Time dragged heavily on my hands after the excitement of the squire's
ball was over. It was not only that I had to go back to the routine
of every-day life--for there was still the concert to look forward
to, which gave us plenty of interest--but it was that during a whole
fortnight I had been looking for news from Joyce, and that Joyce had
said never a word. No; she had rather been more silent than usual,
constrained and unlike her own serene and happy self; and I had been
frightened, frightened at sight of the torrent that I had let loose,
and doubtful whether, in spite of all his democratic theories, this
handsome, courtly, chivalrous knight, who was my embodiment of romance,
was really a fit mate for the humble damsel nurtured in the quiet shade.
Well, anyhow the torrent rolled on, whether it was really I who had
set it free or not, and I was forced to stand aside and watch its
course without more ado.
There had been plenty to watch. The village concert had come and gone;
it had taken place a week after the squire's ball. Captain Forrester
had worked us very hard for it towards the end. We had had practisings
every afternoon, and I had rehearsed my solos indefatigably; but, save
for singing in the glees and playing an accompaniment now and then,
Joyce had taken no active part in the musical performance, and I had
fancied that she had kept out of the way a great deal more than she
need have done.
I could not understand her at all. She would not give Frank the ghost
of a chance of saying a word to her alone; she shunned him as she
shunned me.
On the night of the concert he was, of course, too much excited until
the performance was over, to remember even Joyce at first; for he was
one of those natures who throw themselves ardently into whatever they
take up; and he was just as eager over this entertainment, of which he
had accepted the responsibility, as though it were going to be given
before a select company instead of before a handful of country bumpkins.
Well, he was rewarded for his pains. The concert was voted a brilliant
success, and by a long way the best that had ever been given in the
village.
"When stars are in the quiet skies," and "Robin Adair," which I sang
"by request," as an _encore_, were greatly applauded, as were also
the glees that we had so patiently practised; and though, of course,
the crowning point of the evening was Captain Forrester's own song,
poured forth in his rich, mellow barytone, we had none of us reason to
complain of the reception that we got; and the stone walls of the old
town-hall, that had stood since the days when the headsman was still an
institution, responded to the clapping of the people.
To be sure, they wanted father to stand up and give them a speech, but
he would have nothing to do with that on this occasion; he said it was
one of relaxation and not of work; and he always refused to touch upon
things that were sacred to him, for mere effect, or in anything but the
most serious spirit. He wished them all good-night, and told them so.
I remember a curious incident that occurred that night. One of the
American oil-lamps that lighted the hall took fire; a panic arose in
the little crowd; the women pressed to the door. But Captain Forrester,
calling out to the people in strong, reassuring tones to keep their
seats, seized the lamp, carried it burning above the heads of the
throng, and threw it down into the little court-yard without.
When the fright was over I missed father and Joyce. Him I found
at once, sitting on the steps with two sobbing little ones on his
knees--two little ones whose sisters had run out without them, and
whose little hearts had been numbed with fear. Father would generally
neglect any grown-up person in preference to a child. But Joyce I could
not see.
I felt sure that she must have gone to look after Captain Forrester;
but when presently he came back with his hand bandaged, and said that
he had seen nothing of Joyce, I was really frightened. I discovered her
sitting down in a dark corner of the court-yard, crying.
She said that she had been terrified by the accident, and had run out
for safety before any one else. But her manner puzzled me. And for a
whole week after that her manner continued to puzzle me.
Frank Forrester came every day to the Grange to see father. They had
a new scheme on hand, an original scheme, a pet scheme of my dear
father's--the scheme of all his schemes which he held most dear, and
one which I know he had had for years, and had never dared hope would
find favor with any one. It was a scheme for the succor of those poor
children who had either no parents, or whose parents were anxious to
get rid of them.
Of course I did not understand the workings of it at the time, it not
being possible that I should understand the requirements of the case;
but from what I can recollect, gleaned from the scraps of talk that
fell from father and Captain Forrester, I think it was intended to
pick up cases which were not provided for in the ordinary foundling
hospitals, and to rescue those poor wretched little creatures whose
parents were willing to part with them, from a life of sin and
degradation.
The children were to be taught a trade, and were to be honorably placed
in situations when they left the home.
Of course it was a vast scheme--how vast I am sure father cannot have
grasped at the time; but although he must have had grave doubts of the
possibility of its success, he was carried away for the moment by Frank
Forrester's wild enthusiasm upon the subject, and was persuaded by him
to try and put it into immediate practice.
I think he was more drawn to Frank than ever by this. I think he was
drawn to every one who cared for children. But although the captain was
very enthusiastic over this scheme, he found time to look at Joyce and
to sigh for a word from her, for a chance of seeing her alone, and she
would not give it him.
For a whole fortnight after that memorable evening of the squire's ball
she had kept him sighing; at least, I think that she had, and I was
very sorry for him.
To be sure, mother's eyes were vigilant--it needed some bravery to
elude mother's eyes but then I thought that if one wanted a thing very
much one would be brave.
Was Joyce cold-hearted? Was that why her face was so calm and so
beautiful.
But one day, at last, the squire and his nephew came and went away
together, and mother, thinking the visit was over for the day, had gone
out on household errands. I was coming in from taking a parcel of poor
linen to the Vicarage when Deborah met me in the hall.
"That there captain's in with Miss Joyce in the parlor," said she.
"They didn't want no light, they didn't. But I've took 'em in the lamp
just this minute."
She said this with grim determination, and went off grumbling.
Deborah wanted Joyce to marry the squire, and I fancy she suspected me
of furthering her acquaintance with the captain.
I did not go in as Deborah suggested, not until close upon the time
when I was afraid mother would come home.
Joyce was sitting in the big arm-chair with her hands clasped across
her knees, gazing into the fire.
Captain Forrester sat at the old spinet--our best new piano was in
the front parlor--and touched its poor old clanging keys gently, and
sang soft notes to it in his soft, mellow voice. They were passionate
love-songs, as I now know; but the words were in foreign tongues, and
I did not understand them; no doubt Joyce did. He rose when I came in,
and asked what o'clock it was.
I told him, and he laughed his gay, sympathetic laugh, and declared
that at the Grange he never knew what the time was; he believed we kept
our clocks all wrong. Then he said that he could not wait any longer
for father that evening, but would come to see him in the morning. He
went up to Joyce, and held out his hand. She shook herself, as though
to rouse herself from a dream, and rose. This time it was no mistake of
mine. Captain Forrester held Joyce's hand a long while.
"Good-bye--till to-morrow morning," said he, in a low voice.
She did not answer, and he turned to me.
"Good-night, Miss Margaret," he said, and there was a ring in his
voice--an impressiveness even towards me--which seemed to say that
something particular had happened.
When he was gone, I felt that I must know what it was. This barrier of
reserve between two sisters was ridiculous.
"Joyce," said I, half impatiently, "have you nothing to tell me?"
She looked up at me. A flush spread itself all over her neck and face,
her short upper lip trembled a little--it always did with any emotion.
"Yes," answered she, simply; "Captain Forrester wants to marry me."
I did not reply. Now that it had come to this pass as I wished, I was
frightened, as I have said.
But Joyce was looking up at me with an appealing look in her eyes. I
stooped down and kissed her.
"You dear old thing," I said; "I'm so glad. I hoped he had--I have
hoped all along he would."
"I thought you wished it," she said, with child-like simplicity.
I laughed.
"Of course I knew from the very beginning that he would fall in love
with you," I said.
"Oh, Margaret, don't say that!" pleaded she. And then, after a pause,
with a little sigh she added, "I should have thought he would have been
wiser than to fall in love with a country girl, when there must be so
many town girls who are better fitted to him."
"Nonsense!" cried I. "The woman who is fitted to a man is the woman
whom he loves."
"Do you think so?" murmured she, diffidently.
"Why, of course," I cried, warming as I went on, and forgetting my own
doubts in laughing at hers. "A man doesn't marry a woman for the number
of languages that she speaks, and that kind of thing--at least not a
man like Captain Forrester. I don't know how you can misjudge him so.
Don't you believe that he loves you?"
"Oh yes," she murmured again; "I think that he loves me."
I said no more for a while. Joyce's attitude puzzled me. That she
should speak so diffidently of the adoration of a man who had
addressed to her the passionate words which I had overheard, passed my
comprehension.
I fell to wondering what was her feeling towards him. More than ever I
felt that she had passed beyond me into a world of which I knew only in
dreams. I had risen now, and stood over the fire.
"I always dreamed of something like that for you, Joyce," said I. "I
always felt that you weren't a bit suited to marry a country bumpkin,
but I never pictured to myself anything so good as this for you. Mother
had grand ideas for you, I know. Oh yes; and you know she had, now,"
added I, in answer to a deprecatory "Oh, don't!" from my sister. "But I
should have hated what she wanted; and I don't believe you would ever
have consented. But Captain Forrester is not a landed proprietor; he
cares for the rights of the people as father does. He is a fine fellow;
and then he is young, and has never loved any one else," added I,
dropping my voice.
I suppose I said this in allusion to the squire's first wife.
She did not say anything, and I kneeled down beside her. "Dear Joyce,"
I whispered--and I do believe my voice trembled--"I do want you to be
happy. And though I shall feel dreadfully lonely when you have gone
away and left me, I sha'n't be sorry, because I shall be so glad you
have got what I wanted you to have."
She squeezed my hand very tight.
"Oh, but I sha'n't be married, dear, not for ever so long yet," said
she. "Why, you forget, we don't know what father and mother will say."
"Why, father and mother can only want what is best for you," answered
I. And I believed it. Nevertheless, what father and mother, or at all
events what mother thought best, was not what I thought best.
When Captain Forrester came the next morning, I knew before he passed
into father's business-room that he was not going to receive a very
satisfactory answer. He was expected; his answer was prepared, and I
was to blame that it was.
That evening, after the captain's proposal to Joyce, the squire sent
down a message to ask whether father would be disengaged; and if he
were, whether he might come down after supper to smoke a pipe with him.
We were seated around the meal when Deborah brought in the message.
"Certainly," answered father. "Say that I shall be pleased to see Mr.
Broderick." But when she was gone out, he added, gruffly: "What the
deuce can the squire want to see me for? I don't know of anything that
I need to talk to him about."
He looked at mother, but mother did not answer. She assumed her most
dignified air, and there was a kind of suppressed smile on her face
which irritated me unaccountably. As soon as the meal was over, she
reminded us that we had the orange marmalade to tie up and label, and
we were forced to leave her and father together.
I went very reluctantly, for I wanted to hear what they had to say,
and Deborah was in a very inquisitive mood--asking us how it was that
the squire had not invited us up to supper at the Manor these three
weeks, and when this fine gentleman from London was going to take
himself back again to his own home.
I left Joyce to answer her, and found an excuse to get back again to
the parlor as fast as I could. Father and mother sat opposite to one
another in their high-backed chairs by the fire. Father had not been
well since that night of the ball. I think he had caught a chill in the
east wind and was feeling his gout again a little. I think it must have
been so, or he would scarcely have remained sitting. Knowing him as I
did, I was surprised; for I knew by his face in a moment that he was in
a bad temper, and he never remained sitting when he was in a bad temper.
"Nonsense, Mary, nonsense!" he was saying. "I'm surprised at a woman
of your good-sense running away with such ideas! Mere friendship, mere
friendliness--that's all."
"Well," answered mother, stroking her knee, over which she had turned
up her dress to save it from scorching at the fire, "it was not only
his taking Joyce out to dance first before all the county neighbors,
but he took me into supper himself--and, I can assure you, was most
attentive to me."
"Well, and I should have expected nothing less of him," said father.
"The man is a gentleman, and you have been a good friend to him. No
man, squire or not, need be ashamed of taking my wife into supper--no,
not before ten counties!"
Mother smiled contentedly.
"Every one can't be expected to see as you do, Laban," said she. "I
think it was done with a purpose."
"Oh! And, pray, what purpose?" asked father, in his most irritating and
irritated tone.
Mother was judicious; perhaps even she was a little frightened. She
did not answer just at first. I had slid behind the door of the
jam-press in the corner of the room, and now I began putting the rows
of marmalade pots in order. She had not noticed me.
"I think the squire wishes to marry our eldest daughter," said she,
slowly; and then she reached down her knitting from the mantle-piece
and began to ply her needles.
There was a dreadful silence for a minute.
"I have thought so for a long time," added mother. "I have felt sure
that he must have some other reason for coming here so often besides
mere friendship for two old people."
Father leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it,
as though about to rise, but not rising.
"Well, then, if he has any other reason, the longer he keeps it to
himself the better," said he, in a voice that he tried to prevent from
becoming loud. "But we have no right to judge him until we know,"
added he. "You've made a mistake, mother. The squire isn't thinking of
marrying again. He's no such fool."
"I don't see that he'd be such a fool to wish to marry a sweet girl
that he has known all his life," remonstrated mother.
"He can marry no girl of mine, at least not with my consent," declared
father, loudly, his temper getting the better of him. "My girls must
marry in their own rank of life, or not at all. I have no need of the
gentry to put new blood into our veins. We are good enough and strong
enough for ourselves, any day. But come, old lady, come," he added,
more softly, trying to recover himself, "you've made a mistake. It's
very natural. Mothers will be proud of their children, and women must
always needs fancy riches and honors are the best things in the world."
"Oh, I don't fancy that, I'm sure, Laban," answered mother. "But I
can't think you would really refuse such a true and honest man for
Joyce."
"Well, then, Mary, look here; you be quite sure that I shall never
consent to my daughter marrying a man who must come down a peg in the
eyes of the world to wed her," began he, raising his voice again, and
speaking very slowly.
He looked mother keenly in the face, but he got no further than that,
for I emerged from the jam-cupboard with a pot in my hand; and at the
same time Deborah flung open the door and announced Squire Broderick.
Mother put down her skirt quickly and father sank back in his chair.
There was an anxious look upon the squire's face which puzzled me, but
he tried to laugh and look like himself as he shook hands with us.
"You mustn't speak so loud, Maliphant, you mustn't speak so loud, if
you want to keep things a secret," laughed he. "Marrying? Who is going
to be married, if you please?"
Mother blushed, and even father looked uncomfortable.
"We were only talking of possibilities, squire, very remote
possibilities," said he. "The women are fond of taking time by the
forelock in such matters, you know. But now we'll give over such
nonsense, and bring our minds to something more sensible. You wanted to
see me?"
"Yes," answered the squire. "And I have only a few minutes. My nephew
leaves to-morrow, and we have some little affairs to attend to."
"Your nephew leaves to-morrow!" cried I, aghast. They all turned round
and looked at me, and I felt myself blush.
"He never said so when he was here this afternoon," I added, hurriedly,
with a little nervous laugh.
"No, I don't suppose he knew it when we were here," answered the
squire, evidently ignorant of the captain's second visit alone. "He had
a telegram from his mother this evening, begging him to return home at
once."
I said no more, and Squire Broderick turned to father. "Can you give me
a few minutes?" asked he.
Father rose. It vexed me to see that he rose with some difficulty. He
was evidently sadly stiff again, and it vexed me that the squire should
see it. Without uttering a word, he led the way to his business-room.
I remained where I was, with the jam-pot in my hand, looking at mother,
who sat by the fire knitting. There was a little smile upon her lips
that annoyed me immensely.
"I think I ought to tell you, mother, that I was behind the
jam-cupboard door while you and father were talking, and that I heard
what you said," said I, suddenly.
"Well, of course I did not expect you to come intruding where you were
not wanted, Margaret," said mother; "but I don't know that it matters.
I'm not ashamed of what I said."
"Of course not," answered I; "and I've guessed you had that notion in
your head these months past."
"I don't know, I'm sure, what business you had to guess," said mother.
"It wasn't your place, that I can see."
"And I may as well tell you that I'm quite sure Joyce would never think
of the squire if he did want to marry her," continued I, without paying
any attention to this remark. I paused a moment before I added, "She
couldn't, anyhow, because she's in love with another man."
Mother looked at me over her spectacles. She looked at me as though she
did not see me, and yet she looked me through and through.
"Margaret," said she, at last, loftily, "I consider it most unseemly of
you to say such a thing of your sister. A well brought up girl don't go
about falling in love with men in that kind of way."
"A girl must fall in love with the man she means to marry, mother; at
least, so I should think," said I.
And I marched off into the kitchen with the jam-pot that wanted a
label, and did not come out again till I heard the study door open, and
the squire's voice in the hall.
"Well, you'll come to dinner on Thursday, anyhow, and see him," he was
saying; "it need bind you to nothing."
Father grumbled something as he hobbled across, and I noticed again how
lame he was that day. The squire, seeing mother upon the threshold of
the parlor door, stopped and added, pleasantly, "Maliphant has promised
to bring you up to dine at the Manor, so mind you hold him to his
word." Mother assured him that she would, and the squire went out.
"Well?" asked she, turning to father with a questioning look on her
face, which was neither so hopeful nor so happy as it had been ten
minutes ago.
"Well?" echoed he, somewhat crossly. Then his frown changing to a
smile, he patted her on the arm, and said, merrily, "No, mother, no.
Wrong this time; wrong, old lady, upon my soul. The time hasn't come
yet when we are to have the honor of having our daughters asked in
marriage by the gentry."
"Hush, Laban, hush," cried mother, vexed; for the kitchen door stood
open, and Joyce was within ear-shot. And then, following him into the
parlor, whither I had already found my way, she added, "Maybe I'm
not quite such a fool as you think, and the time will come one day,
although it's not ripe just yet."
"A fool! Who ever called you a fool, Mary? Not I, I'm sure," declared
father. "No, you're a true, shrewd woman, and as you are generally
right in such matters, I dare say you may prove right now; but all I
want to make clear to you is that whatever time the squire's question
comes--if it be a question of that nature--his answer will always be
the same."
Mother said no more. She was a wise woman, and never pursued a vexed
question when there was no need to do so. I, who was not so wise,
thought that I now saw a fitting opportunity for putting in my own
peculiar oar amid the troubled waters.
"I don't think you need trouble your head about it, father," I said.
"Joyce will never marry Squire Broderick, even if he were to ask her.
She's in love with Captain Forrester."
Father turned round with the pipe he was filling 'twixt his finger and
thumb and looked at me.
"Margaret," said mother, "didn't I tell you just now that that was a
most strange and unseemly thing to say?"
I did not answer, and father still looked at me with the pipe between
his finger and thumb.
"In love with Captain Forrester, indeed!" continued mother, scornfully.
"And pray, how do you know that Captain Forrester is in love with
Joyce?"
"Well, of course," answered I, with a toss of my head, "girls don't
fall in love with men unless the men are in love with them first. Who
ever heard of such a thing? Of course he's in love with Joyce."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said mother, emphatically, tapping the floor
with her foot, as she was wont to do when she was annoyed. "Captain
Forrester and your sister haven't met more than half a dozen times in
the course of their lives. I wonder what a love is going to be like
that takes the world by storm after three weeks' acquaintance."
"There is such a thing as love at first sight," answered I, with what
I know must have been an annoyingly superior air. It did not impress
mother.
"A wondrous fine thing I've been told," was all that she said.
I turned to father, who had not spoken. "Well, anyhow, they're in love
with one another," I repeated. "I know it as a fact, and he's coming
here to-morrow morning to ask your leave to marry her."
"The devil he is!" ejaculated father, roused at last.
Mother dropped her knitting. I do believe her face grew white with
horror.
"I always thought, Laban, it was a pity to have that young man about so
much when we had grown-up girls at home," moaned she, quite forgetting
my presence. "But you always would be so sure he was thinking of
nothing but those politics of yours."
"To be sure, to be sure," murmured father.
"And he was always so pleasant to all of us," she went on, as though
that, too, were something to deplore in him; "but I never did think
he'd be wanting to marry a farmer's daughter. And I should like to
know what he has got to marry any one upon," added she, after a pause,
turning to me indignantly, as though I knew the captain's affairs any
better than she did.
"His captain's pay," answered I, glibly, although I had been chilled
for a moment by this remark. "And why should you consider him a
ne'er-do-well because he earns his living in a different way to what
you do? He kills the country's enemies, and you till the country's
land. They are both honorable professions by which a man gets his bread
by the sweat of his brow."
I looked at father; all through I had spoken only to him. He smiled and
began to light his pipe. It was a sign that his mind was made up. Which
way was it made up?
"Joyce is just the girl men do fall in love with," said I, wisely; "and
as for her--well, you can't be surprised at her falling in love with a
man whom you like so much yourself."
"Ay, I do like the young man," agreed father, stanchly. "I can't help
it. They're precious few such as he whose heads are full of aught but
seeking after their own pleasure."
"Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants to
marry Joyce?" asked I, boldly.
"I did not say that I was sorry, lass," said father, calmly.
My heart throbbed with pleasant triumph, but the battle was not over
yet.
"Well, Laban, I don't suppose you can say that you're glad," put in
mother, almost tartly, "after what I've heard you say about girls
marrying out of their own class in life."
"Captain Forrester is not rich and idle," said I.
"No," answered mother, scornfully, "he is not rich, you're right enough
there; but he is a good sight more idle than many men who can afford to
keep a wife in comfort. I know your sort of play soldiers that never
see an enemy."
"He's rich enough for a girl of mine," replied father. "As to his being
idle, I hope maybe he's going to do better work saving the lives of
innocent children than he could have done slashing at what are called
the nation's foes."
"Yes, yes," said mother, a trifle impatiently. "I make no doubt you're
right. I've nothing against the young man, but I can't believe, Laban,
as you really mean to say that you'd give your girl to him willingly."
"Well," answered father, "I'm bound to say I'm surprised at the news;
but we old folk are apt to forget that we were young once; and when I
was a lad I loved you, Mary, so we mustn't be hard on the young ones.
It's neither poverty nor riches, nor this nor that, as makes happiness;
it's just love; and if the two love one another, we durstn't interfere."
"I don't understand you, Laban; indeed I don't," cried poor mother,
beside herself with anxiety. "It's not according to what you were
saying a few minutes ago, and you can't say it is."
Father was silent. I suppose he could not help knowing in his heart
that the objections to Captain Forrester must be practically the same
as those to Squire Broderick, with the additional one that he was
almost a stranger to us. But his natural liking for the young man
obscured his vision to plain facts. Father and I were very much alike;
what we wanted to be must be. But when I look back at that point in
our lives, I pity poor mother, who was really the wisest and the most
practical of us all.
"Well, mother, the lass must decide for herself," said father. "She's
of age; she should know her own mind."
"Joyce knows her own mind well enough," said I. "She has told Frank
Forrester that she will marry him subject to your approval."
"I wonder she took the trouble to add so much as that," said mother at
last. "Young folk nowadays have grown so clever they seem to teach us
old folk."
There was a tremor in her voice, and father rose and went across to
her, laying his hand on her shoulder.
"Meg, go and tell your sister to come here," said he in a moment. "You
need not come back."
I was hurt at the dismissal, and I waited in the passage till Joyce
came out from the interview; but her face was very white, and all that
she would say was: "Oh, Margaret, let them settle it. I don't want to
have any will of my own."
I was very much disappointed, and was fain to be agreeably surprised,
when on the following morning I heard that, after mature deliberation,
our parents had decided to allow the captain a year's probation.
I had been afraid that mother would entirely override all father's
arguments; she generally did.
The affair was not to be called an engagement--both were to be
perfectly free to choose again; but if at the end of that time both
were of the same mind, the betrothal should be formally made and
announced.
Mother must, however, have been very hard in her terms; for the young
folk were neither to meet nor to write to one another, nor to have any
news of one another beyond what might transpire in the correspondence
that father would be carrying on with Frank on outside matters.
Frank told me the conditions out in the garden, when I caught hold
of him as he came out of father's study. The whole matter was to be
a complete secret, shut closely within our own family. This mother
repeated to me afterwards, I guessed very well with what intent. But
although Frank must have guessed at a possible rival in his uncle, he
absolutely refused to be cast down.
The thought even crossed my mind that I should have liked my lover to
have been a little more cast down. But no doubt he felt too sure of
himself, even after the slight shock of surprise that it must have been
to him to find his suit not at once accepted.
Nevertheless, as he passed out of the room where he had taken leave of
Joyce alone, he bent forward towards me as I stood in the hall, and
said, gravely, "Miss Margaret, I trust her to you. Don't let her forget
me."
My heart ached for him, and from that moment it was afire with the
steadfast resolve to support my sister's failing spirits and preserve
for her the beautiful romance which had so unexpectedly opened out
before her.