Margaret Maliphant

								

The squire just nodded to Mr. Hoad, and then the conversation became
general till the squire and his nephew left, very shortly afterwards.

CHAPTER IX.

Three weeks had passed since the day when Captain Forrester drove
us out from town. Winter was gliding slowly into spring. The winds
were still cold and piercing, and the bright sun and keen air sadly
treacherous to sensitive folk, but the snow had all melted and the
grass sprung green upon the marsh, throwing the blue of the sea
beyond into sharp contrast; the cattle came out once more to feed;
yellow-hammers and butcher-birds began to appear on the meadows; and
over earth and sea, soft gray clouds broke into strange shapes upon the
blue.
I remember all this now; then I was only conscious of one thing--that,
in spite of the east wind, I was happy.
Father was well again; he rode over the farm on his cob just as he used
to do, and mother had forgotten the very name of a poultice. Joyce and
the captain showed every sign of playing in the romance that I had
planned for them; no one had mentioned the subject of a bailiff for
Knellestone from that day to this; and the squire's ball was close at
hand.
How was it possible that I should be otherwise than happy?
It was the very night before the dance. Jessie Hoad, who had consented
to sing for our village concert, had been over and we had been having
a practice under Captain Forrester's directions. She was a fashionably
dressed, fashionably mannered, fashionably minded young woman, and
quite content with herself; she generally resented directions, but she
had submitted with a pretty good grace to his.
Miss Thorne had also been in. Joyce in this had shown one of those
strange instances of obstinacy that were in her. Mary Thorne had
asked to come, and she should not be refused. I remember noticing
that Captain Forrester and that particularly gay-tempered young lady
seemed to be very intimate together; just, in fact, as people who had
known one another from childhood would be. They took the liberty of
telling one another home-truths--at least Mary Thorne did (I fancied
Frank responded less promptly), and did it in a blunt fashion that was
peculiar to her. But I liked blunt people. I liked Mary Thorne very
much.
Although she was an heiress to money that had been "sucked from the
blood of the people"--to money made from a factory where girls and
little children worked long hours out of the sunlight and the fresh
air--although she lived in a great house that overlooked acres of land
that belonged to her--and although my father could scarcely be got to
speak to hers--I liked Mary Thorne. She was so frank and jolly, and
took it so as a matter-of-course that we were to be friends, that I
always forgot that she rode in a carriage when I walked, and that she
and I ought, by rights, not to be so much at ease.
That day she was particularly jolly, and she and I and Captain
Forrester laughed together till I was quite ashamed to see that I had