Two whole days passed without Mr. Harrod coming to the Grange. I dare
say nobody else noticed it; I dare say _I_ should not have noticed it
if--if I had not thought that he would come to inquire how I did after
our adventure. I was always supposed to resent being asked how I did:
and here I was, quite hurt because a young man whom I had known not
three months had omitted to do so.
I took covert means of finding out that father and Reuben had seen him,
and that he was well; and I am quite sure that I blushed with pleasure
when, on the morning of the third day, mother said that she was certain
the white curtains at "The Elms" must be getting soiled, and suggested
that I should carry up a new pair. Harrod was becoming quite a favorite
with her, or she would never have taken so much trouble for his
comforts--it was no necessary duty on her part. I blushed, but I did
not think that any one had noticed it.
When mother had left the kitchen, however, with the key of the linen
press, I saw that two little black eyes were fixed on me with a merry
twinkle. They made me angry for a moment, I don't know why; but it was
a shame to be angry with old Deb, especially when her dear old red face
was so kindly and affectionate: it was not always wont to be so.
"Well, well, I'm glad to see folk are for forgiving that poor young man
for being bailiff at Knellestone," said she, with good-humored banter.
"When I see'd what a fine masterful chap it were, I had my doubts it ud
end that way."
"What way, if you please?" asked I, haughtily.
Deborah laughed. "What do you say, Joyce?" said she, turning to my
sister, who was intent upon some one of the household duties that she
was so glad to be back at. "They aren't quite so hard on the young man
as they were for going to be, are they?"
"I don't quite understand," said Joyce, with perfectly genuine
innocence. "Why should mother be hard upon him? It isn't his fault if
he's father's bailiff. Besides, I'm sure mother sees how useful he is
to father."
Deb laughed louder than ever. "There, bless you, my dear," said she;
"you never could see round a corner; but you've more common-sense than
the lot of 'em. Why should folk owe the man a grudge, to be sure? All
the same, your mother'll spoil him afore she's done with him. Curtains,
indeed! I never knowed a bailiff as needed 'em before."
Mother came back at that moment with the things, and I hastened to beg
Joyce to accompany me up to "The Elms" after dinner. Somehow, although
in my heart I knew that I was longing to see Trayton Harrod again, a
sudden shyness had come over me at the thought of meeting him, and I
wanted Joyce to be there.
Joyce, however, would not come; she begged off on the score of many
household jobs that had got behind-hand in her absence, and mother
said that I might just as well go alone and get the thing done with
Dorcas's help, for that of course the bailiff was sure to be out at
that time of day.
So alone I was forced to go. Most likely, as mother said, Mr. Harrod
would be out; but I took Taff with me--a dog was better than most
human beings; and with Taff at my heels I felt my self-consciousness
evaporate.
I crossed the lane and skirted the brow of the hill behind the
pine-tree lane; the mill-arms faced the village with a west wind,
but the breeze had dropped since morning, and the air was heavy and
thunderous. I thought I would go round by the new reservoir and see how
the work was getting on. Mr. Harrod would very likely be there: it was
that one among his new ventures about which at the moment he was the
most excited, and the pipes were just about to be laid; even if I met
him he was not obliged to know that I was going to "The Elms."
My heart began to beat a little as I drew near the group, but the
bailiff was not there; only old Luck, the sheep-dog, ambled towards me
wagging his tail, and I knew that Reuben could not be far off. Sure
enough, there he was among the men, who were just leaving off work,
talking to Jack Barnstaple.
"I want to know whatever he needs to come stuffing his new-fangled
notions down folk's throats as have thriven on the old ones all their
lives?" the latter was saying. "We don't understand such things
hereabouts. We haven't been so well brought up. He'd best let us alone."
"Yes, I telled him so," said Reuben, sagely, shaking his stately white
head, that looked for all the world like parson's when he had his hat
off; "but these young folk they must always be thinking they knows
better than them as has a life's experience. But look 'ere, lads, we
hain't been educated at the Agricultural College at Ashford, ye know."
"Blow the Agricultural College," muttered Jack Barnstaple.
"Yes; and so he'll say when he finds out he's none so sure about these
Golding 'ops. And so master'll say when he finds as he's dropped all
his money over pipes and wells as was never meant to answer."
"What do you mean by that, Reuben?" said I, coming up behind him. And
I am sure that my cheeks were red, and my eyes black, as father would
declare they were when the devil got into me. "What was never meant to
answer?"
Reuben looked crestfallen, for of course I know he had not expected me
to be within hearing, and the other men began to pack up their tools
for going home.
"Well, miss, it don't stand to reason that a man can expect water to go
uphill to please him," said Reuben, with a grim smile.
"Water finds its own level, Reuben," explained I, sagaciously; "Mr.
Harrod told me that, and father said so too. The spring is on yonder
hill, and if the pipes are laid through the valley to this hill, the
water is bound to come to the same level."
I saw smiles upon the men's faces, and Reuben shook his head.
"There's nothing will bring water uphill saving a pump, miss," said
Jack Barnstaple, gloomily. He always said everything gloomily--it was a
way he had.
"Nay," added Reuben, looking at me with those pathetic eyes of his that
seemed to say so much that he can never have intended; "it may be a man
or it may be a beast, but some one has got to draw the water uphill
afore it'll come. It may run down yonder hill, but it won't run up this
un of its own self. 'Tain't in nature."
"Well, Reuben, I advise you to keep to talking of what you can
understand," said I, crossly. "I should have thought you would have had
sense enough to know that Mr. Harrod must needs know better than you."
A faint provoking smile spread over Reuben's lips. "Young folk holds
together," said he, laconically. "'Tis in nature."
I flashed an angry glance at the old man, but I saw a lurking
smile--for the first time in my experience--on the face of stolid Jack
Barnstaple, who had lingered behind the others. My face went red, as
red as my red hair, and I stooped down to caress the dog. What did the
man mean? what had Deb meant that morning in the kitchen? But I raised
my head defiantly.
"Well, I think you had just best all of you wait and see," said I,
severely. "You'll feel great fools when you find you have made a
mistake."
I was alluding to the water scheme; but it struck me afterwards that
the men might have misunderstood me. But it was too late to correct the
mistake, and without another word I ran down the hill to the path that
led to "The Elms."
My cheeks were hot with the consciousness that I had a secret that
could be guessed even by Reuben Ruck; the consciousness made my heart
beat again very fast; but it need not have done so: as was to have been
expected, Mr. Harrod was not at home.
Dorcas and I put up the curtains together, and then I was left alone in
the little parlor while she went to make me a cup of tea. It was the
first time I had been alone in that room--his room.
A bare, comfortless, countryman's and bachelor's room, but more
interesting to me than the daintiest lady's parlor. By the empty
hearth the high-backed wooden chair in which he sat; beside the wide
old-fashioned grate the hob upon which sang the kettle for his lonely
breakfast; in the centre of the rough brick floor the large square
oaken table at which he ate; on the high chimney-piece the pipes that
he smoked, the tobacco-jar from which he filled them, a revolver, and
an almanac; on the walls two water-color drawings, one representing
an old gentleman in an arm-chair, the other the outside of a country
house overgrown with wistaria; standing in the corner a handsome
fowling-piece, which I had seen him carry; in the bookshelf between the
windows the books that he read.
I wandered up and looked at them: a curious assemblage of shabby
volumes, although at that time they embodied to me all that was highest
in culture. That was ten years ago, and I was in love. Had it not been
so I might have remembered that father's library was at least as good.
Milton, a twelve-volumed edition of Shakespeare, a Bible, a Pilgrim's
Progress, a volume of Cowper's Poems, a volume of Percy's Reliques,
Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Sir Walter
Scott's Novels, Byron, Burns, some odd volumes of Dickens, and then
books on Agriculture, the authors and their titles strange to me; this
is all I remember. A mixed collection--probably the result of several
generations, but not a bad one if Trayton Harrod read it all and read
it well.
I looked at it sadly. Save the Walter Scott Novels, the Burns Poems,
the Bible, and the Pilgrim's Progress, I knew none of them excepting
by name, and not all of them even then. I felt very ignorant and very
much ashamed of myself; for I never doubted that Harrod read and knew
all these books, and how could a man who knew so much have anything in
common with a girl who knew so little? I resolved to read, to learn, to
grow clever. Joyce had said that I was clever, Joyce might know; why
not?
I took the volume of Milton down and sat upon the low window-seat
reading it. It was rather dreadful to be immediately confronted with
Satan as an orator, for I had never been used to consider him as a
personage, but rather as a grim embodiment of evil too horrible to be
named aloud. But the rich and sonorous flow of the splendid verse
fascinated me and I read on, although I didn't understand much that I
read.
My thoughts wandered often to notice that the square of carpet was
threadbare, and that I must persuade mother to get a new one; or to
gaze out of the window upon the sloping bosom of the downs whereon this
house stood lonely--a mark for all the winds of heaven; in the serene
solitude the sleepy sheep strayed idly--cropping as they went--white
blots upon the yellow pastures. And all the while I was listening for a
footstep that I feared yet hoped would come, longing to be away and yet
incapable of the determination which should take me from that chance of
a possible meeting. But, long as I have taken to tell it, the time that
I waited was not ten minutes before a heavy foot made the boards creak
in the passage and a hand was on the door-knob. I started up, my cheeks
aflame--the volume of Milton on the floor. But when the door opened it
was Squire Broderick who stood in the opening. I don't think the red
in my face faded, for I was vexed that he should see me there, and I
fancied that he looked surprised.
"Oh, do you know if Harrod is at home?" asked he.
"No, he's not," answered I, glancing up at the clean windows; "and I've
been putting up fresh curtains meanwhile."
"They look delicious," said the squire, with a little awkward laugh,
not quite so hearty as usual. "What care you take of him!"
"Mother is a dreadful fidget, you know," murmured I.
"And at the same time you took a turn at Harrod's library," smiled he,
picking up the volume which lay near my foot. "Milton! Rather a heavy
order for a child like you, isn't it?"
I flushed up angrily. A child!
"Do you understand it?" asked he.
I struggled for a moment between pride and truthfulness. "No," said I,
"not all. Do you?"
He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being cross.
"Come, I'm not going to confess my ignorance to you," he laughed. "I'm
too old;" and he took hold of my arm to help it into the sleeve of my
jacket, which I was trying to put on.
But at that moment Dorcas brought in the tea, and of course I was
obliged to stay and have some, and even to hand a cup to the squire to
please her; country-folk stand on ceremony over such things, and I did
not want to offend Dorcas.
"You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you?" said I, for want
of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She looks
better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks."
"I am glad of that," said he, glancing at me, although of course
he must have been thinking of sister; "they're the only ones worth
having." And then, although he promised to come in and welcome her
home, he went back to our first subject of talk.
"As you're so fond of reading, you ought to get hold of a bit of
Shakespeare," said he.
"Should I like that?" asked I. "I like poetry when it sounds nice, but
I like the Waverley novels best."
"But Shakespeare is novel and poetry too," said the squire. "I'm no
great reader of anything but the news myself, but I like my Shakespeare
now and again."
"Father keeps all those nice bound books in the glass-case," said I,
"and I don't believe mother would let _me_ have them."
The squire laughed. "Your mother thinks girls have something better to
do than to read books," smiled he. "Reading is for lonely bachelors
like Trayton Harrod."
"He's no more lonely than you are, Mr. Broderick," said I, "and yet you
always seem to be quite happy."
He did not answer, and I was sorry for my thoughtless words,
remembering that brief episode in his life when he had not been lonely.
"So you think I am always quite happy?" said he at last.
I blushed. Somehow the question was of a more intimate kind than the
squire had ever addressed to me before, for although he had spoken
familiarly to me on my own account, he had never allowed me to know any
feeling of his own. I was afraid he must be going to speak to me about
Joyce.
"Oh yes," I replied, lightly; "I think you're one of the jolliest
people I know."
"Well, you're right, so I am," said he, gayly; "and I'm blessed in
having rare good friends. But it does sometimes occur to me to think
that I am pretty well alone in the world, Miss Margaret."
He looked round at me in his frank way, but I noticed that the hand
which held his stout walking-stick trembled a little. I blushed again.
It was very unusual for me, but he made me feel uncomfortable; I did
not want him to tell me of his love for my sister, for I felt that
if he did I _must_ tell him of her secret engagement to his nephew,
and that would be breaking my promise to my parents. Suddenly an idea
struck me; I thought I would take the bull by the horns.
"You should marry," said I, boldly.
He looked at me in blank astonishment.
"Of course," added I, "there's no one hereabouts that would be good
enough for you--unless it might be Mary Thorne, and she is only a
manufacturer's daughter. You must have a real lady, of course. You
should go and spend a bit of time up in London, and bring back a nice
wife with you. Wouldn't it brighten up the country-side!"
I marvel at myself for my boldness; I, scarcely more than a child, as
he had said, to a man so much older than myself! But the squire did not
seem in the least offended, only he looked very grave.
"You don't approve of people not marrying in what is called their own
rank of life, I see," he said presently, with a twinkle of humor in his
eye.
"No," said I, gravely; "I agree with father."
"Ah!" said the squire, with the air of a man who is getting proof of
something that he has affirmed. "I told Frank so the other day. As a
rule, the farmer class consider it just as great a disadvantage to mate
with us as we do to mate with them."
I bit my lip. So he did consider it a falling down for a gentleman to
marry a farmer's daughter! Well, let him just keep himself to himself,
then. But what business had he to go meddling with Frank's opinions? I
was very angry with him.
"I think you're quite right," I said, shortly. "They do."
"It takes a very great attachment to bridge over the ditch," said he,
meditatively.
There came a time when I remembered those words of his, but at the
moment I scarcely noticed them. I thought I heard a footstep on the
gravel without, and my fear of being surprised by the master of the
house came back stronger than ever, because of the presence of the
squire.
"I must be getting home now," said I, hastily. "I'm afraid there's a
storm coming up;" and even as I spoke, a deep, low growl echoed round
the hills.
The squire fully agreed that there was no time to be lost if one
did not want to get a drenching, and on the slope outside we parted
company, he promising once more to come up in the evening and see Joyce.
The bailiff was not within sight. I had got over my visit quite safely;
but, alas! I am not sure that I was relieved. I walked homeward as fast
as I could, for heavy drops had begun to fall, and flashes of light
rent the purple horizon. The sun had set, leaving a dull red lake of
fire in the cleft, as it were, of two purple-black cloud-mountains;
above the lake a tongue of cloud, lurid with the after-glow, swooped
like a vulture upon the land, where every shape of hill and homestead
and church-spire lay clearly defined, and yet all covered as if with a
pall of deathly gloom.
The storm advanced with terrible swiftness. By the time I had crossed
the hop-gardens and was climbing the opposite lane, it had burst with
all its strength, and was tearing the sky with seams of fire, and
emptying spouts of rain upon the land. I was not afraid of a storm, but
certainly I had never seen a fiercer one.
I ran on, forgetful for the moment of everything but the desire to be
home, and thus it was that I did not notice footsteps behind until they
were alongside of me, and Mr. Harrod's voice was saying, almost in my
ear, "Miss Maliphant!"
The voice made me start, but the tone of it sent a thrill through me.
"I should have thought that one piece of foolhardiness was enough for
one week," added he, with a certain look of feeling, veiled under
roughness, that always seemed to me to transform his face.
"I took no harm from the other night," said I.
"Well, you may thank your stars that you didn't," answered he; "and you
certainly will get wet through now."
I laughed contentedly. "_That_ won't hurt me," I said. "I've been up at
'The Elms' to put up fresh curtains." I hadn't meant to tell him, but a
sudden spirit of mischief, and I don't know what sort of desire to know
the effect of the speech on him, prompted me.
"To 'The Elms!'" cried he, in a disappointed tone. And then, in a lower
voice, "To put up the curtains for me."
"Yes," answered I, demurely, "mother sent me?"
What he would have answered to that I don't know; for at that moment
the sky seemed suddenly to open and to be the mouth of a flaming
furnace full of fire, far into the depths of the heavens; it was the
hour that should have been twilight, but it was dark, save when that
great sheet of blue light wrapped the marsh in splendor; then the brown
and white cattle huddled in groups on the pastures, the heavy gray
citadel on the plain, the wide stretch of sea that, save for the white
plumes of its waves, was ink beyond the brown of its shallows, the wide
stretch of monotonous level land, the rising hill, with the old city
gate close before is--all was suddenly revealed in one vivid panorama
and faded again into mystery. The thunder followed close upon the
lightning--a deafening crash overhead.
"By Jove!" said Harrod. "That's close. I hope you're not frightened of
a storm."
"Frightened!" repeated I, scornfully.
"Some girls are," said he, half apologetically, looking at me with
admiration.
"Not I, though," I laughed.
But as I spoke my heart stood still. We had climbed the hill and had
reached a spot where the trees overshadowed the road, nearly meeting
overhead; a fiery fork crossed the white path in front of us, there was
a kind of crackle in the wood, and a blue flame seemed to dart out of
the branch of an elm close at hand.
"Great God!" ejaculated Trayton Harrod under his breath, and he flung
his arm around me and dragged me to the other side of the path.
I had said an instant before that I was not frightened, and I had
spoken the truth; but if I had said now that I was not frightened it
would have been because the sweet sense of protecting strength, which
this danger had called forth, had brought with it a happiness stronger
than fear.
"Can you run?" said he. "We must get away from these trees."
I could not speak, something was in my throat, but I obeyed him. We
ran till we reached the abbey, where it stood in the great open space
of its own graveyard, and there we drew aside under the shadow of the
eastern buttress, protected a little by the projecting arch.
"You're wet through," said he, laying his hand upon my arm.
I laughed again, not in the sort of exultant way I had laughed when he
had asked me if I was afraid of lightning, but in a low, foolish kind
of fashion.
"It won't hurt me," murmured I. "Nothing hurts me. I'm so strong."
"Oh yes, you're the right sort, I know," said he; "but all the same,
you ought to have stayed at 'The Elms' till it was over. If I had been
there I should have made you stay."
How angry those words would have made me a week ago! But now they
thrilled me with delight, and with that same tender fear and longing
of fresh experience that had haunted me ever since the night upon the
garden cliff. Could he really have "made" me do anything?
"I shouldn't have stopped," I said; "no, not for any one. I'm not
afraid of a storm." But I think there was very little of my old
defiance in the tone. He laughed gently, and I added, "I don't see any
use in waiting here."
I advanced forward into the open, but as I did so a fresh flash rent
the clouds and illumined the ground all about us, revealing darkest
corners in its searching light. He took me by the hand and drew me once
more into the shadow--not only into the shadow of the buttress this
time, but of the ruined roof of a transept, where only the lightning
could have discovered us.
"Not yet," he said, gently; and although there was no need for it, he
still held my hand in his.
My foolish heart began to beat wildly. What did it mean? Was that
coming to pass about which I had wondered sometimes of late? I wanted
to get away, and yet I could not have moved for worlds. I waited with
my heart beating against my side.
But he did not speak, he only held my hand in his firmly, and I felt as
though his eyes were upon me in the dark. I may have been wrong, but I
felt as though his eyes were upon me.
All at once in the ivied wall above our heads an owl shrieked. We
started asunder, and I felt almost as though I must have been doing
something wrong, so hard did my heart thump against my side.
"Fancy that poor old barn-owl being able to frighten two sensible
people," laughed Trayton Harrod. "But upon my word I never heard him
make such a noise before."
I made no reply. I came out once more into the path, and, turning, held
out my hand.
"The storm is over," I said. "Good-night."
"Oh, I must see you home," said he. "It's getting quite dark."
He walked forward with me, but the spell was broken, only my heart
still beat against my side.
"You'll come in to supper?" said I, when we reached the gate. I felt
myself speaking as one in a dream. The only thing that I was conscious
of was a strange and foolish longing that he should not go away from me.
He did not answer for a moment, but then he said: "I'm afraid I
mustn't. I'm drenched through; I shouldn't be presentable."
I had forgotten it; we were, in truth, neither of us presentable.
"Well, you must come to-morrow," said I, in as matter-of-fact a tone as
I could muster. "Mother expects you, and my sister is home now."
He stepped forward in front of me and opened the front door, which
always stood on the latch. The brightness from within dazzled me for a
moment as he stood aside to let me pass, and there in the brightness
stood Joyce.
How well I remember it! She had on a soft white muslin dress, that
fell in straight, soft folds to her feet, and made her look very tall
and slender, very fair and white. The light from the lamp fell down on
her shining golden hair; her blue eyes were just raised under the dark
lashes, gentle and serene. Suddenly, for the first time in my life,
there flashed upon me a sense of the contrast between myself and her.
I stood there an instant in my dripping old brown frock looking at her.
Then I turned round to introduce Mr. Harrod. But the house door had
closed behind me again. He was gone.