Mother had a special pride in her dairy. The broad, low pans stood in their order on the dressers along the white-tiled walls, each of the four "meals" in its place; the household cream set apart, and other clean pans ready for the fresh setting. The warm summer breeze came through the trellised shutters2, that let the air in day and night, and through the open door, around which the midsummer roses clustered thickly and the honeysuckle twined its sweet tendrils.
Beyond the door one could see the square of grass-plot, with the wide border running round it, in which old-fashioned flowers stood up against the brick wall; and over the wall one could see just a little strip of marsh3 and sea in the distance. Mother had not come in yet; but Reuben had churned before daybreak, and now Deborah stood lifting the butter out of the churn ready for the washing and pressing.
"Have you seen Reuben anywheres about?" said she, sharply, as I came in.
I knew by her voice that she was annoyed.
"Yes," said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?"
"I want a few fagots for my kitchen fire; but nowadays there's no getting no one to do nothing," answered she. "Reuben was never much for brains, but he used to be handy; but now—if there's nothing, there's always something for Reuben to do."
"Dear me! How's that?" asked I.
Deborah was silent. She had said already far more than was her wont4—for Deborah was not one to talk, and generally kept her grievances5 to herself.
"The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning," said she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean."
[137]
I was turning up my sleeves. "Dear me! Then it'll take a long time?" said I. I hated washing the butter; it was dull work.
"Sure enough it will," laughed Deborah, grimly. "What do you want to be doing? You haven't half the heart in the work that your sister has!"
"Ah no," I agreed. "I'm not so clever at it as Joyce is."
"You can be clever enough when you choose," said the old woman, sagely6. "I dare say you could be clever enough teaching this Mr. Harrod his way about the farm if you were wanted to."
I looked up quickly. I think I blushed. Why did Deb say that? But why should I blush because she had said it?
"Indeed, I shouldn't think of trying to teach Mr. Harrod anything," said I, trying to laugh.
"What! Has he turned out sharp enough to please you after all?" asked she, with that peculiar7 snort which it was her fashion to give when she wanted to be disagreeable. "I thought you were of a mind that nobody could be clever enough over this precious farm, unless you was to show them how."
"Fiddlesticks!" said I.
It was very annoying of Deborah to want to put me in a bad temper when I had come in in such a good one.
"Have you seen your father?" asked she, presently.
"No," replied I. "Does he want me?"
"He was asking for you. Wanted you to go up and show this young chap the field where he wants the turnips8 put."
The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she could not leave me and him alone?
"Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough by this time to find it for himself," I said.
I did not look at Deborah, but I knew very well that her face wore a kind of expression of defiant9 mischief10 with which I was familiar.
"I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man," said she, provokingly.
But there was a very different ring in her voice when she spoke11 again in a few minutes, and when I looked up I saw that an unwonted gentleness had overspread her hard, rough features.
"If you haven't seen your father since breakfast," she added, "maybe you don't know as he's had another o' them queer starts at his heart."
"No. What kind of thing?" asked I, frightened.
"Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad.[138] There, you needn't be terrified," added she; "it's nothing bad much—only lasted a minute or two. He called and asked me for a glass of water, and I fetched the missis. He was better afore she came. But it's my belief he's neither so young nor so well as he was."
This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke—we were too serious.
"And it's my belief he's fretting12 over something, Margaret," added she, gravely. "So if this here new chap saves him any bother, I suppose folk should need be pleased."
I wondered whether Deborah meant this as an excuse for my being pleased, or as a rebuke13 for my not being pleased. I think now that she meant it as neither, but rather as a rebuke to herself. I took it to heart, however, and the tears rushed to my eyes.
Had I been really anxious to save father all possible worry over this innovation? Had I done all I could to help Mr. Harrod settle down in his place? I was not sure. I thought I would do more, and yet I thought I would not do more. Oh, Margaret, Margaret! were you quite honest with yourself at that time? I took up a fresh lump of butter and began washing it blindly.
"Come, come, you're not going the right way about it! You'll never get the milk out that way!" cried Deborah, coming up to me.
"No, no—I know," answered I, impatiently; and then, incoherently, "but, oh dear me! what is the right way?"
Deborah laughed, but gently enough. She was a clever old woman, and she knew that I was not alluding14 to the butter.
"Well, I don't rightly know myself," said she, without looking at me. "What you thinks the right way, most times turns out to be the wrong way; and when you make folk turn to the right when they was minded to turn to the left, it's most like the left would ha' been the best way for them to travel after all. I've done advisin' long ago; for it's a queer tract15 of country here below, and every one has to take their own chance in the long-run."
This speech of Deb's had given me time to choke down my ridiculous tears and put on my usual face again; for I should indeed have been ashamed to be caught crying when there was nothing in the world to cry about; and just as she finished speaking, mother's figure came past the window, walking slowly, Squire16 Broderick at her side.
"Oh dear me! whatever does squire want at this time o' day?" cried I, impatiently. "He shouldn't need to come so often, now Joyce is away."
[139]
Deborah looked at me warningly. The latticed shutters, although they looked closed, let in every sound; and indeed I don't know what possessed17 me to make the speech, for I had no dislike to the squire. I suppose I was still a little ruffled18.
The squire was, I have said, a great favorite with the old woman, who was, so to speak, on the Tory side of the camp, although she would have been puzzled to explain the meaning of the word.
Mother was talking to the squire in her most doleful voice—a voice that she could produce at times, although she was certainly not by nature a doleful woman.
"It has upset me very much," she was saying, and I knew she was alluding to father's indisposition. "He says it is only rheumatics, and I hope it is; but it makes me uneasy. He's not the man he was, and I can't help fancying at times that he has something on his mind that worries him."
The very same words that Deborah had used; but what father should have specially20 to worry him I could not see.
"He gives too much thought to these high-flown notions of his, Mrs. Maliphant, that's what it is," answered the squire, testily21. "It's enough to turn any man's brain."
"Oh, I don't think it's that. I think it cheers him up to think of the misery22 of the working-classes," declared mother, simply, without any notion of the contradiction of her speech. "I'm sure he's quite happy when he gets a letter from your nephew about the meetings over this children's institution. It's a notion of his own, you see, and he's pleased with it, as we all are with what we have fancied out. Not but what I do say it is a beautiful notion," added mother, loyally. "I pity the poor little things myself; no one more."
This was true. It was the only one of father's "wild notions" that mother had any touch of.
I noticed that the squire had frowned at the mention of Frank's name. He always did; I thought I knew why.
"Yes; that's all very fine, ma'am," he said, "but the trouble is that it won't make his crops grow. No; and paying his laborers23 half as much again as anybody else won't make his farm pay."
Mother looked at the squire anxiously.
"Do you think the farm doesn't pay?" asked she. "Do you suppose it's that as is making Laban fidgety?"
[140]
"How should I know, my dear lady?" answered the squire, in the same irritable24 way—he was very irritable this morning—"Maliphant knows his own affairs."
Mother was silent.
"Well, I hope this young fellow is going to do a deal o' good to the farm, and to my husband too," added she, cheerfully. "I look to a great deal from him, and I can't be grateful enough to you, Squire Broderick, for having settled the matter for us. He's a plain-speaking, sensible young man, and I like him very much."
"Yes, Harrod is a thorough good-fellow," answered the squire, warmly. "He is plain-speaking, too much so to his elders sometimes; but it's because he has got his whole heart in his work. He cares for nothing else, and you can't say that of every man that works for another man's money."
They had stopped outside the window, and had stood still there, talking all this while. I suppose mother forgot that Deb and I were bound to be inside doing our business, and that the lattice was open.
"I like him very much," continued she; "but I don't think Laban fancies him much, nor yet Margaret. Margaret set her face against his coming from the first, you see. It was natural, I dare say. She had been used to do a good bit for her father; and when Margaret sets her face against anything—well, you can't lead her, it's driving then. It's just the same when she wants a thing. You may drive and drive, but you won't drive her away from that spot. It's very hard to know how to manage a nature like that, Mr. Broderick, especially when you've been used to a girl that's as gentle as Joyce is. But there, they both have their goods and their ills. Far be it from their mother to deny that."
Squire Broderick laughed, and then mother laughed too, and they both came forward round the corner and in at the door. Mother started a little when she saw me, and the squire smiled curiously25. But I did not smile; I was boiling over with anger.
"Why, Deborah, you have set to work early," said mother, without looking at me. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I didn't know as there was any need to call," answered Deborah, roughly, and I believe in my heart that she was the more rough because she didn't like mother's speech about me. "You've your work to do, ma'am, and I've mine. I supposed as you'd come when you wanted to, but that was no reason why Margaret and I should wait about, twirling our thumbs."
[141]
Mother did not reply. I felt the squire's gaze still upon me, and I looked up and gave him a bold, angry glance. I am sure that my eyes must have flashed, and I think that my lips were set in the hard lines that mother used to tell me made me look so ugly. I hated the squire to look at me, and he seemed to guess it, for he turned away at once, and afterwards I remembered how he had done it, and that somehow his face had looked almost tender.
But mother did not seem to care a bit that I should have overheard what she said; she began turning up the skirt of her soft gray gown, and rolling up her sleeves. Mother always wore gray when she did not wear the old black satin brocade that had belonged to her own mother, and which only came out on high-days and holidays. She had said she would never put on colors again when our little brother died many years ago; and I am glad she never did, for I should not like to remember her in anything but the soft tones that became her so well. Black, gray or white—she never wore anything else.
"The dairy is not what it is when Joyce is at home," said she, deprecatingly, to the squire.
"Well, to be sure, ma'am, I don't see what's amiss with it," declared Deborah. "It's hard as them as go away idling should be put above them as stay at home and work."
I looked at Deborah in surprise. She was not wont to set Joyce down.
"Why, the place looks as if you could eat off the floor. What more do you want, Mrs. Maliphant?" laughed the squire, coming up and standing26 beside me. "And I'm sure nobody could make up a pat better than Miss Margaret."
"Margaret has been more used to out-door work," said mother, at which Deb gave one of her snorts, I did not know why, except out of pure contradiction, for she had blamed my butter-making herself five minutes before.
"You seem to have plenty of cream," said the squire, walking round.
"Yes," answered mother; "our cows are doing well now, though Daisy will give richer cream to her pail than all the rest put together." Then she added, without looking at me, "Margaret, you need not do any more just now. Your father was asking for you. Go to him, and come back when he has done with you."
I wiped my arms silently, and turned down my sleeves. I had not said a single word since she had come in. She looked at me,[142] but I would not return her glance. I was a wrong-headed, foolish girl, and when I thought that mother had been unjust to me I tried to make her suffer for it.
I walked straight out of the dairy without a word to any one, and it was not till I was outside that I saw that the squire had followed me. He was talking to me, so I had to listen him.
"Yes," I said, vaguely27, in answer to him—for of course the remark, although I had not entirely28 caught it, had been about my sister, "yes, Joyce is very well; but she is not coming back just yet. I don't want her to come back just yet. I think it's so good for her to be away. When she is at home, mother wants her every minute. It isn't always to do something, but it's always to be there. And Joyce is good. She always seems pleased to have no free life of her own. But she can't really be pleased. I couldn't. Anyhow, it can't be good for her to be so dreadfully unselfish; do you think so?"
In my eagerness I was actually taking the squire into my confidence. He smiled.
"Miss Joyce always appeared to me to be very contented29, doing the things about the house that your mother wished," said he. "You mustn't judge every one by yourself. People generally try to get something of what they want, I fancy. Your sister isn't so independent as you are."
"No," agreed I, gloomily, "she isn't. She's what folk call more womanly. I never was intended for a woman. Father always says I ought to have been a boy."
"I don't think women are all unwomanly because they're independent," said the squire. And then he added, in a lower voice, "I don't think you're unwomanly."
We had come round by the lawn, and we stood there a moment before the porch. The bees were busy among the summer flowers, and the scent30 of roses and mignonette, of sweet-peas and heliotrope31, was heavy upon the air. The sun streamed down on our heads and upon the green marsh beneath the cliff and upon the sea in the distance. It was a bright, hot, June day. I was just going in-doors, when the squire laid his hand on my arm.
"Wait a minute, Miss Margaret, I want to say something to you," he said.
I looked at him, surprised. Was he going to ask me to intercede32 with Joyce for him? If so, he had come very decidedly to the wrong person. But something in his face made me look away.
"I won't keep you long," said he.
[143]
And then he paused, while I waited with my face turned aside.
"I don't think you'll take what I'm going to say amiss, Miss Margaret," he went on at last. "I've known you such a long time—ever since you were a little girl—that I don't feel as though I were taking a liberty, as I should if you were a stranger. I don't suppose you remember how I used to help you scramble33 out of the dikes when you got a ducking on the marsh after the rainfalls, and how I used to take you into the house-keeper's room at the Manor34 to have your frock dried, so that you should not get into a scrape? But I remember it very well, and the cakes that you used to love with the blackberry jam in them, and the rides that you used to have on my back after the school feasts."
He paused a moment, as though for an answer. I gave him none, but I remembered all that he alluded35 to very well.
"You don't mind my speaking, do you?" repeated he again.
"Oh no, I don't mind," answered I, with a little laugh.
"Having known you like that all your life, I care for you so much," continued he, "that I can't bear to see you doing yourself an injustice36."
I looked at him now straight. I felt annoyed, after all, at what I knew he was going to say. But the kindness and gentleness of his face disarmed37 me.
"You mean that I don't behave well to my mother," said I, the flush of sudden vexation dying away from my face. "Mother doesn't understand me. I can't always be of the same mind as she is. I don't see why people need always be of the same mind as their relations; but it doesn't follow that they're ungrateful and heartless, because they are not. I've heard mother say that she doesn't believe that I care any more for her than for any tramp upon the high-road; but that isn't true."
The squire laughed.
"No; of course it isn't true," said he, "and Mrs. Maliphant doesn't think it."
"Oh yes, I think she does sometimes," persisted I. "She would like me to be like Joyce. But I shall never be like Joyce!"
"No," assented38 the squire, decidedly, "I don't think you ever will be. But it was not specially with reference to your mother that I was going to speak to you, although what I was going to say bears, I fancy, on what vexed39 her to-day."
I bit my lip. Was he going to refer to Mr. Harrod? He paused again.
[144]
"Your father is very much harassed40 and troubled, I fear, Miss Margaret," he said next. "I have noticed, with much grief of late, how sadly he seems to have aged41."
"Do you think so?" said I. "I don't know what he should have to be harassed about."
"The conduct of a farm is a very harassing42 thing: it takes all a man's thought and care. And even then it doesn't always pay," said the squire, gravely.
I did not answer; I was puzzled.
"Your father is getting old," continued he, "and it is hard for a man, when he is old, to give as much attention to such things as in youth and strength."
"I don't think he is so very old," I said, half vexed; "but perhaps he doesn't care so much about farming as some people do. Perhaps he cares more about other things."
"Perhaps," said the squire, evasively. Then starting off afresh, he added, quickly, "I had hoped that this new bailiff would have relieved him of some anxiety; but I am afraid there are inconveniences connected with his presence which, to a man of your father's temperament43, are particularly galling44."
"Well, I suppose it's natural that a man who has been his own master all his life should mind taking a younger one's advice," said I, pretty hotly this time.
"Of course it is," agreed the squire; "but all the same, the farm needs a younger man's head and a younger man's heart in it before it'll thrive as it ought. And now I'm coming to what I wanted to say, Miss Margaret. You can do more than any one else to smooth over the difficulties. You must persuade your father to let Harrod have his own way. He's a headstrong chap, I can see that; and he'll do nothing, he'll take no interest, if he's gainsaid45 at every step. Nobody would. There are many kinds of modern improvements that are needed at Knellestone. Your father has always stood against them, because he fancied it wasn't fair to the laborers; but they'll have to come, and I know very well Harrod won't stay here long and not get them. No man who is honest to his employer would. Now, you must be go-between," he went on, still more earnestly, although speaking in a low voice. "You must get your father to see things reasonably, and you must be friendly to Harrod: show him that you take an interest in his improvements, and persuade him that your father does also. So he will, when he sees how they work. I can see that a vast deal depends upon you,[145] Miss Margaret. You're a clever girl; you can manage it—if you will."
I turned my face farther aside than ever; in fact, I think I turned my back. I did not answer—I did not know what to answer.
"And you will, I know," added he, in a persuasive46 voice. "I quite understand that it isn't pleasant to you at first, but it will become so when you see that you can do a great deal to make things smooth when difficulties occur. I am sure it must be a great comfort to you to think of how much there still is in which you can help your father—quite as much as there used to be in the past, when you had it more your own way. No one else can help him as you can help him."
"Oh, I don't really think he wants help," said I—but rather by way of saying something than from conviction.
"Well, I think he wants more than you fancy," persisted the squire. "I would not for worlds cast a shadow over your young life, Miss Margaret," he went on, earnestly; "but I feel that it is the part of a true friend that I should, in a certain measure, do so. Your mother is a tender helpmeet and an admirable nurse, I know; but there are other things needed for a man besides physic and poultices. The time may come when he may turn to you for some things, and I think you should make yourself ready for that time."
He said no more. But after a few moments he held out his hand.
"Good-bye," said he. "Whenever you want a friend, I don't need to tell you that you have got one at the Manor."
He was gone, and I had stood there with downcast head, and had answered never a word. I did not at the time understand all that he had said, nor what he had meant by his doubts and his fears, although in after-years his words came back to me very vividly47, as did also other words of Deborah's; but one thing was very clear to me even then, and that was that everybody—from Joyce and Deborah to mother and the squire—considered that I ought to make friends with the new bailiff, and that I had not yet done so sufficiently48.
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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marsh
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wont
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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sagely
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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defiant
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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rebuke
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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tract
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squire
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possessed
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ruffled
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grumbled
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specially
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testily
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misery
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laborers
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irritable
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curiously
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standing
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vaguely
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entirely
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contented
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scent
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heliotrope
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intercede
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scramble
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manor
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alluded
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injustice
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disarmed
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexed
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| 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 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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