Part 50 (1/2)

”Yes, certainly, she was under obligation for all his kindness, but his being in love with her--that is different.”

But Alec Trenholme, like many people, could not see a fine point in the heat of discussion. Afterwards, on reflection he saw what she had meant, but now he only acted in the most unreasonable of ways.

”Well, I don't see it as you do,” he said; and then, the picture of suppressed indignation, he took up the pail to go inside and dispose of it.

”I don't know how it can all be,” said Sophia considering, ”but I'm sure there's a great deal of good in her.”

At this, further silence, even out of deference to her, seemed to him inadequate. ”I don't pretend to know how it can be; how she got here, or what she has been doing here, dressed in silk finery, or what she may have been masquerading with matches in the old house over there for. All I know is, a girl who treated Bates as she did--”

”No, you don't know any of these things. You have only heard one side of the story. It is not fair to judge.”

”She has ruined his life, done as good as killed him. Why should you take her part?”

”Because there are always two sides to everything. I don't know much of her story, but I have heard some of it, and it didn't sound like what you have said. As to her being in the Harmon house--” Sophia stopped.

”Do you mean to say,” asked Alec, ”that she has been living here all the time quite openly?”

”Yes--that is, she has given a false name, it seems, but, Mr.

Trenholme--”

”If she has lied about her name, depend upon it she has lied about everything else. I wouldn't want you to go within ten feet of her.”

Although the fallacy of such argument as Alec's too often remains undetected when no stubborn fact arises to support justice, Sophia, with her knowledge of Eliza, could not fail to see the absurdity of it. Her mind was dismayed at the thought of what the girl had apparently done and concealed, but nothing could make her doubt that the Eliza she knew was different from the Sissy Cameron he was depicting. She did not doubt, either, that if anything would bring out all the worst in her and make her a thousand times more unkind to Bates, it would be the attack Alec Trenholme meditated. She decided that she ought herself to act as go-between. She remembered the scorn with which the patronage of a vulgar woman had that evening been discarded, and whether Eliza herself knew it or not, Sophia knew that this nicety of taste was due chiefly to her own influence. The subtle flattery of this pleaded with her now on the girl's behalf: and perceiving that Alec Trenholme was not amenable to reason, she, like a good woman, condescended to coax him for reason's sake. To a woman the art of managing men is much like the art of skating or swimming, however long it may lie in disuse, the trick, once learnt, is there to command. The milk, it seemed, must be taken down the cellar steps and poured into pans. Then a draught of milk off the ice was given to him. Then, it appeared, she must return to the pasture, and on their way she pointed out the flowers that she had planted, and let him break one that he admired.

When they reached the field Sophia proffered her request, which was, that he would leave his discovery in her hands for one day, for one day only, she pleaded. She added that he might come to see her the next afternoon, and she would tell him what explanation Eliza had to give, and in what mood she would meet her unfortunate guardian.

And Sophia's request was granted, granted with that whole-hearted allegiance and entire docility, with a tenderness of eye and lightsomeness of demeanour, that made her perceive that this young man had not been so obdurate as he appeared, and that her efforts to appease him had been out of proportion to what was required.

When he mounted his horse and rode off unmindful of the last pail of milk, for indeed his head was a little turned, Sophia was left standing by the pasture gate feeling unpleasantly conscious of her own handsome face and accomplished manner. If she felt amused that he should show himself so susceptible, she also felt ashamed, she hardly knew why. She remembered that in his eyes on a previous occasion which she had taken as a signal for alarm on her part, and wondered why she had not remembered it sooner. The thing was done now: she had petted and cajoled him, and she felt no doubt that masculine conceit would render him blind to her true motive. Henceforth he would suppose that she encouraged his fancy. Sophia, who liked to have all things her own way, felt disconcerted.

CHAPTER XI.

After tea Sophia took Blue and Red apart into their little bedroom. An old cotton blind was pulled down to s.h.i.+eld the low window from pa.s.sers in the yard. The pane was open and the blind flapped. The room had little ornament and was unattractive.

”How could you write letters to that Mr. Harkness?” asked Sophia, trying to be patient.

”We didn't--exactly,” said Blue, ”but how did you know?”

”At least--we did,” said Red, ”but only notes. What have you heard, Sister Sophia? Has he”--anxiously--”written to papa?”

”Written to papa!” repeated Sophia in scorn. ”What should he do that for?”

”I don't know,” said Red, more dejected. ”It's”--a little pause--”it's the sort of thing they do.”

Sophia drew in her breath with an effort not to laugh, and managed to sigh instead. ”I think you are the silliest girls of your age!”

”Well, I don't care,” cried Blue, falling from bashfulness into a pout, and from a pout into tears. ”I _don't_ care, so now. I think he was much nicer--much nicer than--” She sat upon a chair and kicked her little toes upon the ground. Red's dimpled face was flus.h.i.+ng with ominous colour about the eyes.