"HE BELONGS TO ME."
"_Lor_. You loved and he did love?
_Mar_. To say he did
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified, and yet
What wanted confirmation of his tongue."--_J. S. Knowles._
A few days after this Queenie was returning from afternoon school
when Emmie met her at the door of the cottage with her finger on her
lip and a general air of mystery about her.
"What is it, Emmie?" asked her sister somewhat wearily. "Run in out
of the cold air, darling, it is making you cough, I see."
"Why is it so dreadfully cold, I wonder?" returned the child
shivering. "The winter is over, and yet the wind seems to blow right
through one. Who do you think is in there, Queen? actually Miss
Cunningham. She has been sitting there nearly an hour, I believe."
"Miss Cunningham!" unable to believe her ears; for Langley, with
intentional kindness, had not informed her of her return.
"Yes; Miss Cunningham. Oh!" dropping her voice to a whisper, "she
has tired me so. She is nice and pretty, and has blue eyes like our
kitten's; but somehow I can't like her. She asked me such lots of
questions all about Uncle Andrew and our being rich; but, do you
know, I don't think she quite liked your lending Mr. Garth that
money."
"Oh, Emmie, you never told her that?" in such a horrified voice that
the child looked frightened.
"Was it such a great secret? I didn't know you would mind," faltered
Emmie; "and she was saying such nice things about Mr. Garth."
"Yes, it was a secret," returned Queenie more calmly. "Don't you
remember we are not to let 'our left hand know what our right hand
doeth'? But never mind, it is done now," for Emmie's eyes were
already filling with tears at the notion of Queenie's displeasure.
"Run and tell Patience to have her kettle boiling; I dare say Miss
Cunningham will like some tea."
"May I stay and help Patience? there are some muffins, and I meant to
toast them myself," and, as Queenie nodded assent, Emmie stole down
the little passage noiselessly and shut herself up safely with
Patience.
As Queenie walked into the room very erect and open-eyed she did not
fail to notice that Miss Cunningham had already made herself at home.
Her sealskin jacket lay on the chair beside her, and her little
furred gauntlets also. Her golden hair shone under her beaver hat;
the dark close-fitting dress suited her to a nicety. But as she came
forward, holding out her hand, it struck Queenie that she looked
somewhat pale, and that her smile was a little forced.
"What an age you have been," observed Dora lightly. "I have been
sitting with Emmie nearly an hour I believe. I thought you were
never coming in, and then my long drive would have been in vain. I
suppose Langley told you of my return home?"
"No; I was not aware of it," rejoined Queenie; and now she felt a
little surprise at Langley's omission.
Dora's delicate eyebrows arched themselves slightly.
"How very strange! and her brother was dining with us last week. He
was our first visitor, of course," with a meaning emphasis. "The
girls are so fond of him, and papa can do nothing without him, which
makes it very pleasant for me. By-the-bye," her manner changing
abruptly, "Mr. Clayton tells me that you have been only playing at
schoolmistress all this time, Miss Marriott, and that you are in
reality a woman of fortune."
"Mr. Calcott has been good to me and left me all his money. I was
poor, very poor, when I met you first," her heart sinking strangely
at Dora's words. Why had she begun to talk of Garth?
"When people do eccentric things they must expect to have all sorts
of motives imputed to them. What will the world say, by-the-way, of
your lending all that money to Mr. Clayton?" fixing her eyes a little
too keenly on Queenie's face.
"It may say what it likes," with the proudest possible manner, for
she felt her spirit rising at this. What did it matter what the
whole world said about her conduct, if only her conscience were
clear? "The world does not believe in a disinterested friendship," a
faint color coming into her face; "it would sneer at such an
improbability."
"I generally find the world is right," returned Dora, with
aggravating calmness. "Of course it will say you are in love with
Mr. Clayton, you are prepared for that, Miss Marriott."
A painful blush overspread the girl's face.
"Oh, this is too bad," she exclaimed, clasping her hands nervously.
"Cannot one do a little kindness in return for so much without having
unworthy motives imputed to one? Why do you come and say such things
to me?" turning on her tormentor with sudden anger and impatience.
"It is no business of yours; it is nothing to you if people will say
untrue things of me."
"You are quite wrong there; it is my business," returned Dora
quietly. She did not like her work, but, all the same, she must go
through with it. "It is just this--that is my business," she
repeated, and her face looked worn and irritable in the firelight.
"Miss Marriott, you must know--you cannot have been so much with
Langley and Cathy and not know that Garth Clayton and I belong to
each other."
Then a sudden coldness crept over Queenie.
"You--you are not engaged to him," she said at length, and her voice
sounded strange to herself; the horror of such an announcement almost
took her breath away. "But it could not be true!" she said to
herself, "it could not be true!"
"It is my own fault that we are not engaged," returned Dora, speaking
in a tone of plaintive regret. "I have put him off time after time,
and would not allow him to settle it; the girls were too young, and I
could not leave papa, that was what I told him. Why, just before I
went to Brussels last autumn he came to us, and wanted me then to
settle it, poor fellow, and I would not listen to him."
"He spoke to you, then?" the numbness creeping over her again.
"Yes; he said it must be yea, yea, or nay, nay, between us, I
remember his words quite well; and when I would not give him a
positive answer he got angry and left me. He has never been himself
with me since, and has made me, oh, so unhappy; but I know the reason
for it now, Miss Marriott," fixing her blue eyes piteously on her.
"Why have you come between us and tried to steal away his heart from
poor me?"
"Miss Cunningham!" her cheeks burning at the accusation.
"Why have you lent him all that money, and tried to decoy his
affections? He is not the same to me, and you are the cause. We are
two women, and he cannot marry us both; and--and he belongs to me,"
finished Dora, with a genuine quiver in her voice.
Poor bewildered Queenie could make nothing of it.
"He cannot belong to you if you are not engaged, and if you have sent
him from you," she said, looking helplessly at Dora; and indeed she
was so heartsick and stupefied that she hardly knew what she said.
If he had spoken to Dora, as she averred, how could he have come and
looked at her the next night in the way he did, when she knelt on the
rug, with the plate of cakes in her hand, in the gloaming?
"It was duty, not I, that sent him away, he owns that," returned
Dora, sighing, but her conscience smote her as she uttered this
little fib.
Had he not striven to show her that her motives of duty had been
overstrained and false in his eyes? "If you send me away you may
find it difficult to recall me, Dora," he had said to her. Was not
that asserting his right to be free?
"I went too far that time," she went on, "and made him angry and
bitter; but that would not have mattered if you had not come between
us."
"I--I have done nothing. What do you mean?"
"He was angry with me, and then he came to you; and, to be sure, how
can he help seeing that you care for him after all you have done?"
"Hush! I will not hear another word; you are going too far. How
dare you?" exclaimed Queenie passionately, moved to sudden anger at
this ungenerous thrust. "You have no right to come here and say
these things to me."
"No right!" returned Dora meekly; she had quailed a little before the
brown fire of Queenie's eyes. "Have I no right when I have known and
cared for him all my life? I am nearly eight-and-twenty now, and I
was not more than sixteen--Flo's age--when this was first thought of
between us; why, we had been meant for each other ever since we were
children, and yet, after twelve years of thorough understanding, you
say I have no right to speak!"
"I--I do not understand," began Queenie vaguely, and her cheek turned
very white.
What if all this were true, and he had grown weary of this youthful
entanglement? Might it not be possible that he and Dora had grown
apart, that the tie had loosened between them, and that, in reality,
his second love was the true one? Alas! the instincts of her own
pure heart verified this view of the case; she understood him so
thoroughly, she was so sure of his integrity, but what proof or
evidence of her belief could she offer Dora? He had never spoken to
her, his looks indeed had betrayed his secret, and hitherto their
eloquence had sufficed her; but, at a crisis like this, the sense of
his silence was dreadful; her faith was involuntarily built up on no
foundation. After all Dora was right, and she had no claim to him.
"I was sure you did not understand," returned Dora, watching her, and
speaking with the utmost gentleness. "You are too generous to take
him from me, who have loved him all these years. I knew I had only
to speak to you and all would be right between us."
"Stop!" exclaimed Queenie in an unnatural voice. "You may be
mistaken, Mr. Clayton has never spoken to me, it may not be as you
think; but, on the other hand," growing whiter still, "I would scorn
to deceive you, and I have thought--but I may be wrong--that he has
seemed to care for me. I would not have said so much, but you have
more than once hinted of my forwardness."
"Yes; but it has been only seeming," replied Dora softly; "he could
not really have changed to me, you know. If you would only go away
and leave us to come together it would soon be right again."
"You want me to go away?" asked Queenie slowly.
"Not for long--only for a few months, till he has got over his fancy,
and come back to me. I don't want to hurt you, dear Miss Marriott,
or to make you angry again, but if you knew how soon men find out
these sort of things! Of course you thought it was gratitude and
friendship, but he was wiser, and knew better than that; and when I
made him angry he thought it very likely that you would console him."
"You have said enough," replied Queenie in the same constrained tone.
"You will not have long to bear with my presence; I have already made
up my mind not to remain in Hepshaw."
"And when shall you leave?" asked Dora eagerly.
"I--I don't know; in another month or two. I suppose there is
nothing to keep me here now."
But this vague promise was not sufficient for Dora.
"Why do you not go at once?" she persisted. "You will think I am in
a hurry to get rid of you, but that is not the only reason,"
hesitating.
She was deliberately breaking Queenie's heart, and she knew it, in
spite of the girl's assumed quietness; but somehow she shrank from
imposing this fresh pain.
"Surely, my dear Miss Marriott, now that you have nothing to bind you
here you will not think of exposing that delicate little sister of
yours to our March winds?"
"What do you mean?" asked Queenie sharply, "you are talking about
yourself, not Emmie, What has Emmie to do with it," shivering again
as though some cold air had passed over her. And, strange to say,
Dora grew suddenly soft-hearted over the effect of her words, for had
she not a young sister too, and had not Flo been given back to her
from the very grave itself?
"I wish you would not look so unhappy," she went on. "I have not
seen her for some months, and of course the change struck me, growing
children often look thin; and then she is still weak from that long
illness. Why don't you ask Dr. Stewart about her, he will tell you
what to do; but of course you have had some advice?"
"I have had no advice. Emmie is not ill. Why do you come here to
make me so miserable?" returned Queenie, fixing her large eyes on her
with such a mournful expression that Dora got quite uncomfortable.
"She only wants a tonic perhaps, but I should speak to Dr. Stewart;
and, indeed, a cold spring would be very bad for her," repeated Dora,
earnestly, as she drew on her furred gloves. Her conscience was very
uncomfortable as she stood smoothing down the soft sealskin, trying
to find some word that she might say at parting.
Queenie did not help her. She watched her with grave unsmiling eyes
as Dora made her little preparations. When Dora again held out her
hand to her she touched it rather reluctantly.
"Good-bye; I hope you will not bear me malice, Miss Marriott."
"I never bear any one malice; but you have made me very unhappy about
Emmie," returned Queenie, but her voice was quite steady as she
spoke. What if her heart were breaking within her, Dora should never
know it.
But when the door closed upon her visitor, and Emmie crept softly
back into the room, her fortitude suddenly gave way.
"Come to me, Emmie; come here, my darling," and as the child obeyed
her wonderingly, she held out her arms with a sudden sob.
"You are not ill, are you, Emmie? What do they mean by making me so
unhappy? They say you are thin and weak; but there is nothing the
matter, is there?"
"I don't know," faltered the child, resting her fair head on her
sister's shoulder. "I think I am only tired, Queenie. Ought people
to be so very, very tired, and to have their bones always aching?"
"That is because you are not strong, my precious." But somehow, as
Queenie uttered the words, the conviction seized on her that Dora was
right, and the child was certainly thinner and lighter; and such an
intolerable feeling of agony came over her at the thought that she
could not bear it.
"Oh, my darling, forgive me!" she sobbed, kissing the little pale
face passionately.
"Forgive you! What do you mean? What makes you cry so bitterly,
Queen?"
"Forgive me. I was too wrapped up in myself to notice. I never
meant to neglect you, Emmie, never. What does my happiness or
unhappiness matter if I can only keep you with me, my blessing?"
"Shall you want to keep me if I get too dreadfully tired?" she asked,
languidly. "Don't cry any more, Queen, I will stop just as long as I
can." But Queenie only shivered afresh and dried her eyes.
"Sit by the fire, darling," she said, trying to return to her usual
manner. "Patience shall give you your tea. I shall not be very
long, Emmie."
"Are you going out again?" in a disappointed tone. "The muffins are
all ready, and I thought we should be so cosy this evening."
"I shall not be long," repeated her sister, hastily.
She knew she could not have swallowed food in her present state of
suspense, and before Emmie could again remonstrate she had left the
cottage, and was on the way to Juniper Lodge.
She found Dr. Stewart in his surgery. She fancied he listened a
little gravely to her account.
"She has not come under my notice for the last six or seven weeks,"
he said, as he prepared, at Queenie's urgent request, to accompany
her. "In my opinion she has always been a delicate child. Such an
illness as you have described may leave its effects for years."
As they entered the parlor they found Emmie stretched on the rug as
usual, and this time Queenie's heart sank within her at the sight.
"Oh, Emmie, you are not tired again?" she said, almost impatiently,
for she feared that this would impress Dr. Stewart unfavorably; but
he apparently took no notice. He watched the child with keen
attention as she roused herself somewhat feebly, and came towards
them.
"Has Queenie asked you to make me less tired?" she demanded gravely,
fixing her blue eyes on his face.
"Young creatures like you ought never to be tired," he answered
cheerfully. "Do you often lie down in this fashion, eh?"
"I lie down because my bones ache, and I have such an odd, funny
feeling sometimes."
And then, as Dr. Stewart questioned her jokingly about the feelings,
she told him in her childish way of all manner of strange fancies and
dreams that troubled her, and of the queer faintness that came over
her at times; and how her cough began to hurt her: and how she got
more tired and good for nothing every day.
Dr. Stewart's face grew graver as he listened. When he had finished
a most careful examination of the child he sat for a little while in
silence, while Queenie watched him anxiously.
"I am afraid he thinks Emmie very delicate," she said to herself.
But she little knew Dr. Stewart's thoughts at that moment.
"If she had called me in earlier I could have done nothing," he
thought. "The child is in a rapid decline. I wonder if it would be
more merciful to tell her so at once, or to let her find it out
gradually for herself?" And being a very tender-hearted man, he
inclined to the latter course.
So when Emmie had been sent away on some errand, and Queenie began
her anxious questioning, he answered her evasively.
"Do you think her very ill? ought I to have sent for you before, Dr.
Stewart?"
"Well, no; I don't see what I could have done. Of course the child
is very delicate--in a very bad state of health I should say; she is
very fanciful and morbid too, all these imaginative children are.
You must rouse her and keep her cheerful."
"But was Miss Cunningham right? will the cold Spring hurt her?"
"Ah, that is just what I was going to say. I don't think our
northern climate agrees with her, it is too strong and bracing. You
are your own mistress, why don't you take her south? Any
watering-place would do--Torquay, or Bournemouth, or even St.
Leonards. The change may give her a few more months," he said to
himself.
"Sea air! is that what she needs?" asked Queenie, with a sudden
dawning of hope in her face.
Dr. Stewart shifted uneasily on his seat, and did not look at her as
he answered.
"Well, one should always make use of every possible remedy; and of
course another month of these cold winds will kill her, there is no
doubt of that."
"I will go at once; we will start immediately," almost gasped Queenie.
"I should do so by all means. If you like, I will speak to Mr. Logan
on my way home, and see if he cannot, temporarily at least, fill up
your place. There was a young person Faith mentioned who would be
very likely to suit. Shall I manage this for you, eh?"
"I shall be greatly obliged if you will," she answered gratefully.
"Then about the place, where will you decide on going? There's a
friend of mine, a doctor, a sort of connection of ours, living at St.
Leonards; he and his wife are very good people. If you thought of
going there I would write to Bennet, and he would look after Miss
Emmie."
"I think I would rather go there, then; it will feel less lonely if
Dr. Bennet is a friend of yours," a sudden terrible sense of
isolation and banishment coming over her.
"Very well, then, we will decide on St. Leonards, and I will ask them
to look out some cheerful apartments for you. You are not particular
about price, I dare say; and I can rely on his wife's choice. She is
a very good homely body, and will be a great comfort to you--when the
child gets worse," he added to himself.
"When ought we to go?" she asked in a low voice, feeling all at once
as though Fate were too strong for her.
"Humph! well, suppose we say in a week from now. I will talk to Mr.
Logan, and I dare say we can find somebody to take the cottage off
your hands. The less leave-taking and fuss the better in such a
case, don't you think so, eh?"
"If Mr. Logan releases me there will be no difficulty about anything
else," she returned quietly, and Dr. Stewart was charmed with her
good sense and reasonableness. She forced herself into seeming
cheerfulness when the child returned, and they sat down at last to
their long-delayed meal. When they had finished she beckoned Emmie
to the stool at her feet.
"Darling, are you glad?" she began. "Dr. Stewart says that I must
take you away to the sea, nothing else will make you strong."
"Does he say the sea will make me strong?" asked Emmie curiously,
"are you sure that he said that, Queen?"
"He said these cold winds will kill you," returned Queenie
shuddering, "and that was enough for me. You will not fret at going
away, Emmie, we shall be together, and do all sorts of nice things
all day long; and when the summer comes, and you are strong again, we
can come back here and see all our kind friends."
"I hope the summer will not be too long in coming, then," she
returned dubiously. "Oh! I wish we had not to leave this dear
place, it will be so sad parting with Langley and dear Mr. Garth, and
Captain Fawcett, and Miss Cosie, and every one."
"Yes; but it will only be for a little time," returned her sister,
persuasively, for the child's voice was full of sadness. "Don't you
remember, darling, that happy summer at Morecombe Bay, when dear
father was alive, and how I helped you to erect great castles on the
sand; you were such a little child then, but so strong and merry."
"I think I remember a little bit of it, and how the waves used to
sing me to sleep."
"Yes; and we shall hear the grand old lullaby again. Now listen to
me, Emmie, and I will tell you what we will do, you and I. We will
go to a grand hotel in London,--we are rich people now, you
know,--and we will send for Cathy, and make her spend a long day with
us."
"Oh, that will be nice," exclaimed Emmie, clapping her hands in her
old way. "And shall we have a bright sunny room with a great
bow-window looking over the sea, like the rich people we noticed at
Morecombe Bay? and shall we ever be able to drive out in a pony
carriage?"
"I will hire the prettiest pony carriage I can find," returned
Queenie, feeling now the value of riches. "You shall have everything
you wish for, Emmie--books and toys, and all manner of good
things--if only you will be happy with me and not fret."
"Of course I shall be happy with you," exclaimed the child, throwing
herself into her sister's arms. "What was it Ruth said? 'Whither
thou goest I will go.' I always think of you when I read that. We
have been playing at being poor, and now we must play at being rich.
Oh, it will be such fun!" finished Emmie rather wearily, and Queenie
kissed the heavy eyes and said no more.