The next morning the sun shone, and the world was as gay as ever.
Father declared himself well and hearty; complained of no pain and
betrayed no weakness, was merry at the breakfast-table over a letter of
Frank Forrester's, and withdrew with it as usual to his study, where he
spent more and more time opposite the portrait of Camille Lambert, and
left farm matters more and more to his bailiff.
For me the sun shone the more brightly because of a short, delightful
ten minutes with Trayton Harrod, in which we said nothing in
particular, but that chased away the tiny shadow of disappointment that
had crossed the horizon of my sweet, dawning experience, and banished
it--disgraced and ashamed--into oblivion.
It was a very short ten minutes. Miss Farnham and the vicar's wife had
been to call, and the Hoad girls had come to ask us to go to a ball at
the town-hall. "Oh, do come," they had said, "and bring the bailiff;"
and my dignity had flamed into my cheek, and I had been grateful to
mother for promptly refusing for us, and even to old Miss Farnham for
declaring that we were more sensible than most girls, and weren't
always on the watch for new occasions to pinch in our waists. Miss
Farnham, I recollect, had declared afterwards that it was only a dodge
to catch father.
It was after the guests had left, and while we were waiting for mother
to get her bonnet on for a drive, that Harrod and I got those short ten
minutes to ourselves.
Joyce had gone to Guestling to lunch with some friends, and mother had
proposed to Harrod to drive us over to fetch her, so that at the same
time she might look at a cow which he had found for her there for sale.
We set forth, Harrod driving mother in the cart with the steady old
black horse, and I riding Marigold alongside.
I saw as soon as we set out that he was just a little shade out of
spirits. It troubled me at first, but I soon guessed, or thought I
guessed, what it was about.
"Wasn't that Mr. Hoad I saw up atop of the hill with you and Laban?"
asked mother, just after we had set out.
Harrod nodded.
"What does the man want meddling with farming?" asked mother. "I
shouldn't have thought he was a wiseacre on such-like."
Harrod shrugged his shoulders; he evidently didn't intend to commit
himself.
"Mr. Hoad wouldn't wait to hear if other folk thought him a wiseacre
before he'd think he had a right to interfere," laughed I. "Those smart
daughters of his came inviting Joyce and me to a ball just now."
"You're not going?" asked Harrod, quickly.
"No, no," answered mother. "I don't hold with that kind of amusement
for young folk. There's too many strangers."
"Why don't you want us to go?" asked I, softly.
He didn't reply; he whipped up the horse a little instead.
"Miss Farnham declared our going would have been made use of to try and
draw father into the election against his will," said I. "But she's
always got some queer notion in her head."
"Well, upon my word, I don't believe there's much these electioneering
chaps would stick at," declared Harrod, contemptuously. "I declare
I believe they'd step into a man's house and get his own chairs and
tables to go against him if they could."
Mother laughed, but Harrod did not laugh.
"And if they can't have their way, there's nothing they wouldn't do to
spite a fellow," added he.
"Why, what has Mr. Hoad been doing to spite you?" asked mother.
"Nothing, ma'am, nothing at all," declared the bailiff. "There's
nothing he could do to spite me, for I don't set enough store by him;
and I should doubt if there's any would be led far by the words of a
man that shows himself such a time-server."
He spoke so bitterly that I looked at him in sheer astonishment.
"I thought Mr. Hoad seemed to have taken quite a fancy to you last
night," said mother.
Harrod laughed harshly.
"Yes," he said; and then he added, abruptly, "There's some folk's
seemings that aren't to be trusted. They depend upon what they can get."
"Good gracious!" said mother. "Whatever could Mr. Hoad want to get of
you?"
"Excuse me, ma'am, I don't know that he wanted to get anything,"
declared Harrod, evidently feeling that he had gone too far. "I know no
ill of the man. I don't like him--that's all."
Mother was silent, but I said, boldly, "No more do I."
And there talk on the subject ended. It was not until many a long
day afterwards that I knew that Hoad--moved, I suppose, by Harrod's
argument against father on the previous evening--had tried to persuade
him to help in some sort against his employer in the coming political
struggle. He little knew the man with whom he had to deal, and that no
depreciatory remarks which spite might induce him to make to father
upon his farming capacities would have any influence upon father's
bailiff. Only I was glad I had agreed with him in not liking Mr. Hoad.
It got me a reproving look from mother, but it got me a little smile
from him, which in the state of my feelings added one little grain more
to the growing sum of my unconfessed happiness.
It was a long way to Guestling. Away past "The Elms" and its
hop-gardens, and many other hop-gardens again, where the bines were
growing tall and rich with their pale green clusters; away between
blackberry and bryony hedges that the stately foxglove adorned, between
banks white with hemlock; away onto the breast of the breezy downs,
where the hills were blue for a border, and solitary clumps of pines
grew unexpectedly by the road-side.
The west became a sea of flame beyond the vastness of that swelling
bosom, just as it had been almost every evening through that glorious
summer, and set a line of blood-red upon the horizon for miles around,
firing clots of cloud that floated upon lakes of tender green, and
hemming other masses with rims of gold that were as the edges of
burning linings to their softness.
Mother was almost afraid of it. She declared that she had never seen a
sunset that swallowed up half the heavens like that, and she wondered
what it boded; for even after we had turned and left the west behind us
the clouds that sailed the blue were red with it still.
When we got near to Guestling we were overtaken by Squire Broderick on
his roan cob. I think he had intended to ride farther but he seemed so
delighted to find mother out-of-doors that he could not detach himself
from our party.
"Why, Mrs. Maliphant," I remember his saying with that half-respectful,
half-affectionate air of familiarity that he always used to our mother,
"if you knew how becoming that white bonnet is you would put it on
oftener. It's quite a treat to see you out driving."
Mother declared that only business had brought her out now; and I
remember how the squire told her she would never find a new friend to
take the place of an old one, not if Harrod were to find her a cow with
twice the good points of poor old Betsey. And while Mr. Broderick was
paying sweet compliments to mother, Harrod and I exchanged a few more
of those commonplace words, the memory of which made me merry, even
when presently I was obliged to drop behind and ride alongside of the
squire.
I had something to say to him, and as it related to the bailiff, I was
not unwilling to drop behind. The night before he had made light of
those schemes and improvements on the farm of which I was beginning to
be so proud, and I had not thought it fair of him to try and set his
own protégé in a poor light before father. I meant to tell him so, and
this was the opportunity.
"Mr. Broderick," said I, driving boldly into my subject, "why did you
talk last night as if things were going badly on the farm? You told me
a while ago that all the farm wanted was a younger head and heart upon
it--somebody more ambitious to work for it. Yet now one would almost
fancy you mistrusted the very man you recommended, and wanted to make
father mistrust him."
I saw the squire start and look at me--look at me in a sharp, inquiring
sort of way.
"I did not intend to give that impression," he said.
"Well, then, you did," said I, wisely shaking my head. "Any one could
have seen it. You were quite cool about the water scheme. Why, father
took his part against you."
"I think you exaggerate, Miss Margaret," murmured he.
"Oh no, I don't," I insisted. "And if I am rude, I beg your pardon;
but I think it a pity you should undo all the work I have been doing.
Besides," added I, in a lower voice, "it's not fair. You said you were
'afraid' he was spending too much money, and you 'hoped' he would make
a fortune over the hops. It didn't sound as if you believed it would be
so."
"Well, so I do hope a fortune will be made," smiled he.
"Ah, but you said it as if it might have been quite the contrary,"
insisted I.
"Did I?" repeated he, humbly.
"Yes," declared I. "If you don't think Mr. Harrod manages well, you
should tell him so; you are his friend."
The squire was silent, moodily silent.
"Ah, who can tell what is good management in hops?" sighed he at last.
"The most gambling thing that a man can touch. All chance. Twelve
hours' storm, a few scalding hot days, and a few night-mists at the
wrong moment, may ruin the most brilliant hopes of weeks. I have seen
fortunes lost over hops. A field that will bring forth hundreds one
year will scarcely pay for the picking the next. No man ought to touch
hops who has not plenty of money at his back."
"Do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous risk?" I
asked.
"Oh, of course he must know it," answered the squire.
And there he stopped short. I did not choose to ask any more. It seemed
like mistrusting father to ask questions about his affairs. But I
wondered whether he was a man who had "plenty of money at his back."
"I think Harrod is a safe fellow, and a clever fellow," added the
squire. "A cool-headed, hard-headed sort of chap, who ought not to be
over-sanguine though he is young."
The words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty--they
offended me.
"Oh, I am sure you would not have recommended him to father unless you
had had a high opinion of him," said I, haughtily. "And I am glad to
say that father has a high opinion of him himself, and always follows
his advice. I do not suppose that anything that any one said would
prejudice father against Mr. Harrod now. In fact we all have the
highest opinion of him."
With that I touched Marigold with the whip and sent her capering
forward to the cart. Mother started, and reproved me sharply; but at
that moment we drew up at the farm gates, and she turned round to beg
the squire would spare her a few minutes to give his opinion also upon
the contemplated purchase. Harrod looked round, and I was angry, for
she had no right to have done it. I do not know how the squire could
have consented, but he did so, though half unwillingly, and demurring
to Harrod's first right.
"The squire is such a very old friend of ours," I murmured, half
apologetically, to the bailiff on the first opportunity. "Mother has so
often asked his advice."
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," replied he. And then he added--I almost
wondered why--"I suppose you remember him ever since you were a child?"
"Oh yes," laughed I; "he used to play with us when we were little girls
and he was a young man."
"A young man!" smiled Harrod. "What is he now?"
"I should think he must be nearly thirty-five," said I, gravely. "And
you know he's a widower."
"Indeed! Well, he's not too old to marry again," smiled Trayton Harrod,
looking at me.
"That's what mother says," answered I. And then I added--and Heaven
knows what induced me to do it, for I had no right to speak of
it--"Some folk think he's sweet on my sister."
It was unlike me to babble of family secrets. I glanced at my
companion. There was a little scowl upon his brow; it was usually
there when he was thinking, and he was ruffled still with vexation
at mother's unusual want of tact. He looked after her where she was
talking with the squire.
"Oh, is it to be a match?" he asked, carelessly.
"Oh, dear no," laughed I. "Joyce--"
I was going to say, "Joyce cares for some one else," but luckily I
remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time.
"Joyce doesn't even think he likes her," I added instead.
He turned to me and broke into a little laugh. I thought it almost rude
of him, and wondered whether he, too, thought that a farmer's daughter
was not worthy of marriage with a squire.
But he was looking at me--he was looking at me with a strange look in
his eyes. Yes, there was no mistaking it--it was a look of admiration,
a look of almost tender admiration, and as I felt it upon me a blush
rose to my cheek that so rarely blushed, and the power of thinking went
from me; I only felt his presence.
I don't know how long we stood thus; I suppose it was only seconds
before he said, "I believe you would put that sister of yours before
you in everything, Miss Margaret."
I made an effort to understand him, for I think I was in a dream.
"Yes, she's so beautiful!" I murmured.
"Beautiful!" echoed he.
There was something in the tone of his voice that made me lift my
eyes to his face. His gaze was fixed on the gate of the farm-yard. I
followed his gaze. Joyce had entered and was coming towards us. This
was where we had arranged to meet.
She shook hands with Harrod and then with the squire, who joined us
with mother. We all went together into the cow-shed.
I don't remember what remarks were made upon Betsey's proposed
successor; I don't even remember if we bought her or not. I don't think
I was in the mood to attend much to the matter. I was roused from a
brown-study by a curious remark of Trayton Harrod's.
Mother had found occasion to ask him whether the woman whom she
had provided for him at "The Elms" made him comfortable, and was
pleasant-spoken. It had been on her mind, I know, ever since he had
been there.
"She does her work," answered the bailiff. "I don't know if she's
pleasant-spoken. I never speak to her."
"That's not the way to get the best out of a woman," laughed the
squire. "We poor bachelors need something more than bare duty out of
our servants." He said it merrily, and yet I did not think he was merry.
"I want no more than duty," repeated Harrod. "Talking, unless you have
something to say, is waste of time."
"You'll have to mend your manners, my lad, if ever you hope to persuade
any young lady to become your wife," laughed the squire again.
"I never should hope to do any such thing," answered Harrod. "I
shouldn't be such a fool." And with that he walked away out of the
farm-yard and began untying the cart for the homeward journey.
Mother looked after him, puzzled for a moment. Then, nodding her head
at the squire, she said, softly: "Ah, that's what all you young men say
till you've fixed on the girl you want. You're none so backward then."
I fancied the squire looked a little uncomfortable, but he said,
lightly: "Do you think not, Mrs. Maliphant? Well, nothing venture,
nothing have, they say. Harrod has had his fingers burned, I suppose.
A bit sore on the subject, but he'll get over it. He's a nice lad;
though, to take his word for it, his wife wouldn't have a very cheerful
life of it!"
"Well, we needn't take his word for it," said mother. "And, good
gracious me! it's fools indeed that would want to wed upon nothing
but sugar. There'd be no grit in love at all if we hadn't some duties
towards one another that weren't all pleasant. 'Tis in the doing of
them that love grows stronger. I've always thought you can't smell the
best of roses till you get near enough to feel the thorns."
This speech of mother's comes back to me vividly now, but at the time I
was scarcely conscious of it.
Trayton Harrod's words--"I shouldn't be such a fool"--were ringing
in my ears. What did he mean by them? I looked round after him and
saw that my sister had strolled across to where he was waiting by the
cart. It was natural enough--it was time to be getting homeward. But as
I looked I saw him bend towards her just a little and say something.
The expression of his face had softened again, and the scowl on his
sunburnt brow had faded, but his lips were pressed together so that
they were quite thin instead of full, as they appeared in their normal
shape; and I wondered why he looked so, and why what he said made the
blush, that was now so much rarer than it used to be, creep up Joyce's
cheek till it overspread her fair brow and tipped her delicate little
ears with red.
An uncontrollable, unreasonable fit of anger took possession of me. I
flew across the yard to that corner where Marigold was tied beside the
dog-cart.
"I suppose you read a great deal of evenings?" Joyce was saying.
And Harrod answered, shortly, "No, I don't so much as I used to do. I
am too much taken up with other things."
Simple words enough, but they set my heart aflame, yet left me sick and
sore.
I undid the mare with a rough hand, and, before she had time to see
what I was about, I set my foot in the stirrup and sprang into the
saddle. She was used to my doing that, but she was not used to my doing
it in that way.
She reared and kicked. My thoughts were elsewhere, and it served me
right that, for the first time in my life, she threw me.
I heard a scream from mother, and the next moment I felt that a man's
arm had helped me up from the ground.
I was not hurt, only a little stunned, and when I saw that it was
Trayton Harrod who had picked me up, I broke away from him and
staggered forward to mother.
"I'm not hurt, mother, not a bit," said I, and then I burst into tears.
Oh, how ashamed I was! I who prided myself on self-control.
But she put her arm round me and laid my head on her shoulder, and her
rare tenderness soothed me as nothing else in the world could have
done. I kept my face hid on her neck, as I had done when I was a little
child, and used to be quite confident that she could cure every wound.
Yet it was only for a moment.
"I had better ride, and lead the mare," I heard the squire say in a
low, concerned voice. "She won't be fit to mount again, or even to
drive the cart."
I lifted my head.
"Oh, indeed, Squire Broderick, I'm not in the least hurt," said I, as
cheerfully as I could, for I was grateful for those kindly tones. "I
can ride Marigold home perfectly well."
"No, my dear, that you won't," said mother, all her decision returning
now that her alarm was over. "I've had quite enough of this fright for
one day."
Joyce returned from the farm with a glass of water, and Harrod by her
side with some brandy that he had begged at the doctor's house hard
by. I drank the water but I refused the brandy, and scoffed at the
notion of the doctor coming out in person. Then I got into the cart. I
insisted on driving, and as the horse was the quiet old black Dobbin,
mother consented. Joyce sat behind, and Harrod rode after upon Marigold.
The squire showed signs of joining our caravan at first; but as I
turned round and assured him once more that I was perfectly well, and
begged him to continue his road, he was almost obliged to turn his
horse back again in the direction in which he had been going when he
overtook us. But he still looked so very much concerned that I was
forced to laugh at him. I think it was the only time I laughed that day.
The drive home was soothing enough across those miles of serene
pasture-land whose marge the sea was always kissing, and where the
sheep cropped, in sleepy passiveness, beneath faint rosy clouds that
lay motionless upon the soft blue; the vast dreamy pastures, browning
with autumn tints of many planes of autumn grasses that changed as
they swayed in the lazy breeze, were hemmed by a winding strip of
beach, pink or blue, according as the sun was behind or above one, and
to-night bordered beyond it by a stretch of golden sand, over which
rows upon rows of little waves rippled with the incoming tide. We drove
along the margin of the beach; the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid
their pale, blue-green leaves upon every mound of shingle, and not
even the distant church-spires and masts of ships, that told of man's
presence, could disturb the breathless placidity that no memory of
storm or strife seemed to awaken into a throb of life.
But suddenly upon the vast line of wide horizon, where the sea melted
into the sky with a little hovering streak of haze, a throb of light
stirred; at first it was but a spot of gold upon the bosom of the
distance, but it was a spot that grew larger, though with a soft and
rayless radiance unlike the dazzle of the sun-setting; then out of the
breast of it was made a red ball that sent a path of gilded crimson
down the sea, and tipped the crest of every little wave that crept
towards us with a crown of opalescent light; it was the sun's last kiss
welcoming the moon as she rose out of the sea.
It was a rare and a beautiful sight, and to me, who loved the world in
which I lived so well, it should have brought joyousness. And yet it
did not please me. I would rather have had it chill and stormy, with a
thick fog creeping up out of the sea--a fog such as that through which
Trayton Harrod's tall figure had loomed the first time that I had met
him, just on this very tract of land.