On the day following I met Frank Forrester in the lane by the vicarage.
I verily believe I had forgotten all about him during the past few
days, but that very morning I had remembered that he was most likely
at the Priory for that garden-party to which father had so annoyingly
forbidden us to go; and I vowed in my heart that, by hook or by crook,
my sister should see him before he left the neighborhood. It was a
regular piece of good-luck my meeting him thus; but I thought, when he
first saw me, that he was going to avoid me. He seemed, however, to
think better of it, and came striding towards me, swaying his tall,
lithe body, and welcoming me even from a distance with the pleasant
smile, without which one would scarcely have known his handsome face. I
was glad he had thought better of it, for I should certainly not have
allowed him to pass me.
"Holloa, Miss Margaret," said he, when we were within ear-shot; "this
is delightful. I was afraid I shouldn't get a chance of seeing any of
you, as I am forbidden the house. How are you?"
"I am very well," said I, looking at him.
I fancied he had grown smarter in his appearance than he used to be;
there was nothing that I could take hold of, and yet somehow he seemed
to me to be changed.
"Why weren't you at the garden-party yesterday?" asked he. "It was
quite gay."
"Yesterday! Was it yesterday?" said I, half disappointed. "We weren't
allowed to go, you know. We wanted to go very much."
He looked at me in that open-eyed way of his for a moment, and then he
shifted his glance away from my face and laughed a little uneasily.
"Was I the cause?" he asked.
"Oh, dear no," cried I, eagerly, although in my heart I knew well
enough that, with mother, he had been. "But you know father never did
like the Thornes. They belong to that class that he dislikes so. What
do you call it--capitalists? Why, he hates them ever so much worse than
landed proprietors, and they are bad enough."
I said this jokingly, feeling that, as of course Frank sympathized with
all these views and convictions of father's, he would understand, even
though he might not himself feel just as strongly towards those members
of the obnoxious class who had been his friends from his youth upward.
But a shadow of annoyance or uneasiness--I did not know which--passed
over his face like a little summer cloud, although the full, changeful
mouth still kept its smile.
"And Mr. Thorne has done something special to vex him," I continued.
"He has closed the right-of-way over the common by Dead Man's Lane. So
now father has forbidden us to go to the house."
The slightest possible touch of scorn curled Frank's lip under the
silky brown mustache.
"That's a pity," said he.
"Well," said I, "you would feel just the same, of course, if these
people didn't happen to be old friends of yours, and they never were
friends of father's. He disliked them buying the property from the very
first."
"It makes things rather uncomfortable to drive a theory as far as
that," laughed Frank.
Of course it was what I often felt myself, but somehow it vexed me to
hear him say so; if he was the friend to father that he seemed to be,
he had no business to say it, and specially to me.
"Well, anyhow, it's the reason we didn't go to the garden-party," said
I, shortly. And then I repeated again, and in a pleasanter tone, "But
we wanted to go very much, of course."
"Ah yes," answered he, glancing at me and then away again, and
referring, I suppose, to the pronoun I had used, "your sister is
home again now. Of course I heard it in the village. What a pity you
couldn't come! We had a dance afterwards--altogether a delightful
evening, and you would have enjoyed it immensely. Besides," he began,
and then stopped, and then ended abruptly, "every one missed you."
I laughed. "That means to say every one missed Joyce," I said. "I am
not so silly as to think people mean me when they mean Joyce--some
people, of course, more particularly than others."
It was rather a foolish remark, and he took no notice of it.
"Your sister is well, I hope," was all he said.
"Oh yes, she's well," I answered.
And then there was an awkward pause. I wondered why in the world he did
not ask any of the innumerable questions that must be in his mind about
her, and yet I felt that it was natural he should be awkward, natural
that he should not want to talk to me about her.
I did not know exactly what to say, and yet I would not let this golden
opportunity slip.
"You must come and see for yourself," said I, boldly, without in the
least considering what this course of action laid me open to from
mother. "She's prettier and sweeter than ever, Joyce is, since she's
been to London."
He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze.
"Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible!"
ejaculated he.
"You came to see us the last time you were in Marshlands," said I.
"You don't come to see Joyce, you come to see father. Father would be
dreadfully hurt to think you were in Marshlands and didn't see him. He
doesn't know you are here." This was true, but whether father would
have wished me to run so against mother's wishes, I did not stop to
think.
"Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange," said he,
softly.
I almost stamped my foot with vexation at the lack of recklessness in
this lover of Joyce's, whose ardent devotion I had begun by envying her
once upon a time. But I reflected that it was both foolish and unfair
to be vexed, because Frank Forrester was only keeping to the word of
his agreement.
"You come to see father, not to see Joyce," I repeated, dogmatically.
"Father doesn't seem to be happy about the way that notion of his is
turning out."
"That notion?" repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of voice.
I looked at him.
"Yes," said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something or other
that father and you have got up between yourselves."
Still he looked puzzled.
"Some school, or something for poor children," explained I, I think a
trifle impatiently.
"Oh, of course, of course," cried Frank. "I didn't quite understand
what you were referring to, and one has so many of those things on
hand, so many sad cases, there is so much to be done. But I remember
all about it. We must push it. It's a fine scheme, but it will need a
great deal of pushing, a great deal of interest. It's not the kind of
thing that will float in a day. Your father, of course, is apt to be
over-sanguine."
I did not answer. It crossed my mind vaguely that three months ago it
had been father who had said that Frank was apt to be over-sanguine; or
rather, who had given it so to be understood, in words spoken with a
kindly smile and some sort of an expression of praise for the ardor of
youth. "It's to the young ones that we must look to fly high," he had
said, or words to that effect.
"Well, you must come and talk it over with father," said I, somewhat
puzzled. "He thinks a great deal of you."
"Ah! And so do I think a great deal of him, I assure you," cried Frank.
"He's a delightful old man! So bright and fresh and full of enthusiasm!
One would never believe he had lived all his life in a place like this,
looking after cows and sheep. There are very few men of better position
who can talk as he talks."
I suppose I ought to have been pleased at this, but instead of that it
made me unaccountably angry for a moment. I thought it a great liberty
on the part of a young fellow like Captain Forrester to speak like
that of an old man like my father. But one could not be exactly angry
with Frank. In the first place, he was so pleasant and good-natured
and sympathetic that one felt the fault must be on one's own side; and
then it would have been waste of time, for he would either never have
perceived it, or he would have been so surprised that one would have
been ashamed to continue it.
However, I tried to speak in an off-hand way as I said, "Yes, he
doesn't often get any one here whom he cares to talk to, so of course
he is very glad of whoever it is that will look at things a bit as he
does." And then, afraid lest I should have said too much, and prevent
him from coming to the Grange after all, I added, "But he's really fond
of you, and if he thinks you have been so near the place and haven't
been to see him, I'm afraid he'll be hurt."
Frank looked undecided a moment, and I glanced at him anxiously. Truly,
I was very eager that day to secure a companion for my father.
"Father is depressed," I added. "I don't think he's quite so cheerful
and hopeful as he used to be, and I am sure you would do him good."
Frank laughed. "Very well," said he, turning down the lane with me, "if
your mother is displeased, Miss Margaret, let it be on your head."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of mother," I said, although in truth I was very
much afraid of her. "She will be pleased enough if you cheer up father.
And if you tell him some good news of his plan about the poor little
children, you will cheer him up."
"He mustn't set his heart too much upon that just at present," said
Frank, in a cool, business-like kind of way. "There's a deal of hard,
patient work to be done at that before it'll take any shape, you know."
"Yes, I understand," said I; "but who is going to do the work?"
He looked a bit put out for the moment, but he said, cheerily:
"Ah, that's just it. We must find the proper man--the man for the
place--then it'll go like a house on fire." And then he turned and
fixed his brown eyes on me, as was his wont, and said, "But how is it
that this bailiff hasn't roused your father's heart in his own work
more, and made him forget these outside schemes?"
I flushed with anger; I thought the remark unjustifiable.
"I hear he's a clever fellow," continued the captain. "That's it, I
suppose. He prefers to go his own gait. Although they tell me"--he said
this as if he were paying me a compliment--"they tell me you can twist
him round your little finger."
"Who are they?" cried I, my lip trembling. "They had best mind their
own business."
He laughed gayly. "The same as ever, I see," he said. "But you might
well be proud of such a feat. He struck me as a tough customer the only
time I saw him."
I set my lips tight together and refused to answer another word; but
when we had left the pines, and turned out of the lane into the road, I
was sorry for him, and forgave him; for glancing at him, I saw that his
cheek was quite pale.
"I'm dreadfully afraid of your parents," laughed he. "Your mother won't
deign to shake hands with me, and your father will be hurt because I
haven't brought a train of little London waifs at my heels."
Of course it was neither the prospect of mother's cold welcome nor the
thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation of the scheme
which had really made his cheek white. I understood things better than
that; it was that he was going to see Joyce, whom he had not seen for
three months. I was sorry for the poor fellow, in spite of his having
offended me.
On the top of my original plan, which had only been to get him to the
Grange, another took sudden shape. It was a Thursday--dairy morning.
But as we had come down the street I had seen mother's tall back beside
the counter of the village grocer's shop, and I determined to risk
Deborah's presence, and to bring Frank straight in through the back
door to the milk-pans and Joyce's face.
Luck favored me. Deborah had gone outside to rinse some vessel not
quite to her mind, and Joyce stood alone with a fresh pink frock and
a fresh fair face against the white tiles, kneading the butter with
sleeves upturned. I left Frank there, and ran on to Deborah, who showed
signs of returning.
"Whatever does that dandified young beau want round about again?" said
she. "I thought he had taken those handsome calves of his to London to
make love to the ladies."
I must mention that Frank always wore a knickerbocker suit down at
Marshlands--a costume less in vogue ten years ago than it is now, and
an affectation which found no favor in Deborah's sight. To tell the
truth, it did not please me that day; nothing about him quite pleased
me, yet indeed I think he was the same as he had always been. But I
was not going to let myself dwell upon anything that was not in the
captain's favor, and certainly I was not going to let Deborah comment
upon it. After all, as I had once said to mother, he was my sister's
lover, not mine; but he was my sister's lover, and as such I should
stick up for him through thick and thin.
"He's come to see father," said I, shortly.
"That's the first time I knew that the way to your father's room was
through the dairy," grinned Deborah. "But look here, Margaret"--and
here old Deb grew as solemn as a judge--"you'd no business to bring
him in there when your mother was away. You know very well you
hadn't. You'll get into a scrape." How much Deb really knew about the
particulars of Joyce's engagement I have never found out, but that she
guessed what she did not know was more than likely.
"Why not?" asked I.
"Why not? Because he's a slippery young eel, that's why not," said
Deborah. "If Joyce cares for him, the sooner she leaves off the
better. But it's my belief she's got more sense in her head than some
folk give her credit for."
"Of course Joyce cares for him," cried I, angrily, "and he's not
slippery at all. He can't come courting her when mother forbids him the
house. But it's very unkind of mother, and that's why I brought him.
I don't care if I do get into a scrape for it. You're a hard-hearted
old woman to talk so. But I suppose you've forgotten what it was to be
young--it's so long ago."
"I remember enough about it to know how many men out of a dozen there
are that are fit to be trusted, my dear," smiled Deborah, grimly. "And
my old ears haven't grown so queer yet but they can tell a jig from a
psalm tune."
"I don't think you go to church often enough to know them apart,"
sneered I; for Deb was not as conspicuous for piety as Reuben, and was
wont to declare that when she listened to parson her head grew that
muddled and stagnated she couldn't tell her left hand from her right.
"Ah, I'm not like some folk as likes to go and be told o' their sins,"
said she, alluding, as usual, to the unlucky Reuben. "I know mine well
enough, and on the Sabbath I likes to put up my legs and give my mind
to 'em in peace and quiet. But I'm not afraid I shall hear the Old
Hundredth if I go into the dairy just now," grinned she, catching up
the milk-pail, which she had been scrubbing viciously, "so I'll just go
back and finish my work."
I laid my hand on her arm to detain her, but at that moment Trayton
Harrod appeared round the corner from the garden.
"Where's Reuben?" asked he, with a thunder-cloud upon his brow.
"That's more than I can tell you," answered Deb, shortly. "I'm not the
man's keeper."
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Some malicious persons have been taking the trouble to break the pipes
that have just been laid across to the new reservoir," he answered.
"They were not yet covered in. But I'm determined to find out the
offenders."
"Well, you needn't come asking after Reuben, then," said old Deb, with
rough stanchness, "The man mayn't be much for brains, but he ain't got
time to plan tricks o' that sort."
"I'm not suspecting Reuben," answered Harrod, "but I look to Reuben to
help me to find out who's to blame."
"Well, if there's wrong been done against master, so he will,"
declared Deborah again. "Reuben's a true man to his master, say what
you may of him. You'd best not come telling any tales of Reuben to me."
"No, no," replied Harrod, hurriedly, "I want to tell no tales of Reuben
nor any one else, but I must get to the bottom of the matter;" and then
turning to me, he added, "I must see your father at once."
He moved across the yard to the outer door, but midway he stopped,
listening.
The voices in the dairy had attracted his attention. I think he was
going to ask me who was there, when suddenly Joyce came out of the
door, her cheeks red, her eyes wet with tears.
As soon as she saw him she ran quickly by, and round the corner of the
yard to the front of the house; but I knew by the way that he glanced
at me that he had seen that her eyes were full of tears. He did not
speak, however, neither did he look after her. He first glanced across
to the dairy, but Frank Forrester did not show himself, and he strode
across to the gate of the yard and let himself out into the road.
"I'll see your father another time," he said to me as he went past.
I went round the corner, meaning to follow Joyce, but remembering that
Frank must be in a very uncomfortable position, and that I was rather
bound to see him through with it, I went back and found him bidding
Deborah tell me he would come again in the evening.
"The master'll be busy all the evening," she said; and her
inhospitality decided me to make a bold move.
"Father is at liberty now," I said. "Please come this way." And he had
no choice but to follow me round to the front.
Luckily for me, father was there alone, reading his newspaper in the
few spare minutes before dinner; neither Joyce nor mother was visible.
He welcomed Frank even more cordially than I had hoped.
"How are you, lad?" he cried, heartily. "Why, I didn't know you were
near the place at all. When did you come?"
Frank sat down in his usual place, and the two talked together just
as if they had never parted. All Frank's cautiousness, not to say
half-heartedness, about father's scheme seemed to have evaporated,
now that he was in his presence, just as if he were afraid or ashamed
not to be as enthusiastic as he was. As I listened to them I couldn't
believe that he had told me ten minutes before that father was "apt to
be over-sanguine," and that he must not "set his heart too much" upon
the matter. On the contrary, it seemed to be Frank who was sanguine,
and father who was suggesting the difficulties of working; father,
moreover, who used almost the very phrase about its being necessary to
get the proper man to work the details, and Frank who declared, as he
had declared before, that _he_ would be the man. How was it that, as
soon as his back was turned, the fire seemed to die out of him? Was he
like some sort of fire-bricks that can absorb heat, and give it out
again fiercely while the fire is around them, but that grow dead and
cold as soon as the surrounding warmth is withdrawn?
But it was very pleasant to see them there talking as merrily as ever.
Merrily? Well, yes, with Frank it was "merrily," but with father I
don't think it had ever been anything but earnestly, and now I fancied
that there was even a tinge of hopelessness about him which had not
been there of old. Yet he smiled often, and treated Frank just in
that half-rough, half-affectionate way that he had always had towards
him--something protecting, something humorous, almost as though he
traced in him a streak of weakness, but could not help being fascinated
by the bright kindliness, the sympathetic desire to please in spite of
himself.
Perhaps it was so with all of us--with all of us, excepting mother.
She had never felt the fascination, she had always seen straight
through the mirror. And as she had always been inexorable, so she was
inexorable that day.
Father, in his eagerness about the interest that he had at heart, had
forgotten all about Joyce, all about the reason why Frank Forrester
should not be at the Grange. But I had not forgotten it; I knew mother
would not have forgotten it, and I stood, with a trembling heart,
listening for her step upon the stairs within.
She came at last, and one glance at her face told me that Frank's
presence was no surprise to her; that she knew of it, and knew of it
from Joyce. Her lips were pressed together half nervously, her blue
eyes were smaller than usual; and she rustled her dress as she walked,
which somehow always seemed to me a sure sign of displeasure in her.
She did not hold out her hand to him, although he advanced with every
show of cordiality to greet her as usual.
"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant, you are angry with me for coming here," cried
he, in a half-humorous, half-appealing voice, that he was wont to use
when he wanted to conciliate. "You're quite right. What can I say for
myself?"
He did not say that I had persuaded him. I liked him for that, but I
said it for him.
"_I_ brought Captain Forrester here, mother," said I, in my boldest
manner, trying neither to blush nor to let my voice quaver. "I knew
father would want to see him, and he is in Marshlands for only one day."
"Captain Forrester is always welcome in my house," said father, and his
voice did shake a little, but whether from annoyance or distress it
was not possible to tell. But mother said nothing. She kept her hands
folded in front of her. It was Joyce who spoke--Joyce, who had followed
mother down the stairs and out into the porch.
"Father, I have been telling mother," said she, coming very close to
him, "that I knew nothing of Captain Forrester's coming here to-day. I
did not wish to see him."
She kept her head bent as she said the words, but she said them quite
firmly, although in a low voice. Certainly Joyce, for a gentle and
diffident girl, had a wonderful trick of courage at times. I admired
her for it, although to-day she angered me; she might have allowed her
love to shine forth a little--for her lover's sake if not for her own.
"All right, my girl," answered father, without looking at her. "I
understand."
And then he turned again to Frank. "You'll stay and have a bit of
dinner with us?" he said.
I was grateful to him for saying it, for things were altogether
rather uncomfortable. The honesty and frankness of our family is
a characteristic of which I am proud, but it certainly has its
uncomfortable side. Fortunately Captain Forrester's pleasant and easy
manners were second nature, and cost him no trouble. They came to the
aid of us all that day.
"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant does not echo that kind invitation of yours," said
he. "I know I have deserved her wrath. A bargain is a bargain." He put
out his hand again. "But she will shake hands with me before I go?" he
added.
Who could have resisted him? Mother put out her hand.
"You're welcome to our board, captain, if you will stay," said she.
"Thank you, that is kind of you," answered he, with real feeling in
his voice. "I mustn't stay, I am due elsewhere, but I appreciate your
asking me none the less."
He turned to me and shook hands with me warmly. Then he stopped in
front of Joyce.
She did not lift her eyes; she put her hand silently into his
out-stretched palm without, so far as I could see, the slightest
tremor. He pressed the soft long fingers in his for a moment, and then
he turned away without speaking.
Father and he went along the passage together, talking; and it was
father who showed him out of the front door.
I was sorry that I had persuaded him to come to the Grange. Harrod had
seen Joyce in tears, and would wonder what was the cause; and was it
worth while to have gone through the very uncomfortable scene which had
just taken place for anything that had been gained? It was Joyce's own
fault, but it showed me how idle it was to hope to move her in any line
of conduct which she had laid out for herself.