The next morning I was still more sorry that I had brought Frank to the
Grange.
Mother very rightly upbraided me for it, and in a way that showed me
that she was more than ever determined that Joyce should not marry
Captain Forrester if she could help it. She said that Joyce was
beginning to forget this dandy love affair, and that it was all the
more annoying of me to have gone putting my finger in the pie and
stirring up old memories. I declared that Joyce was not forgetting
Frank at all, and told mother I wondered at her for thinking a daughter
of hers could be so fickle, and for supposing that her manner meant
anything but the determination to keep to the unfair promise that had
been extracted from her.
Ah, dear me, if I could have believed in that other string that mother
had to her bow for Joyce! But although the squire came to the Grange
just as often as ever, I could not deceive myself into thinking his
coming or going made any difference to my sister, whatever might be
his feelings towards her. If Joyce had not encouraged her lover, as I
thought she ought to have done, that was not the reason. I told myself
that the reason was in the different way in which we looked at such
matters; but I was sorry I had brought Frank to the Grange.
With my arrogance of youth, I might have got over mother's scolding if
I could have persuaded myself that I had done any good; but I could
not but think that I seemed to have done nothing but harm. Joyce was
almost distant to me in a way that had never happened before in our
lives; and when I tried to upbraid her for her coldness, she choked
me off in a quiet fashion that there was no withstanding and left me
alone, sore and silent and angry. Oh, and there was a worse result of
that unlucky visit than all this, although I would not even tell my own
heart of it.
Joyce, as I have said, was moody and silent all the next day. To be
sure, the weather had turned from that glorious heat to a dull gray,
showery fit that was most depressing to everybody. It had most reason
to be depressing to Trayton Harrod, who had his eye on the crops even
more anxiously than father had himself. The rain had not as yet been
heavy or continuous enough to do more than refresh the parched earth,
but a little more might make a serious difference to the wheat and the
hops, of which the one harvest was not yet all garnered, the second
nearly ready for picking.
This, and the annoyance about the broken water-pipes--in which matter
he had failed to discover the offenders--were quite enough, of course,
to account for the cloud upon the bailiff's brow as I came across him
that evening on the ridge of the downs by the new reservoir. I ought
to have remembered this; I ought to have soothed the trouble; I should
have done so a fortnight ago. But I was ruffed, unreasonable, unjust.
"Well, have you discovered anything more about that ridiculous affair?"
I asked, nipping off the twig of a bush in the hedge pettishly as I
spoke.
"What affair?" asked he, although I knew that he knew perfectly well
what I meant.
"Well, about those water-pipes that you fancy the men have stamped upon
to spite you," laughed I, ill-naturedly.
He pressed his lips together. "I think I guess pretty well who was
at the bottom of it," he said. "But the work is finished now and in
working order, so I shall say no more about it."
I knew very well that if he could have been certain of his facts he
would have said a great deal more about it, and in my unreasonable
ill-temper I wanted to make him feel this.
"Guessing isn't enough," I replied. "But if you could be sure, it would
be far better to let the man know that you have discovered him. You'll
never get anything out of these Sussex people by knuckling under to
them."
I was sorry for the words as soon as I had said them, for it was an
insulting speech to a man in his position; but I wouldn't show any
humility.
"Thank you," he answered, coldly. "I must do the best I can, of course,
in managing the Sussex people. But, anyhow, it is _I_ who have to do
it."
I would not see the just reproof. "Well, if any one is to blame in this
it isn't poor old Reuben," I declared, stoutly; "he's obstinate, but he
isn't mean. It _might_ be Jack Barnstaple. I don't say it is, but it
_might_ be. It isn't Reuben."
"I am quite of your opinion," answered he. "But as you say, guessing is
of no avail, so we had best let the matter drop."
He turned to go one way and I the other. But just as we were parting,
Reuben appeared upon the crest of the hill with Luck at his heels.
They were inseparable companions. Luck was the one sign of his former
calling that still clung to poor old Reuben. But he was very old, older
than his master; both had done good work in their day, but both were
nearly past work now.
"That dog will have to be shot soon," said Trayton Harrod, looking at
the way the poor beast dragged itself along, stiff with rheumatism,
which the damp weather had brought out. "I told Reuben so the other
day."
"Shot!" cried I, with angry eyes. "No one shall shoot that dog while I
have a word to say in the matter."
And I ran across to where Luck was coming to meet me, his tail wagging
with pleasure.
"Poor old Luck! poor old fellow!" I murmured, stooping to caress him.
"They want to shoot you, do they? But I won't allow it."
"Shoot him!" growled Reuben, looking round to the bailiff, who had
followed me. "Shoot my dog?"
"He's not _your_ dog, Reuben," I said. "He's father's, although you
have had him for your own so long. And father will have a voice in the
matter before he's shot. Don't be afraid. He sha'n't be shot. We can
nurse him when he needs nursing, and he shall die peaceably like a
human being. He deserves as much any day, I'm sure. He has worked as
well."
Taff was my special dog, and it was true that Luck had always, as it
were, belonged to Reuben, but now that I fancied him in danger, all my
latent love of the weak and injured rose up strong within me, and I
fought for the post of Luck's champion. Perhaps my mood of unreasonable
temper had just a little to do with it too.
"You are mistaken," said Trayton, coldly. "The poor beast is ill and
weary. It would be a far greater kindness to shoot him."
"Well, he _sha'n't_ be shot, then, so there's an end," cried I,
testily, rising to my feet and looking Harrod in the face.
"Oh, very good; of course it's not my business," said he.
He turned away up the slope. But the spirit of annoyance was in Reuben
as it was in me that day.
"I came to have a bit of a look at the 'op-fields, master," said he.
"The sky don't look just as we might choose, do it?"
"This rain is not enough to hurt," growled Harrod, without looking
round.
"No, no; we might put up with this so long as it don't go on," agreed
Reuben, slowly. "We want a bit of rain after all that dry weather. You
didn't get your water-pipes laid on in time for the dry weather, did
you, Master Harrod? begging your pardon," asked the old man, slyly.
"No; some mischievous persons took a childish delight in putting them
out of order," said the bailiff, turning round sharply; "but I have my
eye on them."
"They're dreadful brittle things, them china things, for such work,"
said Reuben, in a slow, sleepy voice. "I doubt you'll never get the
water to go just as you fancy. They do say there's another broke down
by Widow Dawes," he added, with a grin.
Harrod turned round, with a muttered imprecation.
"But there, I'm thinking you won't want no water round about for some
while to come, mister. The Lord'll do it for ye."
"I tell you the weather hasn't broken up, man. This rain is nothing,"
growled Harrod again, striding up the bank as he spoke.
"Right, right," agreed Reuben, nodding his head; "we must trust the
Lord, we must. Though, for my part, I'd sooner trust Him with anything
rather than a few gardens of 'ops." Reuben sighed as he looked out
across the valley that was so rich now with the tall and graceful
growths. "They're a fine sight now," said he, "but the Lord can lay 'em
low." And with that comforting reflection, he turned his back on me and
went down the path.
Luckily for Reuben, I had not leisure just then to think of him or his
words; my thoughts were elsewhere. Trayton Harrod had reached the top
of the slope. He was nearly out of ear-shot. I watched his figure grow
longer and longer upon the softening sky, that was slowly clearing with
the coming twilight.
How could I bear to let him go from me like that? Was it for this that
we had had those good times together, those happy, happy hours, that
lived in my memory like stars upon a bright sky? Was it for nothing
that he had held my hands in his and tuned his voice to gentleness in
speaking to me? Was it for nothing that my heart beat wild and hot, so
full of longing, so full of devotion? Oh, and yet it was I who had made
this foolish quarrel! How could I have allowed my unreasonable temper
to get the better of me like that? It was my fault, all my fault! What
devil had taken possession of me to fill my heart with wicked and
unjust fancies, to imbitter all that was but a little while ago so
sweet?
My heart was heavy, the tears came into my eyes. If he loved me he
would forgive me, I said to myself, and I forgot all of what I had been
wont to consider proper pride, and ran after him.
"Mr. Harrod," I called. He turned at once and waited for me.
"You're going to London one of these days, aren't you?" I said,
breathlessly, for I had run up the bank.
"One day before the hop-picking begins," he said, hurriedly, impatient
to get on; "but not before the harvest is all in."
He turned, walking on, and I walked by his side.
"Well, when you go, I want you to do something for me," I said. "I want
you to buy some books for me."
"Buy some books!" ejaculated he. "What books?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I have saved some money, and I want to buy
some books with it. But I don't know what books. I thought you would
advise me."
He laughed. "I don't think I'm at all the proper person to advise
you what books to buy. I'm not much of a reader myself. I've got my
father's books, and have had some pleasant hours with them too, but I
don't know if they're the best kind of books for a young woman to read.
No, I'm not the proper person to advise you, I'm sure. You'd better ask
the squire."
"The squire!" cried I, vexed. "And pray, why should I ask the squire?"
"Well, he's an older friend of yours than I am, and far better suited
to advise you," answered Harrod. "And he would do anything for you, I'm
sure."
Was it possible that Harrod might be under a delusion? Somehow it gave
me pleasure to think that it might be possible.
"The squire is no friend of mine," said I. I was ashamed of the words
before they were spoken, they were so untrue; but I spoke them under
the smart of the moment.
"How can you say such a thing?" said Harrod, sternly.
"I don't mean to say that he wouldn't do anything for any of us," I
murmured, ashamed. "I only meant to say that he would be more likely to
do it--for Joyce."
I felt his eyes turn upon me, and I raised mine to his face. It was
quiet, all trace of the temper that had been there five minutes ago had
vanished; but his eyes, those steely gray eyes, looked me through. But
it was only for a moment. Then the shade upon his brow melted away, and
the hard lines of his mouth broke into that parting of the lips which
was scarcely a smile yet lit his whole face as with a strong, sharp ray
of light.
There never was a face that changed as his face changed; not with many
and varying expressions as with some folk--for his was a character
reserved almost to isolation, and if he felt many things he told but
few of them, either tacitly or in words--but with a slow melting,
from something that was almost akin to cruelty into something that
was very much akin to good, honest tenderness. It was as the breaking
of sunlight across some rugged rock where the shadow has hidden every
possible path-way; when the sunlight came one could see that there
was a way to ascend. Judging with the dispassionateness of distance,
I think that Harrod feared any such thing as feeling. Life was a
straightforward and not necessarily pleasant road, which must be
travelled doggedly, without pausing by the way, without stopping to
think if there were any means by which it might be made more agreeable.
Life was all work for Trayton Harrod.
And as a natural consequence, if he had any feelings he instinctively
avoided dwelling on the fact; therefore he mistrusted any expression of
them in others. He was cruel, but if he was cruel to others he was also
cruel to himself.
That evening, however, the sunshine broke out across the rock. It
melted the last morsel of pride in me. He turned away his eyes again
without a word, after that long, half-amused, half-reproachful, and
wholly kind look. It puzzled me a little, and yet it gave me courage.
"I think I'm in a very bad temper to-day," said I, with a little
awkward laugh. "I think I was very rude to you just now."
"Rude!" echoed he, turning to me quickly. "Why, when were you rude?"
"Just now, about the hops and everything."
He laughed aloud, quite merrily. "Good gracious! surely we are good
friends enough to stand a sharp word or two," cried he.
I was silent. Harrod walked very fast, and talking was difficult. When
he reached the top of the hill he held out his hand, and said, in a
cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, "Good-night; I must be getting along to
Widow Dawes as fast as I can."
I stood watching him as he ran down the slope. At any other time I
should have been just as much excited as he was about the breakage of
the pipes, but that night there was a dull emptiness about things for
which I had no reason.
The west was still clouded, and in the plains the struggling rays of
the sinking sun made golden spray of the mists that the rain had left;
but to the eastward the sky was clear of showers.
The mill was quite still, its warning arms were silent; it stood white
upon the flaxen slope, where the short grass was burned to chaff by
the rare summer heat--white and huge against the twilight blue. Behind
it--slowly, slowly out of the blue sea--rose the golden August moon.
I turned my back to the clouds and faced the golden moon.