for two days not a word was spoken on the sore subject between father and mr. harrod, and on the evening of the second day the squire returned from town.
father and i had gone down on the morning after the quarrel to see the sheep-shearing at the lower farm. by a corruption of the name of a former owner the country-folk had come to call it "pharisee farm," and pharisee farm it always was. it lay on the lower strip of marsh towards the castle, with the southern sun full upon it. as we came down the hill i heard steps behind us, and without turning i knew that trayton harrod was following us. father gave him good-day quite civilly, and i held out my hand. i do not know why i had got into the habit of giving my hand to trayton harrod; it was not a usual habit with me.
"it has turned a bit cooler, mr. maliphant, hasn't it?" said harrod.
"yes," answered father; "but we must be glad we have had the rain before we had to get the hay in."
"that we must," replied harrod. "the hay looks beautiful."
we were passing along through the meadows ready for the scythes; they stretched on every side of us. meadows for hay, pastures for sheep, there was scarcely anything else, save here and there a blue turnip-field or a tract of sparsely sown brown land, where the wheat made as yet no show. the one little homestead to which we were bound made a very poor effect in the vast plain; there was nothing but land and sea and sky. a great deal of land, flat monotonous land, more monotonous now in its richness and the brilliant greenness of its early summer-time than it would be later when the corn was ripe and the flowering grasses turning to brown: an uneventful land, relying for its impressiveness on its broad simplicity, that seemed to have no reason for ending or change; above the great stretch of earth a great vault of blue sky flecked with white vapors and lined with long opal clouds out towards the horizon; between the land and the sky a strip of blue sea binding both together; sea, blue as a sapphire against the green of the spring pastures. far down here upon the level we could not see the belt of yellow shingle that from the cliff above one could tell divided marsh and ocean: right across the wide space it was one stretch of lightly varied tints away to the shipping and the scattered buildings at the mouth of the river.
we walked on, three abreast. our talk was of nothing in particular; only of the budding summer flowers—yellow iris, and meadowsweet along the dikes, crowfoot making golden patches on the meadows, scarlet poppies beginning to appear among the growing wheat—but i don't know how it was that, in spite of father's presence, there was a kind of feeling in my heart as though trayton harrod and i were quite on a different plane to what we had been two days ago; i don't know why it was, but i was very happy.
the sheep were gathered in the fold when we reached the farm, and tom beale, the shepherd, was clipping them with swift and adroit hands. reuben and his old dog luck were there also; they were both of them very fond of having a finger in the pie of their former calling, but i think there was no love lost between them all. luck could be good friends enough with taff, but he never could abide that smart young collie who followed tom beale's lead; and as for reuben, he was busy already passing comments in a low voice to father on the way in which beale was doing his work.
father humored the old man to the top of his bent—he was very fond of reuben—but beale went his way all the same, and sent one poor patient ewe after another out of its heavy fleece, to leap, amazed and frightened, among the flock, unable to trace its companions in their altered condition. one could scarcely help laughing, they looked so naked and bewildered reft of their warm covering, and just about two-thirds their usual size.
"ay, the lambs won't have much more good o' their dams now," chuckled reuben. "they're forced to wean themselves, most on them, after this, for there are few enough that knows one another again."
"they do look different, to be sure," laughed i.
"you might get your 'tiver' now, reuben ruck," said beale, "if you have a mind to give a hand with this job. they're most on 'em tarred."
the "tiver" was the red chalk with which the sheep were to be marked down their backs, or with a ring or a half-ring round their necks, according to the kind and the age. a shepherd had been tarring them on their hindquarters with father's initials, each one as it leaped from out of its fleece.
the work went on briskly for a while, and we were all silent watching reuben mark the two and three and four year olds apart.
"it's a pity there aren't more southdowns among the flock," put in harrod at last.
i turned round and looked at him warningly. it was a mistake, i thought, that under the strained relations of the moment he should choose to open up another vexed question.
"southdowns!" echoed reuben, who was listening. "you'd drop a deal o' master's money if you began getting southdowns into his flocks."
i bit my lip, furious with the old servant for his officiousness, but to my surprise father himself reprimanded him sharply for it, and, turning to his bailiff, led him aside a few steps and discussed the question with him at length. my heart glowed with pleasure as i overheard him commission harrod to go to the fair at ashford next week and see if he could effect some satisfactory purchase. i was quite pleased to note reuben's surly looks. how sadly was i changing to my old friends! and yet so much more pleased was i to see the honest flush of satisfaction on harrod's face as father left him, that i felt no further grudge against the old man, and nodded to him gayly as i followed father across the marsh.
when we reached the bottom of the hill we met the squire. he was coming down the road full tilt with the collie who was his constant companion, and before we came within ear-shot i could see that his face was troubled. i knew him well enough now to tell when he was troubled.
"why, maliphant, what's this i hear?" said he, as he came up to us.
father leaned forward on his stick, looking at the squire with a half-amused, half-defiant expression in his eyes.
"well, squire broderick, what is it?" asked he.
"i hear in the village that you have leased 'the elms,'" answered the other, almost severely.
i happened to be looking at father, and i could see that his face changed.
"yes," he said, quietly, "i have. what then?"
the squire laughed constrainedly.
"well," he began, and then he stopped, and then he began again. "'tis a large speculation. what made you think of it?"
"mr. harrod advised father to take on 'the elms,'" i put in, quickly. i was vexed with the squire for saying anything that was a disadvantage to trayton harrod in the present state of affairs.
"harrod!" cried the squire. he began beating his boot with his stick in that way he had when he was annoyed. "i thought it was hoad," he said at last beneath his breath.
father's eyes were black beads. "pray don't trouble yourself to think who it was who advised me, squire," said he. "if it's a bad speculation nobody is to blame but myself. i am entirely my own master. i was told 'the elms' was to be had, and i chose to take it. my hop-gardens were not as extensive as i wished."
he had raised his voice involuntarily in speaking. a man passing in the road turned round and looked at him.
"hush, father," whispered i.
it was one of his own laborers, one of father's special friends.
"wait a bit, joe jenkins, i'm coming up the road. i want a word with you," said father.
he held out his hand to the squire, but without looking at him, and then went on up the hill. i stayed a moment behind. the squire looked regularly distressed.
"your father is so peppery," he said, "so very peppery."
"well, i don't understand what you mean," said i, but not in allusion to his last remark. "why isn't the thing a good speculation?"
"oh, my dear young lady, it's very difficult to tell what things are going to turn out to be good speculations and what not," answered he. "at all events, i'm afraid you and i would not be able to tell."
it was very polite of him no doubt to put it like that, but i did not like it: it was like making fun of me, for of course no one had said that i should be able to tell.
"i understood that you thought a great deal of mr. harrod's judgment," said i, coldly.
"so i do, so i do," repeated the squire, eagerly. "i believe it to be most sound."
"well, anyhow, father won't have it much longer, sound or unsound, unless things take a different turn," continued i, with a grim sense of satisfaction in hurting the squire for having hurt harrod's case with father.
"why, what's up?" asked he.
"they have had a quarrel," explained i, carelessly. "mr. harrod wanted father to reduce the men's wages, and to make them work as long hours as they do for the other farmers hereabouts, and of course father wasn't going to do that, because he thinks it unjust."
"i knew it would come—bound to come," muttered the squire beneath his breath.
"and then he wanted him to buy mowing-machines for the haymaking," continued i, "and you know what father thinks of machines. so he refused, and then mr. harrod said that if he couldn't manage the farm his own way he must leave."
"dear! dear!" sighed good mr. broderick. and dear me, how little i realized at the time all that it meant, his taking our affairs to heart as he did! "this must be set straight."
"i tried my best," concluded i. "it's no good talking to father; but mr. harrod promised me that he would take back his word about leaving if father asked him to."
the squire looked at me sharply. "harrod promised you that?" he asked.
"yes," repeated i, looking at him simply, "he promised me that."
the squire said no more, but his brow was knit as he turned away from me.
"i'll go and see harrod," said he. "can you tell me at all where i shall find him?"
"he's down at pharisee farm at the sheep-shearing," said i. "he and reuben are having a quarrel over southdowns. he wants to have southdowns in the flock. but if he goes away there'll be no southdowns needed."
mr. broderick made no answer to this, he strode on down the road. but when he had gone a few steps he turned.
"by-the-bye, will you tell your father," he said, "that my nephew came down with me last night? i believe he wants to see him on some affair or other. no doubt he'll call round in the afternoon."
he went on quickly, and i stood there wondering. frank forrester back again at the manor! did he suppose that joyce had returned? did he hope to see her? poor fellow! he little knew mother.
"father," said i, as i joined him on the hill, "do you know that captain forrester has come down again?"
he stopped, he was a little out of breath; i even fancied that his cheek was flushed.
"you don't say so!" said he. "he gave me no idea of it in his letter. no idea at all."
a light had kindled in his eye.
"when does your sister come home?" he asked.
"she was to have come next week," answered i. "but i suppose mother will put it off now."
"yes, meg," said he, with a twinkle in his eye, "i suppose she'll put it off. and yet the lad is a good lad, but mother knows best, mother knows best."
we turned up the road, and as we came to the corner of the village street we saw two figures coming along towards us. one of them was mary thorne and the other was captain forrester. i had not known the thornes were back at the priory: they had left it for the london season.
the two were laughing and talking gayly. she came forward cordially as soon as she saw me and held out her hand. her round, rosy face shone with merriment, and her brown hair caught the sunlight. she spoke to me first while frank was shaking father warmly by the hand.
"how are you, mr. maliphant?" cried he. "it's delightful to see you again. you see i could not keep away. i had to come down and get a fresh impetus, fresh instructions."
mary thorne laughed. "oh, he talks of nothing else," said she. "he's quite crazed over this wonderful scheme, i can assure you, mr. maliphant."
father's brow clouded, and to be sure i could not bear to hear her talk like that, though why, i could not exactly have told.
"and so we made it an excuse to snatch a couple of days from balls and things, and come down here for a breath of fresh air," she continued.
i wondered why she said "we." but frank explained that.
"mr. thorne is quite interested in the affair, i can assure you, mr. maliphant," said he. "he's going to put a splendid figure to head our subscription list."
father did not say a word. his shaggy eyebrows were down over his eyes.
"oh, well, father never is stingy with his money; i must say that for him," said mary. "he'll give anything to anything." then turning to me, she added: "we're going to squeeze in a garden-party next week, before we run up to town again. they say one must give entertainments this electioneering-time. at least that mr.hoad says so, and he seems to have done a great deal of this kind of thing from what he says. we did two dinners before we went up to london, but a garden-party is jolly—it includes so many. you'll come, won't you? all of you. you're just about the only people i care to ask, you know."
she ran on in her frank, funny way—always quite transparent—not noticing father's scowl and frank forrester pulling his mustache, and trying to catch her eye. if she had she would have turned the matter off; she was no fool, but what she had said was what she thought.
father answered before i could speak. "my eldest daughter is away, miss thorne," he said, "and i'm sorry to say margaret must refuse your kind invitation. my girls are farmer's children, and are not used to mixing with folk in other stations of life."
i felt the color fly to my face, for it was a discourteous speech, and not even perfectly honest, for mary thorne had met us at the squire's house although we were only farmer's daughters. it mortified me to have father do himself injustice before frank forrester.
but mary took it charmingly. for a moment she looked astonished, then she said, with a merry laugh: "ah, i see what it is, mr. maliphant; you're a tory. i beg your pardon, i forgot you were the squire's friend. i'm dreadfully stupid about politics. i'm quite ashamed of myself."
father seemed about to reply, but was stopped by a merry laugh from frank, whom mary, however, silenced by a pretty little astonished stare.
"oh, pray don't apologize," said she to father. "only don't you try to tell me another time that your daughters are not used to good society. i know better," added she, smiling at me. "i know who was voted the best dancer at the squire's ball. and as for your eldest daughter—well, we know how many heads she has turned with her beauty."
she glanced up teasingly at captain forrester as she spoke. she was a little woman, and had to glance up a long way; but although he laughed, his face was troubled; and i could see he was trying to catch my eye.
"well, good-bye," said mary to me. "i'm sorry you mayn't come."
i took the hand which she offered, but when she held it out afterwards to father he only bowed with laborious politeness. i think i blushed with annoyance as we turned away, but he made no allusion to the meeting; only his brightened humor of five minutes ago had evaporated, and his features were working painfully.
"i shall go and fetch little david jarrett, meg," said he. "the sun is warm now, and it'll do him good to lie a bit in the garden. go home and tell mother."
i went, and a quarter of an hour later he carried the boy in—a poor little delicate fellow, whose father had knocked him down in a drunken fit, and who had been a cripple ever since. we had heard of the misfortune too late to be of much use; for continued want of proper nourishment on a sickly frame had caused the accident to set up a disease from which the poor child was scarcely likely to recover; but all that could be done father had had done, and he was his special favorite among many friends in the younger portion of the community. we spread a mattress on the garden bench and laid him there, and mother sent me out with port-wine and strengthening broth for him, and father spent all the afternoon beside the little fellow, reading and talking to him.
beyond alluding to captain forrester's arrival when mother spoke of it, he made no mention of his young friend or of what had hurt him in the passing meeting with him. but when frank came, as promised, in the evening, the storm broke.
he came in just as if he had not been away from us these two months; just as kindly, just as interested in all we had been doing, just as easy and charming. but when, i fancied a trifle diffidently, he opened up the subject of the charity scheme, father suffered no misunderstanding to abide.
"i know thorne is an old friend of your family's, my lad," he said, "and i understand that you can't throw off an acquaintance of your youth; but as to this affair, i want to make it quite clear that i'll have no influence of his to start the school with. if i could help it i'd have none of his money. i can't help that, and the 'big figure' must stand; but i'll have none of him, or the likes of him, on any committee that may be formed, not while i'm in it."
father always became vernacular when he was excited.
"very well, sir," smiled frank. "it's your affair, and i must be led by you. i think you're mistaken. you miss the valuable help of a large and influential class, and why you should forbid manufacturers to remedy an evil which they may have been partly instrumental in increasing, i don't know. but you have your reasons, and i am in your hands."
"yes, i have my reasons," repeated father, laconically.
and then the conversation became general, and frank, with his usual amiable courtesy, drew trayton harrod into it, as far as the somewhat morose mood of the latter would allow. he seemed to have taken no fancy to the new-comer, and responded but surlily to his interested questions upon the country and country matters.
frank forrester was always interested in everything; always seemed to be most so in the subject which he thought interested the particular person to whom he was speaking. but harrod would betray no enthusiasm on his own pursuits to an outsider. he was very surly that night. i think he was not well. mother taxed him with it. as i have said, she took a motherly interest in him always. he allowed that he had a bad headache, and rose to leave. i recollect that she went up-stairs to fetch him some little medicament. father, too, followed him out into the hall. they stood there some five minutes talking, during which time i am afraid that i tried more to listen to what they were saying than to what frank forrester took the opportunity to say to me.
i brought my mind to it, however, and told him what i could about joyce. there was so little to tell; there was always so little to tell about joyce—nothing very satisfactory to a lover in this instance.
and i was forced to allow what he half gayly asserted—that mother was none the more cordial to him than she had been in the past. he did not seem to be cast down about it, he only asserted it. he did not seem to be in any way cast down. he looked at me with those wide-open brown eyes just as confidently and gayly as ever, and bent towards me with his tall, slim, lissome figure, and took my two hands in his and told me to tell joyce that he had come hoping to see her for a moment, even though it had been but in mother's presence.
"she forbade me to see her against your mother's wishes," said he, "but openly there would have been no harm."
i felt quite sure that he loved her just as much as ever, and i willingly promised to give his messages to her.
but i hurried over the little interview; i wanted to get out into the hall before harrod left, and i shook hands with frank hastily as i heard mother coming down-stairs with the physic.
i was too late, nevertheless. frank had kept me for a last word, and the front door closed as i came out of the room. i went up to bed in a bad temper.
