Joyce and I sat in the apple orchard1 one May afternoon. It was not often we sat idle; but Joyce was going away on the morrow on a visit to Sydenham, and we wanted a few minutes' quiet together.
There was no quiet in-doors; mother was in one of her restless moods, and Mr. Hoad was with father. I supposed he was still harping2 on that subject of the elections, for I could not tell why else he should come so often; but I could have told him that he might have spared his pains, for that father never altered his mind.
However, on this particular occasion I was glad that he came, for I thought that it might save father from missing Frank too much—although, to be sure, they did not seem to get on so well as before Frank's coming; and I fancied that there was even the suspicion of a cloud on father's face when he closed the door after his man of business.
Who could wonder? Who would like Hoad after Frank Forrester? For my own part, I always avoided him, and that was why I had taken Joyce out-of-doors.
An east wind blew from the sea, and the marsh3 was bleak4, though the lengthening5 shadows lay in soft tones across its crude spring[98] greenness. The sun shone, and the thorn-trees that were abloom by the dikes made white spots along their straightness—softer memories of the snow that had so lately vanished, kindly6 promise of spring to come. Under the apple-trees, heavy with blossom, the air was blue above the vivid emerald of the springing grass, and all around us slenderly sturdy gray trunks and angular boughs7, softened8 by a wealth of rose-flushed flower, made delicate patterns upon the sky or against the glittering sea-line beyond the marsh.
But a spring scene, with its frank, passionless beauty, its tenderness that is all promise and no experience, its arrogance9 of coming life, does sometimes put one out of heart with one's self, I think, although it should not have had that effect on one who stood in the same relation to life as did the spring to the year. Anyhow, I was not in my most cheerful frame of mind that day—not quite so arrogant10 and sanguine11 myself as was my wont12.
Since the day when Captain Forrester had left the village three weeks ago, things had not gone to my liking13. In the first place, I was not satisfied with this engagement of a year's standing14, that was to be kept a profound secret from every one around. I thought it was not fair to Joyce. And then, and alas15! I fear an even more active cause in my depression of spirits—Mr. Trayton Harrod had been engaged as bailiff to Knellestone farm!
Yes; never should I have expected it. It was too horrible, but it was true. Father and mother had gone up to meet him at dinner at the Manor16 two days after the captain's departure, and father had been forced to confess that he was a quiet, sensible, straightforward17 fellow, without any nonsense about him, and that there was no doubt that he knew what he was about.
It was very mortifying18 to me to hear father speak of him in that way, when I had quite made up my mind that he was sure not to know what he was about. But it seems that I was curiously19 mistaken upon this point.
Far from being a mere20 amateur at the business, he had been carefully educated for it at the Agricultural College at Ashford. His father had been of opinion that his own ventures had failed because of a too superficial knowledge of the subject—a knowledge only derived21 from natural mother-wit and practical observation, and he wished his son to labor22 under no such disadvantages.
I fancy Mr. Harrod's father had been, as the country-folk say, "a cut above his neighbors" in culture and social standing, and had taken to farming as a speculation23 when other things had failed.[99] But of course this was no reason why his son should not make a good farmer, since he had been carefully educated to the business.
He was not wanting in practical experience either. He had done all he could to retrieve24 the fortunes of his father's farm, but the speculation was too far gone before he took the reins25; and the elder Harrod had died a ruined man, leaving his son to shift for himself.
All this I had gleaned26 from talk between my parents and the squire27 in our own house; but it was mortifying, even though I had not guessed at that time that there was any real danger of his coming to Knellestone. For that had only been settled two days ago, and I could not help fancying that Mr. Hoad was partly to blame.
Of course there was no denying that father had been ill again—not so seriously ill as in the winter, but incapacitated for active life. He had not been able to mount his horse nor to walk farther than the garden plot at the top of the terrace for over a fortnight.
The doctor had suggested a bath-chair; but the idea of a farmer being seen in a bath-chair was positively29 insulting, and I would rather have seen him shut in-doors for a month than showing himself to the neighbors in such a plight30. The idea was abandoned; but gradually, and without any sign, his mind came round to the plan which he had at first so violently repudiated—that of a bailiff for Knellestone.
I do not know whether it was really Mr. Hoad who had anything to do with his decision. He certainly had influence over father, and had been very often at the Grange of late, but it may have been merely the effect which Mr. Harrod himself produced. Anyhow, a fortnight or so after the dinner at the Manor, father announced to us abruptly31 at the dinner-table that he had that morning written to engage "that young man of the squire's" to come to Knellestone. His manner had been so queer when he said it that nobody had questioned him further on the matter; and as for me, I had been so thoroughly32 knocked down by the news that I do not think I had spoken to father since!
If my sister's departure had not been arranged—and in a great measure arranged by me—before this news had come, I am sure that I should not have suggested it; for it was the first time in our lives that we had been parted, and, reserved as I was, I felt that I wanted Joyce to be there during this family crisis.
She at least never allowed herself to be ruffled34, and though this characteristic had its annoying side, there was comfort in it; and[100] just at that particular moment we needed a soother35, for the family was altogether in a somewhat ruffled condition.
Father was cross because of what he had been driven into doing with regard to the bailiff. Mother was cross because the squire had not proposed for Joyce, and Captain Forrester had. And I was cross—more cross than any one—because I was an opinionated young woman, and wanted to have a finger in the management of every pie.
It was a good thing that Joyce took even her own share in these matters more quietly than I took it for her. Nevertheless, even she was a little dismal36 that evening. How was it possible that she could be happy parted, without even the solace37 of correspondence, from the man whom she loved? I believe in my secret soul I set Joyce down as wanting in feeling for not fretting38 more than she did; but she was out of spirits, and mother had agreed with me that Joyce was pale, and had better choose this time for a visit to Aunt Naomi, which had been a promise for a long time. And now it was impossible to put it off.
Joyce came back from a dream with a little sigh, and turned towards me.
"Well, did you see Mr. Trayton Harrod this morning, Margaret?" asked she. "Deborah says he was here to see father. When does he come for good?"
"I don't know," answered I, shortly. "I know nothing at all about Mr. Trayton Harrod." Joyce sighed a little. "Deborah says he is a plain kind of man," continued she—"very tall and broad, and very short in his manners."
"He can't be too short in his manner for me," answered I. "He'll find me short too."
Joyce stretched out her hand and laid it on mine. It was a great deal for her to do. In the first place, we were not given to outward demonstrations39 of affection; and in the second place, Joyce knew that I abhorred40 sympathy, and that from my earliest childhood I had always hit out at people who dared to pity me for my hurts.
"Dear Margaret," said she, "I want you not to be so much set against this young man. Father said he was a straightforward, good sort of fellow, you know; and you can't be sure that he will be disagreeable until you know him."
"I don't suppose he is going to be disagreeable at all," declared I. "He may be the most delightful41 man in the world; I've no doubt he is. I only say that he is nothing to me. I shall have nothing[101] to do with him, and I sha'n't know whether he is delightful or not."
"Well, if you begin like that, it will be setting yourself against him," said Joyce, bravely. She paused a moment, and then added, "I'm in hopes it will be a good thing for father. I've often thought of late that the work was too hard for him. Father's not the man he was."
"Father's all right," insisted I. "It's always the strongest men who have the gout. You'll see father will walk the young ones off the ground yet when it comes to a day's work. A man can work for his own—he works whether he be tired or not; but a hireling—why should a hireling work when he hasn't a mind to? It's nothing to him; he gets his wage anyway."
This theory seemed to trouble Joyce a bit, for she was silent.
"No," said I, "it'll be no go. He won't understand anything at all about it, and all he will do will be to set everybody by the ears."
"I don't see why that need be," persisted Joyce. "The squire says that he has been brought up to hard work, and that he has quite a remarkable42 knowledge of the country."
"Yes, what good did his knowledge of the country do him?" asked I, scornfully. "He managed his father's farm in Kent, and his father died a bankrupt. I don't call that much of a recommendation."
I had been obliged to come down from my high horse as to this friend of the squire's being one of his own class, an impoverished43 gentleman who wanted a living, for there was no doubt that he had been born and bred on a farm, and had been, moreover, specially44 educated to his work, but I had managed to find out something else in his disfavor nevertheless.
My sister was puzzled as to how to answer this.
"I did not know that that was so," said she.
"Of course it is so," repeated I. "That's why he must needs take a job."
"Poor fellow!" murmured Joyce.
"Nonsense!" cried I. "He ought to have been able to save the farm from ruin. It's no good pitying people for the misfortunes they bring upon themselves. The weak always go to the wall."
I did myself injustice45 with this speech. It did not really express my feelings at all, but my temper was up.
Joyce looked pained. "Perhaps the affairs of the farm were too bad to be set right before he took up the management," suggested she. "At all events, I suppose father knows best."
[102]
"I can't understand father," exclaimed I, hastily. "He seems to me to take much more interest in plans for saving pauper46 children than he does in working his own land."
"Oh, Margaret! how can you say such a thing?" cried Joyce, aghast. "You know that father is often laid by, and unable to go round the farm."
"Yes, yes, I know," I hastened to answer, ashamed of my outburst, and remembering that I was flatly contradicting what I had said two minutes before. "Nobody really has the interest in the place that father has, of course. That's why I don't want him to take a paid bailiff. When he is laid by he can manage it through me."
"I'm afraid that never answers," said Joyce, shaking her head; "I'm afraid business matters need a man. People always seem to take advantage of a woman."
I tried to laugh. "I wonder what Deborah would say to that?" I said, trying to turn the matter into a joke.
"Deborah doesn't attempt anything out of her own province," answered Joyce.
It was another of her quiet home-thrusts. She little guessed how they hurt, or she would never have dealt them—she who could not bear to hurt a fly.
"Margaret," began she again, her mind still set on that conciliatory project which she had undertaken, "do promise me one thing before I go. I don't like going away, and it makes me worse to think you will be working yourself up into a fever of annoyance47 at what can't be helped. Do promise me that you won't begin by being set against the young man. It'll make it very uncomfortable for everybody if you are, and you won't be any the happier. You can be so nice when you like."
I looked at her, surprised. It was so very rarely that Joyce came out of her shell to take this kind of line. It showed it must have been working in her mind for long.
"Yes, dear, yes," said I, really touched by her anxiety, "I'll try and be nice."
"You do take things so hard," continued she, "and it's no use taking things hard. Now, if you liked you might help father still, with Mr. Harrod, and he might be quite a pleasant addition to your life."
"That's ridiculous, Joyce," I answered, sharply. "You must see that he and I could never be friends. All I can promise is not to[103] make it harder for him to settle down among the folk, for it'll be hard enough. However clever the squire may think him, he won't understand this country, nor this weather, nor these people at first, there's no doubt of that. He'll make lots of mistakes. But there, for pity's sake don't let's talk any more about him," cried I, hastily. "I'm sick of the man; and on our last evening too, when I've such a lot to say to you."
"What have you to say to me?" asked my sister, looking round suddenly, and with an uneasy look in her face.
"Oh, come, you needn't look like that," laughed I. "It's nothing horrid49 like what you have been saying to me. It's about Captain Forrester."
Her face grew none the less grave. "What about him?" asked she, in a low voice.
"Well, I'm going to fight for you, Joyce, while you're away," said I. "I don't think you've been over-pleased about having to go to Aunt Naomi, and perhaps you have owed me a grudge50 for having had a finger in settling it. It will be dull for you boxed up with the old lady and her rheumatism51, but you must bear in mind that I shall be working for you here, better than, maybe, I could if you were by."
"Why, Meg, what do you want to do?" asked my sister, aghast.
"I'm going to get mother to make your engagement shorter," said I, getting up and standing in front of her, "and I'm going to make her allow you and Frank to write to one another."
"Well, I'm going to," repeated I, doggedly53. She did not reply. She clasped her hands in her lap with a nervous movement, and dropped her eyes upon them.
"Mother said that the year's engagement was so that you and Captain Forrester should learn to be quite sure of yourselves. Now, how are you to be any surer of yourselves than you are now if you don't get to know one another any better? And how are you going to know one another any better if you never see one another, and never write to one another?"
Joyce paused before she replied. She lifted her eyes and fixed54 them on the channel, of which the long, tortuous55 curves, winding56 across the marsh to the sea, were blue now with an opaque57 color in the growing grayness of the evening.
"Perhaps mother don't wish us to know one another any better. Perhaps she wishes us to forget one another," said she at last, slowly.
[104]
"I know mother wants you to forget one another, because she wants you to marry the squire," said I, bluntly, "but father doesn't."
"Oh, Meg, don't," whispered Joyce.
"Well, of course you know it," laughed I, a little ashamed of myself, "and you know that I know it. But you never would have married him, dear, so mother is none the worse off if you marry Captain Forrester, and you are not going to forget him because they want you to."
"No," murmured she. "But oh, Meg," she added, hastily rising too, and taking my hand, "I don't want you to say anything to them about it. It's settled now, and it's far best as it is. I had far rather let it be, and take my chance."
"What do you mean by taking your chance?" cried I. "You mean to say that you can trust to your lover not to forget you? Well, I suppose you can. He worships you, and I suppose one may fairly expect even a man to be faithful one little year. But, meanwhile, you will both of you be unhappy instead of being comparatively happy, as you would be if you could write to one another and see one another sometimes. Now, that seems to me to be useless, and I don't see why it need be. At all events, I shall try to prevent it."
"You're a good, faithful old Meg, as true as steel," said Joyce, tenderly, taking my hand; "and I suppose you can't understand how I feel, because we are so different. But I want you to believe that I would much rather wait. Indeed, I would much rather wait."
I gazed at her in silence. Once more there stole over me a strange feeling of awe58, born of the conviction that Joyce had floated slowly away from me on the bosom59 of a stream that was to me unknown. Whither did it lead, and what was it like? What was this "being in love," of which I had dreamed of late—for her if not for myself? I laughed constrainedly60.
"Well, I never was in love," said I, "and perhaps I never shall be. But I feel pretty sure that when a girl loves a man and he loves her, being parted must be like going about without a piece of one's own self. No, Joyce, you can't deceive me. I know that you want to see him every hour and every minute of your life, and that when you don't something goes wrong inside you all the while."
Joyce sighed gently, and drew her shawl around her. "You're so impetuous," sighed she. "Liking one person doesn't make one forget every one else."
"Liking, no," said I, and then I stopped.
[105]
The marsh-land had grown dark with a passing cloud, and the aspens on the cliff shivered in the rising wind. A window opened in the house behind, and Deborah's voice came calling to us across the lawn.
"Well, whatever you two must needs go catching61 your deaths of cold out there for, I don't know," cried she, as we came up to her. "And not so much as a young man to keep you company! Oh, there's two dismal faces!" laughed she, as I pushed past her. "Well, I was wiser in my time. The men never gave me no thoughts—good nor bad."
"No, you never got any one to mind you then as Reuben minds you now," cried I.
But Joyce stopped the retort by asking what we were wanted for.
"There's company in the parlor62," answered she, speaking to me still. "The squire's come to bid Miss Joyce good-bye, and there's your friend Mr. Hoad."
I made no answer to this thrust, but as we passed through the passage, the door of father's room opened, and the voice of Mr. Hoad said, with a laugh: "No, I'm afraid you will never get any good out of him. A brilliant talker, a charming fellow, but no backbone63 in him. I was deceived in him myself at first, but he's no go. I should think the less any one reckoned on him for anything the better."
"You don't understand him," began father, warmly; but he stopped, seeing us.
She could not have understood.
"Oh, Margaret, don't say that!" pleaded she. And then, after a pause, with a little sigh she added, "I should have thought he would have been wiser than to fall in love with a country girl, when there must be so many town girls who are better fitted to him."
"Nonsense!" cried I. "The woman who is fitted to a man is the woman whom he loves."
"Do you think so?" murmured she, diffidently.
"Why, of course," I cried, warming as I went on, and forgetting my own doubts in laughing at hers. "A man doesn't marry a woman for the number of languages that she speaks, and that kind of thing—at least not a man like Captain Forrester. I don't know how you can misjudge him so. Don't you believe that he loves you?"
"Oh yes," she murmured again; "I think that he loves me."
I said no more for a while. Joyce's attitude puzzled me. That she should speak so diffidently of the adoration65 of a man who had addressed to her the passionate66 words which I had overheard, passed my comprehension.
I fell to wondering what was her feeling towards him. More than ever I felt that she had passed beyond me into a world of which I knew only in dreams. I had risen now, and stood over the fire.
"I always dreamed of something like that for you, Joyce," said I. "I always felt that you weren't a bit suited to marry a country bumpkin, but I never pictured to myself anything so good as this for you. Mother had grand ideas for you, I know. Oh yes; and you know she had, now," added I, in answer to a deprecatory "Oh, don't!" from my sister. "But I should have hated what she wanted; and I don't believe you would ever have consented. But Captain Forrester is not a landed proprietor67; he cares for the rights of the people as father does. He is a fine fellow; and then he is young, and has never loved any one else," added I, dropping my voice.
She did not say anything, and I kneeled down beside her. "Dear Joyce," I whispered—and I do believe my voice trembled—"I do want you to be happy. And though I shall feel dreadfully lonely when you have gone away and left me, I sha'n't be sorry, because I shall be so glad you have got what I wanted you to have."
She squeezed my hand very tight.
"Oh, but I sha'n't be married, dear, not for ever so long yet," said she. "Why, you forget, we don't know what father and mother will say."
"Why, father and mother can only want what is best for you," answered I. And I believed it. Nevertheless, what father and mother, or at all events what mother thought best, was not what I thought best.
When Captain Forrester came the next morning, I knew before he passed into father's business-room that he was not going to receive a very satisfactory answer. He was expected; his answer was prepared, and I was to blame that it was.
That evening, after the captain's proposal to Joyce, the squire sent down a message to ask whether father would be disengaged; and if he were, whether he might come down after supper to smoke a pipe with him. We were seated around the meal when Deborah brought in the message.
"Certainly," answered father. "Say that I shall be pleased to see Mr. Broderick." But when she was gone out, he added, gruffly: "What the deuce can the squire want to see me for? I don't know of anything that I need to talk to him about."
He looked at mother, but mother did not answer. She assumed her most dignified69 air, and there was a kind of suppressed smile on her face which irritated me unaccountably. As soon as the meal was over, she reminded us that we had the orange marmalade to tie up and label, and we were forced to leave her and father together.
I went very reluctantly, for I wanted to hear what they had to say, and Deborah was in a very inquisitive70 mood—asking us how it was that the squire had not invited us up to supper at the Manor these three weeks, and when this fine gentleman from London was going to take himself back again to his own home.
I left Joyce to answer her, and found an excuse to get back again to the parlor as fast as I could. Father and mother sat opposite to one another in their high-backed chairs by the fire. Father had not been well since that night of the ball. I think he had caught a chill in the east wind and was feeling his gout again a little. I think it must have been so, or he would scarcely have remained sitting. Knowing him as I did, I was surprised; for I knew by his face in a moment that he was in a bad temper, and he never remained sitting when he was in a bad temper.
"Nonsense, Mary, nonsense!" he was saying. "I'm surprised at a woman of your good-sense running away with such ideas! Mere friendship, mere friendliness—that's all."
"Well," answered mother, stroking her knee, over which she had turned up her dress to save it from scorching71 at the fire, "it was not only his taking Joyce out to dance first before all the county neighbors, but he took me into supper himself—and, I can assure you, was most attentive72 to me."
"Well, and I should have expected nothing less of him," said father. "The man is a gentleman, and you have been a good friend to him. No man, squire or not, need be ashamed of taking my wife into supper—no, not before ten counties!"
Mother smiled contentedly73.
"Every one can't be expected to see as you do, Laban," said she. "I think it was done with a purpose."
"Oh! And, pray, what purpose?" asked father, in his most irritating and irritated tone.
Mother was judicious74; perhaps even she was a little frightened. She did not answer just at first. I had slid behind the door of the jam-press in the corner of the room, and now I began putting the rows of marmalade pots in order. She had not noticed me.
"I think the squire wishes to marry our eldest75 daughter," said she, slowly; and then she reached down her knitting from the mantle-piece and began to ply48 her needles.
There was a dreadful silence for a minute.
"I have thought so for a long time," added mother. "I have felt sure that he must have some other reason for coming here so often besides mere friendship for two old people."
Father leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on the arm of it, as though about to rise, but not rising.
"Well, then, if he has any other reason, the longer he keeps it to himself the better," said he, in a voice that he tried to prevent from becoming loud. "But we have no right to judge him until we know," added he. "You've made a mistake, mother. The squire isn't thinking of marrying again. He's no such fool."
"I don't see that he'd be such a fool to wish to marry a sweet girl that he has known all his life," remonstrated76 mother.
"He can marry no girl of mine, at least not with my consent," declared father, loudly, his temper getting the better of him. "My girls must marry in their own rank of life, or not at all. I have no need of the gentry77 to put new blood into our veins78. We are good enough and strong enough for ourselves, any day. But come, old lady, come," he added, more softly, trying to recover himself, "you've made a mistake. It's very natural. Mothers will be proud of their children, and women must always needs fancy riches and honors are the best things in the world."
"Oh, I don't fancy that, I'm sure, Laban," answered mother. "But I can't think you would really refuse such a true and honest man for Joyce."
"Well, then, Mary, look here; you be quite sure that I shall never consent to my daughter marrying a man who must come down a peg79 in the eyes of the world to wed33 her," began he, raising his voice again, and speaking very slowly.
He looked mother keenly in the face, but he got no further than that, for I emerged from the jam-cupboard with a pot in my hand; and at the same time Deborah flung open the door and announced Squire Broderick. Mother put down her skirt quickly and father sank back in his chair. There was an anxious look upon the squire's face which puzzled me, but he tried to laugh and look like himself as he shook hands with us.
"You mustn't speak so loud, Maliphant, you mustn't speak so loud, if you want to keep things a secret," laughed he. "Marrying? Who is going to be married, if you please?"
Mother blushed, and even father looked uncomfortable.
"We were only talking of possibilities, squire, very remote possibilities," said he. "The women are fond of taking time by the forelock in such matters, you know. But now we'll give over such nonsense, and bring our minds to something more sensible. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," answered the squire. "And I have only a few minutes. My nephew leaves to-morrow, and we have some little affairs to attend to."
"Your nephew leaves to-morrow!" cried I, aghast. They all turned round and looked at me, and I felt myself blush.
"He never said so when he was here this afternoon," I added, hurriedly, with a little nervous laugh.
"No, I don't suppose he knew it when we were here," answered the squire, evidently ignorant of the captain's second visit alone. "He had a telegram from his mother this evening, begging him to return home at once."
I said no more, and Squire Broderick turned to father. "Can you give me a few minutes?" asked he.
Father rose. It vexed81 me to see that he rose with some difficulty. He was evidently sadly stiff again, and it vexed me that the squire should see it. Without uttering a word, he led the way to his business-room.
I remained where I was, with the jam-pot in my hand, looking at mother, who sat by the fire knitting. There was a little smile upon her lips that annoyed me immensely.
"I think I ought to tell you, mother, that I was behind the jam-cupboard door while you and father were talking, and that I heard what you said," said I, suddenly.
"Well, of course I did not expect you to come intruding82 where you were not wanted, Margaret," said mother; "but I don't know that it matters. I'm not ashamed of what I said."
"Of course not," answered I; "and I've guessed you had that notion in your head these months past."
"I don't know, I'm sure, what business you had to guess," said mother. "It wasn't your place, that I can see."
"And I may as well tell you that I'm quite sure Joyce would never think of the squire if he did want to marry her," continued I, without paying any attention to this remark. I paused a moment before I added, "She couldn't, anyhow, because she's in love with another man."
Mother looked at me over her spectacles. She looked at me as though she did not see me, and yet she looked me through and through.
"Margaret," said she, at last, loftily, "I consider it most unseemly of you to say such a thing of your sister. A well brought up girl don't go about falling in love with men in that kind of way."
"A girl must fall in love with the man she means to marry, mother; at least, so I should think," said I.
And I marched off into the kitchen with the jam-pot that wanted a label, and did not come out again till I heard the study door open, and the squire's voice in the hall.
"Well, you'll come to dinner on Thursday, anyhow, and see him," he was saying; "it need bind83 you to nothing."
Father grumbled84 something as he hobbled across, and I noticed again how lame28 he was that day. The squire, seeing mother upon the threshold of the parlor door, stopped and added, pleasantly, "Maliphant has promised to bring you up to dine at the Manor, so mind you hold him to his word." Mother assured him that she would, and the squire went out.
"Well?" asked she, turning to father with a questioning look on her face, which was neither so hopeful nor so happy as it had been ten minutes ago.
"Well?" echoed he, somewhat crossly. Then his frown changing to a smile, he patted her on the arm, and said, merrily, "No, mother, no. Wrong this time; wrong, old lady, upon my soul. The time hasn't come yet when we are to have the honor of having our daughters asked in marriage by the gentry."
"Hush85, Laban, hush," cried mother, vexed; for the kitchen door stood open, and Joyce was within ear-shot. And then, following him into the parlor, whither I had already found my way, she added, "Maybe I'm not quite such a fool as you think, and the time will come one day, although it's not ripe just yet."
"A fool! Who ever called you a fool, Mary? Not I, I'm sure," declared father. "No, you're a true, shrewd woman, and as you are generally right in such matters, I dare say you may prove right now; but all I want to make clear to you is that whatever time the squire's question comes—if it be a question of that nature—his answer will always be the same."
Mother said no more. She was a wise woman, and never pursued a vexed question when there was no need to do so. I, who was not so wise, thought that I now saw a fitting opportunity for putting in my own peculiar86 oar80 amid the troubled waters.
"I don't think you need trouble your head about it, father," I said. "Joyce will never marry Squire Broderick, even if he were to ask her. She's in love with Captain Forrester."
Father turned round with the pipe he was filling 'twixt his finger and thumb and looked at me.
"Margaret," said mother, "didn't I tell you just now that that was a most strange and unseemly thing to say?"
I did not answer, and father still looked at me with the pipe between his finger and thumb.
"In love with Captain Forrester, indeed!" continued mother, scornfully. "And pray, how do you know that Captain Forrester is in love with Joyce?"
"Well, of course," answered I, with a toss of my head, "girls don't fall in love with men unless the men are in love with them first. Who ever heard of such a thing? Of course he's in love with Joyce."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said mother, emphatically, tapping the floor with her foot, as she was wont to do when she was annoyed. "Captain Forrester and your sister haven't met more than half a dozen times in the course of their lives. I wonder what a love is going to be like that takes the world by storm after three weeks' acquaintance."
"There is such a thing as love at first sight," answered I, with what I know must have been an annoyingly superior air. It did not impress mother.
I turned to father, who had not spoken. "Well, anyhow, they're in love with one another," I repeated. "I know it as a fact, and he's coming here to-morrow morning to ask your leave to marry her."
"The devil he is!" ejaculated father, roused at last.
Mother dropped her knitting. I do believe her face grew white with horror.
"I always thought, Laban, it was a pity to have that young man about so much when we had grown-up girls at home," moaned she, quite forgetting my presence. "But you always would be so sure he was thinking of nothing but those politics of yours."
"To be sure, to be sure," murmured father.
"And he was always so pleasant to all of us," she went on, as though that, too, were something to deplore88 in him; "but I never did think he'd be wanting to marry a farmer's daughter. And I should like to know what he has got to marry any one upon," added she, after a pause, turning to me indignantly, as though I knew the captain's affairs any better than she did.
"His captain's pay," answered I, glibly89, although I had been chilled for a moment by this remark. "And why should you consider him a ne'er-do-well because he earns his living in a different way to what you do? He kills the country's enemies, and you till the country's land. They are both honorable professions by which a man gets his bread by the sweat of his brow."
I looked at father; all through I had spoken only to him. He smiled and began to light his pipe. It was a sign that his mind was made up. Which way was it made up?
"Joyce is just the girl men do fall in love with," said I, wisely; "and as for her—well, you can't be surprised at her falling in love with a man whom you like so much yourself."
"Ay, I do like the young man," agreed father, stanchly. "I can't help it. They're precious few such as he whose heads are full of aught but seeking after their own pleasure."
"Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants to marry Joyce?" asked I, boldly.
"I did not say that I was sorry, lass," said father, calmly.
"Well, Laban, I don't suppose you can say that you're glad," put in mother, almost tartly91, "after what I've heard you say about girls marrying out of their own class in life."
"Captain Forrester is not rich and idle," said I.
"No," answered mother, scornfully, "he is not rich, you're right enough there; but he is a good sight more idle than many men who can afford to keep a wife in comfort. I know your sort of play soldiers that never see an enemy."
"He's rich enough for a girl of mine," replied father. "As to his being idle, I hope maybe he's going to do better work saving the lives of innocent children than he could have done slashing92 at what are called the nation's foes93."
"Yes, yes," said mother, a trifle impatiently. "I make no doubt you're right. I've nothing against the young man, but I can't believe, Laban, as you really mean to say that you'd give your girl to him willingly."
"Well," answered father, "I'm bound to say I'm surprised at the news; but we old folk are apt to forget that we were young once; and when I was a lad I loved you, Mary, so we mustn't be hard on the young ones. It's neither poverty nor riches, nor this nor that, as makes happiness; it's just love; and if the two love one another, we durstn't interfere94."
"I don't understand you, Laban; indeed I don't," cried poor mother, beside herself with anxiety. "It's not according to what you were saying a few minutes ago, and you can't say it is."
Father was silent. I suppose he could not help knowing in his heart that the objections to Captain Forrester must be practically the same as those to Squire Broderick, with the additional one that he was almost a stranger to us. But his natural liking for the young man obscured his vision to plain facts. Father and I were very much alike; what we wanted to be must be. But when I look back at that point in our lives, I pity poor mother, who was really the wisest and the most practical of us all.
"Well, mother, the lass must decide for herself," said father. "She's of age; she should know her own mind."
"Joyce knows her own mind well enough," said I. "She has told Frank Forrester that she will marry him subject to your approval."
"I wonder she took the trouble to add so much as that," said mother at last. "Young folk nowadays have grown so clever they seem to teach us old folk."
There was a tremor95 in her voice, and father rose and went across to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.
"Meg, go and tell your sister to come here," said he in a moment. "You need not come back."
I was hurt at the dismissal, and I waited in the passage till Joyce came out from the interview; but her face was very white, and all that she would say was: "Oh, Margaret, let them settle it. I don't want to have any will of my own."
I was very much disappointed, and was fain to be agreeably surprised, when on the following morning I heard that, after mature deliberation, our parents had decided96 to allow the captain a year's probation97.
I had been afraid that mother would entirely98 override99 all father's arguments; she generally did.
The affair was not to be called an engagement—both were to be perfectly100 free to choose again; but if at the end of that time both were of the same mind, the betrothal101 should be formally made and announced.
Mother must, however, have been very hard in her terms; for the young folk were neither to meet nor to write to one another, nor to have any news of one another beyond what might transpire102 in the correspondence that father would be carrying on with Frank on outside matters.
Frank told me the conditions out in the garden, when I caught hold of him as he came out of father's study. The whole matter was to be a complete secret, shut closely within our own family. This mother repeated to me afterwards, I guessed very well with what intent. But although Frank must have guessed at a possible rival in his uncle, he absolutely refused to be cast down.
The thought even crossed my mind that I should have liked my lover to have been a little more cast down. But no doubt he felt too sure of himself, even after the slight shock of surprise that it must have been to him to find his suit not at once accepted.
Nevertheless, as he passed out of the room where he had taken leave of Joyce alone, he bent103 forward towards me as I stood in the hall, and said, gravely, "Miss Margaret, I trust her to you. Don't let her forget me."
My heart ached for him, and from that moment it was afire with the steadfast104 resolve to support my sister's failing spirits and preserve for her the beautiful romance which had so unexpectedly opened out before her.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
orchard
|
|
| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
harping
|
|
| n.反复述说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
marsh
|
|
| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
lengthening
|
|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
boughs
|
|
| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
softened
|
|
| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
arrogance
|
|
| n.傲慢，自大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
arrogant
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
sanguine
|
|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
manor
|
|
| n.庄园，领地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
mortifying
|
|
| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
derived
|
|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
retrieve
|
|
| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
reins
|
|
| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
gleaned
|
|
| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
squire
|
|
| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
lame
|
|
| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
plight
|
|
| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
wed
|
|
| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
ruffled
|
|
| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
soother
|
|
| n.抚慰者，橡皮奶头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
solace
|
|
| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
fretting
|
|
| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
demonstrations
|
|
| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
abhorred
|
|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
impoverished
|
|
| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
pauper
|
|
| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
ply
|
|
| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
rheumatism
|
|
| n.风湿病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
doggedly
|
|
| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
tortuous
|
|
| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
opaque
|
|
| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
constrainedly
|
|
| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
backbone
|
|
| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
adoration
|
|
| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
proprietor
|
|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
inquisitive
|
|
| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
scorching
|
|
| adj. 灼热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
contentedly
|
|
| adv.心满意足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
judicious
|
|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
eldest
|
|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
remonstrated
|
|
| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
gentry
|
|
| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
peg
|
|
| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
oar
|
|
| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
vexed
|
|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
intruding
|
|
| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
bind
|
|
| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
grumbled
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
hush
|
|
| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
wondrous
|
|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
deplore
|
|
| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
glibly
|
|
| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
throbbed
|
|
| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
tartly
|
|
| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
slashing
|
|
| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
foes
|
|
| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
tremor
|
|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
probation
|
|
| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
override
|
|
| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
betrothal
|
|
| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
transpire
|
|
| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
steadfast
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |