The reply to my letter came on the morrow from Frank Forrester. What
a day it was! I recollect it well. All the summer had gone in one
terrible storm of wind. Alas! Reuben had been only too just in his sad
prophecy: the red sunset upon the citadels of cloud had meant mischief
indeed.
The gale had burst that very night. Before midnight the wind was
tearing up across the marsh like some live thing, rending the air with
its threatening voice, almost rending the earth with its awful tread,
as it swept, grieving, muttering, moaning, and rushed at last with a
wild shriek upon us--a restless, relentless, revengeful foe. Even to
me, strong and hearty girl, whom not even trouble and heartache, that
was sore enough in those days, could keep from the constraining sleep
of a healthy youth--even to me that night the voice of the wind was
appalling.
I lay in bed waiting and listening for its grim footsteps as they sped
across the dark waste without, distant at first and almost faint,
growing nearer and nearer, louder and louder, till with a yell, as of
fierce triumph, the maniac burst against the windows, as though it
would rend the house in pieces for its sport. Afar the sullen roar of
the sea mingled with the lash of the pitiless gusts breaking, baffled,
upon the distant beach, only to renew its unwearied attack with
ceaseless, weary persistence.
I got up and looked out of the window. There was a cold moon shining
faintly in a gray sky, where the clouds hurried wildly about as though
seeking to escape some fierce pursuer; it gave a veiled feeble light,
in which the near farm buildings looked like unsubstantial things
that the wind might lift in its unseen hands and scatter like dead
leaves upon the ground; in the phantom whiteness the black trees waved
helpless, beseeching arms, bowing themselves to earth beneath the
mighty grasp of that great, invisible strength; one could almost fancy
it might pass into shape, so near and terrible seemed its personality
as it advanced, sure and strong, across the wide, dim distance that was
only marsh-land to me who knew that it was not sea.
Some one stirred in the house. It was father; he was coming up-stairs;
he was still dressed; he had been sitting up all this time with those
papers of his. I upbraided him for it, and said it was enough to give
him his death of cold, but he seemed scarcely to hear me. His face was
very pale.
"It's a rough night, a very rough night, Meg," he said, sorrowfully.
"Oh yes, father, it is," answered I, sympathetically, thinking of the
hops that this would be the ruin of. But he made no allusion to them,
he only said: "Those poor creatures down in the huts will have a bad
time of it. And so many children too! They will be frightened, poor
lambs."
And then after a pause he added: "Little David Jarrett was very weak
when I called this afternoon, Meg. I'm afraid he'll not last out this
gale. I think he would like me to go round and see him."
"Not now, father, not to-night?" I cried. But he did not answer, and I
remember that it was with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded him
to go to bed.
In the morning I was sorry that I had done so. The little lad was dead.
We were all seated at breakfast. The gale still raged outside; the
garden was strewn with boughs of fruit-trees and blossoms of roses that
the wind had ruthlessly torn from their stems; even from the distance
of our hill we could see the white storm-crests upon the bosom of the
laboring sea, and the snow of the foam as it dashed against the strong
towers upon the coast.
Mother sat silently pouring the tea and looking anxiously across at
father, who was eating no breakfast; Joyce alone was much the same as
usual, for I--well I don't know what I _looked_ like--I felt wretched.
The post had brought me the reply to my letter to Frank Forrester, and
it was not what I wanted.
I sat moody and miserable. And to us all sitting there--very unlike
the bright family that we generally were--came a messenger with the
news--little David Jarrett had passed away in the night. I can see
father's face now; not sad, no: grave, and with a strange drawn look
upon it that I could not understand. His eyes shone out very dark and
deep from the white face that almost looked like parchment; the shaggy
eyebrows and strong tufts of gray hair a mockery of strength upon it.
But this is as it rises up before me now in terrible reality; then I
saw nothing, I guessed nothing. Oh, father, father, that the old days
might come back once more!
He said nothing, he gave no outward sign of trouble; he got up and
went out, and we cleared away the breakfast-things. We were not given
to expressing ourselves.
I took Frank's letter out of my pocket and read it over and over again;
it was very short--there was scarcely anything in it, and yet I read it
over and over again. He thanked me for writing; it was very kind of me
to write; he was sorry his friends had been so anxious about him; it
had been a needless "scare," there never had been much amiss, and he
was all right again now. He was sorry his friend Thorne had lost the
election. What did my father think of it? He was afraid it would be a
long while before he should get time to come to Marshlands again. That
was all.
No wonder I read it over and over again to try and find something more
in it than was there! There were only two sentences that meant anything
at all, and they made my heart wild with anger.
"What did my father think of it?" And "he was afraid it would be a long
while before he should _find time_ to come to Marshlands again."
They were insulting, heartless sentences. Yes, even as I look back upon
it now, with all the bitterness of the moment passed, I think they
were that. As if he--who had been honored by my dear father's intimate
friendship, who knew his views as few of his friends knew them--should
not have known better than I "what my father thought of it." If he ever
_found time_ to come to Marshlands again perhaps he would find out.
Not a word of Joyce in it--not a stray hint, not a hidden allusion!
Was it possible, was it really possible, that a man could seem to love
so bravely, and could forget in a few short months? Were the squire's
warnings just after all? Forget, forget? I repeated the word to myself,
to me it seemed so impossible that one should ever be able to forget.
At that time I don't believe I even thought it possible that one should
live without the thing that one most craved for.
I sat there on the low window-seat, crushing the letter in my hand,
looking out at the wild clouds that hurried across the sky, looking out
at the havoc that the gale had made, and thinking perhaps of another
havoc than the havoc wrought by the wind. But it was all Joyce's fault,
I said to myself; she might have prevented it if she had liked. Why had
she not prevented it?
Some one came into the room. I crushed the letter into my pocket and
started up.
It was Trayton Harrod. He wore that same harassed, preoccupied look
that I had noticed in him before; it maddened me, though I might have
known well enough why he was preoccupied--there was anxiety enough on
the farm.
"Where's your father?" asked he, quickly.
"He's out," I answered, shortly.
"I wanted him particularly," said Harrod again.
"Well, he's out," repeated I. "He has gone to Mrs. Jarrett's. The
little boy died last night."
"Oh, I'm sorry, very sorry," said he. "I know he was very fond of the
child." And then, after a minute, he added, "But it's really very
important that I should see your father at once, Miss Margaret. Could
you not go across and tell him so?"
"No," said I, ungraciously. "I don't think I could; I shouldn't like to
disturb him." And then, half penitently, I added, "Can't _I_ help you?"
He smiled, but gravely. "No," answered he; "I'm afraid this time your
father must decide for himself."
"Is it ruin?" I asked, after a minute. "I suppose so."
He started and looked at me sharply. "What do you mean?" he asked. "No,
I sincerely hope it's nothing of the kind."
"Oh," answered I, "I was afraid there wasn't a chance after this gale
of anything but ruin to the whole crop."
"You mean the hops," replied he, as if relieved; and it did not strike
me at the time to wonder what he could have thought I meant. "I'm
afraid it's a bad lookout for them. That's why I want to see your
father at once. It _must_, I fear, alter some arrangements I have made.
I must telegraph." He paused a moment, thinking; then he added, "Is the
squire expected here to-day, do you know?"
I flushed. "Not that I know of," said I; "but how should I know? He
never comes to the Grange now."
I jerked out these sentences foolishly, incoherently.
"No, I know he has not been here quite so often of late," said he.
"I've noticed it, and I've been sorry. But he'll come back. Never fear,
he'll come back," smiled he, looking at me.
The heat in my face grew to fire. "I don't care whether he comes back
or not," stammered I.
"No, no, of course not," answered Harrod, quickly, as though he were
afraid he had said a foolish thing; "but _I_ care very much. I have
pinned my faith on the squire."
Something rose, choking, in my throat. How dared he say that he had
pinned his faith on the squire! In what way had he done so; what did he
mean?
"I want to have a long talk with you one of these days," he added,
gravely.
I looked at him. I think my face must have grown white. I could not
make my lips form the words, but I suppose my eyes spoke them, for he
added, "About many things." And then after a pause again: "There's
something I think squire may be able to do that I haven't been able to
do. I want you to ask him."
He spoke in his most hard voice; evidently it cost him a pang to have
to say that he had not been able to do that something. "Of course it
would be in a different way," he said, half to himself, "and the old
man is proud; but it's the only chance." And then he added, "And he
would do anything for you."
My eyes must have flamed, for he stopped.
"I shouldn't think of asking the squire anything--no, not anything at
all," said I, trying to speak plainly. "I don't understand you."
"Well," said he, as if that settled the question, "anyhow, I must get a
word with your father this morning. Do you think you can help me?"
"No," repeated I, my voice trembling, "I can't. You had better ask
Joyce. She will be able to do any of these things that you want, I dare
say."
He did not reply. He just turned his back and went out. I think it was
all there was for him to do. And as I stood there, looking after him,
with my heart swelling big, and Frank's letter crushed in my hand,
Joyce passed across the lawn to the parlor porch.
In a moment, unbidden, unsuspected, like a watercourse broken from
its banks, a great anger surged up in my heart towards her. She came
gliding into the room with her usual quiet, graceful gait, and went
up to the old bureau to get a china bowl that stood there and wanted
washing. She fetched it and was going out again, but I stopped her.
"Joyce, I want to speak to you," I said.
I suppose there was something in my voice that betrayed my feelings,
for as she turned and stood there with the bowl in her hand her face
wore just the faintest expression of alarm.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I have had a letter from Frank Forrester," said I. Her face flushed
slightly.
"Oh, Meg!" said she.
"Yes," answered I, defiantly; "I wrote to him. There was no reason why,
because you were heartless, I should be heartless too. I have no reason
for being so prudent. I wrote to him."
Joyce flushed a little deeper, but she did not answer a word to my
cruel and unjust accusations; she was always patient and gentle.
"What did he say?" she asked, presently.
"What _could_ he say?" I said, scornfully. "He thanks me for writing;
but I ask you how much he can have cared for my writing when the person
whom he supposed loved him didn't care to know whether he was dead or
alive?"
"That's nonsense, Meg," said Joyce, quietly. "He knew very well that I
cared; he knew very well why I didn't write. Why should he expect me to
break my word?"
"Why?" cried I, vehemently. "Because if you had had a grain of feeling
in you, you _must_ have broken your word; you couldn't have helped
yourself. But you haven't a grain of feeling in you. You are as cold as
ice. People might love you till they burned themselves up for loving
you, but they would never get a spark to fly out of you in return. I
suppose you _think_ you loved Frank. Why else should you have said you
would marry him? Was it because he was a gentleman, and you were only
a farmer's daughter? No; I never imagined that," I added, confidently,
seeing that she made a movement of horror. "You're too much of a
Maliphant. It _must_ have been because you loved him as much as you can
love anybody. And you'll be faithful to him--oh yes, you're too proud
to be fickle! You'll hold on silently to the end, just as you said you
would hold on! But, good gracious me, does it never occur to you to
think that perhaps such milk-and-water stuff might put a man out of
heart? He may wait and wait for the ice to melt, but, upon my word, I
don't think it would be so very astonishing if, at last, the fire went
out with the waiting!"
I stopped, panting, and waited for what she would say. She lifted her
eyes to my face--her dark-blue limpid eyes; there was no anger in them,
only surprise and distress.
"Oh, Meg," she said, sadly, "do you know that I think you sometimes
make up things in your own mind as you want them to be, and then you're
angry because they're not like that. Can't you be different?"
"No," said I; "of course I can't be different any more than you can be
different. We've got to make the best of one another as we are."
"Well, then, let's make the best of one another, Meg," said Joyce,
gently. "We have always done it before, let us do it now."
"I can't make the best of you, Joyce," answered I, half appeased, "when
I see you so cold towards the man whom you have sworn to love. I can't.
I know you can't be different--people never become different--but, oh,
you do make me angry."
"I'm sorry," said Joyce, penitently. "Don't be angry. Perhaps you don't
quite understand, although you think you understand so well. I _am_
proud, and I don't think I am fickle; but I am not cold either."
Why should her words have poured oil upon the flame which her
gentleness but two minutes before had allayed? I don't know, but they
maddened me.
"You're one or the other," I said. "You are cold, or you are fickle." I
went up to her and took hold of her by the wrist--the left wrist, for
the right hand still held the blue bowl. "Which is it?" I said, in a
low voice; "which is it?"
Her face grew very pale, but she neither winced nor struggled. "Don't,
Meg," she said.
"Yes, I will," cried I, fiercely. "Which is it, tell me?"
"It's neither," repeated she.
"I tell you you lie!" cried I. "You are as cold as ice. Frank knows it;
Frank feels it. It is killing his love for you. Ah, go away; for pity's
sake, go away, or I don't know what I shall say!"
I flung her hand away from me and rushed towards the door; but the
sudden movement had jerked the bowl that she held out of her other
hand; it fell onto the floor and was smashed into many pieces.
I turned round. Joyce had stooped down and was tenderly picking up the
fragments. She had self-control enough to make me no reproach--she
was always self-controlled; but the bowl was mother's best blue bowl.
The sight of her there, with her concerned face, irritated me beyond
endurance. Was there nothing in the world that was worse to break than
a blue bowl? I went back to her again and stood over her, watching her
with hands that trembled and heart that beat to very pain.
"If you are not heartless," I said, in a low voice; "if you _can_ care
for anybody's feelings as much as you care when the china is broken,
who is it that you can feel for? You didn't seem to care very much when
we thought that Frank had broken his back. Whom _do_ you care for,
then?"
I felt my lips tremble with anger, and for one moment I hated her. Oh
that I should have to write it down! My own sister, who had been all
the world to me two months ago! But it was true. Even through all the
crystallizing, cooling mists of distance, I can recall the horrible
feeling yet: I knew that--for one moment--I hated her.
"What do you mean?" said she, below her breath, trying to draw back.
"Ah, I can see very well how it might be," continued I, hurrying my
words one on top of the other breathlessly--"how you might persuade
yourself that you were true to him, and persuade yourself that you were
doing a fine honorable thing keeping so strictly to your bargain with
mother, when all the time it was because you never wanted to see him,
and didn't care whether he loved you or not, and cared very much more
whether somebody else loved you--somebody else who, but for you, might
have belonged to another person. I can fancy it all very well," cried
I, tearing Frank's letter that I held in my hand into little atoms and
scattering them about the floor; "I can see just how it might happen,
and nobody be to blame. No, nobody be to blame at all."
"Margaret, Margaret, for God's sake, collect yourself!" cried Joyce,
her voice breaking into something like a sob. "You frighten me. What do
you mean? What can you mean?"
"No, nobody to blame," repeated I, wildly, without paying any heed to
her; "only just what one might have known would happen. One, with every
gift that God can give, and the other, with--nothing but a vile temper
that makes folk shun her even after they've seemed to be friends with
her. What does it matter that you have promised to marry another man?
Nobody knows it; and when one is as beautiful as you are, I suppose it
isn't in human nature not to like to see one's beauty draw people away
from what had been good enough for them before. I ought to have known
it. There's nobody to blame, of course."
"Margaret," said my sister--and even in the midst of my fury the firm
tone of her voice surprised me and checked me for a moment--"you must
explain yourself. I don't understand you; I don't, indeed. Perhaps, if
you knew everything, you wouldn't have the heart to speak so. You are
cruel, and you are unjust. You say I am cold; but even if I am cold I
can suffer, Meg; you must recollect that I can suffer."
"Suffer!" cried I, bitterly. "I wish you could suffer one little tiny
bit of what I suffer. Ah, for pity's sake, don't let me say any more;
don't let me go on; let me go!"
"I can't let you go," said Joyce, with that unusual firmness that did
crop up at times so unexpectedly in her. "You must tell me first what
you meant when you said that I took people away from what had been good
enough for them before."
"Meant!" cried I. "You know well enough what I meant. I meant that it
was easy enough for you to be noble and self-sacrificing, when all
the time your thoughts were elsewhere. Yes, very easy for you to be
patient, waiting for your own lover, when you were busy robbing me of
my lover. Oh, don't speak, don't deny it! It's useless. You have done
it, and you know that you have done it."
I think I expected Joyce to be crushed--I expected her to cry. I stood
there panting and waiting for it. But she was neither crushed nor did
she cry; she was not even angry. She stood there quietly, looking away
from me out of the window, and at last she said: "You're mistaken, Meg;
I never wanted to rob you of your lover. If you remember, when first
I came home I told you that it was my hope such a thing might happen
between you. I always thought you were too clever for the folk about
here, and I thought he was clever. But you know you told me it never
could be. You led me to believe you hated him, and always should hate
him, because he had come to the farm to do your work. I believed it.
Yes, until quite a little while ago I believed it. Then--"
"Well?" asked I, scornfully. "Then? What then?"
"Then, when I began to suspect that I might be mistaken, I resolved to
go back and live with Aunt Naomi until matters were settled between
you. That's what I was telling Mr. Harrod the day you came into the
parlor last week."
"Oh, that's what you were telling him," cried I. "You don't say what he
said to you that made you tell him that. You don't say if you also told
him that you were engaged to another man."
"I didn't, because he said nothing to me to warrant it," answered my
sister. "If he had I should have told him that I was not free."
"Ah, you do mean to keep your word to Frank, then?" asked I.
"I mean to keep my word to him if he wishes it," answered she, in a low
voice.
Her face ought to have shamed me, but it raised the devil in me.
"Well, if you still love Frank there is no need for you to go away,"
said I, brutally. "Or is it because you are afraid of Mr. Harrod's
peace of mind that you want to go?"
"Oh, Meg, how can you?" murmured Joyce.
Yes, how could I? The evil spirit was stronger than myself.
"It doesn't occur to you that this fine generosity of yours comes too
late," cried I. "But the mischief is done. I won't have you go away
now. I will go away."
"You!" exclaimed Joyce. "Where?"
"Not to Aunt Naomi's," I began, scornfully; and for a moment the
temptation rose up in me to show her that I too was loved, was
sought--to tell her where I might go if I chose, and be cherished, I
knew it, for a lifetime. But the memory of the squire's face, of the
little tremble in his voice, came back to me, and I could not speak of
his love. "Not to Aunt Naomi," I said. "To be a governess."
"Oh no, Meg, I couldn't let you do that," said Joyce, concernedly. "I
thought perhaps you were going to say something quite different. I
have had a fancy now and then of late that we were all of us mistaken
in that foolish notion of the reason why the squire has been such a
faithful visitor to us all these years. Supposing it were as I fancy,
don't you think you could grow to love him, Meg? He is worthy of you in
every way."
She spoke with a strange pleading; her words heaped fuel on the fire
within me; she paused for an answer, but I gave her none. "He is coming
here to-night. I heard him promise mother he would come. Oh, how I wish
it might be about you! Do you think there is any chance?"
Her voice flew at me like a shaft from a bow. I felt myself grow cold.
"How dare you?" I cried. "How dare you?"
I could say no more--I was paralyzed--I had no words.
Poor transparent Joyce, who had meant to be so generous, and who undid
her work so thoroughly! How little I repaid her with my gratitude. She
stood there gazing at me with a frightened expression on her lovely
face.
"Go away, go away!" I stammered, wildly. "I want you to go away."
She made a movement forward as if to beg my pardon for anything she had
said amiss. There was concern, pity, distress in her eyes, but I put
her away. She went out of the room slowly, clasping the fragments of
the broken bowl in her apron.
I threw myself down on the far window-seat. I did not cry, I never
cried; but my whole body was trembling convulsively. I sat there in a
trance till the latch of the front door roused me, and I heard some one
come slowly, very slowly, across the hall.
Father came into the parlor; he came across to where I was, and laid
his hand upon my head. The touch of it seemed to pass into me and
soothe my troubled spirit.
"God help us to forget our troubles in those of others, Meg," he said,
gravely, after some minutes.
And then I remembered that he had just come from the death-bed of that
little lad whom he had loved so well.
I think there were tears in my eyes then.