Mother never scolded me at all for my adventure, and of course I was
much more sorry than I should have been if she had done so.
As I stood there in the cool, gray dawn, with my wet habit, the
dew-drops still standing on the curls of my red hair, my face--I make
no doubt--pale with distress, and my gray eyes at their darkest from
the same cause, I suppose I looked rather a sorry spectacle, and one
that melted her heart; anyhow, I know that she put her arm round me and
gave me a hasty kiss before she pushed me forward to meet father. For
a moment I felt something rise in my throat, and I suppose I ought by
rights to have cried. But I did not cry; I was too happy in spite of
it all, and luckily neither father nor mother was of those people who
expect one to cry because one is sorry.
As I have said, they neither of them said a word of rebuke. I gave my
explanation, and it was accepted; father only declared that it was a
very good thing Trayton Harrod had met me when he did; and mother only
remarked that "least said soonest mended." I suppose they were both
glad to have me safe home. And that drive with father's bailiff, which
had meant so much to me, was thus buried in sacred silence.
It was the day that Joyce was to come home. As I dressed myself again
after the couple of hours' sleep, which I could not manage to do
without, I remembered that it was the day for Joyce to come home. How
was it that I had not thought of it? How was it that I had not thought
of it all yesterday, nor for many yesterdays before it?
I was conscious that even my letters to my sister had been fewer and
more hurried than they were at the beginning of her absence. I was
angry with myself for it, for I would not have believed that any
length of absence could have made her anything but the first person
of importance in my life. But of course now that she was home again,
everything would be as before.
I felt very happy to think that I was to see her again. I begged the
gig to go down to the station and meet her myself. The mare was used to
me now, so that even Joyce would not be nervous. Her face lit up with
her own quiet smile as she saw me, breaking the curves of the sweet
mouth, and depressing, ever so little, that short upper lip of hers,
that always looked as if it had been pinched into its pretty pout. She
looked handsomer than ever; I don't know whether it was because it was
so long since I had seen her, but I thought she was far more beautiful
than I had ever imagined. I pitied poor Frank more than ever for having
to wait so long for a sight of her.
"Why, Meg," said she, as she came out with all her little parcels, "how
tanned you are! I declare your hair and your face are just upon one
color."
I laughed aloud merrily.
"Well, if my face is the color of my hair, it must be flame indeed,"
I cried. "But I've been out haymaking, you see, all the time that
you, lazy thing, have been getting a white skin cooped up in a London
parlor. Oh, my dear! I wouldn't have been you."
"No, you wouldn't have liked it," answered she. "I was pleased to be of
use to poor old aunt, but it was rather dull, and I must say I'm glad
to be home."
"Everybody has missed you dreadfully," said I. "As for mother and Deb,
they can't tell me often enough that I can't hold a candle to you."
"Oh, what nonsense, Meg!" murmured she. "You know well enough they
don't mean it."
"My dear, I don't mind," cried I. "I know it well enough, and I can do
my own bit of work in my own way all the same. But mother has missed
you and no mistake," added I, "though as likely as not she won't let
you guess it. She wanted you home long ago, only then Captain Forrester
came down again."
A troubled shade came over Joyce's face, as I had noticed it come once
or twice before, at mention of her lover's name.
"He came down for a few days a week ago, you know," I added. "I told
you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had even remembered
to give that great piece of news.
"Oh yes, you told me," replied Joyce, in a slow voice.
"He inquired a great deal after you, of course," I went on. "He asked
me to give you a great many messages."
She did not answer. A blush had crept up on her dainty cheek, as it
was so apt to do. But we had reached the hill, and I jumped down and
walked up it, giving her the reins to hold. And when we got to the top,
Deborah was there hanging clothes in the back garden ready to catch the
first sight of us along the road, and Reuben at the gate looking half
asleep because he had been out the best part of the night with Jack
Barnstaple, looking for me in the fog. There was no time for any more
private talk.
Mother, it is true, did not come to the gate, that not being her way,
and when we got inside, you might have thought Joyce had been no
farther than to market from the way in which she received her; but that
meant nothing, it was only Maliphant manners, and father said no more
than, "You're looking hearty, child," before he took me away to write
out his prospectus for him because his hand was stiff.
It was not till late in the evening that I got time to have a chat with
Joyce in the dear old attic bedroom that she and I had always shared,
and I was anxious for a chat. She had brought back two new gowns for
us, and apart from all I had to say to her, I wanted to see the new
gowns. I had never cared for clothes till quite lately; I used to be
rather ashamed of a new frock, as though folk must think me a fool for
wearing it, and had been altogether painfully wanting in the innocent
vanity which is supposed to be one of a young girl's charms. But lately
it had been different. I wanted to look nice, and I had my own ideas of
how that was to be achieved. Alas! when I saw the gowns, I knew that
they did not meet my views.
Joyce was settling her things--laying aside her few laces and ribbons
with tender care; she opened the heavy old oak press and took out the
gowns with pride. I think that she was so busy shaking them out that
she did not see my face; I hope so, for I know it fell. The gowns were
pale blue merino, the very thing for her dainty loveliness, but not, I
felt instinctively, the thing for a rough, ruddy colt like me.
"Won't they spot?" said I, diffidently.
"That's what mother said," replied she, a little sadly; "but, dear me,
they're our only best frocks; we sha'n't wear them o' bad weather."
I am so glad I said no more, for she had brought me a book from
London--it was a novel by a famous author of whom we had heard; the
author was a woman, and I had expressed a great wish to read it in
consequence. I was very pleased to think that Joyce should have
remembered it. I recollect that I kissed her for it, and I thought no
more about the frocks, I only felt that it was nice to have sister
home. I had not known until now how much I had missed her.
"I wonder how we shall all get on when you go away for good and marry
that young man of yours?" said I. "It don't seem as if the place were
itself somehow when you are not there."
"Time enough to think of that when the day comes," answered Joyce, I
thought a trifle sadly.
"Well, yes, maybe," said I, doubtfully; "and yet it isn't so very far
off, you know. And if only you had a little more determination in you
it might be a great deal nearer."
"You seem to be very anxious to get rid of me just as soon as you
have got me home," said she, with just the merest tone of wounded
sensibility in her voice.
Of course I laughed at that--it wasn't really worth answering. But I
could have said that since three weeks ago, I had learned that which
made me think it harder than ever that Joyce should be separated from
the man she loved. I had not thought much of her or her concerns of
late, but now that she was close to me I felt very sorry for her.
When Joyce had gone away I had been conscious of a curious feeling of
inferiority with regard to her as though she knew some secret which was
to me sealed, but now--now I felt that there was a rent in the cloud
that divided us; I felt that I could look into her world, I felt that
I was on her level. And it was only with a more delicate feeling of
sympathy than formerly that I began to give her some of the messages
with which Frank had intrusted me.
I could not exactly pretend that he had looked very miserable, but I
could assure her of his continued ardent devotion to her, and this I
did most fervently. Somehow, when I had entered upon this task I began
to feel that it was rather a queer compliment to assure a girl that her
lover was not forgetting her, and I asked myself why I felt obliged to
do it.
She listened quietly to all that I repeated to her of the short
interview, but when I began to speak of my endeavors to induce mother
to cut the term of the engagement short, she interrupted me with that
serene air of determination which I knew there was no gainsaying.
"Meg," she said, "I want you never to do that again. I want you to
understand once and for all that if things don't come naturally, it's
because I believe that they oughtn't to come at all. If Frank cares for
me as he says, he will care for me just as much at the end of a year,
and I had rather wait and see."
I looked at her open-mouthed.
"I think you're a queer girl," I said at last. "I shouldn't have
thought you wanted to punish yourself for the sake of putting a man to
a test. But I suppose I don't understand. That's the sort of way mother
talks, and I know it's very wise, and all that; but, dear me, I think
it's all stuff wanting to sit down and wait till the wave comes over
you. I'm sure that if _I_ wanted a thing very badly I should love to
fight for it--I should _have_ to fight for it."
Joyce sighed a little sigh, and sat down by the window, looking out
into the deepening twilight.
It was close upon midsummer, and the evenings were exquisitely long and
luminous, the twilight stretching almost across to the dawn. After the
heat of the day, lovely soft gray mists rose in transparent sheets off
the marsh below us, and floated upward towards the hill. It was not a
thick fog, as it had been the night before, but just a ghostly veil
thrown across the land, above which lights twinkled amid dark houses on
the distant hill. There was not a breath of wind, and in the silence
the lapping of the sea came faintly to our ear. Joyce looked out into
the mist.
"Of course," continued I after a while, "I'm not engaged to a man, and
so I don't know what I should do if I were."
"I think you would do what you do in other matters," answered Joyce. "I
think you would try very hard to get your own way. But then you and I
are not alike."
No, we were not alike, I felt that. And I supposed that my sister was
right, and that the only difference lay in my being more obstinate.
"I don't think that a woman ought to fight to have her own way," added
she, in a low voice.
I considered a moment before I understood what she meant. "Do you mean
to say that if any one fights, it ought to be the man?" asked I. "Well,
you _are_ an unreasonable girl! Good gracious me! When Frank lifts a
finger you are angry with him."
Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below.
"I don't think you know _what_ you mean nor _what_ you want," added I,
impatiently.
Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I know
that it will be all as it is ordained."
When Joyce talked about things being as they were ordained, it always
put me in a horrible temper; and it was either this or some little
feeling of awkwardness in my mind about Harrod which made me reply very
shortly when she began asking me presently about the new bailiff.
From some motive entirely incomprehensible to myself, there arose
within me a sudden dislike to the idea that Joyce should guess at my
liking for him. And so when she asked what he was like, I replied,
gruffly, "Oh, like many other men--plain and very obstinate."
This was true, but the impression that I gave in saying it was false;
I knew that perfectly well, but I was too proud to change it, although
in my heart I felt ashamed that I should be guilty of any sort of
deception towards my dear, simple Joyce, and when I was really so glad
to have her back again.
She looked distressed for a moment, but then she brightened up and
said, gayly, "Well, many a good-fellow is plain, and as for being
obstinate, that should be to your liking."
"So it is," said I. "Of course."
"I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate with
father."
I laughed. "Oh, birds of a feather, you know," said I. "We're all
obstinate together. But we none of us waste words, so we get on
first-rate."
Joyce sighed a little. "Mother said what a good-fellow he was, but
father wouldn't say a word about him to me," she said. "Of course he
never does. But I don't think he's looking well. He has aged so of
late."
I looked at her defiantly. So many people had said the same thing
during the last few months.
"Good gracious, Joyce!" I cried. "You're always saying that. Father's
hale and hearty enough. Folk are bound to grow older. And I can tell
you one thing, he's not half so touchy as he was. He and squire haven't
had more than two rows since you left. That's a very good sign."
"Yes, I _am_ glad of that," agreed Joyce. "The squire's too good a
friend to quarrel with. And though of course I know the quarrels never
meant anything, they used to make me uncomfortable, Meg, and worse
than ever when you used to follow father's way. It didn't seem pretty
in one of us girls, dear. Something's good for mere manners. We don't
think enough of them."
I was silent. My manners were certainly of the worst when my heart
did not go with them. But I was conscious that I was not quite the
same girl as I had been when my sister left. Even to the squire I was
different; since his talk to me on the garden terrace I had felt no
inclination to be anything but gentle to him.
"Of course, if father quarrels with the bailiff it's as bad for his
own health as if he quarrelled with the squire," went on my sister,
concernedly.
"Why, dear me, Joyce, who said he quarrelled with him?" cried I.
"I only said they were both obstinate. Father wouldn't think of
quarrelling with his bailiff."
I took off my dress and hung it up, and shook out my red mop of hair
before I said another word.
Then I added, "And I think Mr. Harrod is very considerate towards
father. He's far too good a fellow not to be respectful to an old man."
I felt bound to say that much for honesty.
"Well, then, you do like him?" cried Joyce.
"Who said I didn't?" answered I. "He's a downright honest fellow, with
no nonsense about him."
It wasn't quite what I felt about Trayton Harrod, but it was as near as
I could get to the truth, and it seemed to give Joyce some idea of my
liking him, for she turned round with a brightened face, and laid her
hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, Meg, you can't think how pleased you make me by saying that," she
murmured, softly; "I have been afraid you would just set your face
against the poor man out of mere obstinacy, and make things unpleasant
for everybody. You do sometimes, you know. And when you never mentioned
him in your letters, I made sure that was the reason. I thought you
were just making yourself as disagreeable as ever you could to show you
hated his coming to Knellestone."
"Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch," laughed I,
awkwardly.
"You _are_ tetchy when you have a mind to be, you know, though you can
be so bright when you're pleased that one's forced to love you. That's
just the pity."
"Well, of course, I _did_ hate a bailiff coming to Knellestone,"
answered I; "but now that I see how much cleverer he is about farming
than we are, I'm pleased."
"I see," said Joyce. "Then he _is_ clever?"
"Oh yes," answered I. "He's clever."
Joyce paused.
"Well, then," she said, diffidently, "I hope before long you'll be real
good friends. I have often thought, Meg, that the folk here aren't
bright enough for you. I believe if you weren't set down in a country
village you'd be a real clever girl."
I laughed, not ill pleased.
"Oh no, Joyce," said I. "I expect what you and I think clever wouldn't
really be so."
"I know more than you think," said Joyce, sagely, nodding her pretty
head with an authoritative air. "I don't mean book-learning clever, I
mean mother-wit. And do you know, Meg, I do so hope that Mr. Harrod
being here may make a difference to you! But you don't seem to have
seen much of him yet."
"Oh yes," said I, evasively. "He comes in to supper most nights; and of
course one meets out-doors now and then in a country place."
"Well," concluded Joyce, with a sort of air of resignation, "of course
it wasn't to be expected you'd be great friends just at once. It's a
great deal to be thankful for you don't quarrel."
"Oh no," said I; "we don't quarrel."
And then we both said our prayers and got into bed.
But for a long while I lay awake thinking--wondering why I had
pretended that I did not like the new bailiff, and whether I really was
a clever girl; and--shall I confess it?--hoping a little that the pale
blue dress would become me. And then, as I fell asleep and far into my
dreams, the memory of my ride with Trayton Harrod shone through the
mist, and I thought again of that bar of silver promise across the dawn
beyond which I had not been able to see.