I was dying to hear what had been the subject of the difference
between Squire Broderick and father, for that it was somehow related
to something more closely allied to our own life than mere politics, I
was inwardly convinced. I came up to the fireplace and began toasting
my feet before the bars. I hoped father would say something. But he
did not even turn to me, and Deborah coming in with the dinner at that
moment, mother took her place at the head of the table, and father
asked a blessing. Mother did not look sad; she looked very bright and
pretty, with the sunshine falling on her silvery hair, and on her
white dimpled hands, lovely hands, that were wielding the carvers so
skilfully. I thought at the time that she did not notice father's
gloomy face, but I think it is far more likely that she did notice it,
but that she thought it wiser to leave him alone; those were always her
tactics.
"Father," began she, as soon as she had served us all and had sat down,
"the girls mustn't drive that mare any more if she rears; it isn't
safe."
"No, no, of course not," assented father, absently. Then turning to me,
"What made her rear, Meg?"
"I don't know, father," answered I. "I was in a shop when she did, and
a boy was holding her. I suppose he teased her. But it's not worth
talking about; it would have been nothing if Joyce hadn't been so
easily frightened."
"I couldn't help it," murmured Joyce. "I know I'm silly."
"Well, to be sure, any old cart-horse would be better for you than a
beast with any spirit, wouldn't it?" laughed I.
"Well, Margaret, the animal must have looked dangerous, you know," said
mother, "for no strange gentleman would have thought of accosting two
girls unless he saw they were really in need of help."
I laughed--I am afraid I laughed. I thought mother was so very innocent.
"I hope you thanked him for his trouble," added she. "Being the
squire's nephew, as it seems he was, I shouldn't be pleased to think
you treated him as short as you sometimes treat strangers. You,
Margaret, I mean," added mother, looking at me.
"Oh yes, we were very polite to him," said I. And then I grew very
hot. Of course I knew I was bound to say that Captain Forrester had
driven us home. I hoped mother would take it kindly, as she seemed well
disposed towards him, but I did not feel perfectly sure.
"We asked him to come in, didn't we, Joyce?" added I, looking at her.
"Yes, we did," murmured my sister, bending very low over her plate.
"Asked him to come where?" asked mother.
"Why, here, to be sure," cried I, growing bolder. "He drove us home,
you know."
Mother said nothing, for Deborah had just brought in the pudding, and
she was always very discreet before servants at meal-times. But she
closed her lips in a way that I knew, and her face assumed an aggrieved
kind of expression that she only put on to me; when Joyce was in the
wrong, she always scolded her quite frankly. There was silence until
Deborah had left the room. She went out with a smile on her face which
always drove me into a frenzy, for it meant to say, "You are in for
it, and serve you right;" and I thought it was taking advantage of her
position in the family to notice any differences that occurred between
mother and the rest of us.
When Deborah had gone out, shutting the door rather noisily, mother
laid down her knife and fork. She did not look at me at all, she looked
at Joyce. That was generally the way she punished me.
"You don't mean to say, Joyce, that you allowed a strange gentleman
to get into the trap before all the townsfolk!" said she. "You're the
eldest--you ought to have known better."
I could not stand this. "It isn't Joyce's fault," said I, boldly; "I
thought we were in luck's way when the gentleman offered to drive us.
He knew the mare, and of course I felt that we were safe."
"It will be all over the place to-morrow," said mother, pathetically.
"Well, the gentleman is the squire's nephew, and everybody knows what
friends you are with the squire," answered I, provokingly.
"You might see that makes it all the worse," answered mother. "I don't
know how ever I shall meet the squire again. I'm ashamed to think my
daughters should have behaved so unseemly. But the ideas of young women
in these days pass me. Such notions wouldn't have gone down in my day.
Young women were forced to mind themselves if they were to have a
chance of a husband. Your father would never have looked at me if I had
been one of that sort."
Father was in a brown-study. I do not think he had paid much attention
to the affair at all, but now he smiled as mother glanced across at
him, seeming to expect some recognition. She repeated her last remark
and then he said, bowing to her with old-fashioned gallantry, "I think
I should have looked at you, Mary, whatever your shortcomings had
been. You were too pretty to be passed over."
And he smiled again, as he never smiled at any one but mother; the
smile that, when it did come, lit up his face like a dash of broad
sunshine upon a rugged moor.
"But mother's quite right, lassies," added he; "a woman must be modest
and gentle, not self-seeking, nor eager for homage, or she'll never
have all the patience she need have to put up with a man's tempers."
He sighed, and the tears rose to my eyes. A word of disapproval from
my father always hurt me to the quick, and I felt that in this case it
was not wholly deserved, as, however mistaken I might have been, I had
certainly not been self-seeking or eager for homage.
"I'm very sorry," said I, but I am afraid not at all humbly; "I didn't
know I was doing anything so very dreadful. Anyhow, it wasn't I who was
afraid of the horse, and it wasn't for me that Captain Forrester took
the reins."
This was quite true, but I had no business to have said it. I wished
the words back as soon as they were spoken. Joyce blushed scarlet
again, and mother looked at me for the first time. I felt that she was
going to ask what I meant, but father interrupted her.
"There, there," said he, not testily, but as though to put an end to
the discussion. "You should not have done it, because mother says so,
and mother always knows best, but I dare say there's little harm done.
A civil word hurts nobody; and as for the mare, you needn't drive her
again."
So that was all that I had got for my pains. I opened my mouth to
explain and to remonstrate, but father rose from the table and said
grace, and I dared not pursue the subject further. For the matter of
that, the look of pain in his face, as he moved across the room and sat
down heavily in the chair, was quite enough to chase away my vexation
against him. "Meg, just take these heavy things off for me, I'm weary,"
said he. I knelt down and unfastened the gaiters, and unlaced the heavy
boots, and brought him his slippers. He lay back with a sigh of relief.
"The walk round the farm has been too much for you, Laban," said
mother, sitting down in the other high-backed chair near him.
"Let be, let be," muttered he.
"Nay, I can't let be, Laban," insisted mother. "I must look after your
health, you know. I can see very well that it is too much for you
seeing after the farm as it should be seen after. And that's why I
don't think the squire's notion is half a bad one."
I stopped with the spoons and forks in my hand that I was taking off
the table. Father made that noise between his teeth again. I always
knew it meant a storm brewing.
"Anyhow, I hope you won't bear him a grudge for what he thought fit to
advise," mother went on. "He did it out of friendship, I'm sure. And
the squire's a wise man."
Father did not answer at first. He had risen and stood with his back to
the fire. His jaw was set, his eyes looked like black beads under the
overhanging brows.
"Of course I know you'll say he just wants to get a job for his
friend's son," continued mother. "And no doubt he mightn't have thought
of it but for this turning up. But he wouldn't advise it if he didn't
think it was for our good. The squire has our interests at heart, I'm
sure."
"D--n the squire," said father at last, slowly and below his breath.
Mother laid her hand on his arm.
"Hush, Laban, hush; not before the girls," said she, in her gentle
tones.
"Well, well, there," said he, "the squire's a good man and an honest
man, but I say neither he nor any one else has a right to come and
teach a man what to do with his own."
"He doesn't do it because of any right," persisted mother. "He does it
because he's afraid things don't work as well as they used to do, and
because he's your friend."
"And what business has he to be afraid?" retorted father. "I say the
land's my own, though I do pay him rent for it, and it's my business
to be afraid. Does he think I shall be behind-hand with the rent? I've
been punctual to a day these last twenty years. What more does he want,
I should like to know?"
"Now, Laban, you know that isn't it," expostulated mother. "He knows he
is safe enough for the rent, but he's afraid you ain't making money so
fast as you might. And of course if you aren't, it's clear it's because
you're not so strong to work as you were, and you haven't got a son of
your own to look after things for you."
Mother sighed as she said this, but I am afraid I looked at her with
angry not sympathetic eyes.
"The squire takes a true interest in us all," repeated she for the
third time, her voice trembling a little.
"Well, then, let him take his interest elsewhere this time, ma'am,
that's all I've got to say," retorted father, in no way appeased. "If
things were as they should be, there'd be no paying of rent to eat up
a man's profits on the land, but what he made by the sweat of his brow
would be his own for his old age, and for his children after him. And
if we can only get what ought to belong to the nation by paying for it,
then all I bargain for is--let those who get the money from me leave
alone prying into how I get it together."
I had stood perfectly still all this time, with the spoons and forks in
my hand, listening and wondering. Father's last speech I had scarcely
given heed to. I had heard those opinions before, and they had become
mere words in my ears. I was entirely engrossed with wondering what was
the exact nature of the squire's suggestion, and with horror at what I
feared. I was not long left in doubt.
"Well, you make a great mistake in being angry with Squire Broderick,
Laban, indeed you do," reiterated mother, shaking her head, and
without paying any attention to his fiery speech. She never did pay
any attention to such speeches. She always frankly said that she did
not understand them. "If the squire recommends this young Mr. Trayton
Harrod to you, it is because he knows him and thinks he would work with
you, and not be at all like any common paid bailiff, I'm sure of that."
"Well, then, mother, all I can say is--it's nonsense--that is what it
is. It is nonsense. If a man is a paid bailiff, the more like one he is
the better. And I don't think it is at all likely I shall ever take a
paid bailiff to help me to manage Knellestone."
With that he strode to the door and opened it.
"Meg, will you please come to me in my study in a quarter of an hour?"
said he, turning to me as he went out. "There are a few things in the
farm accounts that I think you might help me with."