Margaret Maliphant

by Alice Vansittart Strettel Carr

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.