Three weeks had passed since the day when Captain Forrester drove
us out from town. Winter was gliding slowly into spring. The winds
were still cold and piercing, and the bright sun and keen air sadly
treacherous to sensitive folk, but the snow had all melted and the
grass sprung green upon the marsh, throwing the blue of the sea
beyond into sharp contrast; the cattle came out once more to feed;
yellow-hammers and butcher-birds began to appear on the meadows; and
over earth and sea, soft gray clouds broke into strange shapes upon the
blue.
I remember all this now; then I was only conscious of one thing--that,
in spite of the east wind, I was happy.
Father was well again; he rode over the farm on his cob just as he used
to do, and mother had forgotten the very name of a poultice. Joyce and
the captain showed every sign of playing in the romance that I had
planned for them; no one had mentioned the subject of a bailiff for
Knellestone from that day to this; and the squire's ball was close at
hand.
How was it possible that I should be otherwise than happy?
It was the very night before the dance. Jessie Hoad, who had consented
to sing for our village concert, had been over and we had been having
a practice under Captain Forrester's directions. She was a fashionably
dressed, fashionably mannered, fashionably minded young woman, and
quite content with herself; she generally resented directions, but she
had submitted with a pretty good grace to his.
Miss Thorne had also been in. Joyce in this had shown one of those
strange instances of obstinacy that were in her. Mary Thorne had
asked to come, and she should not be refused. I remember noticing
that Captain Forrester and that particularly gay-tempered young lady
seemed to be very intimate together; just, in fact, as people who had
known one another from childhood would be. They took the liberty of
telling one another home-truths--at least Mary Thorne did (I fancied
Frank responded less promptly), and did it in a blunt fashion that was
peculiar to her. But I liked blunt people. I liked Mary Thorne very
much.
Although she was an heiress to money that had been "sucked from the
blood of the people"--to money made from a factory where girls and
little children worked long hours out of the sunlight and the fresh
air--although she lived in a great house that overlooked acres of land
that belonged to her--and although my father could scarcely be got to
speak to hers--I liked Mary Thorne. She was so frank and jolly, and
took it so as a matter-of-course that we were to be friends, that I
always forgot that she rode in a carriage when I walked, and that she
and I ought, by rights, not to be so much at ease.
That day she was particularly jolly, and she and I and Captain
Forrester laughed together till I was quite ashamed to see that I had
left Joyce all the entertaining of Miss Hoad to do in the mean time.
For the captain had not paid so much attention to Joyce on that day as
on most others; I suppose he thought it was more discreet not to do so
before strangers.
Both our lady visitors had left, however, by half-past five o'clock,
and Captain Forrester stood on the garden terrace now with Joyce alone,
while I had returned to the darning of the family socks. It was close
upon sunset, and they were looking at the lilacs that were beginning
to swell in the bud. Joyce wore a lilac gown herself, I remember. The
captain had once admired it, and I had noticed that she had put it on
very often since then.
I watched them from the parlor window where I sat with my work. For the
first time I was half frightened at what I had done. I wondered what
this romance was like that I had woven for Joyce. I felt that she was
gliding away out of my ken, into an unknown world where I had driven
her, and where I could not now follow her. Was it all happiness in that
world?
Although the light was fading, and I wanted it all for my work, I moved
away from the window-seat farther into the room. It seemed indelicate
to watch them; although, indeed, they were only standing there side
by side quietly, and what they were saying to one another I could not
have heard if I had wished to do so. But it was my doing that they were
alone at all. Joyce had stockings to darn too, but I had suggested that
the parlor posy wanted freshening, and that there were some primroses
out on the cliff.
Mother was out; she had gone to assist at the arrival of a new
member of the population, and such an event always interested her
so profoundly that she forgot other things for the moment. Such an
opportunity might not occur again for a long time, and I was not going
to miss it--otherwise those two had not been alone together before. At
least not to my knowledge.
Once Joyce had gone out into the village marketing by herself, and when
she had come home she had run straight up into her room instead of
coming into the parlor. I had gone up to her after a little while, as
she did not come down, and had found her sitting by the window with her
things still on, looking out to the sea with a half-troubled expression
on her face. I had asked her what was the matter, and she had smiled
and said, "Nothing at all," and I had believed her.
However, even in the most open way in the world, Captain Forrester had
managed to get pretty well acquainted with Joyce by this time, for he
had come to the Grange almost every day since the squire had brought
him to pay that first call. He came on the plea of interest in father's
views; and though mother, I could see, had taken a dislike to him,
simply because he was a rival to the squire, and took every opportunity
of saying disparaging things about him to us girls when he was not
present, even she felt the influence of the friendly manner that
insisted on everything being pleasant and friendly in return, and did
not seem somehow to be able to deny him the freedom which he claimed
so naturally, of coming to the house whenever the fancy seized him.
Certainly it would have been very difficult to turn Captain Forrester
out.
Although it was evident enough to every one but father, in his dreamy
self-absorption, that the young man came to see my beautiful sister,
and was quickly falling hopelessly in love with her, still he was far
too courteous to neglect others for her--he was always doing something
for mother, procuring her something that she wanted, or in some way
helping her; and as for me, he not only took all the burden of the
village concert off my shoulders, the musical part of which always fell
to my lot, but he also taught me how to sing my songs as I had no idea
of how to sing them before, and took so much interest in my voice and
in my performance that he really made me quite ambitious for the time
as to what I might possibly do. And however much mother might have
wished to turn the captain out, there were difficulties attending this
course of action.
In the first place, he was the squire's nephew, and she could not very
well be rude to the squire's nephew, however much she may have fancied
that the squire would, in his heart, condone it; and then father had
taken such an unusually strong fancy to the young man, that it would
have been more than mother had ever been known to do to gainsay it.
This friendship between an old and a young man was really a remarkable
thing.
Father was not at all given to marked preferences for people; he was
a reserved man, and his own society was generally sufficient for him.
Even in the class whose interests he had so dearly at heart--his
own class he would have called it, although in force and culture he
was very far above the typical representatives of it--he was a god
to the many, rather than a friend to the individual. And apart from
his friendship with the squire, which was a friendship rather of
custom than of choice, I do not remember his having a single intimate
acquaintance. For I do not choose to consider that Hoad ever really was
a friend in any sense of the word.
I have always fancied that father's capacity for friendship was
swallowed up in that one romantic episode of his youth, that stood side
by side with his love for our mother, and was not less beautiful though
so different.
At first I think Forrester's aristocratic appearance, his knowledge of
hunting and horse-flesh, and music and dancing, and all the pleasures
of the rich and idle, his polished manners, and even his good coat,
rather stood in his light in the eyes of the "working-man;" but it was
only at first. Forrester's genuine enthusiasm for the interests that
he affected, and his admiring deference for the mind that had thought
the problem out, were enough to win the friendship of any man; for I
suppose even at father's age one is not impervious to this refined sort
of flattery.
Those were happy days in the dear old home, when we were all together,
and none but the most trivial cloud of trouble or doubt had come to mar
the harmony of our life.
I never remember father merrier than he was at that time. He and Frank
would sit there smoking their pipes, and laughing and talking as it
does one's heart good to remember. There was never any quarrelling
over these discussions, as there used to be over the arguments with
the squire. Not that the young man always agreed at once about things.
He required to be convinced, but then he always was convinced in the
end. And his wild schemes for the development of the people and the
prevention of crime, and the alleviation of distress, all sounded
so practical and pleasant, as set forth in his pleasant, brilliant
language, full of fire and enthusiasm, and not at all like the same
theories that father had been wont to quarrel over with the squire in
his sullen, serious fashion.
Everything that the captain proposed was to be won from the top, by
discussions and meetings among the great of the land. He could shake
hands on terms of equality with the poorest laborer over his pot of
beer, but it was not from the laborer that the reform would ever be
obtained; and he quite refused to see the matter in the sombre light in
which father held it, who believed in no reform--if reform there could
be--that did not come from the class that needed it, and that should
come without bitter struggles and patient, dogged perseverance. And in
the end he convinced--or seemed to convince--Frank that this was so.
I noticed how, imperceptibly, under the influence of father's earnest,
powerful nature, the young man slowly became more earnest and more
serious too. He talked less and he listened more; and truly there was
no lack of food.
The great subjects under discussion were the nationalization of land
and the formation of trade corporations for the protection of the
artisan class. These corporations were to be formed as far as possible
on the model of the old guilds of the Middle Ages; they were to have
compulsory provident funds for widows, orphans, and disabled workmen;
they were to prevent labor on Sundays, and the employment of children
and married women in factories; they were to determine the hours of
labor and the rate of wages, and to inquire into the sanitary condition
of workplaces.
There were many other principles belonging to them besides these that
I have quoted, but I cannot remember any more, though I remember
clearly how father and Frank disagreed upon the question of whether the
corporations were to enjoy a monopoly or not. I suppose they agreed
finally upon the point, for I know that Frank undertook to air the
matter at public meetings in London, and seemed to be quite sure that
he would be able to start a trial society before long. I recollect how
absolutely he refused to be damped by father's less sanguine mood; and
best of all, I remember the smile that he brought to father's face, and
the light that he called back to his drooping eye.
There was only one blot: the squire did not come to see us. No doubt
I should not have allowed at this time that it was any blot, and when
mother remarked upon it, I held my tongue; but I know very well that I
was sorry the squire kept away.
On this evening of which I am thinking, however, the squire did not
keep away. I am afraid I had hurried a little over the darning of
father's socks, that I might get to the making up of my own lace
ruffles for the great event of the next night, and as I was sitting
there in the window, making the most of the fading daylight, he came
in. I heard him ask Deborah for father in the hall, and when she
answered that she thought he was still out, he said he would wait, and
walked on into the parlor. He was free to come and go in our house. I
fancied that he started a little when he saw me there alone; I suppose
he expected to find the whole party as usual.
"Oh, how are you?" said he, abruptly, holding out his hand without
looking at me. "Is your mother out?"
I explained that mother had gone to the village to see a neighbor.
"I'll just wait a few minutes for your father," said he. "I want
particularly to see him to-night."
"Is it about that young man?" asked I.
I do not know what possessed me to ask it. It was not becoming behavior
on my part, but at his words the recollection of that Mr. Trayton
Harrod, whom he had recommended to father as a bailiff, had suddenly
returned to me. No mention having been made of him again, I had really
scarcely remembered the matter till now, the excitement of the past
three weeks had been so great.
He knit his brows in annoyance, and I was sorry I had spoken.
"What young man?" asked he.
"That gentleman whom you recommended to father for the farm," said I,
half ashamed of myself.
"Oh, Trayton Harrod!" exclaimed the squire, with a relieved expression.
"Oh no, no, I shall not trouble your father again about that unless he
speaks to me. I thought it might be an advantageous thing, for I have
known the young man since he was a lad, and he has been well brought
up--a clever fellow all round. But your father knows his own business
best. It might not work."
It was on my lips to say that of course it would not work, but I
restrained myself, and the squire went on:
"I'm so delighted to see your father himself again," he said. "There's
no need for any one to help him so long as he can do it all himself;
and of course you, I know, do a great deal for him," added he, as
though struck by an after-thought. "I saw you walking round the mill
farm this morning."
"Did you?" answered I. "I only went up about the flour. I didn't see
you."
"No," he said. "I was riding the other way."
He walked up to the window as he spoke, and looked out over the lawn.
Somehow I was glad that I had just seen Joyce and Captain Forrester go
down the cliff out of sight a few minutes before the squire arrived.
"Everybody out?" asked he.
"Yes," answered I. "Everybody."
He did not ask whether his nephew had been there. He drew a chair up to
the table and began playing with the reels and tapes in my work-basket.
Mother and Joyce would have been in an agony at seeing their sacred
precincts invaded by the cruel hand of man, but it rather amused me to
see the hopeless mess into which he was getting the hooks and silks and
needles. My basket never was a miracle of orderliness at any time.
"Is Miss Joyce quite well?" said he at last, trying to get the scissors
free of a train of cotton in which he had entangled them.
I felt almost inclined to laugh. Even to me, who am awkward enough,
this seemed such an awkward way of introducing the subject, for of
course I had guessed that he had missed her directly he had come into
the room.
"Yes, quite well, thank you," answered I. And then I added, laughing,
and seeing that he had got hold of a bit of my lace, "Oh, take care,
please, that's a bit of my finery for to-morrow night."
He dropped it as if it had burned him. "Oh dear, dear, yes, how clumsy
I am!" cried he, pushing the work-basket far from him. "I hope I have
spoiled nothing."
"Why, no, of course not," laughed I. "I oughtn't to have spoken.
But you see I have only got that one bit of lace, and I want it for
to-morrow night."
"Oh yes; I suppose you young ladies are going to be very grand indeed,"
smiled he.
"Oh no, not grand," insisted I, "but very jolly. We mean to enjoy
ourselves, I can tell you."
"That's right," said he; "so do I."
But he could not get away from the subject of Joyce.
"Has your sister gone far?" asked he, in a minute.
"I don't know," I answered, quite determined to throw no light upon the
subject of where she was and with whom.
A direct question made it difficult now to keep to this determination.
"Do you know if my nephew has been here this afternoon?" was the
question.
I looked down intently at my work.
"Yes, he came," answered I. "He sat some while with father, till father
went out."
I did not add any mention of where he had been since. It was a
prevarication of course, but I thought I did it out of a desire to
spare the squire's feelings. He asked no more questions. He sat silent
for a while.
"Your father and Frank seem to be great friends," observed he,
presently, and I fancied a little bitterly.
"Yes," I replied, "Captain Forrester has quite picked father's spirits
up. He has been a different man since he had him to sympathize with
over his pet schemes."
I felt directly I had said the words that they were inconsiderate
words, and I regretted them, but I could not take them back.
Squire Broderick flushed over his fair, white brow.
"Yes; my nephew professes to be as keen after all these democratic
dodges as your father himself," he said, curtly.
"Oh, it's not that," cried I, anxious to mend matters. "Father doesn't
need to have everybody agree with him for him to be friends with them."
"No, I quite understand," answered the squire, beginning again on the
unlucky basket. And after a pause he added, as though with an effort,
"Frank is a very delightful companion, I know, and when he brings his
enthusiasm to bear upon subjects that are after one's own heart, it is
naturally very pleasant."
"Yes," I agreed. "That's just it, he is so very enthusiastic. He would
make such a splendid speaker, such a splendid leader of some great
Democratic movement."
The squire left my work-basket in the muddle in which he had finally
put it, and stuck his hands into his pockets.
"Do you think so?" he said.
"Oh yes, I'm sure of it," continued I, blindly. "And I am sure father
thinks so too."
"Indeed!" answered the squire, I thought a little scornfully. "And,
pray, how is my nephew going to be a great Democratic leader? Is he
going into Parliament? Is he going to contest the county at the next
election?"
"Why, how can you think he would do such a thing, Mr. Broderick,"
exclaimed I, "when he knows that you are supporting the opposite side?"
"Oh, that would be no objection," said the squire, still in the same
tone of voice. "The objection would be that a Radical stands such a
small chance of getting in."
"Besides," added I, collecting myself, "I am sure he has no wish to go
into Parliament. Father and he both agree that a man can do a great
deal more good out of Parliament than in it. They say that the finest
leaders that there have been in all nations have been those who have
got at the people straight--without any humbug between them."
"Pooh!" said the squire. Then controlling himself, he added, "Well, and
does Frank think that he is going to get at the people that way? Does
he suppose it will cost him nothing?"
"Oh no; I suppose it will cost money," assented I.
"Ah!" said the squire, in the tone of a man who has got to the bottom
of the question at last. "Well, then, I think it's only fair that your
father should know that there is very little chance of Frank's being
of any use to him. If he is pinning his faith on Frank as a possible
representative of his convictions, he is making a mistake, and it is
only right that he should be warned. Frank has no money of his own,
no money at all. He has nothing but his captain's pay, and that isn't
enough for him to keep himself upon."
The squire spoke bitterly. Even I, girl as I was, could see that
something had annoyed him to the point of making him lose control over
himself.
"I don't think father has pinned his faith on Captain Forrester," said
I, half vexed. "I don't think there has been any question between them
such as you fancy. I think they are merely fond of discussing matters
upon which they agree. At all events, I am sure it has never entered
father's head to consider whether Captain Forrester had money or not."
"Well, I think, for several reasons, it is just as well there should be
no mistake about the thing," repeated the squire, vehemently, walking
up and down the room in his excitement. "Frank has no money and no
prospects, excepting those which he may make for himself. I sincerely
hope that he may do something better than marry an heiress, which is
his mother's aim for him, but meanwhile he certainly has very little
property excepting his debts."
A light suddenly broke upon me. The words "marry an heiress," had
suddenly flashed a meaning on Squire Broderick's strange attitude.
He was afraid that Captain Forrester was winning Joyce's affections.
He was jealous. I would not have believed it of him; but perhaps, of
course, it was natural. I was sorry for him. The remembrance of the sad
bereavements of his youth made me sorry for him.
After all, though I did not then consider him a young man, it was sad
to have done with life so early, to have no chance of another little
heir to the acres that he owned, instead of that poor little baby of
whom mother had told us. For, of course, there was no chance of that,
and Captain Forrester would finally inherit them. I had not thought of
that before. No wonder he was bitter, and I was sorry for him. He spoke
no more after that last speech. He came and stood over me where I was
working.
"But after all," said he, presently, in his natural genial tones, "I
don't know why I troubled you with all that. You are scarcely the
person whom it should interest. I beg your pardon."
I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.
The squire moved to the window, and I put down my work and followed
him. The daylight had gone; there was no more sewing to be done that
evening without a lamp. As I came up I saw the tall, slight figure of
Captain Forrester standing up against the dim blue of the twilight sky,
and holding out his hand to help my sister up the last, steepest bit of
the ascent to our lawn. I glanced at the squire. His face was not sad
nor sorry, but it was angry. He turned away from the window, and so did
I, and as we faced round we saw mother standing in the door-way. She
had her bonnet and cloak still on; she must have come in quietly by the
back door, as she had a habit of doing, while we were talking. How much
had she heard of what the squire had said?
He went up to her and bade her good-day and good-bye in one breath.
He said he would not wait longer to see father. He went out and away
without meeting his nephew. I was very glad that he did, for thus
mother went up-stairs at once to take off her things, and being in a
garrulous frame of mind, from her experiences of the afternoon with
the new-born baby, she stayed up-stairs some time talking to Deborah,
and did not come down to the parlor again till after Captain Forrester
had taken his leave. So she never knew anything of that long half-hour
spent upon the garden cliff at the sun-setting.