DORA.
"Woman-kind,
Whom all men ought, both young and old, defend with all their
might;
Considering what they do deserve of every living wight."
_More._
The next week or two passed pleasantly and quickly. The girls
adhered rigidly to their course of self-improvement, despite the
temptation afforded by summer days. During the fresh morning hours
they remained closely shut up in kitchen or pantry, busied in all
sorts of mysteries connected with the culinary art, appearing at the
early dinner with flushed tired faces and slightly dishevelled hair.
All sorts of telegraphic communications passed between them and
Langley. Garth, who was not in the secret, and who was a somewhat
fastidious as well as abstemious man, was a little perplexed by
Susan's vagaries, as he termed them.
"What has come to the woman, Langley?" he would say. "She has always
been the best bread-maker in Hepshaw, but this last batch is almost
uneatable, it is so heavy and sad. Her pies last night were
disgraceful, and now this joint is under-done."
"I will speak to her," Langley would answer, quietly, while the girls
interchanged looks of confusion and dismay. Queenie's discomfiture
and disappointment were too obvious one day to escape notice. Garth,
who was really annoyed, and had been complaining in no very measured
terms, caught sight of the girl's crimsoned face, and at once held
his peace. But the next day he marched into the kitchen, and found
Susan and her coadjutors at work.
It was really a picturesque sight. The girls had rolled up their
sleeves in imitation of Susan, and the round dimpled arms were very
white and pretty; the coarse bib-aprons could not disguise the slim
figures. Cathy had tied a handkerchief over her dark hair; she
looked like a young Zingara as she walked across the kitchen,
flourishing her basting-ladle; she was stirring some savory mess in a
great iron pot. "Far over hill and dale freely we roam," sang Cathy.
"Queen, I am sure this will be a success, it smells so good."
"Hush! here comes your brother," ejaculated Queenie. The smooth
rolling-pin slipped out of her hand; the sunshine streamed through
the window on the red brick floor, and the white table heaped up with
ripe fruit, with great golden plums and clusters of red cherries.
One level beam had touched the girl's brown hair with gold; her
coarse apron enveloped her. She looked like Cinderella before her
pumpkin chariot arrived.
"So I have two new cooks, have I?" laughed Garth, as he lounged
against the doorway. What a pretty picture it was--the low dark
kitchen never looked so inviting before. He made Cathy bring him
some cider, and then helped himself to some of Queenie's fruit.
Queenie picked him out the juiciest plums with her long white
fingers; they had quite a little feast together, the girls waiting on
him. Before he went away Queenie had finished rolling out her dough;
the tarts were all in the oven before Susan's testy hints were taken,
and she had her kitchen to herself.
In the afternoons they sat over their work with Langley in some shady
corner of the garden. Sometimes, but not often, Miss Faith joined
them.
"Cara does not want me, and so I have come up for an hour," she would
say. Her quiet eyes would brighten, and a tinge of color would come
into her face, at the sight of the little party gathered on the lawn.
Sometimes Garth would be there, stretched on the crisp short grass at
Langley's feet, with his paper or his book beside him. He always
started up, well-pleased, at the sight of his favorite.
"Miss Charity cannot always have you; other people want you too," he
would say, as he brought out another low basket-work chair, and
gathered her a rose or two, for Miss Faith had a passion for flowers.
Garth dealt in these chivalrous little attentions; it pleased him to
tender these sort of offerings to the women he delighted to honor.
"You are my patron saint," he would say to her, as he laid the
flowers beside her. "Faith is very necessary to us all, but you
never seem to remember that," with almost an affectionate intonation
in his voice.
"I am only necessary to Cara," she would answer sadly. She took
Garth's little speeches, his flowers, his kind looks, as simply as
they were offered. To the quiet woman of thirty-five, who had no
life of her own to live, and who had laid her own shadowy hopes, her
unspoken desires, on the shrine of stern duty, there was nothing
suspicious or incongruous in Garth's devotion; he liked her, and she
was fond of him. Any other thought would have been impossible to
either of them.
Cathy once hinted at this.
"Garth cares for Miss Faith more than for any other woman; he always
has," she said once to Queenie. "I used to wonder, long ago, whether
anything else would ever come of it. Men do care for women who are
older than themselves sometimes, and though she was never pretty she
has such a dear face; but I see now that such a thought would never
occur to either of them."
"Of course not," interrupted her friend, indignantly. "Miss Faith is
very nice, but she is old for her age. You see, youth has been
crushed out of her. She would make a nice Sister of Charity; the
dress would just suit her. I like her pale creamy complexion; but
she is far, far too old for your brother," finished Queenie, to whom
the idea was somehow repugnant. Miss Faith, with her soft plaintive
voice and little close bonnet, beside the strong vigorous man, still
in the glory of his youth! Queenie's ideas were very vague on the
subject, but she thought the woman that Garth Clayton honored with
his preference ought to be very nice indeed.
"Are you nearly through D'Aubigné's 'Reformation,' Miss Faith?" Cathy
would ask her, a little wickedly, on these occasions. Miss Faith
would answer her quite seriously; she did not perfectly comprehend a
joke. Poor woman, the little pleasantries of life, the fun and
drollery of young wits, were almost unknown to her.
"We are still in the third volume," she would sigh; "it is hard
reading for summer days, but it suits Cara. Hope quite enjoys it
too, but it is a treat to sit out here and listen to the birds, and
do nothing but work and talk. I think I almost dislike books, though
I should not like Cara to hear me; but then I never was clever."
"I think you would like the interesting sort," returned Langley
simply. "Do you remember how much you cared for the volume of Jean
Ingelow's poems that I lent you? you told me you cried over the 'Song
of Seven.'"
"Oh yes, I love poetry," brightening visibly; "but I could not make
Cara interested in it in the least; she calls it moonshine and milk
and water."
"That comes of having a strong-minded woman for a sister,"
interrupted Cathy, who never liked to be long silent.
"My dear, Cara is very strong-minded; she is always talking about my
having no mental backbone. She says if we do not exercise our mind,
drill it thoroughly, and put it through a course of mental
calisthenics, that we shall never keep it in a healthy condition.
She thinks it a waste of time to read novels, unless they are Sir
Walter Scott's or Miss Austin's. I know it is very bad taste, but I
never could admire Miss Austin."
"But you enjoyed 'Dombey and Son,'" interposed Garth, who abhorred
strong-minded women, and could not tolerate Miss Charity; hearing her
opinions quoted even upset his equanimity. "Never mind what Cara
likes; we are each bound to have our own individual taste. If
Langley likes pickles better than strawberry jam she has no right to
prevent Cathy from feasting on the latter dainty. I hate rules and
regulations for grown-up people; it is just as though we want to
bring back the swaddling clothes of infancy."
"I am afraid I am not fond of rules, and I do like poetry and
novels," returned Miss Faith timidly. Here amongst these young
people she felt a different creature; their ideas were as fresh and
sweet to her as Garth's roses that she had fastened in her belt. "I
must go now; but you have done me so much good, you always do," she
said presently as she rose. Garth pleaded hard that she would stay,
but she only shook her head at him wistfully.
"No, don't tempt me; Cara would be disappointed when she woke up from
her afternoon nap if she found I had not returned; it is not nice to
disappoint people, and then her pain might come on again."
"At least you might promise to drive over with us to Crossgill
to-morrow; we are going to introduce Miss Marriott to the
Cunninghams. Langley cannot go, and there will be a spare place in
the waggonette." But Miss Faith would not promise. Two afternoons
of pleasure would be unheard-of dissipation; she would never hear the
last of it; and what would Cara do without her reading?
"As though we cared about that," muttered Garth, _sotto voce_; and
then, as he returned from unlatching the little side gate, he paused
a moment by Queenie. "There goes one of life's unsolved enigmas--a
good woman thrown away on a selfish one. I know you agree with me,
Miss Marriott; I can read it in your face."
Queenie gave him a bright, understanding smile. She had just
finished a most artistic-looking patch in an old frock of Emmie's,
and held it up in critical approval. "When people are so good they
can hardly fail to be happy," she said with slightly qualified
assent. Somehow she did not pity Miss Faith quite so much this
afternoon; it was a little contrary of her perhaps, but then, had she
not gone away with Garth's roses in her belt? and had he not called
her his patron saint, and hinted that she was necessary to him, to
them all? Queenie felt that even Miss Faith's life was not quite
devoid of all sweetness when such speeches as these were made to her.
Garth had not sufficient vanity to guess at these thoughts, but he
seemed quite disposed to linger by Queenie's side and argue out the
matter. He had been quite absorbed by Miss Faith's conversation
while she remained; and now it would be refreshing to turn to
Queenie. It did not occur to him to pick roses for her, but he stood
beside her, and watched her deft fingers move swiftly over her work,
with a lazy sort of pleasure.
"No one could doubt her goodness," he went on, taking up the thread
of his argument; "the question is, is she quite right to give up her
own will so entirely to her sister? One may be good and
self-sacrificing, and yet preserve one's individuality."
"I think she is not quite sufficiently strong-minded."
"Don't; if you knew how I hate that word! it is Miss Charity's
war-cry. Women do not need to be strong-minded, they ought to be
pliant, yielding, ready to take impressions; a woman with an
inflexible will is a man in disguise. If Miss Charity had
married--poor thing, she might have done so once, and have rued
taking the step to her dying day--she would have ruled her husband
with a rod of iron, much as she rules Miss Faith."
"I suppose she is fond of her," doubtfully.
"Oh yes; tyranny does not exclude affection, at least among women,"
was the grim answer. "Miss Charity is only forming her sister's
education, moulding her taste, in fact; she little knows how all the
maxims slide off her like the rain off a duck's back. Away from her
sister she is a different creature--dares to hold her own opinions,
and to own to her own modest tastes. I call Miss Faith, exquisitely
feminine; don't you think that is the word for her, Miss Marriott?"
"Yes," replied Queenie hesitating. It was very pleasant to have
Garth there beside her, talking on any subject; but she almost wished
that he would praise Miss Faith a little less. How did she know,
Cathy might be wrong after all; Miss Faith was only seven years his
senior, and there were so few people in Hepshaw. Queenie was still
too young to know how silent a man generally is on the merits of a
woman he actually loves.
"I mean her to go over to Crossgill with us to-morrow," he said
presently, returning to the charge. "If I have to beard the lion in
his den, and Miss Charity on her couch, I intend to have my way. I
know what I will do, Langley shall go over there after tea, she has
great influence with the dominant cardinal virtue. Willing or
unwilling, Miss Faith goes with us to-morrow." And Garth, as usual,
had his way.
It would be hard to tell whether Queenie or Miss Faith enjoyed the
drive and the lovely scenery most. Cathy was on the box beside her
brother, and had the reins more than once in her hands, and only
Emmie remained with them.
Miss Faith was a quiet companion, and at first Queenie missed her
friend's lively tongue; but by-and-bye they fell into a pleasant
channel of talk, which proved so interesting that they were both
surprised when Garth told them that they were within sight of
Crossgill, and that in another five minutes they would be at the
Vicarage.
They were descending a steep winding road as he spoke, and in another
moment they entered the village. Queenie always spoke of it
afterwards as one of the prettiest villages she had ever seen. A
little stream flowed down the middle of the road, the cottages looked
picturesque and in good condition; a fine old church seemed to tower
in symbolic majesty over the whole place. Emmie and she uttered a
simultaneous cry of admiration when they first caught sight of
Crossgill Vicarage. It was the ideal Vicarage; the neatly-kept
gravelled paths, the exquisitely trimmed lawn, the flower-beds masses
of variegated colors, the rare shrubs and plants, all spoke of the
owner's cultivated taste; the house itself, with its quaint casements
and low bay-windows, was almost embosomed in creepers and climbing
roses; the porch was full of flowers. As the door opened they found
themselves in a little square hall, wainscoted in oak, with an oak
staircase and low gallery running across it.
An old servant with a wrinkled face, evidently about eighty years
old, welcomed Cathy and Garth with beaming smiles. Garth shook hands
with her.
"Well, Nurse, I have brought visitors to see your young lady. Oh,
there is Miss Dora," as a slight girlish figure crossed the gallery,
and came rapidly down the broad low staircase towards them.
What a picturesque little figure it was. Picturesque--that was just
the word for her. No one in their senses could have called Dora
Cunningham pretty, but taken altogether she was simply charming.
She was dressed so quaintly too; the shady coarse straw hat, with the
wreath of wild convolvoli, just suited the pale _piquante_ face; and
over her dark blue cambric she wore a long narrow holland apron,
laced across the bodice in old-century fashion, and bordered with
antique silken flowers. A kitten's soft head and innocent blue eyes
peeped out of one of the pockets. "You have come at last," she said
with just a slight accent of reproach, and a little satirical
elevation of the eyebrows. "I have been looking for you for weeks
past. Where is Langley? and why has not Ted been to see me lately?"
"I have brought Miss Faith and our guest, Miss Marriott, instead,"
returned Garth. "This is her little sister Emmie. Are you going to
give us some tea, Miss Dora? Where is your father? Shall I go and
look for him while you show these ladies your pretty drawing-room and
conservatory?"
"Nurse, will you send papa to us, please. No, Mr. Clayton, I am not
going to let you escape like that; you owe me some apology first for
your long absence. What have you been doing? What have you all been
doing? Come in here; I mean to catechise you."
Miss Cunningham spoke in a brisk, pleasant voice, though it had a
sharp, decided note or two in it. She marshalled her guests with
perfect ease and self-possession into the long bay-windowed
drawing-room. A white-haired, aristocratic-looking man in an old
gardening coat came out of the conservatory with a watering-pot in
his hand.
"Papa, you must come and talk to Miss Marriott and Miss Palmer,
please. Let me take that watering-pot away, it is trickling all over
the carpet, and your coat is covered with lime. Do you like a low
chair, Miss Marriott? If you sit there you can see the flowers in
the conservatory, and just a pretty peep of the garden. I hope you
will talk to papa, he is so fond of talking to strangers. Miss
Palmer, you know papa, of course?"
"Miss Faith and I are old friends, my dear," interposed Mr.
Cunningham.
"Yes, I know; it is Miss Marriott who is the only stranger," returned
Dora calmly, untying her hat. She had white dimpled hands, rather
like a baby's. "Now, Mr. Clayton, please tell me what you have been
doing with yourself all this time?"
Mr. Cunningham proved himself a most genial host. He took Miss Faith
and Queenie into the conservatory, and gathered some of his choicest
flowers for them. A little summer shower had just commenced; the
light patter of drops on the glass roof blended unceasingly with the
voices. Dora's canaries were singing loudly; a small blue-black Skye
terrier scampered over the wet lawn. Miss Faith seemed rapt in quiet
happiness; Queenie was just a trifle absent and distracted.
Through the conservatory door she could catch sight of a pretty
group. Dora sat in her little low chair, and Cathy had ensconced
herself on the rug at her feet. Garth stood with his broad shoulders
propped against the wooden mantel-piece, looking at them both. His
face wore an amused expression; evidently he was well entertained.
"Do you think her pretty?" whispered Emmie, coming round to her
sister's side. "She is like a picture, somehow; but I like your face
best, Queenie, there is more in it." Queenie could not understand
why the child's remark jarred on her. She colored hastily and turned
away.
But she told herself afterwards that Emmie was right on one point.
Dora Cunningham was certainly not pretty: her teeth were a little too
prominent, her nose was somewhat blunt and unformed, and her eyes
were blue and still, and had no special depth in them. Her fair hair
was her chief beauty; it was very abundant, and she wore it
gracefully, just simply turned off from her face and knotted
carelessly behind.
At this early stage of their acquaintance Queenie hardly knew whether
she was attracted or repulsed by the young mistress of Crossgill
Vicarage. Her perfect self-possession, her absence of all
consciousness, her cool, business-like comments on things in general,
her faith in her own management and powers of observation, astonished
Queenie not a little.
From the first she had taken possession of Garth, quite frankly and
openly.
"I always leave the ladies to papa," she said to Queenie, as she led
the way by-and-bye into the hall, where tea had been prepared for
them. "Papa is such a lady's man. I always get on best with
gentlemen, at least if they are like Mr. Clayton. Girls are all very
well in their way, but men are so much more amusing. I dare say you
think the same?"
"I have never thought about it; I have seen so few gentlemen in my
life," answered Queenie, a little confused by the question. The
music and drawing-masters at Granite Lodge and Caleb Runciman were
about the only specimens of manhood with whom she had been
acquainted, until her arrival at Church-Stile House. She was afraid,
too, that Garth had overheard Miss Cunningham's frank speech; if he
had, he took no notice. He placed himself at the little oval table
beside his young hostess, and looked at the plump childish hands,
busy amongst the old china cups and saucers.
The old nurse stood behind her mistress's chair, and joined in the
conversation. She and Garth seemed great friends.
"Well, Nurse, how are Miss Beatrix and Miss Florence?"
"Well, very well, bless their dear hearts. Miss Beatrix is taller
than Miss Dora even, and is growing prettier than ever. We want them
back, Mr. Clayton, sir."
"Now, Nurse, that's nonsense," interposed Dora, briskly. "Remember
they are gone for their good, not ours. Beatrix must finish her
education before she comes home; you know papa and I have settled
that."
"I don't think the poor young ladies like foreign parts so well as
home," sighed the old woman, plaintively. "Miss Flo writes beautiful
letters, to be sure; but she says she is home-sick sometimes."
"Have you sisters?" enquired Queenie, with a little surprise. She
thought Dora was the only inhabitant of the vicarage.
Dora nodded. "Yes; there are the girls. Nurse is talking about them
now; she is always talking about them. They are at school in
Brussels. They are very well, of course, for girls, only I have
never forgiven them for not being boys. I have always so longed for
a brother--a great big brother--to take me about when papa is lazy or
tired," appealing to Garth with candid blue eyes, not unlike the
kitten's.
"What a pity we can't make you a present of Ted," returned Garth
coolly; but Nurse interposed again with the garrulity of age.
"Miss Dora, dear, I can't bear to hear you talk so; it doesn't seem
right, does it, sir? with those sweet young ladies for sisters,
adoring her and spoiling her as they do. Why one of these days, my
darling, you will have a husband to take you about; that will be
better than a brother, won't it, Mr. Clayton, sir?"
"I suppose I shall have a husband some day, but there is no need for
you to drag him in before-hand, Nurse;" returned Dora with perfect
composure, as she tied on her broad-brimmed hat again. The allusion
in Garth's presence did not disturb her equanimity in the least; she
took it quite as a matter of course. "It is only Nurse's nonsense,"
she said, turning calmly to Queenie; "if she talked so to the girls
it would be different, but nothing matters to me," with a little curl
of her lip and a shrug.
"I think you must miss your sisters, living here alone?" observed
Queenie, by way of changing the subject.
"Oh, as to that, papa and I miss them, of course. They are well
enough for girls, only they are just at the _gauche_ age, you know;
when they are older I shall know better what to do with them."
"Then are you never dull?" asked Garth. "I should have thought Flo
especially would have left a void in the house, she was so bright and
full of fun."
"I should have called Flo noisy," exclaimed Dora quietly. "Busy
people are never dull; I should have thought you would have found
that out by this time."
"I know you emulate the busy bee, and improve each shining hour, Miss
Dora; but still--"
"I suppose you mean to be satirical," with a little scorn. "You men
think there is no work done but by yourselves."
"Oh, no; I am sure your list of duties must be very long," evidently
teasing her, to her father's great delight.
"Quite long enough for a woman," she returned, pointedly. "I have my
house-keeping, and my schools, and the mothers' meeting, and the
penny club, and the coal and blanket fund, and the library, besides
odds and ends of business, and all my visiting. Papa and I work
together, and in the evening I read to him."
"Dora is my right hand," interposed Mr. Cunningham, looking at his
girl fondly.
"After all men must have some one to help them," returned Dora
loftily. She delivered herself of her little speech Parthian-wise,
as she rose from the tea-table, turning her shoulder somewhat upon
Garth as she did so.
"Are we such helpless creatures then?" he asked in a low voice,
following her.
"Most of you are," she replied calmly. "Miss Marriott, the rain is
over, shall we take a turn in the garden?"