A week went by—silent, uneventful—the world of action and emotion as leaden as the sky was leaden above our heads.

Father led his usual life, and seemed in no way worse than he had been for some time; so that the sick fear within me was lulled for a while to rest, and, realizing the emptiness of the present, I forgot the possibility of even greater evil in the future.

The summer was gone—the summer that even the oldest people in the village declared to have been more wonderfully bright and long than any they had ever seen; September closed with a whirl of storms and a drenching of bitter rain.

In the deserted hop-gardens—strewn with the unpicked tendrils of the ruined crops, or studded with the conical tents of the stacked ash-poles—only dead ashes recorded the merry flames that had leaped up towards the merry faces; the summer was gone, and everywhere trees and hedges were turning to ruddy tones upon the brooding sky.

Ah me! Harvesting had slipped into winter before, and green leaves had turned to gold, and summer birds had flown to southern homes, but never had storms followed so quickly upon sunshine, nor flowers withered so fast upon their stems, nor hopes fallen so quickly to the ground!

But the uneventful week was to end in events. It was the 1st of October. I remember it because it was mother's birthday, and the esquire, who had never before failed to come and congratulate her personally, only sent his gift of flowers by a servant. I know I felt guilty, and realized something of what father had meant, for I fear mother was hurt.

When I went into the parlor at tea-time, mother and the bailiff were there alone. They were evidently engaged in a deep and earnest conversation.

I thought it was about Mr. Hoad, who had rarely been at the Grange of late, but who was closeted with father that afternoon, somewhat to my own vague anxiety. I had a notion that mother had spoken to Harrod upon the subject before, and thought at first that her sudden silence was only because she did not care for one of us girls to know that she so far confided in the bailiff. But a certain half-confused look, that was very foreign to mother, led me to wonder whether, after all, she had been talking to him about Mr. Hoad that time; and when she sent me to call father in, she bade me shut the door after me, although I was only going across the passage.

If I had not been so very preoccupied I should have been more alarmed than I was at the sound of Mr. Hoad's voice, raised in loud tones, as I approached the library door, and I should have taken more anxious note of father's face, as he only just opened it to bid me tell mother he was busy just now but would come presently.

She looked vexed when I gave her the message, and took her seat before the tea-tray with an aggrieved air. "I don't know why, if Mr. Hoad doesn't care to drink tea with us himself, he should choose this particular moment to keep your father busy and away from his food," she complained.

"I suppose it's something very particular," said Joyce, in her even tones, and without noticing the frown on Harrod's brow. "Mr. Hoad is always so polite; it must be something particular."

"Very particular!" repeated mother, pursing up her lips. "I don't know why it should be so particular it couldn't be said at the table, only that men must always needs fancy they've got very weighty and secret matters on hand. It was only about those unlucky hops, for I heard him mention them as he went in. Why he must needs remind father of his losses, I don't know. It's bad enough without that, and when I wanted him to cheer up a bit. The hops can't matter to Mr. Hoad. But men are so stupid and inconsiderate!"

We finished tea and drew round the fire. It was dark—half-past six o'clock and more—and we had had tea by lamplight. Mother remarked how quickly the evenings were drawing in. Then she suggested sending again for father, but Harrod begged her to be patient.

"Mr. Hoad must be going soon or he will have a dark drive home," he said.

I laughed. "There is a moon," said I, "unless the clouds have swallowed it." And I got up to go out on the terrace and see.

The voices in the library rose and fell as I opened the door. I heard father's deep tones, strong and firm, and Mr. Hoad's, lighter and jarring. Joyce rose too and followed me, and so did Trayton Harrod.

The library window stood ajar as we crossed the lawn.

"You'll pull through all right," came Mr. Hoad's voice; "Squire Broderick's your friend. You were wise not to stick to your colors over that election business. It would have offended him. He's not a poor devil like me who must needs look to the pence. He can afford to be generous about debts and rents. And if rumor says true, there's one of your young ladies can give him all he needs for reward."

I stopped, paralyzed. Had Joyce heard?

But Trayton Harrod strode past me to where she stood a few steps before us. "Miss Maliphant, you must fetch a wrap for your head," he said, hurriedly; "the mist is falling."

She went in obediently. I noticed she always did behave obediently towards him now. If she had heard, she gave no sign of it. Probably she had not understood.

Some one stepped forward inside the room and fastened the window. I heard no more.

"Come down onto the terrace," said Harrod, authoritatively. "We can wait for your sister there."

He led the way and I followed, but I looked at him. Had he also not heard, not understood? Oh yes, he had heard, and he had understood—as I had understood.

"What did that man mean?" cried I, looking at him straight in the eyes.

We had not spoken to one another frankly and freely for some time, but this had roused me.

"The fellow is a low cur," he said.

"Yes; but what did he mean?" insisted I. "I've always known that; but I want to know what he meant by talking as he did of Squire Broderick."

Trayton Harrod was silent.

"Mr. Harrod, if you know, you must, please, tell me," said I, firmly.

He had looked away from me, but now he turned his face to me again.

"Yes, I will tell you," answered he, simply. "I think it is well you should know. The farm is in a bad way; perhaps you have guessed that. I have not been able to do what I hoped to do when I first came to it. I have not been successful."

He spoke in a heavy, dispirited tone; it roused afresh all the sympathy that had been stifled a while by my bitter passion. "Don't say that," I cried. "You have done a great deal. I am sure father thinks so, and I think so," I added, softly. "But you have been hampered."

"Well, anyhow I have failed, and the farm is in a bad way," he repeated, rather shortly. "Your father has been pressed for money, probably not only since I have been here; he has been obliged to get it as best he could to pay the men's wages. He has got some of it from Hoad."

"From Hoad!" repeated I. "Not as a favor?"

"No," continued he, with a laugh; "your father is indebted to Hoad, probably for a large amount. I fear it. But not as a favor. Hoad is the man to know well enough what rate of interest to charge; and he is threatening now to press him for payment. So long as your father could be useful to him, so long as he hoped to get his help towards securing the Radical seat for Thorne, he was forbearing enough—made out that he would wait any length of time for it, I dare say; but now it's a different matter. Thorne lost the seat and Mr. Hoad some advantage he would have had out of the affair. He doesn't mean to be considerate any more. He means to press for his money."

"How could father ever trust such a man, ever have any dealings with him?" cried I, indignantly. "It's horrible to think he could have done it. But now, of course, he must be paid at once, and we must never, never see him again."

Harrod was silent.

"Why does father stop there arguing with him?" cried I, looking back towards the library window. "How can he condescend to do it? Why doesn't he pay him his money and tell him to be off?"

"Perhaps your father hasn't got the money, Miss Margaret," said Harrod, slowly, after a pause.

"Not got it!" cried I. "How much is it?"

"I don't know," he answered, "but I'm afraid it's more than your father has at hand at the moment. He must need all his ready cash to pay the men, and there's the rent due presently."

"The rent!" echoed I, under my breath. "The rent is due to Squire Broderick."

"Yes," agreed Harrod.

"Father has been punctual with his rent all his life," continued I, proudly, "I've often heard him say so. Nothing would persuade him to be a day late with the rent."

"No, of course," said Harrod, quickly.

And then he was silent. I flushed hot in the dim light.

I knew now what Mr. Hoad had meant, and I hated him in my heart worse than I had ever hated him before, for what he had meant.

"But that's what Hoad counts on," continued Harrod, rapidly, as though suddenly making up his mind to speak. "He is a low, vulgar fellow, and he would think such a thing natural enough. He can see no other reason why your father should not have consented to stand by his candidate at the election."

A sudden revelation came to me.

"Was that what the article was about that you tried to keep out of father's way?" I asked.

He nodded. My heart flamed with anger at the treachery of the man who had called himself father's friend, but through it there was a very broad streak of gratitude to the man who had been his friend without calling himself so. But I did not say so; I only repeated aloud what I had told myself inwardly.

"I hate him," I said. "Whatever happens, he will never get his money that way. But, oh, isn't it horrible to think that father should owe money to such a man! Is there no way in which he could be paid off now—at once?"

"Not any that I can see," said Harrod, sadly.

"Won't there be any money coming in for the hops?" I asked again, eagerly.

"Oh, if the season had been good for the hops!" echoed Harrod. And then he stopped short.

I did not ask any more, but I understood a great deal in that short sentence, and when I thought over all that he had said, I understood more still: that perhaps he had guessed long ago, when he first came, in what position father then stood; that perhaps he had even advised the hop speculation as a last chance, having as I knew he had, special facilities for disposing of a good crop. He had worked for us, he had our interests at heart, but the task that he had undertaken had been harder than he had guessed; knowing him as I did, I knew how very, very bitter must be to him the sense of failure. His work: that was the first thing with him, and he had failed in it.

"If it hadn't been for you, things would be much worse than they are," said I at last, full of a really simple and unselfish sympathy. "You have done a great deal for the farm."

"It might have been of some use if the circumstances had been different," said he, half testily. "As it is, I have done no good, no good at all. But that's neither here nor there. The thing is what to do now."

"Must something be done at once?" I asked, anxiously.

"Yes," answered he, briefly, "at once."

I was silent, looking out over the plain. The last of the daylight was dead; the moon fled in and out among the clouds that swept, swift and soft, over the blue of the deep night sky, on whose bosom she lay cradled sometimes as in a silver skiff, but that again would cross her face with ugly scars or hide her quite from sight—a murky veil that even her rich radiance could only inform with brightness as a memory upon the hem of it. The marsh always looked wider and more mysterious than ever under such a sky as that, until no one could have told where the land ended and sea began; it was all one vast, dim ocean—billows of land and billows of water were all one.

I could not but think of the night, three months ago, when I had stood there on that very spot with Trayton Harrod, and when, at my request, he had consented to stay on at the farm and help us. He had stayed on, and he had done what he could. Was it his fault if he had not brought us help and happiness?

I remembered the night well; I remembered that then it had been warm, whereas now it was chilly. The twilight had faded and the night was dark, save for that fitful, fickle moon. A thin gauze of cloud hung now before the white disk, and the light that filtered through it showed another thin gauze of mist floating above the sea of dark marsh-land; the breeze that crept up among the aspens on the cliff had scarcely a memory of summer.

"What can be done?" asked I, in answer to that brief, terse declaration.

"There is only one thing that I can see," said he. "You are right; Hoad must be paid. It is not a matter of choice. The money must be borrowed to pay him with."

"Borrowed!" cried I. "From whom could we borrow it, even if we would? There is nobody who would lend us money."

"Yes, there is one man," said Harrod, quietly.

"You mean Captain Forrester," said I, "because you have seen him here so intimately with father; but I assure you"—I stopped; I had begun disdainfully, but I ended up lamely enough—"he has no money."

"No, I did not mean Captain Forrester," answered Harrod, with what I fancied in the half-light was a smile upon his lips, "I mean Squire Broderick."

I flushed again. I did not look at him.

"Father would never think of asking Squire Broderick to lend him money," I said, quickly.

"No, I dare say not," answered the bailiff. "Your father is a very proud man, and however well he may know the squire is his friend, they have not always exactly hit it off. But you, Miss Margaret, you could ask him, and for your father's sake, you would."

"Oh no, indeed, I wouldn't," said I, almost roughly. "It's the last thing in the world that I would do." And then I turned quickly round. "Joyce hasn't come down," I added. "We had better go back and look for her."

I moved away a couple of steps, but he didn't follow, and I stopped.

"Don't go in just yet," he said. "Your mother does not need you. I want to talk to you a little. We used always to be such good friends; but we haven't had a talk for a long while."

I stood still where I was.

"If it's about borrowing money of the squire that you want to talk to me, I don't think it would be any use for you to trouble," said I, with my back still turned to him. "I shouldn't think of asking him to lend father money—not if I thought ever so that he would do it."

"Of course he would do it to please you," said Harrod, frankly. "He loves you. But I quite understand how that might be more than ever the reason for your not asking him."

I did not answer; the suddenness of the way in which this had come from him had taken away my breath. It had not even struck me that he could have guessed it; and now that he should speak of it—he to me!

"It would be a reason if you did not mean to accept his love," continued Harrod, ruthlessly. "But since that could not surely be the case, are you not over-delicate; do you not almost do him an injury by not trusting him to that extent?"

"Mr. Harrod, I don't know how you dare to talk to me so," said I, fiercely, but under my breath.

"Dare!" echoed he, with a little laugh that had an awkward ring in it, and yet at the same time a little tone of surprise, "I thought we were friends. Surely one may say as much to a friend?"

"You may not say as much to me," retorted I, in the same tone. "And I don't know why you should think that the squire loves me."

"Is there any insult in that?" smiled he. "I did not suppose so. Surely it is clear to every one that he loves you? I have seen it ever since I have been at the Grange."

"You have seen it!" ejaculated I, dumfounded. "Why, it was Joyce! We all thought it was Joyce!"

"I did not think it was Joyce," said he.

I was silent once more. Ever since he had been at the Grange he had seen that the squire loved me. What, then, had been his attitude towards me? What had ever been his attitude towards me?

"Well, if the squire loves me, he will have to get over it," said I, in a hard, cold voice. I was hurt and sore, and my soreness made me hard for the moment towards the man to whom in my heart I was never anything but reverent. But the very next moment I was sorry; I was ashamed of even a thought that was not all gratitude towards him. "Perhaps," I added, gently, "it is not exactly as you fancy. I am not good enough for the squire."

"Not good enough!" echoed he, and there was a ring of genuine appreciation and loyalty in his voice which set my foolish heart aglow. "I don't see why not. Anyhow, he does not seem to be of that opinion, from what your mother tells me."

Mother! That was what they had been discussing so secretly.

"I'm sorry mother could talk about it," said I. "It wasn't fair. It's a pity such things should be talked about when they are never going to come to anything."

"Why is it never going to come to anything?" asked Trayton Harrod.

"That's my own business," said I, defiantly.

"Yes, that's true," answered he; "but I had thought, as I have said, that we were good enough friends for you to let a little of your business be mine also. I beg your pardon."

His tone unaccountably irritated me, but his allusion to our friendship touched me nevertheless.

"You needn't beg my pardon," said I, more quietly; "only I don't want you to talk any more about that. Mother may be mistaken about the squire wanting to marry me. I hope he does not. If he does, I shall find my own way of telling him it couldn't be."

"Well, Miss Margaret, if I'm offending you by speaking of the matter, I must hold my tongue," said Harrod; "but I feel as if I must tell you that I think you are making a great mistake."

I did not answer, and he went on:

"Your father is in a bad way. He would be very much relieved to think that one of you was comfortably settled for life. Apart from anything that you could do for him in this crisis, and which, no doubt, he has not thought of, you must see for yourself how that would be so."

"A girl can't marry to please her father," said I, "and my father is the last one to wish it."

"Of course," said he, persistently, "neither your father nor your friends would wish you to marry against your will for any advantage that might result. But why should it be against your will? The squire is such a good-fellow."

"Oh, don't ask me to talk about it," cried I. "I know he is good; I know all you say."

"If the truth were known, I expect there's a good bit of pride in it," smiled he. "You are your father's own daughter about that. And there's the squire, no doubt, thinks he's not half good enough for you. A man mostly does if he cares for a woman."

"It isn't that. I can't marry the squire, because I don't love him, and there's an end," cried I, desperately.

I wished he had never spoken to me about it; I could not understand how he could do so, even to please mother, at whose instigation I felt sure it was done. It seemed to me to be very unlike him, but since he had forced himself to speak, I must force myself to tell him that much of the truth. But I turned down away from him, and walked to the edge of the terrace.

Harrod, however, again followed me.

"Perhaps you don't know exactly what you mean by that," said he, gently. "Young girls don't always. And they think, because a man is a few years older than themselves, that it can't be a love-match. But sometimes they find out, after all, that it was a love-match, only they didn't know it at the time. Wise folk say that the best sort of love comes of knowledge, and isn't born at first sight, as some think it is."

They were mother's arguments. It was out of friendship for me, no doubt, that he repeated them, but they were mother's words, and they didn't touch me at all. All that I felt was a rage, rising horribly and swiftly within me, against the man who dared to utter them.

I did not reply. I only drew my cloak closer around me, for the marsh wind rose now and then in sudden puffs that found their way to the very heart of one; they sent the clouds flying across the sky, and the moon disappeared deep down into a bed of blackness—so deep that not even the hem of it was fringed as before with the silver rim; upon the marsh was unbroken night. I can see it still, I can feel the chill of it.

And yet, within, my heart was hot, and it was out of the heat of it that I spoke. Shall I write down what I spoke? I can hardly bear to do it. Even after all these years, when fate, kinder than her wont, has helped me to bury all that spoiled past, and to begin a future upon the grave of it that has its foundations deeper still. Even now I am afraid to look at the stern record of my words in black and white before me. I am ashamed—not of my love, but of my selfishness, though these pages are for no other eyes than mine, I am afraid. But I have set myself the task, and it shall be accomplished to the end.

"Can't you understand," said I, in a low voice, "that perhaps I cannot love the squire because I love somebody else better?"

He was silent—he did not even look at me. He gave no sign of being surprised at my revelation.

"Are you sure of that?" he said, after a pause. "And is he as worthy of you as Squire Broderick?"

"Worthy!" echoed I. For a moment a proud, rebellious answer flashed through my mind. Was he worthy of me—he who gave so much the less, for mine that was so much the more? But I trod the demon out of sight. Was he to blame if I gave the more? "What is worthiness?" asked I.

He did not reply at first, and then it was in a voice that somehow seemed to me different to any I had heard him use before.

"I don't know that there's any such thing," he said, with a sort of grim seriousness. "But a man can give the best he has, and I don't think a woman should put up with less."

Queer, plain words; there was nothing in them to hurt me, and yet they seemed to fly at me. My heart beat wildly; I could feel it, I could hear it, fluttering like a caged bird against the hard-wood of the fence against which I leaned.

"The squire gives you the best he has," said Trayton Harrod. "Does the man you think you love do as much?"

I don't know whether it was my fancy or not, but his voice seemed to tremble. I had never heard his voice tremble before.

"How can I tell?" said I, as well as I could speak the words for shame and heartache.

"A woman can tell fast enough," murmured he. And then he stopped; he came one step nearer to me. "And the fact is," said he, emphatically, "it seems a shame for a fine, clever girl like you to throw away such a man as the squire for the sake of a fellow who she isn't even sure gives her the best he has. I've no right to talk so to you, and I couldn't have done it if your mother hadn't made me promise to. She seemed to think I ought. But, upon my word, I'm of her mind. You think you care for that other fellow now, but if he don't give you what you've a right to expect, you wouldn't be the girl I take you for if you didn't put him out of your mind. There isn't anything in the world can live when it has nothing to feed on."

How every word seemed to fall like a stone into the bottom of a well! They echoed in my head after he had finished speaking. Another gust of wind came sweeping up from the invisible sea of water across the just visible sea of land. The moon made a little light again through a softer gray cloud, and shone with a wan, covered brightness upon us; the aspens on the cliff shivered—and I shivered too. The fire in my blood had burned itself out, I suppose, and the cold from without struck inward, for I felt as though I were frozen into a perfectly feelingless lump of ice.

"I wonder what would have happened if the squire's proposal had been made to Joyce, as we all supposed it would be?" said I, slowly.

I did not look at him, but I felt him start.

"Do you think she would have accepted him?" asked he. His voice did not tremble now; it was hard and metallic; it did not sound like his own. It drove me into a frenzy. All that had happened of late, all that had happened in the last half-hour, had been piling up the fuel, and now the instinctive knowledge of the feelings that had prompted that last speech of his set a light to the fire. I was mad with jealousy.

"I don't know," said I. "If the squire had proposed to Joyce, and she had known that she would help father, as you say, by marrying him, she might have brought herself to it. She is more unselfish than I am. She might have brought herself to marry one man while she loved another."

Harrod did not answer at first, but I felt his face turned upon me waiting for me to go on, and I heard him draw in his breath and breathe it out again, as if he were relieved.

"What makes you think she is in love with another man?" asked he, in a low voice.

"Oh, I know it," said I, stung to the utterance by the knowledge that he thought I meant with himself. "She is engaged to him."

My heart almost stopped beating, waiting to see where the shaft would strike.

It struck home. "Engaged!" muttered he.

"Yes," I went on, quickly, perhaps lest I should repent of my wicked purpose. "She is engaged to Captain Forrester. They do not meet, because my parents wished it to be kept secret for a year. But they love one another."

Oh, Joyce, Joyce! how could I have said it? A hundred excuses came swarming into my head, but in every one of them there was a sting, for through the buzz of them all came a strong, clear voice telling me that the man whom Joyce really loved stood at my side. I knew it, I knew it, and yet I let him think that she loved some one else; I let him go away with an aching heart. That was my love for him—that was my love for Joyce, who, until he crossed my world, had been all my world to me.

I remember nothing more. I suppose he said something and I answered it, or else I said something and he answered it; but I remember nothing—nothing until I saw him thread his way down among the aspens on the cliff and disappear onto the desolate marsh-land.

That I remember. I often see it happening. The moon still hung behind that veil of gray cloud; the breeze still crept chill among the trees, piercing to the heart; the faint white light showed a very wide world, wider far than in the brightness of day; there seemed to be a great deal of room for longing and heartache. But was the heartache in it all mine? In a moment the horror of what I had done came home to me. I who suffered had made others suffer.

"Oh, come back! come back!" I cried, in an agony of grief, hurrying down the cliff till I stood over the marsh, waving my arms wildly in the dark night. "Come back! I have something more to say."

But he was gone. The moon was the same moon looking sadly on; the world was the same world as it had been ten minutes ago, but he was gone. And who was to blame?

I came slowly up the cliff again—cold, stunned. What had I done? Where should I go?

"Margaret! Margaret!" came a loud, terrified cry from the porch.

It was the voice of my sister Joyce.