Trayton Harrod did come to supper the next day.
I remember that mother upbraided him for having been so many days
absent, and that he made some kind of an excuse for himself; and I
remember that I blushed as he made it, and felt quite awkward when he
shook hands with me and asked if I had taken any cold of the night
before. But I was happy--very, very happy. I was happy even in fancying
that I saw a certain self-consciousness in him also, in the persistence
with which he talked to mother, and in something that crossed his face
when our eyes met, which was almost as often as his were not fixed on
Joyce, where she sat in her old place by the window.
Every one always was struck with Joyce at first, and I had been so
anxious that Harrod should duly admire her that I had purposely
refrained from saying much to raise his expectations, so that no doubt
his surprise was as great as his admiration; and I had never seen my
sister look handsomer than she did that night.
There was a little increased air of dignity about her since she had
been to London, and had been thrown a little more on her own resources,
which sat with a pretty style upon her serene and modest loveliness.
She looked people in the face as she never used to do, raising her eyes
without lifting that little head of hers that was always just slightly
bent, like some regal lily or drooping tulip. She talked a little more,
and she blushed seldomer.
She did not talk much to Mr. Harrod, but then he was very busy
explaining his scheme of water-supply to Mr. Hoad, who had dropped in
to supper. But she talked quite brightly to Squire Broderick when he
came, as he had promised, to bid her welcome home, and shone in her
very best light, just as I had wished she should shine--the beautiful
hostess of our home.
It was a happy evening, typical of our happy home-life, that, flecked
as it may have been by little troubles, as the summer sky is flecked
with clouds, was yet fair and warm as the bright July days that
followed one another so radiantly.
Ah me, how little I guessed that night that there were not many more
such happy family parties in store for us when we should sit around
that board united, and without a gap in the family circle! It is good
that we cannot see into the future. No gathering cloud disquieted me
that night; no fears for myself nor for any of those whom I loved; I
was absorbed in that one throbbing, all-engrossing dream which was
slowly beginning to fill my life.
Absorbed, yet not quite so much absorbed but that I could feel sorry
for my sister's sake that one who had been there was now absent: where
Frank Forrester had been Trayton Harrod now was. I could not honestly
say to myself that I wished it differently, but I was sorry for Joyce.
She, however, did not seem to be depressed, she was very bright; the
gladness she had in being at home again gave her beauty just that touch
of sparkle which it sometimes lacked.
It was a warm evening, and when supper was over we drew our chairs
around the low porch that led onto the lawn, and took our ease in the
half-light. It was very rarely that we sat thus idle, but sometimes,
of summer evenings, mother was fond of a bit of leisure herself, and
she never made us work when she was idle. The scent of the sweet-peas
and the roses came heavy upon the air; the dusk was still luminous with
lingering daylight, or with heralding a moon that had not yet risen.
"I hear you have got Southdowns into your flock, Harrod," said the
squire. "I hope you won't have any difficulty with them. I feel
confident they ought to do, but when I tried the experiment it
certainly failed."
"Perhaps they weren't carefully looked after," answered Harrod. "Of
course you have got to acclimatize animals just as well as people, and
the more carefully the more delicate they are."
"Ah, I dare say it may be a matter of management," agreed the squire.
"I hadn't a very good shepherd at the time."
"I don't leave it to a shepherd," said Harrod. "Shepherds are clever
enough, and there are plenty of things I learn from them and think no
shame of it; but they know only what experience has taught them, and
these shepherds have no experience of Southdowns. Besides, they are a
prejudiced lot, and they set their faces against new ventures."
The squire laughed, a laugh in which Mr. Hoad--subdued as he always was
by Mr. Broderick's presence--ventured to join.
"Yes, you're right there," he said. "You get it hot and strong, I dare
say, all round. They snigger at you pretty well in the village for this
water scheme of yours, I can tell you, Mr. Bailiff."
My cheek flamed, and Mr. Hoad went down one step lower still in my
estimation.
"I dare say," said Harrod, shortly, and he said it in a tone of voice
as much as to say, "and I don't care."
"But it's a very clever thing, isn't it?" asked dear old mother, in her
gentle voice. "I never could have believed such a thing was possible."
I could have said that Reuben declared it was not possible, but I would
not have told on Reuben for worlds.
"It's not a new discovery," answered the squire, who had taken no
notice of the solicitor, and took mother's question to himself, "but
it's a very useful one."
"I wonder you haven't thought of using it before for the Manor," put in
father. "You must need a deal of water there."
I felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing father stand up for Harrod;
for, as far as I knew anything of their discussions, I had fancied he
was not very keen upon the scheme.
"I had thought of it," answered Mr. Broderick; "but I didn't think I
could afford it. I didn't think it would pay for one individual."
I fancied father was vexed at this. He began tapping his foot in the
old irritable way, which I had not noticed in him of late; for, as I
had remarked to Joyce on her return, I thought he was far less peppery
than he used to be, and I fancied it was a good sign for his health.
"Neither do we think it will pay for one individual," said he. "We
intend to make many individuals pay for it."
He said "we" and I was pleased.
"Well, of course I shall have the water laid on to the Manor, and
am grateful to the man who started the thing," said the squire, in
a conciliatory tone; "but I'm a little doubtful as to your making
a good job of it all round. Marshlands folk are very obstinate and
old-fashioned."
"Oh, they'll come to see which side their bread's buttered on in the
long-run," declared Harrod, confidently.
But Mr. Hoad smiled a sardonic smile, and the squire added: "I'm afraid
it will cost you a good bit of money meanwhile, Maliphant. However,
as I sincerely hope you are going to make your fortune over these
new hop-fields, it won't signify." It was, to say the least of it,
an indiscreet speech, not to say an unallowable one; for I believe
there is nothing a man dislikes so much as having his affairs talked
of in public. It was not at all like the squire, and I could not help
thinking, even at the time, that Harrod must have in some way nettled
Mr. Broderick, although I was very far from guessing at the cause of
the annoyance.
Father rose and walked slowly down to the edge of the cliff. I could
not tell whether he did it to keep his temper or to conceal his
trouble, for I fancied he looked troubled as he passed me.
"The hops are a splendid crop now," said Harrod, without moving, as he
lighted a fresh pipe. He never allowed himself to show if he were vexed.
But the squire did not reply. He rose and followed father. I'm sure he
was sorry for what he had said. It was the solicitor who answered.
"It ought to be a fine crop," he said. "Maliphant paid a long price for
it."
"How do you know what price he paid for it?" asked Harrod, sharply.
I fancied Mr. Hoad looked disconcerted for a moment, but he soon
recovered himself.
"Well, to tell the truth, he did me the honor to ask my advice,"
he replied, with a sort of smile that I longed to shake him for.
"No offence to you, Mr. Harrod, I hope," he added, blandly. "I know
Maliphant holds your opinion in the highest reverence; but--well, I'm
an old friend."
My blood boiled in the most absurd way; but Harrod was far too wise
to be annoyed, or at any rate to show it. He only remained perfectly
silent, smoking his pipe.
Father and the squire came up the lawn again; I wondered what they
had said to each other. The evening was fresh and fragrant after the
rain of the night before upon the hot earth; the dusky plain lay calm
beneath us; the moon had just risen and lit the sea faintly in the
distance; nature was quiet and sweet, but I felt somehow as though the
pleasure of our evening was a little spoiled. Mother tried to pick
up the talk again, but she was not altogether lucky in her choice of
subjects.
"Why, squire, the girls tell me the right-of-way is closed across that
bit of common by Dead Man's Lane," said she. "Do you know whose doing
it is?"
Father turned round sharply.
"It never was of much use," said Mr. Hoad, answering instead. "The way
by the lane is nearly as short, and much cooler."
"It depends where people are going whether it is as short," said
father. "It's a flagrant piece of injustice. Do you know who's to blame
for it?"
Mr. Hoad looked uneasy, and did not reply; and the squire burst into a
loud laugh.
"Why, the Radical candidate, to be sure," said he, with a pardonable
sneer in his hearty voice. "Those are the men for that kind of job."
"Mr. Thorne!" exclaimed mother. "No, never!"
"Ay," said father under his breath; "a man who can rob his
fellow-creatures in big things won't think much of robbing them in
little things!"
"You shouldn't run down your own party, Maliphant," laughed the squire.
"Thorne is no particular friend of mine, but robbery is too big a word."
"I understand he's a very charitable man," said mother, who always
would have fair play.
"Yes," echoed Joyce. "You don't know, father, what a deal of good Mary
Thorne does among the poor."
Father rose; he was trembling. I saw a fire leap in his eye.
"It's easy to give back with your left hand half of what you robbed
with your right," said he, in a low voice, that yet resounded like the
murmur of distant thunder; "but it isn't what those who are struggling
for freedom will care to see in their representative."
"Oh, I don't believe in a Radical party--here anyhow," said the squire,
abruptly; "not even if you began to back the candidate, Maliphant."
"I shall not back the candidate," said father, grimly.
"No," laughed the squire. "He has done for himself with you over this
right-of-way."
"When I see a man who declares he is going into Parliament on the
people's side deliberately try to rob the people of their lawful
possessions, I feel more than ever that the name of Radical is but a
snare," said father.
His face had grown purple with emotion; his voice quivered with it; his
hand shook.
I saw mother look at him anxiously, and I saw a sullen expression
settle down upon Mr. Hoad's detested face.
"Now, Laban, don't go getting yourself into a heat," said mother, in
her quiet, sensible voice. "You know how bad it is for your health, and
it's unpleasant for all parties besides."
"I can't make head or tail of the Radicals myself," began the squire,
who, it must be remembered, spoke ten years ago. But mother interrupted
him.
"Come, come, squire," said she, in the pretty familiar way in which she
always addressed him, "we'll have no more politics. The girls and me
don't understand such talk, and it isn't civil to be leaving us o' one
side all the evening."
He laughed, and asked what we wanted to talk about, and at the same
time Mr. Hoad came forward to take his leave.
He smiled, shaking hands with mother, but his smile was a sour one, and
I noticed that he scarcely touched father's hand.
"I suppose Hoad is in a bad temper because you won't take up Thorne's
cause," said the squire, as soon as the solicitor had passed up the
passage.
Father gave a grunt of acquiescence, and the squire turned to us with
most marked and laudable intent to obey mother and change the talk.
"Have you heard the news?" he asked. "Young Squire Ingram is to be
married to Miss Upjohn. I heard it yesterday riding round that way."
Mother looked up eagerly. The subject was one quite to her own mind,
but the news was startling.
"Never to Nance Upjohn of Bredemere Farm?" asked she.
"The very same, Mrs. Maliphant," replied the squire. "Folk say they are
to be married at Michaelmas."
"Heart alive!" ejaculated mother, lapsing into the vernacular in her
excitement. "Isn't old squire in a fine way?"
"I believe he doesn't like it," agreed Mr. Broderick, evasively.
"Why not, pray?" asked father, rousing from his reverie.
I always noticed that once he had been brought to arms upon the real
interest of his life, he was the more ready to take fire upon secondary
subjects, even remotely connected with it. No one answered him, and he
repeated his question.
"Why not, pray? The Upjohns come of as good a stock as we do, though
they haven't been so long upon the soil."
"To be sure," put in mother, quickly. "And I've been told she's as well
schooled as any town miss. I don't mean to say she isn't good enough
for the young squire, only I've heard say the old gentleman is so
terribly particular."
"Yes, indeed, she's as well-behaved and pretty a young woman as you
could find anywhere," declared Mr. Broderick, warmly. "Old Ingram can
have no objection on anything but the score of connection."
"Connection! What's that?" exclaimed father. "If the girl comes of a
different stock to the lad, why must it needs be of a worse one? Faith,
if I were neighbor Upjohn, 'tis I would have the objection."
"Nonsense, Laban," said mother, half annoyed.
"No; I wouldn't let any girl of mine wed where it was made a favor to
receive her," continued father, hotly.
"There are plenty among the gentry too that would make it no favor at
all to receive a nice young woman just because she came of another
class," added mother, with a vexed manner. "There's good honest folk
all the world over, and bad ones too."
"Right you are, old woman," answered father, after a moment's
hesitation, with generous repentance. "There's some among them that
I'm proud to shake by the hand. But all the same, a prejudice is a
prejudice, and a class is a class."
"You'd best come in-doors," said mother, still annoyed. "It's getting
chill, and you've been out too long already, I believe."
He rose with the habit of obedience, and we all stood up, but he
tottered as he walked. I saw Harrod, who was beside him, stretch out
his arm.
He did not take it, he walked in bravely, the others following--all but
myself and the squire. I saw he was troubled--I saw he wanted to speak
to me, and I did not like to move.
"Your father is so emphatic, so very emphatic," he murmured; "but I
hope, Miss Margaret, that you do not misunderstand me."
I looked at him a little surprised. I could not see how it could
signify to him whether I misunderstood him or not. If it had been Joyce
it would have been different.
"Oh no, I don't misunderstand you," said I, a little hurriedly, for I
wanted to get in-doors. "It was quite clear."
I was vexed with the squire. I was angry with him for having seemed to
make light of Harrod's knowledge and of Harrod's schemes.
I thought it was not fair of him before father--and when he had always
bidden me fight the bailiff's battles for the good of the farm. So I
answered, a little proudly, "You can't grumble if father and I have our
pride of class as well as you yours."
"No, I don't grumble," said he, with a smile, and yet I fancied with
something half like a sigh too. "Only I, personally, have very little
pride of class."
"I'm glad to hear it," said I, and I ran in-doors.
I wanted to say good-night to Trayton Harrod. But in the parlor there
was nobody but my sister, leaning up against the open casement and
looking out into the fragrant summer night.
"What are you doing?" I asked, abruptly. "Where are they all?" And as I
spoke I heard a step die away on the gravel outside.
"I have just let Mr. Harrod out," answered she, "and I came to close
up the windows. I think mother has gone up-stairs with father. I don't
believe he is well."
I did not answer. It was Joyce's place again, now that she was home, to
close the front door after the guests. But it was the first time that
Harrod had left the Grange without bidding me good-night. When Joyce
asked me where the squire was I did not care. It was she who hastened
out to meet him and made mother's apologies; it was she who let him out
as she had let out the bailiff.
It needed a sudden scare about my dear father to bring me back to
myself. He had had a bad fainting fit--the worst we had ever seen him
in. It was the bell ringing up-stairs, and mother's frightened voice
calling, that waked me from a dream. And the evening ended badly, as I
had had a silly presentiment that it would end.