The time was coming near when Joyce was to come home, and I had done
positively nothing in the matter in which I had promised to fight her
battle. It is true that she had begged me not to fight her battle, but
I wanted to fight it, and I was vexed with myself that I had so allowed
the matter to slide. In the one tussle that I had had with mother, I
had been so worsted that I felt, with mortification, my later silence
must look like a confession of defeat.
The fact is that I had been thinking of other things. Trayton Harrod
and I had had a great many things to think of. He had started a new
scheme for the laying on of water.
Our village abounded in wells; they, too, were the remnants of the
affluence of the town in by-gone days, but they were all at the foot of
the hill.
Trayton Harrod wanted to bring the water from the spring at the top
of Croft's hill, in pipes through the valley, and up our own hill
again. He wanted to form a co-operation among the inhabitants for the
enterprise. If this was impossible, he wanted father to do it as a
private undertaking, and to repay himself by charging a rental to
those people who would have it brought to their houses. But he met with
opposition at every turn. The inhabitants of Marshlands were a stubborn
lot; they did not believe in the possibility of the thing; they did
not care for innovations; they had done very well all these years with
carts that brought the water up the hill and stored it in wells in
their gardens, and why not now? He had not gained his point yet, either
in one way or in the other, and I had been very busy fighting it for
him; that was how it had come to pass that I had forgotten Joyce's
business.
Mother and I sat in the low window-seat of the parlor straining our
eyes over the mending of the family socks and stockings by the waning
light of the June evening. Mother had missed Joyce very much. I had
not been all that a daughter should have been to her since I had been
in sole charge; I had been preoccupied, and she had missed Joyce much
more, I knew very well, than she chose to confess. Knowing this as I
did, I thought the moment would be well chosen to speak of what should
affect Joyce's happiness; I thought her heart would be soft to her.
But on this point I was mistaken. Mother did not alter her opinion
because her heart was soft. She could be very tender, but she was most
certainly also very obstinate.
I opened the conversation by alluding to the letter which father had
had from Captain Forrester.
"That scheme of his for poor children doesn't seem to be able to get
started as easily as he hoped," I said. "I'm sorry. It would have been
a beautiful thing, and father will break his heart if it falls through."
"He seems to think the young man hasn't gone the right way to work,"
said mother. "I could have told him he wasn't the right sort for the
job."
I tried to keep my temper, and it was with a laugh that I said, "Well,
if anything could be done I'm sure he would do it, if it was only for
the sake of pleasing Joyce."
Mother said nothing. She prided herself upon her darning, and she was
intent upon a very elaborate piece of lattice-work.
"He would do anything to please Joyce. I never saw a man so much in
love with a girl," I said.
"Have you had great experience of that matter?" asked mother, in
her coolest manner. "Because if you have, I should like to hear of
it; girls of nineteen don't generally have much experience in such
matters."
"I can see that he is in love well enough," said I, biting my lip. Then
warming suddenly, I added: "I don't see why, mother, you should set
your face so against the young man? You want Joyce to be happy, don't
you?"
"Yes," said mother, quietly. "I want her to be happy."
"Well, it won't make her happy never to see the man she loves," cried
I; "no, nor yet to have to wait all that time before she can marry him.
I've always heard that long engagements were dreadfully bad things for
girls."
Mother smiled. "I waited three years for your father," she said, "and
I'm a hearty woman of my years."
"Perhaps you were different," suggested I.
"Maybe," assented mother. "Women weren't so forward-coming in my time,
to be sure."
"I don't see that Joyce is forward," cried I.
"No, Joyce is seemly behaved if she is let alone. She'll bide her time,
I've no doubt," said mother.
I felt the hidden thrust, and it was the more sharply that I replied,
"You're so fond of Joyce, I should have thought you wouldn't care to
make her suffer."
Mother gave a little sigh. She took no notice of my rude taunt.
"The Lord knows it's hard to know what's best," said she. "But I'd
sooner see her pine a bit now than spend her whole life in misery, and
there's no misery like that of a home where the love hasn't lasted out."
The earnestness of this speech made me ashamed of my vexation, and it
was gently that I said: "But, mother, I don't see why you should think
a man must needs be fickle because he falls in love at first sight. I
don't see how people who have known one another all their lives think
of falling in love. When do they begin?"
"I don't know as I understand this mighty thing that you young folk
call 'falling in love,'" said mother. "I was quite sure what I was
about when I married your father."
"Well, now, mother, I don't see _how_ you can have been quite sure
beforehand," argued I, obstinately. "You have been lucky, that's all."
"Nay, it's not all luck," said mother. "It isn't all plain sailing
over fifty or sixty years of rubbing up and down; and they'd best have
something stouter than a mere fancy to stand upon who want to make a
good job of it."
"I don't see what they are to have stouter than love to stand upon,"
said I. "And I always thought love was a thing that came whether you
would or not, and had nothing to do with the merits of people."
It was all a great puzzle. Did mother make too little of love, and did
I make too much?
"That's not love," said mother; "that's a fancy. I misdoubt people who
undertake to show patience and steadiness in one thing, before they
have learned it in anything else."
"What has Frank Forrester done, I should like to know?" asked I,
feeling that she was too hard on him.
"Nothing, my dear," answered mother, laconically.
And I sighed. It was very evident there would be no convincing mother,
and that if there was to be any relaxation in the hardness of the
verdict for Joyce, it must come through father, and not through her.
She rose and moved away, for the light had waned, and we could not see
to work.
"If I loved a man I'd take my chance," was my parting shot.
"Then, my dear, it's to be hoped you won't love a man just yet," said
mother, as she went out of the room.
And that was all that I got by my endeavor to further my sister's
cause with mother. I think, however, I soon forgot the annoyance that
my failure caused me; it was driven out of my head by other and more
engrossing interests.
Mother and I had been up at "The Elms" that very day getting things in
order for Mr. Harrod. We had found a tidy widow woman to wait on him,
and mother had put up fresh white dimity curtains from her own store to
brighten up his little parlor. When he came in to supper he was full of
quiet delight. I forget what he said; he was not a man of many words;
he was always wrapped up in his business; but I recollect that, however
few they were, they were words of affectionate gratitude to mother for
a kind of care which he seemed never to have known before, and I know
that I was grateful to him for them--so sensitively responsible is one
for the actions of another who is slowly creeping near to one's heart.
Harrod sat some time with mother on the lawn discussing the qualities
of cows; she wanted father to give her a new one, and she wanted Harrod
to find her one as good as Daisy, if such a thing were possible. He
listened with great patience to her reminiscences of past favorites,
and promised to do his best; but I could see that there was something
on his mind.
I fell to wondering what it was. I fell to wondering whether Trayton
Harrod ever thought of anything else but the work he had to do, the
dumb creatures that came his way in the doing of it, and the fair or
lowering face of the world in which he did it. I soon learned what it
was. It was something that had been discussed many times, but it had
never been discussed as it was discussed that evening.
Father came out with his pipe a-light; his rugged old face wore its
most dreamy and contented expression. He had evidently been thinking of
something that had given him pleasure; but I do not think it had to do
with the farm. But Mr. Harrod went to meet him, and they strolled down
the garden together, and stood for about ten minutes talking hard by
the bed where the golden gillyflowers and the purple iris bloomed side
by side.
"Well, you know what I have told you, Mr. Maliphant," said Harrod. "You
never can make the farm pay so long as you hold these theories. Your
men work shorter hours and receive higher wages than anybody else's;
and, added to that, you absolutely refuse to have any machinery used.
It'll take you twice as long to get in your hay and your wheat as it
will take the other farmers. How can you possibly compete with them?"
"I don't want to compete with them," said father--"not in the sense
of getting the better of them. I merely want the farm to yield me
sufficient for a modest living; I don't need riches."
"Well, and you won't do it in the way you are going on," said Harrod,
calmly. "You won't do so, unless you allow me to stock the farm with
the proper machines, and to get the proper return of labor out of the
men."
"What is the proper return?" asked father, his eye lighting up. "That I
should get three times the profit the laborer gets? I'm not sure of it.
My capital must be remunerated, of course; but I am not sure that that
is the right proportion." His heavy brows were knit, his hair was more
aggressive than ever, his lower lip trembled.
Harrod stared. He had not yet heard father give vent to his theories,
and he stared.
"And as for machines," continued father, "I don't choose to have them
used, because I consider it unjust that hands should be thrown out
of work in order that I may make money the faster. My notions may be
quixotic, but they are mine, and the land is mine, and I choose to have
it worked according to my wish."
"Certainly, sir," answered Harrod, stiffly. "Only, as I'm afraid I
could not possibly make the farm succeed under these conditions, I
would prefer to throw up my situation."
"Very good," said father; "that is as you wish." And he moved on into
the house.
Mother looked at Mr. Harrod a moment as though she were about to beg
him to take no notice, and to recall his hasty resignation. Her eyes
had almost a supplicating look; but apparently she seemed to think that
her appeal would be best made to father, for she hurried after him
through the open door.
Trayton Harrod and I were left alone on the terrace. His mouth was set
in a hard curve that was all the more apparent for his clean-shaven
chin; his eyes seemed to have grown quite small. I was almost afraid to
speak to him. He stood there a moment, with his hands in his pockets,
looking out across the marsh where the coming twilight was already
beginning to spread brown shades, although there was still a reflection
of the distant sunset upon the clouds overhead. He looked a moment, and
then he turned to go; but I could not let him go like that.
My heart had gone down with a sudden, sick feeling when he had said he
must leave Knellestone. I can remember it now. I did not ask myself
what it meant. I suppose I thought, if I thought at all, that it was
anxiety for the welfare of the farm; but I remember very well how it
felt.
"Oh, Mr. Harrod, you don't really mean that!" said I, hurriedly.
"Mean what?" answered he, without relaxing a muscle of his face.
"That you will give up your work here."
"Indeed I do," answered he, with a little hard laugh, showing those
white teeth of his. "A man must do his work his own way, or not at all."
I did not know what more to say. But he did not offer to go now; he
stood there, with his hands in his pockets and his back half turned to
me.
"Do you think so?" said I, at last, doubtfully.
"Well, if I can't do my work here so that it should be to your father's
advantage, I'm cheating him, Miss Maliphant--that's evident, isn't it?
And I have a particular wish to be an honest man." There was bitterness
in his voice.
"I see that," said I. "Only, if you go away the work will be done much
less to father's advantage than if you stay--even though you can't do
it just as you wish."
"That has nothing to do with me," answered Harrod, in his hardest
voice. "I should harm my reputation by remaining here."
A wave of bitterness swept over me too at that.
"I see," I replied, coldly. "You are considering your own interest
only. Well, we have no right to expect any more. You have only known us
a short time."
He did not speak, and I walked forward to the palisade that hedged the
garden, and leaned my arms upon it, looking out to the sea. After a
little while he came to my side.
"Well, you see," said he, in a softer voice, "a man is bound to
consider his own interests to that extent at least--so far as doing his
work honestly is concerned. I consider a man a thief who doesn't do
what he has to do to the best of his lights."
"I quite understand that," answered I. "I quite understand that it
would be more comfortable for you to go away."
"I should be very sorry to go away," replied he, simply. "I like the
place, and I like the work, and I like the people."
"Then why do you go?" asked I, bluntly.
"A man must have his convictions," repeated he, doggedly.
I looked up at him now.
"Yes," I said, firmly. "Father has his convictions too. They are not
your convictions, but he cares just as much about them. You ought to
make allowances for that."
"I make every allowance for it," answered he; "only, I don't see how
the two lots can mix together."
"You said just now that a man must do his work his own way, or not at
all," I went on, without heeding him. "But I don't see that."
This time Mr. Harrod did more than smile, he laughed outright. I
suppose even in the short time that we had been friends he had learned
to know me well enough to see something amusing in my finding fault
with any one for obstinacy. But I was not annoyed with the laugh; on
the contrary, it restored my good-temper.
"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't go a little way to meet father,"
insisted I, boldly. "Of course he won't give in to you about
everything; it isn't likely he should. But you might do a great many
things that he wouldn't mind, which would make the farm better; and
then, when he saw they made it better, and that the laborers went on
just as well, maybe he would let you do a few more. I can't discuss
it," added I, seeing that Harrod was about to speak, "because I can't
understand it. But I see one thing plain, and that is that folk think
the farm wants doing something with that father doesn't do--and if so,
you're the man to do it."
I paused. Had I not followed the squire's instructions well? Had I not
done my very best to "smooth over difficulties?"
"I don't think that I am the only man who could do it, by any means,"
answered Harrod. But he said it doubtfully--pleasantly doubtfully.
It made me bold to retort with greater determination: "Well, _I_ think
so, then. And if you say you are comfortable here, if you say you like
the place--and the people," added I, hurriedly, "why don't you try, at
least, to stay on and help us?"
He did not reply. We stood there what must have been a considerable
time looking before us silently. The wane of the day had fallen into
dusk, the brown had settled into gray, now that the gold of the sunset
reflections had faded; the marsh-land was very still and sweet, the
sheep were not even white blots upon it, so entirely did the tender
pall harmonize all degrees of hue, so that the kine seemed no longer as
living beings, but as mysterious shapes bred of the very land itself;
even the old castle, so grand and solid in the day-time, was now like
some phantom thing in the solitude--every curve and every circle
defined more clearly than in sunlight, yet the whole transparent in the
transparent gloaming of the air.
The most solid thing in all this varied uniformity, this intangible
harmony, was a clump of trees in the near distance that told a shade
blacker than anything else; for the turrets of the distant town lay
only as a faint mass of purple upon the land, the little lights that
twinkled in it here and there alone betraying its nature; long, living
lines of strange clouds, that were neither violet nor gray nor white,
lay along the blue where sea and sky were one.
"Before you came," said I, at last, in a low voice, "I used to think
that I could help father as well as any _man_. I thought that I
understood very nearly as much about farming as he did. I thought I
could do much better than a stranger, who would not understand the land
or the people. But now I think differently. I see how much more you
know than I had dreamed of. You have made me feel very foolish."
"I am sorry for that," said he. "It was far from my intentions--very
far from my thoughts."
He said no more, neither did I. Perhaps, to tell the truth, I was
half sorry for what I had said, half ashamed of even feeling my
inferiority, more than half ashamed of having confessed it to any one.
Ashamed, sorry--and yet--
Mother called us to go in-doors.
"If your father asks me to remain, I will remain, and do my best," said
Trayton Harrod, as we walked slowly up the lawn.
And the glow that was upon my heart deepened. It was a concession, and
wherefore was it made?