Margaret Maliphant

								

She was simply genuinely proud that the squire should have opened the
ball with her daughter. I think she would have been proud of it had
there been no deeper hopes at the bottom of her heart. But there were
deeper hopes, and as I watched Joyce that night I remembered them.
In the excitement of watching the romance that I had fancied developing
itself more quickly and more decisively than I had even hoped, I had at
first quite forgotten my fears about the squire wanting to marry Joyce.
They had not occurred to my mind at all until that afternoon two days
ago, when he had talked so vehemently about Frank's position. But now,
as I watched him with her, the notion which I had rather refused to
entertain at all before took firmer shape.
I was afraid that the squire really did mean something by this very
marked attention to his tenant's daughter. It must needs excite a
great deal of comment even among those who knew our rather particular
position in the village, and the unusual intimacy between two families
of different social standing. Would he have courted that comment merely
for the sake of gratifying his old friend? What if he should propose to
Joyce--if he should ask our parents' consent to the marriage at once?
Would Captain Forrester, the unknown stranger, have any chance beside
the friend of years? Would the soldier, who had nothing but what he
earned by his brave calling, have a chance against the man who could
give her as fine a home as any in the county?
Not with mother; no, I felt not for an instant with mother. But with
father?
I knew very well that father, whatever his respect for the man, would
never see a marriage between the squire and his daughter with pleasure,
and I even thought it likely that he would downright forbid it. But
what would be his feelings with regard to the captain? Would they be
any different because, belonging by birth to another class, he yet
desired to work for the interest of the class that was ours? I could
not tell.
I was roused from my dream by the voice of Captain Forrester at my
side. He was asking me for a dance--this very next one. There was
something in the tone of his voice that puzzled me--a harsh sound, as
though something hurt him. Of course I gave him the dance. I was only
too delighted.
My feet had begun to itch as soon as I had heard the music, and when I
had seen Joyce sailing round, and no one had come to ask me, I had felt
very lonely. We stood up, even before the squire had brought Joyce back
to mother--we stood up, and with the first bars of the new waltz we set
forth. I soon forgot all thought of Joyce, or any one else, in the pure
joy of my own pleasure.
I did love dancing. I did not remember that it was Captain Forrester
with whom I was dancing, I only knew that it was a man who held me
firmly, and whose limbs moved with mine in an even and dreamy rhythm as
we glided across something that scarcely seemed to be a floor, to the