I set my lips tight together and refused to answer another word; but when we had left the pines, and turned out of the lane into the road, I was sorry for him, and forgave him; for glancing at him, I saw that his cheek was quite pale.
"I'm dreadfully afraid of your parents," laughed he. "Your mother won't deign to shake hands with me, and your father will be hurt because I haven't brought a train of little London waifs at my heels."
Of course it was neither the prospect of mother's cold welcome nor the thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation of the scheme which had really made his cheek white. I understood things better than that; it was that he was going to see Joyce, whom he had not seen for three months. I was sorry for the poor fellow, in spite of his having offended me.
On the top of my original plan, which had only been to get him to the Grange, another took sudden shape. It was a Thursday—dairy morning. But as we had come down the street I had seen mother's tall back beside the counter of the village grocer's shop, and I determined to risk Deborah's presence, and to bring Frank straight in through the back door to the milk-pans and Joyce's face.
Luck favored me. Deborah had gone outside to rinse some vessel not quite to her mind, and Joyce stood alone with a fresh pink frock and a fresh fair face against the white tiles, kneading the butter with sleeves upturned. I left Frank there, and ran on to Deborah, who showed signs of returning.
"Whatever does that dandified young beau want round about again?" said she. "I thought he had taken those handsome calves of his to London to make love to the ladies."
I must mention that Frank always wore a knickerbocker suit down at Marshlands—a costume less in vogue ten years ago than it is now, and an affectation which found no favor in Deborah's sight. To tell the truth, it did not please me that day; nothing about him quite pleased me, yet indeed I think he was the same as he had always been. But I was not going to let myself dwell upon anything that was not in the captain's favor, and certainly I was not going to let Deborah comment upon it. After all, as I had once said to mother, he was my sister's lover, not mine; but he was my sister's lover, and as such I should stick up for him through thick and thin.
"He's come to see father," said I, shortly.
"That's the first time I knew that the way to your father's room was through the dairy," grinned Deborah. "But look here, Margaret"—and here old Deb grew as solemn as a judge—"you'd no business to bring him in there when your mother was away. You know very well you hadn't. You'll get into a scrape." How much Deb really knew about the particulars of Joyce's engagement I have never found out, but that she guessed what she did not know was more than likely.
"Why not?" asked I.