The elections were over. They had passed quietly enough, and Mr. Farnham was returned for our division of Sussex, as Squire Broderick had always said he would be. As far as I recollect, it was as every one had expected, and I don't even remember that any one was particularly disappointed excepting the Thornes themselves and Mr. Hoad.

He, I remember, came to see father the very next day on business, and whether it was the "business" or the Radical failure I don't know, but his face wore that expression of mean vindictiveness which I had always instinctively felt it could wear, although I had never actually seen it as I saw it that day. He was closeted some time with father in the study. I met them in the hall as they came out; I was just starting for the Manor with the basket of jelly.

"Ah, we should have won it if you had helped us," the solicitor was saying. "And I must say, Maliphant, it doesn't seem to me to be right to hold aloof when energy is required in the cause."

Father's underlip swelled portentously; it was the sign of a storm within him; but he controlled himself and did not reply.

He turned to me instead, and said: "Are you off to the Manor, Meg? Well, ask the squire if I shall come and spend an hour or two with him to-night, as he's laid up."

The disagreeable expression deepened on Hoad's face. "Ah, your friend the squire'll be in fine feather," said he to father. "It's a precious good thing for him and his friend Farnham that that smart young nephew of his didn't come down and address the meeting the other night. He's an influential chap, and he's an honest fellow; he sticks by the ship."

Father looked towards me, and said, quietly, "Well, be off, my girl."

It seemed to bring Mr. Hoad to his senses. He turned to me with that particular smile which I so much disliked, and said: "Ah, Squire Broderick is a great friend of Miss Margaret's; we all know that. It's not always the young and handsome that succeed with the fair sex, and we can't blame a lady if she should put in her oar on the side it suits her to trim the boat."

"Don't talk nonsense to my girl, Hoad, if you please," cried father, angrily. "She doesn't understand that kind of stuff."

I didn't wait to hear any more. I lifted the latch and went out; but I heard Hoad laugh loudly, and as I closed the gate I heard him say: "Well, good-bye, Maliphant. You understand me about the loan? I'm glad the hops are looking well; but I'm afraid I can have nothing to do with any such negotiations as you propose about them."

I walked down the road with my little basket on my arm, pondering this sentence and Hoad's attitude altogether. It puzzled me. It almost seemed as though he wanted to pay father out for something. But what? Why should the election matter so very much to Mr. Hoad? And in what way could he pay father out?

I could not understand, but I hated Mr. Hoad worse than ever, and none the less for his vulgar banter about squire and me. I suppose he thought girls liked such stuff, but he was oddly out of it in every way.

But neither Mr. Hoad nor his words were long in my thoughts, I am bound to say. My head was so full of other things—of things that seemed all the world to me, because they concerned, and vitally concerned, that poor little, throbbing, aching piece of selfishness, Margaret Maliphant—that I had little thought left for anything else. The day before had left a vivid impression on me; it seemed almost like an era in my life.

The way in which Joyce had received the news of Frank's accident, the strange and puzzling scene with Deborah, and last but not least, the chance discovery of my sister and Harrod in the parlor, and the manner in which Harrod had answered me about it, inducing me, to my bitter regret, to try and quarrel with him in return—was it not enough to distress such a girl as I was then, living so much on sentiment and emotion?

All the morning I had been hoping to see Harrod, to have a little word with him that should set matters straight again between us; at all events, set them where they were before. Only two days ago I had been so happy with him on the ridge of the open cliff, I had felt so confident that my companionship was sweet to him, and now ajar again! What was the reason? And even as I asked myself that question, I saw Joyce sitting in the low chair by the fireplace, with the tears on her long lashes, and the dusky light upon her golden hair.

I was so intent upon my dream that I did not see the chief figure of it walking towards me until he was close at my side. My heart leaped within me for gladness; here was my opportunity. The demon—I would not give it its name—fled in the presence of a happy humility that surged up within me, and made me almost glad to have put myself in the wrong, that I might say so and be forgiven.

Ah, what was this terrible unseen power, that rode rough-shod over every sense that had ruled me up till now? How was it that I fell so passively, so imperceptibly, beneath its might? how was it that I did not struggle? how was it that I had forgotten to be proud?

I think that there was a smile on my face as I looked up into Harrod's. I know there was a smile in my heart, but it must have faded away very quickly, for his was quite cold. My courage sank.

I don't know what I feared, but I felt as if some unknown evil were going to happen. Yet, if I had been cool enough to notice him critically, I should have seen that he was not thinking of me.

"Has Hoad been with your father?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered. "He has only just left him."

"I suppose he is very much annoyed about the failure of this election," he said.

"I don't know," answered I, not caring at all about the election. "I don't know why he should mind so very much."

"Oh, I do," growled Harrod, striking his left hand smartly with a newspaper which I now saw he held in his right. "The vil—"

He stopped himself, and set his teeth.

"Yes, he was angry, I suppose," added I, recollecting the man's face. "But—" I wanted to say, "But don't let us talk of Mr. Hoad," and I hadn't the courage.

"Well, I wish you would try and keep the paper out of your father's way to-day, if you can," added he, more quietly. "There's something in it I'm afraid might distress him."

At any other time this speech would have filled me with curiosity and probably alarm, but just now I was so intent upon that idea of humbling myself and "putting matters straight" that I scarcely even noticed it.

"I suppose he doesn't often read it before the evening, does he?" added Harrod.

"Sometimes he does," said I. "I'll do my best. What is there in it—something bad about hops?"

The preoccupied look changed into one of simple annoyance and anger.

"I'm afraid it is," said I, blundering, and trying to find my way to the explanation that I wanted. "But never mind. As you said yesterday, hops are always very difficult things, and father must know that quite well. It was very stupid of me to say what I did yesterday about them, Mr. Harrod. I was talking foolishly. But I do know better than that, you know."

I spoke gently, but the frown deepened almost into a scowl on the bailiff's face.

"What on earth makes you think hops have anything to do with the matter?" cried he.

His lip trembled in that dreadful way I have noticed in him before. It was very slight, so slight that any one else might not have noticed it, but to me it was horrible—it terrified me. Yes; and two months ago I had never seen him look so—I did not know it was possible.

"I beg your pardon," said he, in a low voice; "but indeed the subject that I referred to in the paper has nothing at all to do with agriculture of any sort."

I did not say anything. I could not have spoken a word. He stood a moment with his face turned from me, and then he said "Good-day," abruptly, and walked down the road.

Without looking after him I went on my way. I had forgotten where I was going; a great weight hung at my heart. Yet nothing had happened. I had stupidly harped on a matter which, I might have seen, annoyed him; he had been annoyed, and he had been sorry for it. What was there in that? Nothing. No, it was not that anything had happened, it was that nothing had happened; it was that every little thing that occurred day by day showed me more clearly that nothing could happen, that I had no hold, that the ground was slipping away from under my feet.

I walked mechanically forward, I was giddy, the air danced around me, and my heart went beating about in its cage. I kept repeating to myself that I had not said what I had meant to say, that if I had said what I had meant to say all would have been well. I felt instinctively that I had not touched at the root of the matter; but I did not know that I could not have touched at the root of the matter, that I should not have dared to go within miles of it.

And still I went on under the leafy trees, with that unexplained hunger within me, until, as in a dream, I stood upon the broad steps of the Manor gate-way. Was it forgiveness that I wanted of him? He would only have wondered to hear me say that it was needed. What was it that I wanted?

I rang the great bell, which sounded so emptily through the hall. The sound called me back to myself, but even as the words of the message that I had come to deliver formed themselves upon my lips, a sudden resolve formed itself within my heart.

When the door opened, instead of merely giving my message, I asked if the squire was at home. I dare say the man was astonished. It did not occur to me to think whether he was or not; I had not had enough experience of the world to think much of such a matter; and my purpose burned too bright in me for such reflections.

I was shown through the great hall, which Frank Forrester had so cleverly decorated with flags and garlands on the night of the county ball, to the long room beyond that looked out onto the fine lawn through three great deep-embrasured windows that enclosed the landscape in their dark oak frames. I leaned upon one of the faded cushions of the window-seat and looked out to the garden. It was laid out in a large square of lawn, with a broad old-fashioned flower-bed flanking it on either side; but to the belt of trees towards the marsh it was free, and through the trees one had glimpses of the wide, sad land, with the sea in the distance, that we saw from the Grange; to the right of the lawn was the ruin of the thirteenth-century chapel, the tall, slender arch of the chancel, and the graceful little turret of the bell-tower standing out against the elms and sycamores.

How well I remembered that night of the ball, when we had strayed out into the moonlight—the squire and I—and when I had envied Joyce for having a lover! Yes, I had wondered to myself whether I should ever have a lover who would speak to me like that in the moonlight with his heart in his voice.

Joyce's white dress had fluttered in the shade of that dark ruin—cold as the shrouds of the ghosts who might have peopled it. I remembered that now, as though it had been an evil omen. But then nothing had seemed to me cold. I had envied Joyce for having a lover. Did I still envy her her lover?

A step sounded in the hall, and I stood up holding my basket with the jelly in it; my heart was beating a little with the strangeness of the place, for of the squire I was not afraid.

The dark oak room was getting a little dim; I had not been able to get off in the morning, it was afternoon—late afternoon, because Harrod had detained me. A shadow over the sky without made very dark corners in the old wainscoting, that the heavy tapestry curtains made darker still. Everything was dark and old-fashioned, with a solid serviceable goodness, in the squire's house. There were bits of delicate satinwood furniture, as I knew, in the citron-colored drawing-room with its canary hangings, but here, in the room where the squire sat, everything was for use.

I took it all in at a glance; the shelves that lined the walls—books and books and books for him who declared he did not read—the carved settee by the hearth, the old leather arm-chair whence he must just have risen, the large table strewn with newspapers and pamphlets, driving-gloves, hunting-crops, dog-collars, and all kinds of strange implements that country gentlemen seem to require. An old Turkey carpet covered the floor, and a heavy curtain kept the draught from the door; it was a comfortable winter room, dim and hot on this warm September evening.

As I looked I remembered another room that I had been in alone not a long while since—a different room, looked at with different feelings. I shivered as I thought of it, just as I had shivered a moment since in the hot air without.

The squire came in. He looked as though he had been ailing, but he did not look ill, and his smile was sunshine in its welcoming.

"Why, Miss Margaret, this is an honor for an old bachelor," said he. "It's worth while being ill for—or saying one has been ill, for there has been precious little the matter with me. I should have been out long ago if it hadn't been for that tiresome doctor that Mrs. Dalton insisted on calling in."

I smiled. I did not know what to say—how to begin.

"Mother sent you this jelly," I said, hurrying to get over the avowed object of my visit. "It's some we make at home, and she thinks it'll cure anything." I held out the basket, and then placed it on the big table behind me. "And father wants to know if you would like him to come to-night and have a chat," I went on, hurriedly, before he had time to answer.

"Oh, I couldn't let him do that," said the squire. "I heard he wasn't so well again the other day. I'm quite recovered now. I'll come down to the Grange. I should like to have a chat with him about the election. I hope your father isn't disappointed?"

"Oh dear, no; father doesn't mind a bit," said I, impatiently. "But do come. I'm sure mother'll be downright glad to see you at the Grange again. She says you never come near us nowadays."

"What, have I been missed?" said he, with just the very tiniest bit of sarcasm in his good voice.

"Why, of course," I answered, simply. "You know how fond mother is of you—and father too. Excepting Captain Forrester, I don't think he gets on so well with anybody."

His face fell, and I was sorry.

"He's had more practice with me," he laughed.

"Yes," said I. "But he is so fond of Captain Forrester. He's dreadfully cut up about this accident of his. If it hadn't been for that Mr. Hoad coming in and worrying him this afternoon he was coming up to see you about it. But he gave me this letter and told me to ask you to put the address on."

"Oh, Frank's all right," said the squire, a trifle impatiently. "It's nothing but a sprained wrist and ankle. Only he didn't feel like coming down; perhaps he was half glad to get out of it; I'm sure he ought to have been ashamed ever to have promised to come."

It was rather a fall, after all the sympathy I had tried to win for Frank, and the reproaches I had made to Joyce for her coldness! But Joyce's strange conduct was none the less so because he had only sprained his ankle.

"I'm glad he is no worse hurt," said I; and as it came home to me how very glad I was I added, "Oh, I'm very glad."

"The boy's right enough," repeated the squire, in the same manner.

He advanced to the table, against which I had been leaning all this time, and said, in a very grateful sort of way, "So you really made this jelly for me, and came all the way across here on purpose to bring it to me?"

I looked at him, astonished. One would have thought making jelly was dreadfully hard work, and the distance from the Grange to the Manor at least five miles instead of not one.

"Oh dear, no," said I. "I didn't make it. Mother made it; I only helped her strain it. And I didn't come here on purpose to bring it."

It was the squire's turn to look at me, astonished. "No, I came to ask you something," continued I, hurriedly, rushing violently upon my subject. "Do you remember once—in the summer—Mr. Broderick, you told me that if ever I was in any trouble, that if ever I wanted help, I was to come to you?"

"Yes, I remember it very well," answered he. "I meant what I said."

"I knew you did," said I. "That's why I've come." He came close up to me.

"Thank you," he said, and at the time it did not strike me that it was strange he should say "thank you." "I'm glad you have come. So you are in trouble up at the Grange! Ah, I was afraid, I was sorely afraid it was coming! Come and sit down and tell me all about it."

He took hold of my hand and led me towards the oaken settle. We had not sat down before; I don't think either of us had supposed that I was going to remain more than a minute.

"It's about Joyce," I said.

He started, but he did not look distressed, rather more surprised. "I'm dreadfully unhappy about Joyce," I repeated.

"Indeed!" answered he, concernedly. "How's that?"

"I promised mother not to tell anybody," I replied; "but I can't help it—I must tell some one, for I don't know what to do."

"Yes, tell me," he repeated.

"Do you remember that ball you gave here at the Manor last spring?" asked I.

"Ah, yes, I remember," answered he, I thought sadly.

"Well, Joyce was engaged to Captain Forrester that night," said I.

I saw his face grow stern as it had grown when he had warned me about Frank at first.

"Mother didn't like it, she—she wanted something else for Joyce," I went on, evasively, not caring to let the squire think that mother had noticed his liking for my sister—"she said they must wait for a year. Yes, and not meet all the time, and not write to one another. But it's not possible that two people who care for one another can go on like that. Is it, now?" cried I, eagerly.

"Yes, it would be possible if they really cared for one another, Miss Margaret," he said, presently; "but it would be hard."

"Oh yes, yes, too hard," cried I. "They have met. I managed it once. But now I want them to meet again."

"That's why you were so anxious that Frank should come down for the elections," he said. "I wondered why you were so anxious."

"Yes, that's why. Don't you see?" I explained. "And now that he has had this accident it's worse than ever. You say it isn't very bad, and I'm glad; but don't you see how bad it must be for Joyce? It can't be good for her, can it? And so I want you to get him down here so that they can meet sometimes. You easily could. It would only be kind of you. He ought to be nursed up and made well again."

He dropped his eyes from my face, where they had been fastened, and got up and walked away towards the window.

"There is no one to do any nursing here," he said. "Frank can go to his mother to be nursed."

"Oh, well, I didn't mean nursing," I hastened to say, correcting myself. "I don't suppose he needs nursing, if it's no worse than you say."

There was a silence.

"You will ask him to come, won't you?" repeated I, softly.

The squire turned round. His face was quite hard.

"No, Miss Margaret," he said. "I can't do it. I would do anything to please you, but I can't do that. What you have told me distresses me very much—far more than you can guess. I had feared something of the sort in the spring; but then Frank went away, your sister and he were separated, and when she came back from her holidays, well—especially of late—I made sure that there had been nothing at all in it."

He paused, and I wondered why, especially of late, he had made sure that there was nothing in it.

"If your sister cares for Frank, I am very sorry," he went on, gently; "but I cannot but hope that you are mistaken."

"I am not mistaken," cried I, vehemently, starting to my feet.

He looked at me with a strange pity in his eyes.

"Well, then, I can only hope she will forget him," added he.

"Forget him!" cried I. "Do you think girls so easily forget the men they love?"

"I think it depends partly on the girl," said he, still with an unwonted gravity in his tone, "and partly on the kind of love."

The words stunned me for a moment; they seemed to be an echo of something in my own brain that kept resounding there and deafening me.

"I don't think that Joyce will ever forget Frank," repeated I, doggedly.

"Well, then, I can only say again that I trust you may be mistaken," answered the squire, firmly; "for I'm afraid that he will certainly forget her."

"I don't believe it," cried I.

"You can imagine that I do not willingly say such a thing of my own kith and kin," he answered, with just a touch of his old irritability in his voice, "but I fear that it might be so. Frank's mother is an ambitious woman, the family is poor, and she has set her heart upon his marrying an heiress. In fact, there is a particular heiress to whom she is now urging him to pay his suit. He is a fascinating fellow when he likes. I dare say he will succeed if he tries. And he appreciates the comfort of having his bread buttered without any trouble. I'm afraid he might try."

I was silent—dumfounded.

"No," added the squire; "far from trying to bring your sister and Frank together again, I shall do my uttermost to keep them apart. I shall work upon every sense of honor that Frank has—and, thank God! he may be weak, but he is not wanting in a sense of honor—to induce him never to see her again. Then you will see soon, very soon, she will release him from the fictitious tie that binds them, and will leave herself free to choose again, and to choose more wisely."

"Joyce will never choose again," muttered I.

There was a great lump in my throat that almost prevented me from getting out the words. My tongue was quite dry and would not move, and I was conscious of a cold chill upon my forehead and upon my lips, even though they were parched. I locked my hands together—they, too, were quite cold.

The squire came towards me, he came quite close. The room was very dim now, although the sun had only just set without, for the windows did not look towards the sun-setting. All the irritability called up by my insane obstinacy had melted out of his face; it was very tender. He looked at me again with that strange pity in his eyes.

"Ah, my child," said he, taking one of my hands in his, "why do you try so hard to persuade me that your sister loves Frank? Why do you try so hard to persuade yourself of it?"

Yes, why did I try so hard? I did not answer, but the lump swelled bigger than ever in my throat. I unclasped my hands, and let my arms fall down straight at my sides, and looked up into his face. For a moment a wild impulse seized upon me to tell the squire something of why I tried to persuade myself of that thing. I felt so sure of the deep, loyal friendship that shone out of his eyes as he looked at me. It was as though he were some big, strong, unknown brother come to help me in my trouble; I had never had a brother. But the moment passed.

"You must surely know that it is not really so," he added.

And then I snatched away my hand.

"I know nothing of the kind," I said, fiercely. "You said you would help me whenever I came to you, but you did not mean it. Now that I come to ask you, you will not help me. But I will help myself, I will help Joyce. I will write to Frank, and tell him that he must come back to her. I don't care what he thinks of me—what any one thinks of me. You are cruel, you are all of you cruel; but I do not believe that he will be cruel."

"No, I am not cruel," answered the squire. "I am only doing what is right—what I believe to be best for your sister."

"Yes, you are cruel," cried I, beside myself. "You are all of you cruel and selfish. Mother is cruel too. I know why she is cruel—it is because she wants Joyce to marry you. And I know why you are cruel—it is because you want to marry Joyce."

Oh that the darkness might have come, might have come quickly and at once, to cover the blush of shame that rose to my brow! Oh that the great window would have opened, that I might have rushed forth into the open air—away, away from everybody! How could I have been so unwomanly, so cowardly, so ungrateful?

I stood still—even to my heart—waiting for the squire to speak.

At last he said, in a voice that was not in the least angry, as I had expected it to be, but that sounded to me deep and far away, and quite unlike his own, "What made you say that?"

The voice was so gentle that it gave me courage to look up. If all the regret that was in my heart, and all the sorrow for having hurt him, rose into my eyes, they must have been very big and sorrowful that day.

"Oh, I don't know," I said, lifting up my hands as I used to do when I said my prayers, only that I don't think I had ever hitherto said my prayers with so much feeling—"I don't know. I don't know anything. I think I am losing my wits. Will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," answered he. "But tell me what made you think that?"

"Oh no, no; don't make me say any more," I implored.

"Yes, you must tell me that," insisted he.

"Everybody always thought it," murmured I. "Mother used to say you would never think of coming down to the Grange so often as you used to do only to quarrel over things with an old man. Oh, I can't think how I can repeat such things! It's dreadful. But, you see, mother thinks such a deal of Joyce. She has been quite unhappy because you so rarely come now. You must forgive her and me too. I thought it just the same. Only Joyce didn't. She's not that sort of girl. And father didn't. If mother ever hinted at it, he told her that you would never think of wedding out of your own class, and that, indeed, he would never have allowed it. Father is very proud."

"Yes," answered the squire, "and he is right. But such pride is a poor thing compared with a deep and honest love. There is a girl, not of what is called my own class, whom I would marry if she would have me, but her name is not Joyce Maliphant."

"Not Joyce!" cried I, genuinely surprised, genuinely disappointed, and for a moment forgetting all my many emotions.

"No," he said, gravely.

He did not try to take my hands again. I dropped them down once more, and stood looking at him. His eyes seemed to travel through mine into my heart. Their look frightened me, it was full of such a wonderful tenderness. I had never thought before that his eyes were beautiful; good, kind, frank blue eyes—nothing more. But as I remember them that night, I think they must have been beautiful.

"What do you mean?" I murmured.

"I mean that I love you," answered he.

I don't know what I did. I think I crept backward, away from him, till I stumbled upon a chair, and that then I fell into it. I was stunned.

"How is it that you didn't guess it?" asked he, tremulously.

I did not answer; I could not. I believe I covered my face with my hands.

"I don't want it to distress you," said he. "Whatever you may do about it, please remember that it will not have distressed me. At no time will you have brought me anything but pleasure. I think I understand a little, and I will not trouble you now. I did not mean to have told you. It slipped out because of what you said. Go home and forget it. Only, if at any time you should be lonely and need love, remember that I have always loved you. Yes, ever since you were a little girl, and used to come and have your frock mended in the house-keeper's room. I am not a sentimental sort of fellow, you know. It's not my way. I shall never be that; I shall never fret. But I shall always love you as I do now."

He did not make one step towards me; he remained where I had left him—standing in the middle of the hearth-rug. Still stunned, bewildered, ashamed, I struggled to my feet and walked towards the door.

"Good-bye," said he.

"Good-bye," murmured I, mechanically.

I stood outside in the quiet evening, on the steps of the Manor gate-way. Vaguely I remembered that as I had rung the great echoing bell there had been a craving in my heart for something that I could not reach—for something which the request I was going to make might perhaps help me to secure. Was that something love, and had I secured it?