It was a quarter of an hour before I reached the parlor, for I did
mend my frock in spite of my bit of temper. The cloth was laid for
dinner--a spotless cloth, for mother was very particular about her
table-linen--and the bright glass and the dinner-ware shone in
the sunlight. I can see the room now: a long, low room, with four
lattice-windows abreast, and a seat running the length of the windows;
opposite the windows a huge fireplace, across which ran one heavy oaken
beam bearing the date and the name of the Maliphants, and supported
by two stout masonry pillars, fashioned, tradition said, out of
that same soft stone of which a great part of the abbey was built.
Two high-backed wooden chairs, with delicate spindle-rails, highly
polished, and very elegant, stood close to the blaze. There was also
a pretty inlaid satinwood table in the far corner that had belonged to
mother's grandfather, and had been left to her; but the rest of the
furniture was plain dark oak, and had been in the house ever since
the Maliphants had owned it. It was a sweet, cosey room, and if the
windows, being old-fashioned and somewhat small, did not admit all the
sunlight they might, they also did not let in the wind, of which there
was plenty, for the parlor faced towards the sea, and the gales in
winter were sometimes terrific.
We had another best-parlor, looking on the road, where were the piano
and the upholstered furniture, covered in brown holland on common days;
but though the pale yellow tabaret chairs and curtains looked very
pretty when they were all uncovered, we none of us ever felt quite
comfortable excepting in the big dwelling-room that looked over the
marsh. How well I remember it that day when we were all there together!
Father sat by the fire with his boots and gaiters still on. He had been
out for the first time after a severe attack of his complaint, and he
was very irritable. I thought Joyce might have helped him off with the
heavy things, but no doubt he had refused; any offer of help was almost
an insult to him. They used to say I took after father in that. He
was bending over the fire that day, stretching out his fingers to the
blaze--a powerful figure still, though somewhat worn with hard work and
the sufferings which he never allowed to gain the upper-hand. But his
back was not bent--an out-door life, whatever other marks it may leave,
spares that one; his head was erect still--a remarkable head--the gray
hair, thick and strong, sticking up in obstinate little tufts without
any attempt at order or smoothness. It was not beautiful hair, for the
tufts were quite straight, but at least it was very characteristic; I
have never seen any quite like it. It was in keeping with the bushy
eyebrows that had just the same defiant expression as the tufts of
hair. The brow was high and prominent, the eyes keen and quick to
change, the jaw heavy and somewhat sullen. At first sight it might not
have been called a lovable face; it might rather have been called a
stern, even an unbending one; but that it was really lovable is proved
by the sure love and confidence with which it always inspired little
children. They came to father naturally as they would have gone to the
tenderest woman, and smiled in his face as though certain beforehand
of the smile that would answer theirs in return. But father's face was
sullen sometimes to a grown-up person. It looked very sullen as he sat
by the fire that day. I knew in a moment that something had ruffled
him.
Mother seemed to be doing her best, however, to make up for the ill
reception which her husband was giving his guest; and mother's best
was a very pretty thing. She was a very pretty woman, and she looked
her prettiest that day. She was tall--we were a tall family, I was the
shortest of us all--and her height looked even greater than it was in
the straight folds of the soft gray dress that suited so well with her
fair skin. She had a fresh white cap on; the soft fluted frills came
down in straight lines just below her ears, framing her face; and the
bands of snow-white hair, that looked so pretty beside the fresh skin,
were tucked away smoothly beneath it. Mother's face was a young face
still--as dainty in color as a little child's. Joyce took her beauty
from her.
Mother was standing up in the middle of the room talking to the squire,
who apparently was about to take his leave. Joyce was putting the last
touches to the dinner-table. She looked up at me in an appealing kind
of way as I came in, and I felt sure that there had been some sort of
difference between father and the squire. They often did have little
differences, though they were the best of friends in reality; but I
always secretly took father's side in every argument, and I never liked
to see mother, as it were, making amends for what father had said. Yet
it was what she was doing now. "I'm sure, Squire Broderick," she was
saying, "we take it very kindly of you to interest yourself in our
affairs. Laban is a little tetchy just now, but it's because he ain't
well. He feels just as I do really."
Father made an impatient sound with his lips at this, but mother went
on just the same.
"I'm quite of your mind," she declared, shaking her head. "I've often
said so to Laban myself. We can't go against Providence, and we must
learn to take help where we can get it, though I know ofttimes it's
just the hardest thing we have to do."
What could this speech mean? I was puzzled. I glanced at father. He sat
quite silent, tapping his foot. I glanced at Joyce. There was nothing
in her manner to show that the subject under discussion had anything
whatever to do with her. The squire had turned round as I came into the
room, but mother kept him so to herself that he could do no more than
give me a smile as I walked across and sat down in the window-seat.
"I know it would be the best in the end," mother went on, with a
distressed look on her sweet old face.
It rather annoyed me at the time, simply because I saw that she was
siding with the squire against father; but I have often remembered
that, and many kindred looks since, and have wondered how it was that
I never guessed at the anxiety of that tender spirit that labored so
devotedly to cope with problems that were beyond its grasp.
"However," added mother, with the pretty smile that, after all, I
remember more often than the knitted brow, "he'll come round himself in
time. He always does see things the way you put them after a bit."
She said these words in a whisper, although they were really quite
loud enough for any one to hear. I saw father smile. He was so fond of
mother, and the words were so far from accurate, that he could afford
to smile; for there were very few instances in which he came round to
the squire's way of seeing things at that time, although he was very
fond of the squire. The squire himself laughed aloud. He had a rich,
rippling laugh; it did one good to hear it.
"No, no, ma'am," he said, "I can't agree to that; and no reason why it
should be so either." He held out his hand to mother as he spoke.
"I must be off now," he added. "I ought to have gone long ago. We'll
talk it over again another time."
"Oh, won't you stay and have a bit of dinner with us, squire?" cried
mother, in a disappointed voice. "It's just coming in. I know it's not
what you have at home, but it is a fine piece of roast beef to-day."
"Fie, fie, Mrs. Maliphant! don't you be so modest," said the squire,
with his genial smile, buttoning up his overcoat as he spoke.
He always had a gay, easy manner towards the mother--something, I used
to fancy, like what her own younger brother might have had towards her,
or even her own son, although at that time I should have thought it
impossible for a man as old to be mother's son at all. I suppose it was
in consequence of that sad time in the past that he had grown to love
her as I know he did.
"I don't often get a dinner such as I get at your table," added he;
"but I can't stay to-day, for I'm due at home."
Just the words that young man had used at the foot of the village
street. I was determined to find out before the squire left whether
that young man was staying at the Manor or not.
"Perhaps Mr. Broderick has visitors, mother," I suggested.
I glanced at Joyce as I spoke. Her cheeks were poppies.
"What makes you think so?" asked the squire, turning to me and frowning
a little.
"We met a gentleman in town," said I, boldly, although my heart beat a
little; "he helped us with the mare when she reared, and he said he was
a friend of yours."
Mother looked at me, and Joyce blushed redder than ever. Certainly,
for a straightforward and simple young woman who had no more than her
legitimate share of vanity, Joyce had a most unfortunate trick of
blushing. I know it was admired, but I never could see that folk must
needs be more delicate of mind because they blushed, or more sensitive
of heart because they cried. The squire frowned a little more and bit
his lip.
"Ah, it must have been Frank," said he. "He did say he was going to
walk into town this morning. My nephew," added he, in explanation,
turning to mother. "Captain Forrester."
"Your nephew!" exclaimed mother, quite reassured. "He must be but a
lad."
"Oh, not at all; he's a very well-grown man, and of an age to take care
of himself," answered the squire, and it did not strike me then that he
said it a little bitterly. "My sister is a great deal older than I am."
"Of course I have seen Mrs. Forrester," said mother, "and I know she's
a deal older than you are, but I never should have thought she had a
grown-up son--and a captain, too!"
"Oh yes, he's a captain," repeated the squire, and he took up his
hat and stick from the corner of the room and put his hand on the
door-knob. "Good-bye, Mr. Maliphant," cried he, cheerily, without
touching any more on the sore subject.
Father did not reply, and he turned to me and held out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said, more seriously than it seemed to me the subject
required. "I'm sorry the mare reared."
"See the squire to the door, Joyce," said the mother. And Joyce,
blushing again, glided out into the hall and lifted the big latch.