up the horse a little instead.
Miss Farnham declared our going would have been made use of to try and draw father into the election against his will, said I. "But she's always got some queer notion in her head."
Well, upon my word, I don't believe there's much these electioneering chaps would stick at, declared Harrod, contemptuously. "I declare I believe they'd step into a man's house and get his own chairs and tables to go against him if they could."
Mother laughed, but Harrod did not laugh.
And if they can't have their way, there's nothing they wouldn't do to spite a fellow, added he.
Why, what has Mr. Hoad been doing to spite you? asked mother.
Nothing, ma'am, nothing at all, declared the bailiff. "There's nothing he could do to spite me, for I don't set enough store by him; and I should doubt if there's any would be led far by the words of a man that shows himself such a time-server."
He spoke so bitterly that I looked at him in sheer astonishment.
I thought Mr. Hoad seemed to have taken quite a fancy to you last night, said mother.
Harrod laughed harshly.
Yes, he said; and then he added, abruptly, "There's some folk's seemings that aren't to be trusted. They depend upon what they can get."
Good gracious! said mother. "Whatever could Mr. Hoad want to get of you?"
Excuse me, ma'am, I don't know that he wanted to get anything, declared Harrod, evidently feeling that he had gone too far. "I know no ill of the man. I don't like him—that's all."
Mother was silent, but I said, boldly, "No more do I."
And there talk on the subject ended. It was not until many a long day afterwards that I knew that Hoad—moved, I suppose, by Harrod's argument against father on the previous evening—had tried to persuade him to help in some sort against his employer in the coming political struggle. He little knew the man with whom he had to deal, and that no depreciatory remarks which spite might induce him to make to father upon his farming capacities would have any influence upon father's bailiff. Only I was glad I had agreed with him in not liking Mr. Hoad. It got me a reproving look from mother, but it got me a little smile from him, which in the state of my feelings added one little grain more to the growing sum of my unconfessed happiness.
It was a long way to Guestling. Away past "The Elms" and its hop-gardens, and many other hop-gardens again, where the bines were growing tall and rich with their pale green clusters; away between blackberry and bryony hedges that the stately foxglove adorned, between banks white with hemlock; away onto the breast of the breezy downs, where the hills were blue for a border, and solitary clumps of pines grew unexpectedly by the road-side.
The west became a sea of flame beyond the vastness of that swelling bosom, just as it had been almost every evening through that glorious summer, and set a line of blood-red upon the horizon for miles around, firing clots of cloud that floated upon lakes of tender green, and hemming other masses with rims of gold that were as the edges of burning linings to their softness.
Mother was almost afraid of it. She declared that she had never seen a sunset that swallowed up half the heavens like that, and she wondered what it boded; for even after we had turned and left the west behind us the clouds that sailed the blue were red with it still.
When we got near to Guestling we were overtaken by Squire Broderick on his roan cob. I think he had intended to ride farther but he seemed so delighted to find mother out-of-doors that he could not detach himself from our party.
Why, Mrs. Maliphant, I remember his saying with that half-respectful, half-affectionate air of familiarity that he always used to our mother, "if you knew how becoming that white bonnet is you would put it on oftener. It's quite a treat to see you out driving."
Mother declared that only business had brought her out now; and I remember how the squire told her she would never find a new friend to take the place of an old one, not if Harrod were to find her a cow with twice the good points of poor old Betsey. And while Mr. Broderick was paying sweet compliments to mother, Harrod and I exchanged a few more of those commonplace words, the memory of which made me merry, even when presently I was obliged to drop behind and ride alongside of the squire.
I had something to say to him, and as it related to the bailiff, I was not unwilling to drop behind. The night before he had made light of those schemes and improvements on the farm of which I was beginning to be so proud, and I had not thought it fair of him to try and set his own prot�g� in a poor light before father. I meant to tell him so, and this was the opportunity.
Mr. Broderick, said I, driving boldly into my subject, "why did you talk last night as if things were going badly on the farm? You told me a while ago that all the farm wanted was a younger head and heart upon it—somebody more ambitious to work for it. Yet now one would almost fancy you mistrusted the very man you recommended, and wanted to make father mistrust him."
I saw the squire start and look at me—look at me in a sharp, inquiring sort of way.
I did not intend to give that impression, he said.
Well, then, you did, said I, wisely shaking my head. "Any one could have seen it. You were quite cool about the water scheme. Why, father took his part against you."
I think you exaggerate, Miss Margaret, murmured he.
Oh no, I don't, I insisted. "And if I am rude, I beg your pardon; but I think it a pity you should undo all the work I have been doing. Besides," added I, in a lower voice, "it's not fair. You said you were 'afraid' he was spending too much money, and you 'hoped' he would make a fortune over the hops. It didn't sound as if you believed it would be so."
Well, so I do hope a fortune will be made, smiled he.
Ah, but you said it as if it might have been quite the contrary, insisted I.
Did I? repeated he, humbly.
Yes, declared I. "If you don't think Mr. Harrod manages well, you should tell him so; you are his friend."
The squire was silent, moodily silent.
Ah, who can tell what is good management in hops? sighed he at last. "The most gambling thing that a man can touch. All chance. Twelve hours' storm, a few scalding hot days, and a few night-mists at the wrong moment, may ruin the most brilliant hopes of weeks. I have seen fortunes lost over hops. A field that will bring forth hundreds one year will scarcely pay for the picking the next. No man ought to touch hops who has not plenty of money at his back."
Do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous risk? I asked.
Oh, of course he must know it, answered the squire.
And there he stopped short. I did not choose to ask any more. It seemed like mistrusting father to ask questions about his affairs. But I wondered whether he was a man who had "plenty of money at his back."
I think Harrod is a safe fellow, and a clever fellow, added the squire. "A cool-headed, hard-headed sort of chap, who ought not to be over-sanguine though he is young."
The words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty—they offended me.
Oh, I am sure you would not have recommended him to father unless you had had a high opinion of him, said I, haughtily. "And I am glad to say that father has a high opinion of him himself, and always follows his advice. I do not suppose that anything that any one said would prejudice father against Mr. Harrod now. In fact we all have the highest opinion of him."
With that I touched Marigold with the whip and sent her capering forward to the cart. Mother started, and reproved me sharply; but at that moment we drew up at the farm gates, and she turned round to beg the squire would spare her a few minutes to give his opinion also upon the contemplated purchase. Harrod looked round, and I was angry, for she had no right to have done it. I do not know how the squire could have consented, but he did so, though half unwillingly, and demurring to Harrod's first right.
The squire is such a very old friend of ours, I murmured, half apologetically, to the bailiff on the first opportunity. "Mother has so often asked his advice."
Yes, yes, I quite understand, replied he. And then he added—I almost wondered why—"I suppose you remember him ever since you were a child?"
Oh yes, laughed I; "he used to play with us when we were little girls and he was a young man."
A young man! smiled Harrod. "What is he now?"
I should think he must be nearly thirty-five, said I, gravely. "And you know he's a widower."
Indeed! Well, he's not too old to marry again, smiled Trayton Harrod, looking at me.
That's what mother says, answered I. And then I added—and Heaven knows what induced me to do it, for I had no right to speak of it—"Some folk think he's sweet on my sister."
It was unlike me to babble of family secrets. I glanced at my companion. There was a little scowl upon his brow; it was usually there when he was thinking, and he was ruffled still with vexation at mother's unusual want of tact. He looked after her where she was talking with the squire.
Oh, is it to be a match? he asked, carelessly.
Oh, dear no, laughed I. "Joyce—"
I was going to say, "Joyce cares for some one else," but luckily I remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time.
Joyce doesn't even think he likes her, I added instead.
He turned to me and broke into a little laugh. I thought it almost rude of him, and wondered whether he, too, thought that a farmer's daughter was not worthy of marriage with a squire.
But he was looking at me—he was looking at me with a strange look in his eyes. Yes, there was no mistaking it—it was a look of admiration, a look of almost tender admiration, and as I felt it upon me a blush rose to my cheek that so rarely blushed, and the power of thinking went from me; I only felt his presence.
I don't know how long we stood thus; I suppose it was only seconds before he said, "I believe you would put that sister of yours before you in everything, Miss Margaret."
I made an effort to understand him, for I think I was in a dream.
Yes, she's so beautiful! I murmured.
Beautiful! echoed he.
There was something in the tone of his voice that made me lift my eyes to his face. His gaze was fixed on the gate of the farm-yard. I followed his gaze. Joyce had entered and was coming towards us. This was where we had arranged to meet.
She shook hands with Harrod and then with the squire, who joined us with mother. We all went together into the cow-shed.
I don't remember what remarks were made upon Betsey's proposed successor; I don't even remember if we bought her or not. I don't think I was in the mood to attend much to the matter. I was roused from a brown-study by a curious remark of Trayton Harrod's.
Mother had found occasion to ask him whether the woman whom she had provided for him at "The Elms" made him comfortable, and was pleasant-spoken. It had been on her mind, I know, ever since he had been there.
She does her work, answered the bailiff. "I don't know if she's pleasant-spoken. I never speak to her."
That's not the way to get the best out of a woman, laughed the squire. "We poor bachelors need something more than bare duty out of our servants." He said it merrily, and yet I did not think he was merry.
I want no more than duty, repeated Harrod. "Talking, unless you have something to say, is waste of time."
You'll have to mend your manners, my lad, if ever you hope to persuade any young lady to become your wife, laughed the squire again.
I never should hope to do any such thing, answered Harrod. "I shouldn't be such a fool." And with that he walked away out of the farm-yard and began untying the cart for the homeward journey.
Mother looked after him, puzzled for a moment. Then, nodding her head at the squire, she said, softly: "Ah, that's what all you young men say till you've fixed on the girl you want. You're none so backward then."
I fancied the squire looked a little uncomfortable, but he said, lightly: "Do you think not, Mrs. Maliphant? Well, nothing venture, nothing have, they say. Harrod has had his fingers burned, I suppose. A bit sore on the subject, but he'll get over it. He's a nice lad; though, to take his word for it, his wife wouldn't have a very cheerful life of it!"
Well, we needn't take his word for it, said mother. "And, good gracious me! it's fools indeed that would want to wed upon nothing but sugar. There'd be no grit in love at all if we hadn't some duties towards one another that weren't all pleasant. 'Tis in the doing of them that love grows stronger. I've always thought you can't smell the best of roses till you get near enough to feel the thorns."
This speech of mother's comes back to me vividly now, but at the time I was scarcely conscious of it.
Trayton Harrod's words—"I shouldn't be such a fool"—were ringing in my ears. What did he mean by them? I looked round after him and saw that my sister had strolled across to where he was waiting by the cart. It was natural enough—it was time to be getting homeward. But as I looked I saw him bend towards her just a little and say something. The expression of his face had softened again, and the scowl on his sunburnt brow had faded, but his lips were pressed together so that they were quite thin instead of full, as they appeared in their normal shape; and I wondered why he looked so, and why what he said made the blush, that was now so much rarer than it used to be, creep up Joyce's cheek till it overspread her fair brow and tipped her delicate little ears with red.
An uncontrollable, unreasonable fit of anger took possession of me. I flew across the yard to that corner where Marigold was tied beside the dog-cart.
I suppose you read a great deal of evenings? Joyce was saying.
And Harrod answered, shortly, "No, I don't so much as I used to do. I am too much taken up with other things."
Simple words enough, but they set my heart aflame, yet left me sick and sore.
I undid the mare with a rough hand, and, before she had time to see what I was about, I set my foot in the stirrup and sprang into the saddle. She was used to my doing that, but she was not used to my doing it in that way.
She reared and kicked. My thoughts were elsewhere, and it served me right that, for the first time in my life, she threw me.
I heard a scream from mother, and the next moment I felt that a man's arm had helped me up from the ground.
I was not hurt, only a little stunned, and when I saw that it was Trayton Harrod who had picked me up, I broke away from him and staggered forward to mother.
I'm not hurt, mother, not a bit, said I, and then I burst into tears. Oh, how ashamed I was! I who prided myself on self-control.
But she put her arm round me and laid my head on her shoulder, and her rare tenderness soothed me as nothing else in the world could have done. I kept my face hid on her neck, as I had done when I was a little child, and used to be quite confident that she could cure every wound.
Yet it was only for a moment.
I had better ride, and lead the mare, I heard the squire say in a low, concerned voice. "She won't be fit to mount again, or even to drive the cart."
I lifted my head.
Oh, indeed, Squire Broderick, I'm not in the least hurt, said I, as cheerfully as I could, for I was grateful for those kindly tones. "I can ride Marigold home perfectly well."
No, my dear, that you won't, said mother, all her decision returning now that her alarm was over. "I've had quite enough of this fright for one day."
Joyce returned from the farm with a glass of water, and Harrod by her side with some brandy that he had begged at the doctor's house hard by. I drank the water but I refused the brandy, and scoffed at the notion of the doctor coming out in person. Then I got into the cart. I insisted on driving, and as the horse was the quiet old black Dobbin, mother consented. Joyce sat behind, and Harrod rode after upon Marigold.
The squire showed signs of joining our caravan at first; but as I turned round and assured him once more that I was perfectly well, and begged him to continue his road, he was almost obliged to turn his horse back again in the direction in which he had been going when he overtook us. But he still looked so very much concerned that I was forced to laugh at him. I think it was the only time I laughed that day.
The drive home was soothing enough across those miles of serene pasture-land whose marge the sea was always kissing, and where the sheep cropped, in sleepy passiveness, beneath faint rosy clouds that lay motionless upon the soft blue; the vast dreamy pastures, browning with autumn tints of many planes of autumn grasses that changed as they swayed in the lazy breeze, were hemmed by a winding strip of beach, pink or blue, according as the sun was behind or above one, and to-night bordered beyond it by a stretch of golden sand, over which rows upon rows of little waves rippled with the incoming tide. We drove along the margin of the beach; the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid their pale, blue-green leaves upon every mound of shingle, and not even the distant church-spires and masts of ships, that told of man's presence, could disturb the breathless placidity that no memory of storm or strife seemed to awaken into a throb of life.
But suddenly upon the vast line of wide horizon, where the sea melted into the sky with a little hovering streak of haze, a throb of light stirred; at first it was but a spot of gold upon the bosom of the distance, but it was a spot that grew larger, though with a soft and rayless radiance unlike the dazzle of the sun-setting; then out of the breast of it was made a red ball that sent a path of gilded crimson down the sea, and tipped the crest of every little wave that crept towards us with a crown of opalescent light; it was the sun's last kiss welcoming the moon as she rose out of the sea.
It was a rare and a beautiful sight, and to me, who loved the world in which I lived so well, it should have brought joyousness. And yet it did not please me. I would rather have had it chill and stormy, with a thick fog creeping up out of the sea—a fog such as that through which Trayton Harrod's tall figure had loomed the first time that I had met him, just on this very tract of land.
On the day following I met Frank Forrester in the lane by the vicarage.
I verily believe I had forgotten all about him during the past few days, but that very morning I had remembered that he was most likely at the Priory for that garden-party to which father had so annoyingly forbidden us to go; and I vowed in my heart that, by hook or by crook, my sister should see him before he left the neighborhood. It was a regular piece of good-luck my meeting him thus; but I thought, when he first saw me, that he was going to avoid me. He seemed, however, to think better of it, and came striding towards me, swaying his tall, lithe body, and welcoming me even from a distance with the pleasant smile, without which one would scarcely have known his handsome face. I was glad he had thought better of it, for I should certainly not have allowed him to pass me.
Holloa, Miss Margaret, said he, when we were within ear-shot; "this is delightful. I was afraid I shouldn't get a chance of seeing any of you, as I am forbidden the house. How are you?"
I am very well, said I, looking at him.
I fancied he had grown smarter in his appearance than he used to be; there was nothing that I could take hold of, and yet somehow he seemed to me to be changed.
Why weren't you at the garden-party yesterday? asked he. "It was quite gay."
Yesterday! Was it yesterday? said I, half disappointed. "We weren't allowed to go, you know. We wanted to go very much."
He looked at me in that open-eyed way of his for a moment, and then he shifted his glance away from my face and laughed a little uneasily.
Was I the cause? he asked.
Oh, dear no, cried I, eagerly, although in my heart I knew well enough that, with mother, he had been. "But you know father never did like the Thornes. They belong to that class that he dislikes so. What do you call it—capitalists? Why, he hates them ever so much worse than landed proprietors, and they are bad enough."
I said this jokingly, feeling that, as of course Frank sympathized with all these views and convictions of father's, he would understand, even though he might not himself feel just as strongly towards those members of the obnoxious class who had been his friends from his youth upward. But a shadow of annoyance or uneasiness—I did not know which—passed over his face like a little summer cloud, although the full, changeful mouth still kept its smile.
And Mr. Thorne has done something special to vex him, I continued. "He has closed the right-of-way over the common by Dead Man's Lane. So now father has forbidden us to go to the house."
The slightest possible touch of scorn curled Frank's lip under the silky brown mustache.
That's a pity, said he.
Well, said I, "you would feel just the same, of course, if these people didn't happen to be old friends of yours, and they never were friends of father's. He disliked them buying the property from the very first."
It makes things rather uncomfortable to drive a theory as far as that, laughed Frank.
Of course it was what I often felt myself, but somehow it vexed me to hear him say so; if he was the friend to father that he seemed to be, he had no business to say it, and specially to me.
Well, anyhow, it's the reason we didn't go to the garden-party, said I, shortly. And then I repeated again, and in a pleasanter tone, "But we wanted to go very much, of course."
Ah yes, answered he, glancing at me and then away again, and referring, I suppose, to the pronoun I had used, "your sister is home again now. Of course I heard it in the village. What a pity you couldn't come! We had a dance afterwards—altogether a delightful evening, and you would have enjoyed it immensely. Besides," he began, and then stopped, and then ended abruptly, "every one missed you."
I laughed. "That means to say every one missed Joyce," I said. "I am not so silly as to think people mean me when they mean Joyce—some people, of course, more particularly than others."
It was rather a foolish remark, and he took no notice of it.
Your sister is well, I hope, was all he said.
Oh yes, she's well, I answered.
And then there was an awkward pause. I wondered why in the world he did not ask any of the innumerable questions that must be in his mind about her, and yet I felt that it was natural he should be awkward, natural that he should not want to talk to me about her.
I did not know exactly what to say, and yet I would not let this golden opportunity slip.
You must come and see for yourself, said I, boldly, without in the least considering what this course of action laid me open to from mother. "She's prettier and sweeter than ever, Joyce is, since she's been to London."
He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze.
Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible! ejaculated he.
You came to see us the last time you were in Marshlands, said I. "You don't come to see Joyce, you come to see father. Father would be dreadfully hurt to think you were in Marshlands and didn't see him. He doesn't know you are here." This was true, but whether father would have wished me to run so against mother's wishes, I did not stop to think.
Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange, said he, softly.
I almost stamped my foot with vexation at the lack of recklessness in this lover of Joyce's, whose ardent devotion I had begun by envying her once upon a time. But I reflected that it was both foolish and unfair to be vexed, because Frank Forrester was only keeping to the word of his agreement.
You come to see father, not to see Joyce, I repeated, dogmatically. "Father doesn't seem to be happy about the way that notion of his is turning out."
That notion? repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of voice.
I looked at him.
Yes, said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something or other that father and you have got up between yourselves."
Still he looked puzzled.
Some school, or something for poor children, explained I, I think a trifle impatiently.
Oh, of course, of course, cried Frank. "I didn't quite understand what you were referring to, and one has so many of those things on hand, so many sad cases, there is so much to be done. But I remember all about it. We must push it. It's a fine scheme, but it will need a great deal of pushing, a great deal of interest. It's not the kind of thing that will float in a day. Your father, of course, is apt to be over-sanguine."
I did not answer. It crossed my mind vaguely that three months ago it had been father who had said that Frank was apt to be over-sanguine; or rather, who had given it so to be understood, in words spoken with a kindly smile and some sort of an expression of praise for the ardor of youth. "It's to the young ones that we must look to fly high," he had said, or words to that effect.
Well, you must come and talk it over with father, said I, somewhat puzzled. "He thinks a great deal of you."
Ah! And so do I think a great deal of him, I assure you, cried Frank. "He's a delightful old man! So bright and fresh and full of enthusiasm! One would never believe he had lived all his life in a place like this, looking after cows and sheep. There are very few men of better position who can talk as he talks."
I suppose I ought to have been pleased at this, but instead of that it made me unaccountably angry for a moment. I thought it a great liberty on the part of a young fellow like Captain Forrester to speak like that of an old man like my father. But one could not be exactly angry with Frank. In the first place, he was so pleasant and good-natured and sympathetic that one felt the fault must be on one's own side; and then it would have been waste of time, for he would either never have perceived it, or he would have been so surprised that one would have been ashamed to continue it.
However, I tried to speak in an off-hand way as I said, "Yes, he doesn't often get any one here whom he cares to talk to, so of course he is very glad of whoever it is that will look at things a bit as he does." And then, afraid lest I should have said too much, and prevent him from coming to the Grange after all, I added, "But he's really fond of you, and if he thinks you have been so near the place and haven't been to see him, I'm afraid he'll be hurt."
Frank looked undecided a moment, and I glanced at him anxiously. Truly, I was very eager that day to secure a companion for my father.
Father is depressed, I added. "I don't think he's quite so cheerful and hopeful as he used to be, and I am sure you would do him good."
Frank laughed. "Very well," said he, turning down the lane with me, "if your mother is displeased, Miss Margaret, let it be on your head."
Oh, I'm not afraid of mother, I said, although in truth I was very much afraid of her. "She will be pleased enough if you cheer up father. And if you tell him some good news of his plan about the poor little children, you will cheer him up."
He mustn't set his heart too much upon that just at present, said Frank, in a cool, business-like kind of way. "There's a deal of hard, patient work to be done at that before it'll take any shape, you know."
Yes, I understand, said I; "but who is going to do the work?"
He looked a bit put out for the moment, but he said, cheerily: "Ah, that's just it. We must find the proper man—the man for the place—then it'll go like a house on fire." And then he turned and fixed his brown eyes on me, as was his wont, and said, "But how is it that this bailiff hasn't roused your father's heart in his own work more, and made him forget these outside schemes?"
I flushed with anger; I thought the remark unjustifiable.
I hear he's a clever fellow, continued the captain. "That's it, I suppose. He prefers to go his own gait. Although they tell me"—he said this as if he were paying me a compliment—"they tell me you can twist him round your little finger."
Who are they? cried I, my lip trembling. "They had best mind their own business."
He laughed gayly. "The same as ever, I see," he said. "But you might well be proud of such a feat. He struck me as a tough customer the only time I saw him."
I set my lips tight together and refused to answer another word; but when we had left the pines, and turned out of the lane into the road, I was sorry for him, and forgave him; for glancing at him, I saw that his cheek was quite pale.
I'm dreadfully afraid of your parents, laughed he. "Your mother won't deign to shake hands with me, and your father will be hurt because I haven't brought a train of little London waifs at my heels."
Of course it was neither the prospect of mother's cold welcome nor the thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation of the scheme which had really made his cheek white. I understood things better than that; it was that he was going to see Joyce, whom he had not seen for three months. I was sorry for the poor fellow, in spite of his having offended me.
On the top of my original plan, which had only been to get him to the Grange, another took sudden shape. It was a Thursday—dairy morning. But as we had come down the street I had seen mother's tall back beside the counter of the village grocer's shop, and I determined to risk Deborah's presence, and to bring Frank straight in through the back door to the milk-pans and Joyce's face.
Luck favored me. Deborah had gone outside to rinse some vessel not quite to her mind, and Joyce stood alone with a fresh pink frock and a fresh fair face against the white tiles, kneading the butter with sleeves upturned. I left Frank there, and ran on to Deborah, who showed signs of returning.
Whatever does that dandified young beau want round about again? said she. "I thought he had taken those handsome calves of his to London to make love to the ladies."
I must mention that Frank always wore a knickerbocker suit down at Marshlands—a costume less in vogue ten years ago than it is now, and an affectation which found no favor in Deborah's sight. To tell the truth, it did not please me that day; nothing about him quite pleased me, yet indeed I think he was the same as he had always been. But I was not going to let myself dwell upon anything that was not in the captain's favor, and certainly I was not going to let Deborah comment upon it. After all, as I had once said to mother, he was my sister's lover, not mine; but he was my sister's lover, and as such I should stick up for him through thick and thin.
He's come to see father, said I, shortly.
That's the first time I knew that the way to your father's room was through the dairy, grinned Deborah. "But look here, Margaret"—and here old Deb grew as solemn as a judge—"you'd no business to bring him in there when your mother was away. You know very well you hadn't. You'll get into a scrape." How much Deb really knew about the particulars of Joyce's engagement I have never found out, but that she guessed what she did not know was more than likely.
Why not? asked I.
Why not? Because he's a slippery young eel, that's why not, said Deborah. "If Joyce cares for him, the sooner she leaves off the better. But it's my belief she's got more sense in her head than some folk give her credit for."
Of course Joyce cares for him, cried I, angrily, "and he's not slippery at all. He can't come courting her when mother forbids him the house. But it's very unkind of mother, and that's why I brought him. I don't care if I do get into a scrape for it. You're a hard-hearted old woman to talk so. But I suppose you've forgotten what it was to be young—it's so long ago."
I remember enough about it to know how many men out of a dozen there are that are fit to be trusted, my dear, smiled Deborah, grimly. "And my old ears haven't grown so queer yet but they can tell a jig from a psalm tune."
I don't think you go to church often enough to know them apart, sneered I; for Deb was not as conspicuous for piety as Reuben, and was wont to declare that when she listened to parson her head grew that muddled and stagnated she couldn't tell her left hand from her right.
Ah, I'm not like some folk as likes to go and be told o' their sins, said she, alluding, as usual, to the unlucky Reuben. "I know mine well enough, and on the Sabbath I likes to put up my legs and give my mind to 'em in peace and quiet. But I'm not afraid I shall hear the Old Hundredth if I go into the dairy just now," grinned she, catching up the milk-pail, which she had been scrubbing viciously, "so I'll just go back and finish my work."
I laid my hand on her arm to detain her, but at that moment Trayton Harrod appeared round the corner from the garden.
Where's Reuben? asked he, with a thunder-cloud upon his brow.
That's more than I can tell you, answered Deb, shortly. "I'm not the man's keeper."
What's the matter? I asked.
Some malicious persons have been taking the trouble to break the pipes that have just been laid across to the new reservoir, he answered. "They were not yet covered in. But I'm determined to find out the offenders."
Well, you needn't come asking after Reuben, then, said old Deb, with rough stanchness, "The man mayn't be much for brains, but he ain't got time to plan tricks o' that sort."
I'm not suspecting Reuben, answered Harrod, "but I look to Reuben to help me to find out who's to blame."
Well, if there's wrong been done against master, so he will, declared Deborah again. "Reuben's a true man to his master, say what you may of him. You'd best not come telling any tales of Reuben to me."
No, no, replied Harrod, hurriedly, "I want to tell no tales of Reuben nor any one else, but I must get to the bottom of the matter;" and then turning to me, he added, "I must see your father at once."
He moved across the yard to the outer door, but midway he stopped, listening.
The voices in the dairy had attracted his attention. I think he was going to ask me who was there, when suddenly Joyce came out of the door, her cheeks red, her eyes wet with tears.
As soon as she saw him she ran quickly by, and round the corner of the yard to the front of the house; but I knew by the way that he glanced at me that he had seen that her eyes were full of tears. He did not speak, however, neither did he look after her. He first glanced across to the dairy, but Frank Forrester did not show himself, and he strode across to the gate of the yard and let himself out into the road.
I'll see your father another time, he said to me as he went past.
I went round the corner, meaning to follow Joyce, but remembering that Frank must be in a very uncomfortable position, and that I was rather bound to see him through with it, I went back and found him bidding Deborah tell me he would come again in the evening.
The master'll be busy all the evening, she said; and her inhospitality decided me to make a bold move.
Father is at liberty now, I said. "Please come this way." And he had no choice but to follow me round to the front.
Luckily for me, father was there alone, reading his newspaper in the few spare minutes before dinner; neither Joyce nor mother was visible. He welcomed Frank even more cordially than I had hoped.
How are you, lad? he cried, heartily. "Why, I didn't know you were near the place at all. When did you come?"
Frank sat down in his usual place, and the two talked together just as if they had never parted. All Frank's cautiousness, not to say half-heartedness, about father's scheme seemed to have evaporated, now that he was in his presence, just as if he were afraid or ashamed not to be as enthusiastic as he was. As I listened to them I couldn't believe that he had told me ten minutes before that father was "apt to be over-sanguine," and that he must not "set his heart too much" upon the matter. On the contrary, it seemed to be Frank who was sanguine, and father who was suggesting the difficulties of working; father, moreover, who used almost the very phrase about its being necessary to get the proper man to work the details, and Frank who declared, as he had declared before, that he would be the man. How was it that, as soon as his back was turned, the fire seemed to die out of him? Was he like some sort of fire-bricks that can absorb heat, and give it out again fiercely while the fire is around them, but that grow dead and cold as soon as the surrounding warmth is withdrawn?
But it was very pleasant to see them there talking as merrily as ever. Merrily? Well, yes, with Frank it was "merrily," but with father I don't think it had ever been anything but earnestly, and now I fancied that there was even a tinge of hopelessness about him which had not been there of old. Yet he smiled often, and treated Frank just in that half-rough, half-affectionate way that he had always had towards him—something protecting, something humorous, almost as though he traced in him a streak of weakness, but could not help being fascinated by the bright kindliness, the sympathetic desire to please in spite of himself.
Perhaps it was so with all of us—with all of us, excepting mother. She had never felt the fascination, she had always seen straight through the mirror. And as she had always been inexorable, so she was inexorable that day.
Father, in his eagerness about the interest that he had at heart, had forgotten all about Joyce, all about the reason why Frank Forrester should not be at the Grange. But I had not forgotten it; I knew mother would not have forgotten it, and I stood, with a trembling heart, listening for her step upon the stairs within.
She came at last, and one glance at her face told me that Frank's presence was no surprise to her; that she knew of it, and knew of it from Joyce. Her lips were pressed together half nervously, her blue eyes were smaller than usual; and she rustled her dress as she walked, which somehow always seemed to me a sure sign of displeasure in her. She did not hold out her hand to him, although he advanced with every show of cordiality to greet her as usual.
Oh, Mrs. Maliphant, you are angry with me for coming here, cried he, in a half-humorous, half-appealing voice, that he was wont to use when he wanted to conciliate. "You're quite right. What can I say for myself?"
He did not say that I had persuaded him. I liked him for that, but I said it for him.
I brought Captain Forrester here, mother, said I, in my boldest manner, trying neither to blush nor to let my voice quaver. "I knew father would want to see him, and he is in Marshlands for only one day."
Captain Forrester is always welcome in my house, said father, and his voice did shake a little, but whether from annoyance or distress it was not possible to tell. But mother said nothing. She kept her hands folded in front of her. It was Joyce who spoke—Joyce, who had followed mother down the stairs and out into the porch.
Father, I have been telling mother, said she, coming very close to him, "that I knew nothing of Captain Forrester's coming here to-day. I did not wish to see him."
She kept her head bent as she said the words, but she said them quite firmly, although in a low voice. Certainly Joyce, for a gentle and diffident girl, had a wonderful trick of courage at times. I admired her for it, although to-day she angered me; she might have allowed her love to shine forth a little—for her lover's sake if not for her own.
All right, my girl, answered father, without looking at her. "I understand."
And then he turned again to Frank. "You'll stay and have a bit of dinner with us?" he said.
I was grateful to him for saying it, for things were altogether rather uncomfortable. The honesty and frankness of our family is a characteristic of which I am proud, but it certainly has its uncomfortable side. Fortunately Captain Forrester's pleasant and easy manners were second nature, and cost him no trouble. They came to the aid of us all that day.
Oh, Mrs. Maliphant does not echo that kind invitation of yours, said he. "I know I have deserved her wrath. A bargain is a bargain." He put out his hand again. "But she will shake hands with me before I go?" he added.
Who could have resisted him? Mother put out her hand.
You're welcome to our board, captain, if you will stay, said she.
Thank you, that is kind of you, answered he, with real feeling in his voice. "I mustn't stay, I am due elsewhere, but I appreciate your asking me none the less."
He turned to me and shook hands with me warmly. Then he stopped in front of Joyce.
She did not lift her eyes; she put her hand silently into his out-stretched palm without, so far as I could see, the slightest tremor. He pressed the soft long fingers in his for a moment, and then he turned away without speaking.
Father and he went along the passage together, talking; and it was father who showed him out of the front door.
I was sorry that I had persuaded him to come to the Grange. Harrod had seen Joyce in tears, and would wonder what was the cause; and was it worth while to have gone through the very uncomfortable scene which had just taken place for anything that had been gained? It was Joyce's own fault, but it showed me how idle it was to hope to move her in any line of conduct which she had laid out for herself.
The next morning I was still more sorry that I had brought Frank to the Grange.
Mother very rightly upbraided me for it, and in a way that showed me that she was more than ever determined that Joyce should not marry Captain Forrester if she could help it. She said that Joyce was beginning to forget this dandy love affair, and that it was all the more annoying of me to have gone putting my finger in the pie and stirring up old memories. I declared that Joyce was not forgetting Frank at all, and told mother I wondered at her for thinking a daughter of hers could be so fickle, and for supposing that her manner meant anything but the determination to keep to the unfair promise that had been extracted from her.
Ah, dear me, if I could have believed in that other string that mother had to her bow for Joyce! But although the squire came to the Grange just as often as ever, I could not deceive myself into thinking his coming or going made any difference to my sister, whatever might be his feelings towards her. If Joyce had not encouraged her lover, as I thought she ought to have done, that was not the reason. I told myself that the reason was in the different way in which we looked at such matters; but I was sorry I had brought Frank to the Grange.
With my arrogance of youth, I might have got over mother's scolding if I could have persuaded myself that I had done any good; but I could not but think that I seemed to have done nothing but harm. Joyce was almost distant to me in a way that had never happened before in our lives; and when I tried to upbraid her for her coldness, she choked me off in a quiet fashion that there was no withstanding and left me alone, sore and silent and angry. Oh, and there was a worse result of that unlucky visit than all this, although I would not even tell my own heart of it.
Joyce, as I have said, was moody and silent all the next day. To be sure, the weather had turned from that glorious heat to a dull gray, showery fit that was most depressing to everybody. It had most reason to be depressing to Trayton Harrod, who had his eye on the crops even more anxiously than father had himself. The rain had not as yet been heavy or continuous enough to do more than refresh the parched earth, but a little more might make a serious difference to the wheat and the hops, of which the one harvest was not yet all garnered, the second nearly ready for picking.
This, and the annoyance about the broken water-pipes—in which matter he had failed to discover the offenders—were quite enough, of course, to account for the cloud upon the bailiff's brow as I came across him that evening on the ridge of the downs by the new reservoir. I ought to have remembered this; I ought to have soothed the trouble; I should have done so a fortnight ago. But I was ruffed, unreasonable, unjust.
Well, have you discovered anything more about that ridiculous affair? I asked, nipping off the twig of a bush in the hedge pettishly as I spoke.
What affair? asked he, although I knew that he knew perfectly well what I meant.
Well, about those water-pipes that you fancy the men have stamped upon to spite you, laughed I, ill-naturedly.
He pressed his lips together. "I think I guess pretty well who was at the bottom of it," he said. "But the work is finished now and in working order, so I shall say no more about it."
I knew very well that if he could have been certain of his facts he would have said a great deal more about it, and in my unreasonable ill-temper I wanted to make him feel this.
Guessing isn't enough, I replied. "But if you could be sure, it would be far better to let the man know that you have discovered him. You'll never get anything out of these Sussex people by knuckling under to them."
I was sorry for the words as soon as I had said them, for it was an insulting speech to a man in his position; but I wouldn't show any humility.
Thank you, he answered, coldly. "I must do the best I can, of course, in managing the Sussex people. But, anyhow, it is I who have to do it."
I would not see the just reproof. "Well, if any one is to blame in this it isn't poor old Reuben," I declared, stoutly; "he's obstinate, but he isn't mean. It might be Jack Barnstaple. I don't say it is, but it might be. It isn't Reuben."
I am quite of your opinion, answered he. "But as you say, guessing is of no avail, so we had best let the matter drop."
He turned to go one way and I the other. But just as we were parting, Reuben appeared upon the crest of the hill with Luck at his heels. They were inseparable companions. Luck was the one sign of his former calling that still clung to poor old Reuben. But he was very old, older than his master; both had done good work in their day, but both were nearly past work now.
That dog will have to be shot soon, said Trayton Harrod, looking at the way the poor beast dragged itself along, stiff with rheumatism, which the damp weather had brought out. "I told Reuben so the other day."
Shot! cried I, with angry eyes. "No one shall shoot that dog while I have a word to say in the matter."
And I ran across to where Luck was coming to meet me, his tail wagging with pleasure.
Poor old Luck! poor old fellow! I murmured, stooping to caress him. "They want to shoot you, do they? But I won't allow it."
Shoot him! growled Reuben, looking round to the bailiff, who had followed me. "Shoot my dog?"
He's not your dog, Reuben, I said. "He's father's, although you have had him for your own so long. And father will have a voice in the matter before he's shot. Don't be afraid. He sha'n't be shot. We can nurse him when he needs nursing, and he shall die peaceably like a human being. He deserves as much any day, I'm sure. He has worked as well."
Taff was my special dog, and it was true that Luck had always, as it were, belonged to Reuben, but now that I fancied him in danger, all my latent love of the weak and injured rose up strong within me, and I fought for the post of Luck's champion. Perhaps my mood of unreasonable temper had just a little to do with it too.
You are mistaken, said Trayton, coldly. "The poor beast is ill and weary. It would be a far greater kindness to shoot him."
Well, he sha'n't be shot, then, so there's an end, cried I, testily, rising to my feet and looking Harrod in the face.
Oh, very good; of course it's not my business, said he.
He turned away up the slope. But the spirit of annoyance was in Reuben as it was in me that day.
I came to have a bit of a look at the 'op-fields, master, said he. "The sky don't look just as we might choose, do it?"
This rain is not enough to hurt, growled Harrod, without looking round.
No, no; we might put up with this so long as it don't go on, agreed Reuben, slowly. "We want a bit of rain after all that dry weather. You didn't get your water-pipes laid on in time for the dry weather, did you, Master Harrod? begging your pardon," asked the old man, slyly.
No; some mischievous persons took a childish delight in putting them out of order, said the bailiff, turning round sharply; "but I have my eye on them."
They're dreadful brittle things, them china things, for such work, said Reuben, in a slow, sleepy voice. "I doubt you'll never get the water to go just as you fancy. They do say there's another broke down by Widow Dawes," he added, with a grin.
Harrod turned round, with a muttered imprecation.
But there, I'm thinking you won't want no water round about for some while to come, mister. The Lord'll do it for ye.
I tell you the weather hasn't broken up, man. This rain is nothing, growled Harrod again, striding up the bank as he spoke.
Right, right, agreed Reuben, nodding his head; "we must trust the Lord, we must. Though, for my part, I'd sooner trust Him with anything rather than a few gardens of 'ops." Reuben sighed as he looked out across the valley that was so rich now with the tall and graceful growths. "They're a fine sight now," said he, "but the Lord can lay 'em low." And with that comforting reflection, he turned his back on me and went down the path.
Luckily for Reuben, I had not leisure just then to think of him or his words; my thoughts were elsewhere. Trayton Harrod had reached the top of the slope. He was nearly out of ear-shot. I watched his figure grow longer and longer upon the softening sky, that was slowly clearing with the coming twilight.
How could I bear to let him go from me like that? Was it for this that we had had those good times together, those happy, happy hours, that lived in my memory like stars upon a bright sky? Was it for nothing that he had held my hands in his and tuned his voice to gentleness in speaking to me? Was it for nothing that my heart beat wild and hot, so full of longing, so full of devotion? Oh, and yet it was I who had made this foolish quarrel! How could I have allowed my unreasonable temper to get the better of me like that? It was my fault, all my fault! What devil had taken possession of me to fill my heart with wicked and unjust fancies, to imbitter all that was but a little while ago so sweet?
My heart was heavy, the tears came into my eyes. If he loved me he would forgive me, I said to myself, and I forgot all of what I had been wont to consider proper pride, and ran after him.
Mr. Harrod, I called. He turned at once and waited for me.
You're going to London one of these days, aren't you? I said, breathlessly, for I had run up the bank.
One day before the hop-picking begins, he said, hurriedly, impatient to get on; "but not before the harvest is all in."
He turned, walking on, and I walked by his side.
Well, when you go, I want you to do something for me, I said. "I want you to buy some books for me."
Buy some books! ejaculated he. "What books?"
I don't know, I answered. "I have saved some money, and I want to buy some books with it. But I don't know what books. I thought you would advise me."
He laughed. "I don't think I'm at all the proper person to advise you what books to buy. I'm not much of a reader myself. I've got my father's books, and have had some pleasant hours with them too, but I don't know if they're the best kind of books for a young woman to read. No, I'm not the proper person to advise you, I'm sure. You'd better ask the squire."
The squire! cried I, vexed. "And pray, why should I ask the squire?"
Well, he's an older friend of yours than I am, and far better suited to advise you, answered Harrod. "And he would do anything for you, I'm sure."
Was it possible that Harrod might be under a delusion? Somehow it gave me pleasure to think that it might be possible.
The squire is no friend of mine, said I. I was ashamed of the words before they were spoken, they were so untrue; but I spoke them under the smart of the moment.
How can you say such a thing? said Harrod, sternly.
I don't mean to say that he wouldn't do anything for any of us, I murmured, ashamed. "I only meant to say that he would be more likely to do it—for Joyce."
I felt his eyes turn upon me, and I raised mine to his face. It was quiet, all trace of the temper that had been there five minutes ago had vanished; but his eyes, those steely gray eyes, looked me through. But it was only for a moment. Then the shade upon his brow melted away, and the hard lines of his mouth broke into that parting of the lips which was scarcely a smile yet lit his whole face as with a strong, sharp ray of light.
There never was a face that changed as his face changed; not with many and varying expressions as with some folk—for his was a character reserved almost to isolation, and if he felt many things he told but few of them, either tacitly or in words—but with a slow melting, from something that was almost akin to cruelty into something that was very much akin to good, honest tenderness. It was as the breaking of sunlight across some rugged rock where the shadow has hidden every possible path-way; when the sunlight came one could see that there was a way to ascend. Judging with the dispassionateness of distance, I think that Harrod feared any such thing as feeling. Life was a straightforward and not necessarily pleasant road, which must be travelled doggedly, without pausing by the way, without stopping to think if there were any means by which it might be made more agreeable. Life was all work for Trayton Harrod.
And as a natural consequence, if he had any feelings he instinctively avoided dwelling on the fact; therefore he mistrusted any expression of them in others. He was cruel, but if he was cruel to others he was also cruel to himself.
That evening, however, the sunshine broke out across the rock. It melted the last morsel of pride in me. He turned away his eyes again without a word, after that long, half-amused, half-reproachful, and wholly kind look. It puzzled me a little, and yet it gave me courage.
I think I'm in a very bad temper to-day, said I, with a little awkward laugh. "I think I was very rude to you just now."
Rude! echoed he, turning to me quickly. "Why, when were you rude?"
Just now, about the hops and everything.
He laughed aloud, quite merrily. "Good gracious! surely we are good friends enough to stand a sharp word or two," cried he.
I was silent. Harrod walked very fast, and talking was difficult. When he reached the top of the hill he held out his hand, and said, in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, "Good-night; I must be getting along to Widow Dawes as fast as I can."
I stood watching him as he ran down the slope. At any other time I should have been just as much excited as he was about the breakage of the pipes, but that night there was a dull emptiness about things for which I had no reason.
The west was still clouded, and in the plains the struggling rays of the sinking sun made golden spray of the mists that the rain had left; but to the eastward the sky was clear of showers.
The mill was quite still, its warning arms were silent; it stood white upon the flaxen slope, where the short grass was burned to chaff by the rare summer heat—white and huge against the twilight blue. Behind it—slowly, slowly out of the blue sea—rose the golden August moon.
I turned my back to the clouds and faced the golden moon.
And now let me pause a while and think. Ten years have passed since the time of which I write. I am a woman, twenty-nine years old—a woman in judgment as well as in years, for many things have happened since then which have taught me more than the mere passage of time. And I can see clearly enough now that what I am going to tell happened through no fault of others; my pain and my disappointment were the result only of my own mistake; let me state that as a fact—it will be a satisfaction to my own conscience. I never had any excuse for that mistake. I was a foolish, passionate, romantic girl, and out of the whirlwind of my own love I conjured up the answering love that I craved; but it was never there—it was a phantom of my own making.
A month had passed since Joyce had come home, since that night when Trayton Harrod and I stood under the abbey eaves in the lightning and the storm—a long, long summer's month. The hay had all been gathered in long ago, and the harvest was golden and ready for the reaping; the plain that had once been so green was growing mellower every day; the thick, reedy grass that blooms with a rich dark tassel upon our marsh made planes of varied brown tints over the flatness of the pastures—the whole land was warm with color; the gray castle lay sleeping upon the flaxen turf, with the gray beach beyond; the white sheep cropped lazily what blades they could find; between the two lines of tall rushes yellow and white water-lilies floated upon the dikes, and meadowsweet bloomed upon their banks; the scarlet poppies had faded from the cornfields, and the little harvest-mouse built her nest upon the tall ears of wheat.
Every sign told that the summer would soon be fading into autumn; the young broods were all abroad long ago; the swallows and the martins were preparing for a second hatching; the humming of the snipe, as his tardy mate sat on her nest, made a pleasant bleating sound along the dikes near to the sea; the swift, first of all birds to leave us, would soon be taking her southward flight; on the beach the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid their pale green leaves.
There had been the same little trouble over the bringing of reaping and threshing machines onto the farm as there had been over the mowing. Poor father did not appear to be reconciled to these innovations, although he seemed to have made up his mind to give in to Trayton Harrod up to a certain point; he had not, however, wavered an inch on the subject of the length of the laborers' working-hours; on that he and the bailiff still preserved an ill-concealed attitude of hostility.
I did what I could to preserve the peace, so did mother, so did we all; but I don't think that father grew to like Trayton Harrod any better as time went on. I think he respected him thoroughly. More than once, I recollect, he took occasion to observe that he was an upright and honorable man, and yet, somehow, he scarcely seemed even to thoroughly trust him.
I know, at least, that one morning about this time he called me into his study and bade me ride into town at once with a letter for Mr. Hoad, which I was to deliver privately into his own hands, letting nobody know my errand. Three months ago how proud I should have been of this trust, which might have been given to the man who had been called in to supplant me! But now I did not like it; it filled me with apprehensions, with misgivings, with anger at the slight to him.
Are you afraid to go, Meg? father had asked, seeing me hesitate. "I'll go myself."
The word must have lit up my gray eyes with the light that he was wont to laugh at, for he put down his stick and sank into his chair.
There, said he, patting my cheek, "I thought she hadn't lost her pride."
And neither had I; but the strangeness of the request, and the strangeness of Mr. Hoad's face as he read the letter, set me thinking most uncomfortably all the way home. Nor was it only on that occasion that I had need to ponder somewhat anxiously on matters that were not my own.
A Sunday morning about this time comes back to my mind. Father had been up to London during the week on one or two matters of business. It was an event in those days for a farmer to go up to London. To father it was specially an event, for he always had been a more than usually stay-at-home man. But there must have been some special reason that took him up; he had seemed disquieted for some time.
I had fancied that it was purely on account of that scheme that Frank Forrester had not yet succeeded in floating, and I was angry with Frank for that cooling down which I have noticed as happening in him whenever he got away from the fiery influence. I was angry with Joyce for not keeping him up to his first ardor, angry with mother for not allowing them to correspond, so that she might do so. But after all, I don't believe that father's uneasiness was entirely owing to Frank Forrester, for his journey to London was suddenly decided upon one afternoon after he and Mr. Hoad had had a long talk together in the business-room. Father had seen Harrod afterwards, and had then announced his proposed journey at the tea-table.
He had been away only two days; but although he said that he had been made a great deal of by the old friend with whom he had stayed, and though he declared that Frank was just the same as ever, and it was therefore to be supposed that they had been as good comrades as usual, father looked none the better for his little change. As we all stood up in the old church to say the Creed, I remember noticing how ill he looked.
It was not only that he bent his tall, massive figure over the desk, leaning heavily upon it with both hands, as if for needful support; it was not even that his cheeks were more sunken, and that he bowed his head wearily; it was that in his dull eyes and set lips there was an air of suffering, of dejection and hopelessness, that was pathetic even to me who should have known nothing of pathos at nineteen. It struck me with sad forebodings, and those words of the squire's a few weeks before came back to my mind.
I glanced at mother's face—beautiful and serene as ever—with the little net-work of delicate wrinkles spread over its soft surface, and the blue eyes content as a young girl's beneath the shadow of the thick white hair. It was what Joyce's face might grow to be some day, although at that time there were lines of character about the mouth which my sister's beauty lacked; it was what my face could never grow to. But surely neither of those two had any misgivings. "And the life of the world to come," repeated mother, gravely, saying the words a little after everybody else in a kind of conclusive way. But, somehow, I wondered whether she had really been thinking of what they meant, for she sat down again with almost a smile upon her lips and smoothed out her soft old black brocade without any air of undue solemnity.
I glanced at Joyce. Her eyes were bent down looking at her hands—large, well-shaped, useful hands, that looked better in the dairy or at her needle than they did in ill-fitting kid-gloves; her face was undisturbed, the lovely little chin resting on the white bow of the ribbon that tied on her fresh chip-bonnet. It was before the days when it was considered respectable to go to church in a hat.
I, too, had a white chip-bonnet—Joyce had brought them both from London, together with the blue merino frocks, which we also wore that day; but I did not look as well in a chip-bonnet as Joyce did.
I glanced along the row of pews. At the end of the one parallel with ours across the aisle sat Reuben in his clean smock, his fine old parchment-colored face set in the quiet lines induced by sleepiness and the suitable mood for the occasion. Deborah, as I have said, came rarely to church; she always declared that a deafness, which I had never noticed in her, made the coming but a mere form, for "what was the use if you couldn't extinguish the parson?" But Reuben was a pious and constant attendant, and looked better in keeping with the place than did the owner of two keen gray eyes, just beyond him, that I noticed were fixed upon my sister's face.
They were withdrawn as soon as I turned my head, although they did not look at me, but I paid no further attention to the service that day, and for all the good I got of the sermon I might as well have stayed at home.
And yet we had a fine discourse—or so father said as we came out of church—for it was from the curate of the next parish, that young Mr. Cyril Morland, to whom he had taken such a fancy, and it was for the ragged schools, and touched on father's subject in father's own way. If I had cared to look round at him again I should have seen that his weary eyes had regained all their usual fire, and that his head was raised gazing at the impassioned young speaker.
But I did not look at father again. I sat with my eyes fixed on the old tombstone at my right, on which reposed the mail-clad figure of an ancient knight; and, for aught I knew or cared, the preacher might have been the sleepy old vicar himself, clearing his throat and humbly enunciating his well-worn sentiments. I don't remember just what my thoughts were—perhaps I could not have put them into words even then; but I know they were not of God, nor of the poor little wretched children for whom our charity was asked. When the plate came round at the end it awoke me from a dream; ah me! it was not a good dream nor a happy dream. I wondered if people were often so wicked in church.
When the service was over father went round to the back and took up little David Jarrett, whom he had carried into church. The little fellow was supposed to be better, but he did not look as though he would be long for this world, and I think he grew nearer every day to father's heart.
The vicar's young wife spoke to him as he went out in father's arms.
You've got a very kind friend, David, she said to the child, in her weak, whining voice. "I hope you're very grateful."
A smile came over the little pinched face. The boy did not reply, but he put his arm round father's neck to make the burden easier, and looked into his eyes.
I'm going to take you to the Grange to-day for a bit of roast beef, David. What do you say? asked father.
I should like to go to the Grange, said David, without making any allusion to the roast beef.
Come, you youngster, said the squire, coming down the path with Mary Thorne, and speaking in his hearty, healthy voice, "isn't that leg of yours well enough yet for you to walk alone and not trouble a poor old man?"
The child flushed scarlet, and father said, in a vexed tone, "I'm not so very old yet, squire, but I can carry a poor little cripple a couple of hundred yards."
The squire had spoken only in joke, and he said so; it was his way, for in reality he was as kind a man as father himself, but I don't think father forgave him for quite a little while.
Well, did you see anything of that good-for-nothing nephew of mine up in London? asked the squire again.
We were all standing round in a little group, as folk are wont to do coming out of church, when they rarely get time to meet on week-days. Mother was talking to that aggressive old lady, Miss Farnham; Joyce stood at her side. I could not see Harrod anywhere, but it was just like him to have disappeared; he hated a concourse of people.
Oh, come, Mr. Broderick, I don't think you ought to take away a poor fellow's character when he's absent, laughed Mary Thorne, in her jolly way. "Here's Miss Maliphant," added she, pointing at Joyce, "might be prejudiced against him by it, and he thinks a very great deal of what Miss Maliphant's opinion of him may be, I assure you."
She said it in a good-natured, bantering kind of way, but not at all as if she guessed at the real relations that existed between Joyce and her childhood's friend.
The squire frowned, and mother turned away from Miss Farnham.
Now, Miss Thorne, I should take it very kindly if you wouldn't bring my girl into it, said she. "I'm an old-fashioned woman, and I don't hold with jokes of that sort."
Mary looked rather surprised, but it was just like mother to speak up like that; she never was afraid of anything or anybody, although she did seem so gentle.
Ah, I often have my suspicions that Mrs. Maliphant is a good old Tory at heart, said the squire, trying to turn the matter off lightly.
No, no, squire, don't you try to make more out of my words than's in them, declared mother, shaking her head. "I never was for politics. I make neither head nor tail of them."
Of course everybody laughed at this, and the squire added, "I'll be bound Frank won't show himself till after we have got my friend Farnham in for the county."
He said nothing about coming down, said father, who had withdrawn from the group since the Thornes had joined it, and stood by the old stone wall, on which he had rested little David; "but I don't think that's the reason."
He'd have been down before now to torment me about those new stables unless there were something particular keeping him away, went on Mr. Broderick. "He keeps writing to me about them, but I tell him I'll have the men and women housed before the dogs and horses. There are two new cottages wanted on the estate, and they're going to be done first."
Ah, you're a decent sort of landlord; they're few enough like you, declared Miss Farnham, nodding her ever-bugled head before she turned up her black silk gown over her white petticoat, and trudged off across the church-yard; "and that's a sight better than going about making mischief, as some seditious folk must needs do."
This was a parting thrust at father, but he did not seem to have even noticed it.
Mother, I'll just take the little chap home, said he. "You get hold of Mr. Morland, and ask him to come and have a bit of dinner with us, will you?"
The squire looked after him. "You oughtn't to let him carry that child about, Mrs. Maliphant," said he. "He's not the man he was."
Oh, squire, what a Job's comforter you are, to be sure! sighed mother, half fretfully. "Why, I think Laban's quite himself again since the summer weather has come in. He's a bit cast down to-day, I've noticed it myself; but that's in his spirits. I don't think that trip to London did him any good. Those railways are tiring things, and then I can't help fancying he's a bit disappointed about this notion of his for getting the charity school, or whatever it is. He's so set on those things. I tell him it's a pity. He wears himself out and neglects his own work. And no offence to you, squire, that young nephew of yours isn't so smart about it as he might be. I always warned Laban against putting too much trust in him. Not that he has said anything, but if matters were going as he wants, he would have had something to say, you see. The young man seemed just as eager about it as my old one once upon a time, but young folks haven't the grit."
Mother made the whole of this long speech in a confidential manner to the squire, but I heard every word of it. So must Joyce have done, for she and Mary Thorne had been talking, and were standing side by side, but she gave no sign at all, although Mary said, with a loud laugh: "Is that Frank you're talking of? Why, dear me, you don't expect him to hold long to one thing, do you? The squire knows him better than that. As jolly an old chap as ever was, but never of the same mind for ten minutes together; at least," added she, quite gravely for her, "not about things of that sort. Dear me, I know at least five things he has taken up wildly for the time being, and wearied of in six months."
The squire smiled a little maliciously. "There's a bit of truth in that," he agreed, "though I don't know that I could have told it off so glibly. Oh, Miss Mary, Miss Mary, what a wicked tongue you have got!"
I fancied she looked distressed. "Come, who was it stood up for him just now?" cried she. "You can't call black white because you happen to like a person."
He laughed. I couldn't help thinking that he was very well pleased with what she had said, and I thought it was very unkind of him. As for me, I was furious with the girl. I had always liked her before, but that day I positively hated her. What business had she to go telling tales about Frank?
It never occurred to me for a moment that she might possibly have a reason for wanting to set Joyce against Frank, for making her think that his liking for people as well as for pursuits was of a very transitory nature.
I went home in a very bad temper. Why was I so specially angry now every time that Joyce was lukewarm where her absent lover was concerned? I had often secretly accused her in my heart of being lukewarm before. She was not of a forthcoming temperament; she never had expressed her emotions freely, and she never would do so; it was not in her nature.
Why did it trouble me more now than it used to do? Why did it trouble me so much that, when I reflected that Joyce had not said a single word during the whole of that scene, I could not find it in my heart to speak to her?
A month ago I should have scolded her for letting mother awe her into silence—I should have laughed at her for her timidity. But that day I could not.
I let her go up-stairs alone into our little bedroom to take off her bonnet, and found an excuse to lay mine aside down-stairs.
I heard the Rev. Cyril Morland talking the management of the ragged schools over with father, and considering his suggestions of improvement. At any other time I should have been proud to notice the deference that he showed to the old man. I should have liked to listen to the comparison of their ideas and plans. But then I was afraid.
The pity of suffering, the zeal for succoring it, seemed to me so much more akin between the curate and father than they had ever really been between him and Frank.
I could not bear to acknowledge it, yet I could not but instinctively feel that it was so.
I did not guess at possible rocks and quicksands of creeds that might be ahead in any intercourse between father and his new friend, but I felt that in him was the spirit of endurance and self-sacrifice which, girl as I was, I could not but fear was lacking in the sympathizing, sympathetic nature of my sister's lover. It was only since he had been at the Grange the last time that I had begun to fear it; but after that, that waxing and waning in the heat of his enterprise was apparent even to me.
I felt that mother was right when she said that you knew where you were with a man who had troubled himself to put some of his ideas into practice, and could not blame her for being glad that father had put his scheme into the hands of one who had shown that he could work as well as talk. I could not blame her; she had no reason for making excuses for Frank Forrester; on the contrary, she had every reason for wishing father to see him in what she called his true colors, so that their intercourse should be at an end.
But I—I had a reason best known to myself for wishing to strengthen every little thread that could bind Frank to father and the Grange. And even though this fervent young curate should turn out to be that man of whom Frank himself had spoken—he who was the "right man to do the work"—I could not like him. How could I like any one who showed signs of taking Frank's place with father?
I sat silent at the board, and well deserved mother's just reproof afterwards for my lapse into the old, ill-mannered ways out of which she hoped I was growing.
I was cross—I was cross with Joyce; but it was unjustly so, and I felt it. When I had said my prayers that night I went up and kissed her where she lay with her golden heaps of hair upon the white pillow.