Those were happy days for Joseph. What plunging in the early bracing surf! What morning walks upon the sands! What shady lounges in the afternoon! And then the cheerful evenings in the parlours, or the quiet of the galleries on starlit nights! He was with her continually, drinking in sweet influence from her presence, and striving to attune himself to her changeful moods.
Yes; her moods were certainly becoming very changeful--liable to abrupt transitions from a stillness which seemed almost despondent, and so different from anything he had seen in her before their engagement, to a gaiety which at times grew feverish and even forced. She had grown restless, too, of late, unable or unwilling to remain long in one place, or engaged in one pursuit. Suddenly, in the hottest of the afternoon, she would start up and rouse her drowsy intimates to play lawn-tennis; and ere the game was half played out, she would declare herself sick of it, and beg some bystander to take her place.
Joseph looked on in tender sympathy. It was what was to be expected, he told himself, and would soon wear off. The free young life was chafing at first beneath the yoke she had herself assumed--the filly, unbroke to harness, was galled by the collar; but soon she would settle down to steady running. He must humour her for the present. And what delight there was in doing it! And she was always kind to him, and showed that she appreciated his thoughtfulness and forbearance by many a grateful look and little speech. He only wished that he had more to bear and to do for her sake; he was so richly rewarded when the humour changed, and her mood became remorseful. Then, as if she could not sufficiently express herself to him, she would relieve her feelings by caresses and endearments to his nieces. She was fast friends with them now, especially with Margaret, even to the length of exciting a little pique in Lettice Deane.
And Margaret had need of sympathy and backing, and all the friendship she could secure. Her mother "was going on just dreadful," as she expressed it with more force than elegance to her sister Lucy, who, however, observed a judicious neutrality, agreeing so far with the maternal desire to settle Margaret in Toronto, as being a much jollier place for herself to live in than Jones's Landing.
Mrs Naylor's perturbation of spirit on receiving her brother's intelligence lasted two full days, during which there seemed nothing else worth thinking about. The world itself seemed coming to an end, and what did anything matter? After that, it began to occur to her that there were other interests in life--her own, for instance. If Joseph was going to bring home a wife to Jones's Landing, the place would be insupportable. She must remove to Ottawa or Toronto; and that she might do her duty there in bringing out Lucy properly--so she phrased it to herself in summoning her moral forces to her assistance--it was indispensable that Margaret should have an established position. With that, it began to strike her that Wilkie no longer hovered near them, and that Ann Petty was become the recipient of the attentions which last week had been bestowed on Margaret. His mother, even, it almost seemed, had begun to hold aloof; and yet the supposition was too preposterous. That a half-bred old thing like that, should think to take up and lay down at pleasure, her--Mrs Naylor of Jones's Landing! What were things coming to? The creature must have heard of Joseph's fatuous engagement--the mercenary, horrid, vulgar old woman! And she was vulgar. Mrs Naylor saw it clearly enough now, though last week she had looked quite kindly on her social solecisms as being so racy and original. But at least she was not so crushed and humbled yet that "the Wilkie woman" might trample on her with impunity. The creature should have a lesson, if Mrs Naylor could give her one, and be taught her place. To think that a Naylor--a daughter of hers--should be trifled with and all but compromised by a--a what was she to call him?--a clerk in a public office--something not much better than a schoolmaster--merely because she, the mother, had kindly taken some notice of him! That nice quiet young Petty must be brought on, if only to show the futility of such an idea. Encouragement was all he wanted, and Margaret should give him that, or she would know why. She did not blame the girl now for being impervious to the other--indeed, his mother's impertinence had made her glad of it--but she would insist on her being civil to Petty. There must be no more nonsense. As for the old woman, she must have it out with her, and let her know her place.
An opportunity arose in the heat of the afternoon, when some irrepressibles of the younger set played lawn-tennis, and such of the elders as were not asleep looked on. The shade at that hour was confined to a limited space, and thither the lady spectators carried their camp-stools, and pressed one another more closely than the state of the weather made quite agreeable. Mrs Wilkie was the last to place herself, and it happened that she took ground at Mrs Naylor's side, who had planned her place nicely, to be in shadow, and yet be the last of her row, so as to be free at least on one side.
"Mrs Wilkie?" she said, turning in surprise and displeasure, which she made no attempt to conceal. "Would you not be more comfortable farther back? It is less crowded, and the shadow is broader."
"I'll do," Mrs Wilkie answered determinedly, unfurling an umbrella, which interfered considerably with Mrs Naylor's view. "If people would sit closer, there would be room enough. I see no reason for leading people to sit behind, and those of no poseetion at all taking room for two."
"But your umbrella intercepts any little air there is."
"I need it to keep off the sun."