A GOLDEN HARVEST.
"Yes; keep me calm, though loud and rude
The sounds my ears that greet;
Calm in the closet's solitude,
Calm in the bustling street;
Calm in the hour of buoyant health,
Calm in my hour of pain;
Calm in my poverty or wealth,
Calm in my loss or gain."--_Bonar._
It had been arranged that Queenie should return to Carlisle for a day
or two before entering on her new duties, leaving Emmie behind her at
Church-Stile House. She must bid good-bye to her old friend, Caleb
Runciman, and redeem her promise of seeing Mr. Calcott again. A
brisk correspondence had been kept up between her and Caleb. The old
man had expressed himself well satisfied with her plans, though many
and sore were his regrets at losing her and his little favorite. "I
told Mr. Calcott your intention, as you wished me, my dear," wrote
Caleb, in his cramped neat hand. "He received the news in silence,
but after a while he muttered, 'Well, well, it will do for a time;
but it seems strange. Frank Marriott's daughter a village
school-mistress!' and then he asked, querulously, if the girl were
coming back? I think he misses you, my dear, though not more than I
do; and what we shall do without you and the precious lamb is more
than Molly and I can tell; but she has got your old room ready, and
has baked a first-rate cake; and there's a warm welcome waiting for
you, Miss Queenie, my dear; so no more at present, from your attached
friend, Caleb Runciman."
The day after their return from Karlsmere, as they were sitting at
breakfast, Garth looked up rather suddenly from the paper he was
reading. "Miss Marriott, I am afraid you have lost a friend," he
said, rather abruptly. "Andrew Calcott of Carlisle is dead!"
"Uncle Andrew! Oh, poor Uncle Andrew!" exclaimed Emmie, mournfully;
but Queenie only started and turned pale.
"By some mistake the announcement has been postponed; he died three
days ago. Ah, there is the postman coming up the walk. I should not
be surprised if you have another letter from your old friend, Mr.
Runciman."
Garth was right; but Queenie rose from the table and carried off the
letter to read in the privacy of her own room. Cathy found her
quietly crying over it when she went up some time afterwards.
"I did not think I should have minded it so much," she said, drying
her eyes as Cathy entered; "but it seems so dreadful, his dying alone
in the night, with no one near him. Perhaps Caleb was right, and he
may have passed away in his sleep."
"Is that all they know about it?"
"Yes; they just went up in the morning, and found him lying there
quite cold, with a smile on his face. He never would let any one
stay in his room; that was one of his peculiarities. Caleb knew this
would happen one night, but he seems dreadfully down about it. I am
to go over next Thursday, you know, and he says this need not make
any difference."
"You will be sorry that you have not seen him again."
"Yes; it is that that troubles me. I cannot bear to think that I
have been enjoying myself all this time, and that he has been missing
me. I remember now, that he seemed to think that it was good-bye."
Queenie's bright spirits were quenched for the remainder of the day.
Her tender heart was grieved by the thought of the lonely death-bed.
Garth found her looking still pale and depressed when he came back
from the works. To distract her thoughts he took her and Cathy for a
long country walk, from which they did not return until late in the
evening. He had never been more gentle to her, Queenie remembered
afterwards. He and Cathy had restrained their high spirits, and had
only talked to her of what roused and interested her--of the school,
the cottage, and plans for her new life. Walking back in the
moonlight, their conversation flowed in graver channels. He and
Cathy talked of their mother; and Queenie for the first time had a
clue to the passionate devotion with which Garth regarded her memory.
She bade good-bye to her friends rather sadly when the day arrived
for her to go back to Carlisle. She was only to be absent three
days, and yet the separation caused her an effort. Why had the place
grown so suddenly dear to her that it cost her a pang only to turn
her back upon it?
Garth and Cathy accompanied her to the station.
"I do not know what I shall do without you, Queen," exclaimed her
friend, disconsolately.
"We shall all miss you, Miss Marriott," echoed Garth, brightly.
"Take care of yourself, and come back to us as soon as you can." And
the pleasant words lingered long in her memory.
But, in spite of herself, her journey was a dull one. Mr. Calcott's
sudden death still oppressed her. The day was sultry and sunless;
heavy thunder-clouds brooded on the edge of the horizon; the air was
surcharged with electricity; a storm seemed impending. It broke upon
her long before she arrived at her destination. Queenie sat quietly
in her place and watched the fierce play of the elements, half
fascinated and half bewildered; a vague excitement seemed roused in
her, a strange disturbance and sense of change oppressed her.
"I am just the same, and yet I feel different," she said to herself;
"I suppose this storm excites me. I wonder if he meant it when he
said he would miss me, or if it was only his way; he must always say
something pleasant. I wonder if he would be very sorry if I were
never to come back. Would it make any difference to him, really?
They are all going to the Abbey this evening; how I wish I could be
with them; but this is unkind to my poor Caleb. I am ashamed to
think how selfish I am getting. I will try not to think of Hepshaw
or Church-Stile House until Monday;" but, in spite of her good
resolutions, her thoughts had travelled there again before another
half-hour had elapsed.
The storm had ceased, but the rain was still pouring steadily down as
Queenie plodded through the streets of Carlisle. She had to pass
Granite Lodge on her way to Caleb's; but the sight of the grim
portico made her shiver and avert her eyes. She gave quite a sigh of
relief when she found herself in the dark entry of Caleb's house,
with Molly's bright face smiling at her.
"Ay, the master's in there. Master, master, here's our young lady
come an hour before her time," vociferated the good woman, dropping
curtseys profusely in her excitement.
"Why, Molly, my dear creature, you need, not to be so ceremonious,"
exclaimed Queenie, pressing the hard hand between both her own; "it
is only Miss Queenie; surely you have not forgotten me in this little
time."
"No; but I must not forget my manners to my betters," returned Molly,
coloring and dropping another hurried curtsey. "But go in there, my
dear young lady. I think he is a bit dazed with his sleep, or
something, or he would have come out to meet you."
Caleb rose from his chair rather feebly as she entered; his blue eyes
had certainly a dazed look in them.
"Miss Queenie, my dear," he said, rather tremulously, "I am not so
young as I was, and things sadly upset me. Molly is a good creature,
but her intelligence is limited. I have wanted you badly the last
few days, you and the precious lamb."
"Dear Caleb, if I had known that I would certainly have brought
Emmie."
"No, no need; it is only an old man's whim; she is better off where
she is. I have been trying to write to you the last day or two, Miss
Queenie, my dear; but I got so flurried and made such poor beginnings
that I was obliged to give it up, not being so young as I was, my
dear, and soon upset by what's over and gone."
"I am afraid it has been a sad shock to you," observed Queenie,
gravely. Caleb's wrinkled hand was quite cold and shaking, and
Queenie rubbed it in a soft, caressing way as she spoke.
"You might have knocked me over with a feather," returned Caleb,
reverting to his favorite expression. "It was not so much the shock
of his death, though I have worked for him, boy and man, just
fifty-five years last Michaelmas, nor the manner of it, for he slept
away as peaceful as an infant; it is what came after, the mysterious
dealings of Providence; but I must have my pipe, saving your
presence, Miss Queenie dear. And you must have something to eat and
drink to keep up your strength; and then you and me will have a deal
of comfortable talk together, when we are both more composed;" and
Queenie, seeing how agitated the old man really was, yielded with her
usual sweet unselfishness, and went up to the little room, with the
big brown bed, where she and Emmie had slept, with the window
overlooking the stone-mason's yard, with the great slabs and blocks
of stone.
The rain was dripping on the sheds and the white, unfinished
monuments. Queenie stood for a long time listening to the soft
patter on the leaves, until she found she was in the Warstdale
granite-quarry, sitting amongst the grey stones, with Garth stretched
on his plaid beside her, and roused herself with difficulty.
She went down after that, and poured out tea for herself from the
little black teapot, and did justice to Molly's cake; and looked at
the grate, wreathed with sprays of silvery honesty, and wondered if
the rain had cleared up at Hepshaw, and whether they would go after
all to the abbey; and then scolded herself for being so stupid and
abstracted.
Caleb was rather quiet also, and sat regarding her solemnly through
his puffs of smoke; now and then he seemed about to speak, but
checked himself. He cleared his throat rather nervously when Queenie
had ended her little repast and took a seat beside him.
"Now, dear old friend, I am refreshed, and we can have our talk," she
said cheerfully. "Fill your pipe again; you never talk so well
without it, you know. I want to tell you about Emmie, and the
cottage, and the school, and the dear people at Church-Stile House;
if I do not begin now I shall never get through it all in three days."
"Ay, ay; but there is something we must talk about before that; the
cottage and the school were all very well once, but now things are
different. As I said before, I am not so young as I was, Miss
Queenie, dear; and you will not flurry me and make me nervous if I
tell you a few of my thoughts?"
"Now, Caleb, you are not going to speak against my little scheme,"
cried the girl reproachfully. "It is all settled; nothing in the
world could shake my purpose. I would rather be the school-mistress
at Hepshaw, and earn my daily bread, than be the richest lady in
Carlisle."
The old man adjusted his pipe with trembling fingers.
"Do you hear me, Caleb?"
"I hear you, Miss Queenie, my dear."
"Do you believe what I say? When I lie down at night I am so happy
that I cannot sleep; I can hardly say my prayers sometimes, I want to
sing them instead. Think of Emmie and I having our wish, and living
in our own cottage! Will you come and see us there, dear, you and
Molly?"
"No, Miss Queenie; I hope not. Listen to me, my dearie. There, my
pipe is out, but never mind; somehow I can't smoke it to-night.
Supposing you were rich, very rich, Miss Queenie, how about the
cottage then?"
"Suppose that you were talking nonsense," she returned, laughing.
"Do you know, I have learnt to make bread, and to cook, and to mend,
and to iron, and to do all sorts of useful things. I mean my cottage
to be the cleanest and the prettiest in Hepshaw. There is quite a
large garden, only it was grown over with rank grass; but Captain
Fawcett and Mr. Clayton have had it dug up. We mean to plant beans
and peas, and all kinds of vegetables; but I shall have roses and
mignonette under the windows."
"My dear, you must listen to me; never mind about the cottage just
now. What did I say to you, dearie, about the mysterious dealings of
Providence? Things happen sometimes that we never expected. What
were you saying, my dearie, about being the richest woman in
Carlisle?"
The old man's manner was so singular that the girl gazed at him in
astonishment.
"Supposing something strange had happened, Miss Queenie," he
continued nervously, "and you were to wake up one morning--this
morning, say--and find yourself a rich lady, what should you say to
that, my dearie?"
"I--I should be sorry, I think. Oh, Caleb! what do you mean?" she
implored, roused at last by his agitation.
"No, no; don't say that, Miss Queenie, dear; it is tempting the good
Providence that has turned his hard heart, and made him restore to
you and that precious lamb fourfold of what was due to you. 'I was
sick and ye visited me.' There it is, my dearie; and the blessing
has come back to you again when you least expected it."
"Caleb, I cannot bear this," exclaimed the girl, turning suddenly
very pale. "Do you see how you are trying me? Is there something I
ought to know, and that you are trying to prepare me to hear,
something about Mr. Calcott and Emmie?"
"Nay, nay; not about Emmie."
"About myself, then?"
"Ay," patting her hand tremulously, "about yourself, Miss Queenie,
dear. You have woke up this morning a rich woman. Mr. Calcott has
left you all his money."
"Oh, Caleb! no,"--Queenie's voice rose almost to a cry--"not to me,
surely, surely! You must mean Emmie! Emmie is his niece, not I; I
am nothing to him."
"Ah! but you ministered to him like a daughter; you were not turned
from him by his hard words."
"But I was cruel, and left him alone in his sufferings; I never came
back even to wish him good-bye. I have been thinking of myself, not
him, all this time. Caleb, I can never take his money, it belongs to
Emmie; I can never defraud Emmie," and Queenie leaned her head on her
old friend's shoulder and burst into a perfect passion of tears.
Caleb stroked her hair gently. "Hush, my pretty; there is something
like five thousand a year, all in safe investments. But the lawyer
will be round here presently, and tell you all about that. He has
left me an annuity of three hundred a-year in return for fifty-five
years of faithful services. Think of that, Miss Queenie! You might
have knocked me down with a feather when I heard that."
"Yes; but Emmie," she sobbed. "I cannot defraud Emmie."
"Bless you, Miss Queenie, dear, you are not defrauding the poor
innocent. If the money had not come to you it would have gone to
some hospital. Have you forgotten his vow, that his sister and her
child should never inherit a farthing of his money? No doubt he
repents these rash words of his, and he means you to take care of
Emmie, and give her the benefit of his wealth."
"Are you sure, quite sure, that he meant that?"
"Positive and certain, my pretty."
"And you do not think I shall be wrong to accept his bounty for her
sake?"
"Surely not. It would be quarrelling with the dispensations of
Providence."
"I feel so oppressed," cried the girl, laying her hand on her bosom;
"there is a weight here as though I were sorry and not glad. If he
had given me a little I could have taken it and have been thankful,
but so much crushes me somehow."
"How about the cottage now?" interposed Caleb jocosely, trying to
rally her, but she stopped him with quivering lips.
"Hush! I can bear no more, not to-night. Did you say the lawyer was
coming? Let me go away for a little, I feel sick and giddy, and I
want to understand it all."
"Then run away, my dearie, and I will send for you when he comes;
there's a bit of a letter or a paper that he wants to give you."
"She is as cold and white as a bit of marble; I wonder what's come to
the pretty creature," he muttered when he was left alone. "She is
not heart glad, I can see that. She has a scared look in her face,
as though she has lost her foothold somehow."
Queenie had regained her calmness by the time the lawyer made his
appearance. She listened to his explanations and instructions
silently but with composure, only her compressed lips and
closely-locked hands showed the intense strain of feeling under the
quietude of her manner.
"Five thousand a-year; you are sure that is the sum mentioned," she
said, when he paused once.
"Yes; house property, and investments in the funds, consols, and
various securities will yield about that sum, I should think. The
furniture is to be sold, but the plate and valuables are yours.
There are various legacies to old servants, and a pension or two; but
to-morrow we can go over particularly into details."
"And it is all for my own use and benefit?"
"Exactly so; the terms of the will are binding. There is to be no
partition or deed of gift to any other person during your lifetime.
There is a small sealed paper addressed to you, which Mr. Calcott
gave into my hand, and which you had better read at once, it may
throw some light on his conduct."
Queenie took the paper. It was written in a feeble, almost
illegible, hand, and was not easy to decipher; the beginning was
strangely abrupt.
"I have told you that I have no niece; I must wash my hands of the
child. When a man has taken an oath upon his lips it is too late
then to talk of repentance. But I can trust her to Frank Marriott's
daughter. Mind, girl; I say that I can trust you, and a dead man's
trust is sacred.
"My money is my own to do with it as I will. I have no relation in
the world, for the child is nothing to me. Do you remember telling
me that you were sorry for me, that no one would shed tears over my
grave? I can recal your words now. 'It must be so dreadful not to
want love, to be able to do without it.' Child, child, what
possessed you to say such words to me?
"Well, you are wrong; Caleb will be sorry for me, the poor fellow has
a faithful heart; and, if I mistake not, you will shed a tear or two
when you hear that I have gone. Do you recollect how you reproached
me the first time I saw you? 'Though you were dying of hunger,' you
said, 'you would not crave my bounty.' You told me that I had given
you hard, sneering words; that I was refusing to help you in your
bitter strait; that I was leaving you, young and single-handed, to
fight in this cruel world. Girl, those were hard words to haunt a
dying man's pillow. Well, well, I am dying, and I know you have
forgiven me, though I have a wish to hear you say it once; but I know
you forgave me when you gave me that kiss. Ah, I have not forgotten
that. I am leaving you all my money, think of that! to Frank
Marriott's daughter! It has been a curse to me, mind you turn it
into a blessing. Remember, I trust the child to you. Perhaps in the
many mansions,--but there, Emily was a saint, and I am a poor
miserable sinner. The child is like her mother, so take care of her.
If Emily and I meet--but there's no knowing--I should like to tell
her the child has suffered no wrong,--the many mansions--there may be
room for Andrew Calcott; who knows? There, God bless you; God bless
you both. I am getting drowsy and must sleep;" but here the letter
broke off abruptly.
"I found him exhausted with the effect of writing," observed Mr.
Duncan, turning his head away that he might not see Queenie's
agitated face; "he made me seal it up in his presence, and then
begged us all to leave him. In the morning the nurse found him lying
as you have heard, with his face to the light; he had been dead some
hours. I was quite struck with the change in him when I went up; he
looked years younger. There was a smile on his face, and all the
lines seemed smoothed away. He had been a great sufferer all his
life, and that made him something of a misanthrope."
"Yes, yes; no one understood him, and even I was hard upon him,"
returned Queenie, bursting into tears again. Ah, why had she
forgotten him? Did she know that the dead hand would have been
stretched out to her with a blessing in it for her and the child?