I do not suppose that I had the dimmest notion at the time that this
man, whom I considered my foe, had sprung surely, and as soon as I saw
him, into that mysterious blank space that exists in every woman's
imagination, waiting to be filled by the figure that shall henceforth
bound her horizon. I do not suppose that I guessed at my real feelings
for a moment. If I had done so, I am sure that it would only have
aggravated my hostile attitude, whereas my first most unreasonable mood
was beginning slowly to lapse into one of friendly interest, and of
eager desire to be of use.
It is poor sport keeping up an attitude of defiance towards a person
who is entirely unconscious of one's intention; and whether Mr. Harrod
was really unconscious of my intention or not, he certainly acted as
if he were, and was, as far as his reserved nature would allow, so
friendly towards me, that I could not choose but be friendly towards
him in return. Anyhow, it is true that ere three weeks had passed,
that began to happen which Joyce had so anxiously desired: Mr. Harrod
and I began to make friends over our common interests.
A certain amount of defiance had begun to be transferred in me from
him, whose coming I had so bitterly resented, to those who shared that
resentment of mine.
Reuben was still sadly refractory. Luckily he was not much among the
men; but where there's a will there's a way; and I'm afraid he had
influence enough to do no good. And Deborah troubled me more. Although
mother was for the bailiff, because he was the squire's friend, and
also because, I think, she was really far more anxious about father's
health than she allowed us to guess, and wanted him to be saved
work--Deborah had not really allowed herself to be convinced as she
generally was.
She was not unreasonable; she was too clever to be unreasonable, and
she loved us all too dearly to resent any step which she chose to
believe was for the good of any of us. But I am sure she never believed
that this step was for the good of any of us. From beginning to end she
never liked Trayton Harrod. And what specially annoyed me about her at
this time was that she pretended to be trying to make me like him; and
as I innocently began to change my own feelings, so I naturally began
to resent this attitude in her.
On the very afternoon of which I am thinking, I resented Deborah's
attitude. I had been in the kitchen making cakes (when Joyce was away
it was I who had to make the cakes), and Deborah had taken advantage of
the opportunity to follow up the line already begun by my sister, and
to beg me, for father's sake, to forget my grievance and to be gracious
to the young bailiff. As may be imagined, Deborah did not consider that
she was bound to show any consideration in the matter of what she said
to us girls.
"I know it comes hard on you, my dear," said she. "There's lots of
little jobs you used to do afore, and no doubt did just as well,
that'll be this young man's place to do now, and he won't notice
whether you mind it or no. 'Tain't likely. But so long as he don't
interfere with what we've got to do, we'll mind our own business and
never give him a thought. You see, child, it's your father has got to
say whether the young man's a-helping or a-hindering. Maybe he'll find
out these chaps, that have learned it all on book and paper, don't know
the top from the bottom any better nor he do himself. But that's for
them to settle atween 'em, and it's none of our lookout."
I don't know why this speech should specially have irritated me, but
it did. Even if I had begun to guess that I was growing to like Mr.
Harrod better than I had intended to like him, I certainly should not
have been glad that any one else should guess it. But the fact is that
I believe I had lived the last fortnight without any thought, and that
this speech of Deborah's roused me to an investigation of my feelings
which was annoying to me.
"I have no intention at all of being rude, Deb," exclaimed I. "I leave
that to you. I don't think it's lady-like to be rude."
Deb laughed.
"Oh, come now, none of your hoighty-toightyness!" exclaimed she. "Who
carried on up-stairs and down when first squire talked about a bailiff
to master at all? I haven't nursed you when you were a baby not to know
when you're in a bad temper. It's plain enough, my dear."
"I know I have a bad temper," said I; "but I don't see that that has
anything to do with the matter."
I suppose something in the way I said it must have touched old Deb,
who had a soft heart for all her rough ways, for she said in her
topsy-turvy way:
"Well, there--no more I don't see that it has. All I mean is that if
you let him alone he'll let you alone, and no harm done. You'll have
the more time for your books and for looking after your clothes a bit.
You know I've often told you you'll never get a beau so long as you go
about gypsying as you do."
"Deborah, how dare you!" cried I, angrily. "You know very well that--"
"That I wouldn't have a lover for anything in the world," I was going
to say, and deeply perjure myself; but at that very moment mother
opened the door and looked into the kitchen. She had her spectacles
still on her nose, and an open letter in her hand.
"Margaret, I want you," said she, shortly, "in the parlor."
"I can't come just now, mother," answered I. "The cakes will burn."
"Deborah will see to the cakes," said mother, and I knew by her tone of
voice that I must do as she bade me. "I want you at once."
I knew what it was about. Two days ago I had had a letter from Joyce.
It gave me no news; she had got on with her tapestry; she had trimmed
herself a new bonnet; Aunt Naomi's rheumatism was no better; she hoped
that father's gout had not returned--no news until the very end. Then
she said she had been to the Royal Academy of pictures in London, with
an old lady who lived close to Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met
Captain Forrester.
Certainly this was a big enough piece of news to suffice for one
letter. But why had Joyce put it at the very end? and why did she hurry
it over as quickly as possible, making no sort or kind of comment upon
it? It was another of the things about Joyce that I could not make out.
Why was she not proud of her engagement? Why did she never care to
speak of it? I thought that if I were engaged to a man whom I loved I
should be very proud of it, whereas she always seemed anxious to avoid
the subject.
Of course it was horrible to be parted from him, but then it should
lighten her burden to speak of it to some one who sympathized with her
as I did. But I knew well enough why it was. It all came from that
overstrained notion of duty. She had promised mother that she would not
see Frank, and would not write to Frank, and would not speak of Frank,
and she kept so strictly to the letter of this promise that she would
not speak of him even to me.
When first I had read Joyce's letter I had been angry with her for a
cold-hearted girl, but now I was not angry with her. I admired her,
but I made up my mind that her passion for self-sacrifice should not
wreck her life's happiness if I could prevent it. Face to face it was
difficult to scold Joyce. There was a kind of gentle obstinacy about
her which took one unawares, and was very hard to deal with. But in a
letter I could speak my mind, and I would speak my mind--not only to
her, but, what was far more difficult, to mother also. So that when
mother put her head in at the kitchen door and summoned me to the
parlor, I guessed what it was about, and I knew pretty well what I was
going to say. She put the letter into my hand and sat down, looking up
at me over her spectacles as I read it, with her clear blue eyes intent
and a little frown on her white brow. It was from Aunt Naomi, and it
said that a young man named Captain Forrester had just been to call
upon Joyce; she thought she noticed a certain confusion on Joyce's part
during his presence, she therefore wrote at once to know whether his
visits were sanctioned by her parents, as she did not wish to get into
any trouble.
Oh, what a horrid old woman she was! "How could people be narrow-minded
and selfish to such a point as that?" I said to myself. Mother watched
me, and Deborah came into the room to lay the cloth. It was just
curiosity that brought her.
"It's a ridiculous letter," said I, roughly, throwing it down with an
ill grace, and looking defiantly, not at mother, but at the old woman,
who regarded me with reproving eyes. "Why in the world shouldn't Joyce
receive a visit from a gentleman--still more from the man she's going
to marry?"
"She's not going to marry him, at least not with my free consent," said
mother, putting her lips together in a set curve that I knew.
"Well, then, of course it will be a great pity, but I suppose it will
have to be without your consent," said I, rashly.
"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated Deborah, under her breath, and looking
at me with something like remonstrance. Mother rose with dignity, and
turning to the table she said, "Deborah, would you be so kind as to
fetch in the cold ham?"
Of course Deborah knew that she was being sent out of the room that I
might have a piece of mother's mind, and my own was a struggle between
pleasure that Deborah should for once be set down, and anger that she
should know the reason of her dismissal. She stayed a moment, setting
the forks round the table to a nicety of precision; then, as she passed
out of the room she gave me a friendly nudge, and looked at me a moment
with a sort of humorous kindliness in her shrewd gray eyes.
Mother took up the letter again. "Do you know how Captain Forrester
knew where Joyce was staying?" asked she.
"No, how should I know?" answered I. "Joyce told me that she had met
him accidentally at the Royal Academy. I suppose he found out where she
was. Where there's a will there's a way."
"But he undertook not to try and see her," remarked mother, severely.
"His conduct is dishonorable."
"Well, you might make some allowances," cried I. "It shows he loves
her; it shows she will be happy with him. And look here, mother," added
I, in a sudden frenzy of frankness, "I believe that if I were to get
the chance of doing anything to help to bring them together, I should
do it."
Mother looked at me fixedly. "No, you wouldn't," said she at last.
"You're headstrong and mistaken, but you're honest. You've taken your
word you wouldn't interfere nor mention the matter to any one for a
year, and you'll keep your word."
I knew very well that she was right, but I said boldly, "Joyce is my
sister, I love her, I want her to be happy, and I shall do what I can
to make her so."
Still mother looked at me. "You forget that I want Joyce to be happy
too," said she. "If she is your sister she is also my daughter." There
was a tremble in her voice, whether of anger or distress, I did not
know.
"Of course I know very well that you care about her and her happiness,"
said I; "but perhaps you don't see what is best for it. How can old
people, whose youth is past ever so long ago, remember how young people
feel? They can't know what young folk need to be happy as well as
others of their own age can."
"Maybe they can look ahead a bit better, though," said mother, without
deigning to argue with me. "Be that as it may, I don't think I'll ask
you to teach me what's best for my children's happiness. I may be all
wrong, of course, but I mean to try and have my own way as long as I
can, though I know very well we can't expect the duty and reverence we
used to pay our parents when I was your age."
I felt that the rebuke was deserved, and I was silent.
"At all events, it's no business of yours," continued mother. "If the
thing has got to be fought out, I would rather fight it out with Joyce
herself. If she insists upon marrying the young man, I suppose she can
do so. She is of age."
I did not answer her, but I laughed. The idea of Joyce insisting upon
doing anything was too ridiculous. And, of course, mother knew this
quite well, so that it was not quite fair of her.
Having once begun to laugh, the spell of my ill-humor was, however,
broken, and it was in a very different tone of voice that I said,
"Come, mother, you know very well that sister is far too gentle, and
loves you far too much, ever to do anything against your wish, so
that's ridiculous, isn't it?"
Mother smiled. "Yes, yes, she's a good girl," she said. "You are
both of you good children, but you mustn't be so self-sufficient and
headstrong."
"Well, I suppose I am headstrong," said I; "I'm sorry for it. But Joyce
isn't. I do think she ought to be put upon less than folk who are. I
believe if nobody fought Joyce's battles she'd let herself be wiped
right out."
And sure enough, by the afternoon post there came a letter from Joyce
which satisfied mother more than it did me. It explained that Captain
Forrester had come to Sydenham uninvited and unwelcome; and it begged
mother to believe that he would never come again.