"DO YOU LIKE ME AS WELL AS YOU DID THEN?"
"The true one of youth's love, proving a faithful helpmate in those
years when the dream of life is over, and we live in its
realities."--_Southey._
Garth pondered somewhat heavily over Queenie's words that evening.
In spite of his warm human sympathies his imagination was still
undeveloped. Under the margin of those brief sentences lay
unexplored meanings, whole worlds of thought and fancy that he only
dimly comprehended, and yet he felt himself stirred by the girl's
enthusiasm.
"You have done me good," he said to her, when tea was over and Emmie
had betaken herself to Patience. He had risen to take leave, but he
still lingered, as though loath to break the tranquillity of the
scene. "Something had worried me and put me into a bad humor with
myself and all the world, but now I feel better."
"I am glad I have done you good," she returned simply.
When he had left her she knelt down by the hearth again and shielded
her face from the flame. All sorts of bright, visionary pictures
danced under the light of the spluttering fir-knots; thoughts almost
too great and beautiful to be grasped brushed past her like wings.
Queenie was only dreaming, as girls will sometimes, only somehow her
dreams were better than other women's realities. She was thinking of
Garth, marvelling a little over his manner that evening. He had been
kinder, gentler, and yet somehow different.
She was not quite so sure, after all, that he meant to marry Dora.
She had mentioned her name once, and he had answered her in a
constrained manner, and had then changed the subject. Could Miss
Cunningham have given him cause for displeasure?
Queenie was not sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to
know how quickly hearts are caught at the rebound. She had no idea
of the real state of the case, and that Garth's first thought in his
mortification had been to seek solace in her friendship. She only
knew that somehow Garth had been nicer, and she had done him good.
"What does it matter if one is disappointed here?" thought the young
visionary in that first sweet gush of satisfaction, "that it is all
giving and no return--at least, not the return that one wants? life
will not last for ever. In that bright hereafter there will be no
marrying or giving in marriage, the Bible tells us that. Nothing but
love, which, after all, is another name for life. We are only hiding
our treasures now, heaping them up in silence and darkness, like that
poor Fraulein Heldrig. By-and-by, up there, those whom we love will
call to us and stretch out their hands, and we shall come bearing our
sheaves with us."
Queenie was weaving all manner of pure womanish fancies as Garth went
back through the rain. The young man's pulses still throbbed with
excitement. His sluggish imagination had been quickened and stirred
within him; he felt with a curious, indefinable sensation that he had
drifted long enough down the tide of circumstance, and that his fate
approached a crisis. Would it be different to what he had planned
all these years?
And that night he thought less of Dora.
How inexplicable are the ways of mankind, even the best of them.
Garth, with all his uprightness and integrity, failed to see that his
conduct lay open to questioning when, after this evening, he began to
haunt the cottage. He was only seeking solace and forgetfulness, a
healing compensation for the hurt under which he still smarted at
intervals; but he had no idea that such self-indulgence might be
fraught with peril to another's peace!
Queenie could not tell him if the intercourse between them were too
pleasant to be perfectly harmless. The fault lay with him, not her.
It was not for her to receive her benefactor coldly; and then if she
could do him good.
It was true Garth seldom came alone, either Cathy or Langley or Ted
were with him; but the invitations to Church-Stile House became more
frequent and pressing.
"Garth likes to see you and Emmie amongst us of an evening," Cathy
said to her more than once. "You know what men are, my dear; they
get tired of their sisters' company, and then Dora is away. I
suppose that makes him so discontented and restless. Poor Florence
is worse, and there is no possibility of Dora's return at present."
"So your brother informed me," returned Queenie demurely; but not to
Cathy did she dare hint that Miss Cunningham's absence was a relief.
She was somewhat afraid of questioning her own feelings too closely
at this time. The incubus that had weighed upon her spirits was
removed, at least temporarily. Life was passing pleasantly with her
just now; she had work enough to occupy her; a pretty cottage where
she and Emmie lived like disguised princesses, and friends whom she
loved and trusted to brighten her leisure hours.
"Shall I ever be so happy again in my life?" she said once to Cathy.
"I think this summer is the sunniest I have ever known. When one is
so thoroughly satisfied one dreads a change."
"I like change," returned Cathy, boldly. "I think a long lease of
monotonous happiness would stupefy me. Life is not a mere
table-land; there are mountains to ascend before one can see the
view, broad rivers to cross, and long deserts to traverse; he is a
poor traveller who fears either."
"You forget Emmie and I are already footsore with our rough
pilgrimage," rejoined Queenie, with her bright quaintness. "We have
been through the Slough of Despond and the Valley of Humiliation."
"And the other valley that was worse," put in Emmie, who was
listening to them; "but you only stood at the entrance, Queen; it was
I who had to fight with all the hobgoblins."
"Hush, my sweet. Yes, I know," hastily kissing her, for Queenie
could never bear to be reminded even by a word of Emmie's past
danger. "Well, we are in our land of Beulah now, the land flowing
with milk and honey."
"It strikes me that you are very thankful for small mercies,"
observed Cathy, gruffly, who could never feel quite reconciled to her
friend's humble employment, and who was ready to quarrel with Dora
for her patronage and condescension.
"Supposing we were one day to spread golden wings and fly away,"
rejoined Queenie, gaily. "Supposing some one were to leave us a
fortune, and Emmie and I suddenly became grand people, would you like
me better then, Cathy?"
"No; I should dislike to see you so spoiled," she returned, frowning
at the idea. "I believe Garth and I have a monomania on that
subject, we hate rich people so. I would not have you and Emmie a
bit different; but, Queen," changing her manner and speaking rather
nervously, "I can't help thinking that you are a little extravagant;
Langley said so the other day."
"Extravagant!" repeated Queenie, opening her eyes wide.
"Yes; I think Garth put it into her head, for Langley never notices
those sort of things. He found out that you had hired that piano
from Carlisle, and then you are always ordering pretty things for
Emmie. Garth has such a horror of debt, and, as he said, two hundred
a-year will not buy everything; and you have not got nearly that,
have you, Queen?"
"I must be more careful," returned Queenie, evading the question. "I
am very much obliged to your brother for the hint; but there will be
no fear of my getting into debt, you may assure him of that. I have
had a terror of that from a child, ever since I saw the misery it
involved."
"I am thankful to hear you say so," returned her friend, much
relieved.
She had been a little bewildered by Queenie's purchases. The
_ménage_ of the cottage had been perfectly simple, and, with the
exception of that Gainsborough hat, Queenie had kept her own and
Emmie's dress strictly within bounds. But the fifty-pound note had
burned a hole in her pocket, and she had begged Caleb to forward some
amusing books and games for the child's entertainment; and the
expensive selection made had caused dismay to her friends at
Church-Stile House when Emmie displayed her treasures.
Queenie laughed at her friend's lecture, but it caused her a little
anxiety. What would they think of her playful deception? would they
consider themselves at all aggrieved at it? Garth too, with his
horror of heiresses and his exaggerated notions of independence! She
felt a little sinking of heart at the thought.
The autumn had set in cold and rainy, ceaseless down-pours still
flooded the country; the field path to the Vicarage was impassable,
and the lane almost a grey mire. Garth and Ted plodded past the
cottage daily in their leathern gaiters, and Dr. Stewart shook his
head ruefully when he encountered Queenie in his rounds.
"Why don't you give your scholars a holiday, such constant wettings
are good for no one?" he asked; but Queenie only laughed, and drew
her old grey waterproof closer round her. After Cathy's sermon she
dared not invest in a new one. She looked so bright and
good-humored, there was such a fresh radiance about her, that Dr.
Stewart failed to notice the shabbiness of the garment. He only
carried away with him an impression of youthful brightness that
lingered long with him.
"And Miss Faith used to look like that," he thought a little
bitterly, as he rode homeward in the darkness.
Dr. Stewart had by no means ceased his visits to the Evergreens. He
still dropped in at odd times, and kept up a running fire of argument
with Miss Charity, and still maintained a rigid surveillance of the
books that lay on the table beside her. There was not much
conversation between him and the younger sister; a hand shake and a
brief word was often all that passed between them. His praises of
Jean, and the merits and demerits of her housekeeping, were all
retailed into Miss Hope's sympathizing ear; while to the somewhat
grim Miss Prudence belonged the privilege of pouring out his tea and
providing the crisp griddle cakes that his soul loved. Faith felt
herself somewhat out in the cold; she was younger and more
attractive, but she had not Charity's wit and cleverness; in spite of
all those long hours of reading, she was often at a loss to
comprehend the subject which they were discussing. She sat by a
little silent and heavy-hearted over her work; it was not for her to
speak if he had ceased caring to listen.
Faith was growing paler and more worn every day; the renewal of her
intercourse with Dr. Stewart had brought disappointment as well as
pleasure with it. True, he had brightened her life in many ways, and
his brief visit was the chief event of the day, but it often left
behind it a strange restlessness and sadness. In a vague sort of way
she began to understand that she had not fulfilled the promise of her
younger days; that he was disappointed in his ideal. The old Faith
had been a brighter and more hopeful one; and at this thought the
sweet face grew more troubled and downcast.
"What's to do with you, Faith? you always seem in a maze about
something when Dr. Stewart is here," Miss Charity would say sharply,
when their visitor had taken himself off with a curt nod that
included the whole sisterhood. It was Miss Prudence who generally
let him out now; Faith did not offer to stir from her corner. How
did she know whether he wanted her.
"It seems so strange that a woman of your age should find so little
to say," continued Miss Charity, with a displeased jerk of her thin
ringlets.
"He only talks to you, Cara; you neither of you seem to want me,"
returned poor Faith, with the least possible trace of bitterness in
her tone.
She did not often retaliate, for hers was a quiet, peace-loving
nature, but to-day she felt chafed even to soreness.
Never had her sister's yoke oppressed her so bitterly; never had
those readings in that close hot room seemed so tedious. The novels
had been replaced by biographies, all of Dr. Stewart's choice; but
the pure English and the nobility of the lives delineated were lost
upon Faith, chafing under a secret sense of injury, and longing to be
alone with her burthen. How hard is enforced companionship, even to
the most patient of us. Faith looked out wearily at the driving rain
that kept her a prisoner, and deprived her of the one thing she most
prized--a solitary walk.
But at night she had it out with her thoughts. She would lie awake
for hours, covered round by the sacred darkness, thinking out the
problem of her life.
Why had Dr. Stewart crossed her path again? to what intent and
purpose? She had become resigned to her life in a weary sort of way,
and that one bright summer had only lingered in her memory like a
dream of good to be prized. True, it was her most precious
possession, the one thing that redeemed her life from blankness; but
still time had in a great measure healed the wound of her
disappointment.
But now they had met again as friends, who had once been something
closer to each other. True, there had been no spoken understanding
between them; but there had been looks that had been as plain as
words, half sentences that conveyed whole meanings, glances of mutual
trust and sympathy. Was all this to go for nothing? was he to be
free, to put away the past, and forget and come again, while she
alone had been faithful?
Dr. Stewart took no apparent notice of her changed looks; he came and
went in his blunt way, and left her alone in her quiet corner.
Sometimes his evenings were spent at Church-Stile House or the
Vicarage; now and then they heard of him at the cottage, making one
of a merry party, and welcomed warmly everywhere.
The day after Faith had uttered her little protest to her sister the
weather showed signs of breaking. The rain had abated towards
afternoon, but the low grey skies and wet roads were very uninviting.
Faith looked out at the prospect a little disconsolately, it seemed
to her an emblem of her own life, and then she turned to her sister.
"The rain has stopped, I think I shall go out now, Cara; it will do
my head good."
"I thought Dr. Stewart was coming this afternoon," returned Miss
Charity, clicking her knitting-needles busily as she spoke; "he
promised to bring us more new books. You heard him say so yourself,
Faith."
"Yes, I know; but he will not miss me; he has got you to talk to him,
Cara, and I feel I must have a walk. I am sure he will understand,"
she returned deprecatingly.
"Well, if you like to be so ungracious it is not my business to
interfere," retorted Miss Charity in a displeased tone. "If you are
only going to sit in the corner and not open your lips when he comes
in, you may just as well be out. But he won't have a high opinion of
your politeness."
"I cannot help that," returned Faith, wearily.
Another afternoon of needle-work and her sister's sharp speeches was
not to be borne. She began to feel a dread of these visits, they
made her so uncomfortable.
"Well, put on your waterproof, if you must go," snapped Miss Charity,
aggravated at Faith's unwonted resolution. "The rain will only keep
off for an hour, and you will get nicely soaked." And Faith meekly
acquiesced.
The waterproof was not a becoming garment, it was almost as shabby as
Queenie's; the shapeless folds quite disguised her neat figure. She
had on her old brown hat too, that suited her less well than her
little Quaker bonnets; but Faith knew she would have one of Charity's
sharp lectures on extravagance if she got her nice bonnet ribbons
soiled, for, with their modest expenditure, even bonnet ribbons had
to be considered.
It was a severe shock to her womanly vanity when, a little way down
the road, she met Dr. Stewart. The grey waterproof might be
considered fit raiment for such an uncertain afternoon, but the old
brown hat! Faith smarted with mortified vanity down to her
finger-ends.
He was on foot, as it happened, and he turned back and walked with
her a little way, but he scanned the cloak and the hat rather
quizzically as he did so.
"So you went out to avoid me, did you, Miss Faith," he said
good-humoredly; but the sudden question grazed the truth so closely
that Faith's pale cheeks flamed up in a moment.
"I have not been out for three days, and then my head has been so
bad," she stammered. She was not asking for his sympathy, but she
wished to defend herself from all charge of rudeness.
"Do you always suffer from these headaches?" he asked suddenly.
"No, not always; but they have been pretty bad lately," she returned
indifferently. "I suppose the close room does it. Cara is so afraid
of draughts, and so much reading does not suit me."
"I think the others ought to take their turn. I mean to tell Miss
Charity so some day."
"Oh, no; pray do not," in much distress. "It does not really hurt
me, not much; and Cara does so dislike Hope's reading, it is too loud
and fast for an invalid."
"She must be taught to read slower then."
"Oh, no; you must not say anything about it," imploringly. "I have
nothing else to do but to wait upon Cara, it is right for me to do
it; and if it hurts me what does it matter? We cannot live for our
own pleasure," continued Faith, walking fast and nervously, but he
checked her.
"Slower, please; I had no idea you were such an energetic walker. I
want to talk to you, not that you ever honor me with many words. I
am not to be included in the list of your duties, eh?" with a
sidelong glance of mingled fun and earnestness.
"I am afraid you have thought me very rude," in a subdued voice.
"No; I have only found you a little depressing. What's been the
matter with you all this time, Miss Faith? I am an old friend, and
you might be frank with me."
"There is nothing the matter," she returned in much confusion,
thereby burthening her conscience with a whole falsehood. But how
could she hint to him the reason of her weariness?
Dr. Stewart pocketed the falsehood with perceptible distrust.
"You are growing thinner and more nervous every day and there is no
cause for it? Do you expect me to believe that?" with an incredulous
laugh. "I mean to put a stop to these pernicious readings, so look
out for yourself, Miss Faith."
"Oh, you must not; indeed you must not, Dr. Stewart," she implored,
with tears in her eyes. "It is Cara's one pleasure, and I cannot
have it interfered with. You have no right to interfere," she
continued, turning upon him with the fierceness of the dove.
Poor Miss Faith! she was trying to work herself up into anger against
her friendly tormentor, but somehow the anger failed to come.
"Have I no right? are you sure of that?" he demanded gravely. "You
know better than I, Miss Faith; you must question your own heart and
memory on that point."
"What do you mean?" she asked, growing suddenly pale, but walking
still faster; but he put out his hand and stopped her.
"What do I mean? Have you forgotten Carlisle? It is ten years ago,
and we have both grown older since then; but I fancy we have neither
of us forgotten. Do you like me as well as you did then, Miss Faith?
Do you think you could make up your mind to exchange the Evergreens
for Juniper Lodge?"
Faith gave a startled glance into his face, but what she saw there
left her in no doubt of his meaning. It was as though an electric
shock had passed through her. She had been accusing him in her own
mind of fickleness and forgetfulness, and all the time he had meant
this!
"I thought that it was you that did not care, that had forgotten,"
she gasped, not answering his very plain question in her first
dizziness of surprise.
"Then you thought wrong," he returned coolly. "Women are not the
only faithful beings in creation, so you need not lay claim to that
extra virtue. It was you who left me, remember that, Miss Faith."
"But you might have followed; you might have asked what had become of
me," she faltered.
"What was the use?" was the uncompromising answer, "I had a mother
and sister to maintain. A wife is too expensive a luxury for a poor
man, and I was poor enough, in all conscience. Well, so it is
settled, and we understand each other at last, Faith?"
"Yes, I suppose so," she returned, softly.
The wooing had been brief and matter-of-fact on Dr. Stewart's side;
but apparently he was quite satisfied with the result, for he walked
on in a brisk, contented sort of way.
Faith walked beside him, dizzy, and with her head throbbing with
nervous pain. She had forgotten all about her old brown hat and her
waterproof. The low, grey skies still foreboded rain, and the wet
pools shone under her feet; but if a miracle had transformed them
into rosy wine she would scarcely have been more astonished. That he
should have meant this all that time!
"And I thought you had forgotten, Dr. Stewart," she said presently,
in the tone of one that craved forgiveness.
"Humph! you will find Angus more to your purpose," he returned,
curtly. "How about Miss Charity and the readings now, Faith," with a
merry twinkle.
"Cara! oh, what shall we do with her?" she exclaimed, clasping her
hands in sudden despair. "It is I who have forgotten now. My poor
Cara!"
"Leave Cara to me," was Dr. Stewart's only answer, as they turned
their faces homeward.