But we none of us spoke of him now. Even I did not—not even to Joyce. I had written him that letter that I had intended to write, and was awaiting the answer to it, but I did not speak of him. Mother was the only one who did; she spoke of him that morning in the dairy.
"Meg," she began, "I can't make out how it is that the squire don't come to see us as he used to do. I've sometimes thought that you might have something to do with it."
I looked round quickly. I was alarmed.
"Why on earth should I have anything to do with it?" I cried. But I saw that I was distressing myself needlessly; mother was as far as ever from guessing the truth.
"None so very unlikely, I'm afraid, my dear," she replied. "You're but young, and you might even let a thing slip out without meaning it. And then you're masterful, and you've set your heart upon this affair coming straight between Joyce and the captain, though the Lord alone knows why you should suppose a young butterfly such as that would make a better husband than Squire Broderick. The truth is, Margaret, I'm afraid you have been telling tales."
She had guessed part of the truth, but what a little part of it! I was silent, and she looked at me sharply.
"Of course if you have," said she, severely, "it's just about the worst piece of mischief you could well have set your hands to. That other affair 'll never come to anything, as I guessed pretty well from the first it never would. The dandy young beau has got other fish to fry by this time, and, luckily enough, Joyce is too sensible to fret after a bird that has flown. She never did set that store on him that you fancied, and before the year's out she'd be very sorry to have to keep to her bargain."
"Well, however that may be," answered I, with an inward sense of superiority, "Joyce will never marry the squire, so you needn't bother about that."
"You'll please to keep such remarks to yourself, Margaret," said mother, coldly. "You can't possibly know anything at all about the matter."