Queenie's whim, Volume 3 (of 3)

CHAPTER IV.

THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM.

"A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than a man, because love is more the study and business of her life."—Washington Irving.

It was about this time that Garth began to feel very uncomfortable. Hitherto his quiet, well-assured life, with its eight-and-twenty years of healthful work and activity, its moderate aims and small ambitions, had been singularly free from conflict. Mental disturbance, the weariness of self-argument, the harass of stormy passions, had been wholly unknown to him. In his ordered existence the pains and penalties of a lover's martyrdom had not vexed him.

He was still angry with Dora, but his discomfort did not proceed wholly from his wrath; it lay rather in a concealed fear that he was mistaken in his own feelings.

After all, was it Dora that he wanted? Was the friendship between them sufficient to warrant the assumption that they would be happy together in a life-long union? Was not her lukewarmness, her procrastination, tolerably clear signs that she was, in reality, as heart-whole as he? Would it go hardly with either of them if that dust-shaking movement of his should be carried out?

There was no engagement; the tacit understanding between them did not even amount to a promise. Dora had rejected his first attempt to place things on a more satisfactory footing; in reality he was free as air. Why was her influence so strong over him then that he feared to break the yoke of his subservience, and so stood, as it were, on the comfortless borders of uncertainty, battling between two opinions?

Dora was still away at Brussels, but Mr. Cunningham had returned. From him Garth learnt that they had found the invalid in a far more precarious state than they had at first imagined. The fever had subsided, but had been followed by a serious attack on the lungs. It was impossible for her sister to leave her; and Mr. Cunningham feared that a winter in the south of France would be imperatively needed.

Dora wrote a short letter soon after to the same effect.

The sight of the well-known characters moved Garth to a certain impatience. Why had she written to him? how did she know that his anger was not still hot against her?

"It is grievous to see dear Flo's sufferings," she wrote. "She is such a patient creature, and does all she is told; but at one time we hardly dared to hope that she would be spared to us. Poor papa was quite in despair; and as for Beatrix, she has been no use at all, she quite upset us the first evening by the way she clung to us. It is sad to see a girl of her age so entirely without control. The doctor still looks very grave over darling Flo, and I fear we shall be condemned to a winter in the south of France; in that case I shall send Beattie home to papa, for her crying and fretting only harass one. I dare say Langley will look after her a little for me.

"I little thought I was saying good-bye to you for such a long time. If you had known that, you would have been a little kinder, would you not? But I must not think of that. I am afraid I think of you all a great deal too much; the prospect of the long winter away from every one makes me dreadfully homesick. Write and tell me how dear papa looks, and how every one is, and all about yourself, and believe me always and ever your faithful friend,

"DORA."

Garth's answer was very cool and matter-of-fact. It contained a full description of Miss Palmer's wedding, with lengthy messages to Beatrix and Florence, and a few formal words of condolence over her prolonged absence. "It must be such a bore to be exiled against one's will," wrote Garth; but he did not say one word about himself.

Dora heaved a little sigh of regret as she folded up the letter. "Poor fellow! he is still very angry with me," she thought to herself.

Garth took a long, solitary walk when he had finished his epistle; it had taken him more than an hour to compose, and yet it had hardly filled one sheet of note-paper. He was heavy with discomfort, and yet a feeling of triumph was uppermost. "She will see that I am not to be played with; that I regard myself as free, and mean to keep my freedom," he said to himself, as he tramped through the country roads in the starlight.

It was the beginning of November, and there was a keen, frosty feeling in the air. The fields that bordered the road on either side looked black in the dim light; the trees looked gaunt and grotesque, stretching out their unclothed limbs in the darkness; the grey stone wails seemed dim and unsubstantial. Garth walked on with long, even strides. The cold air, the exercise, stirred his young blood, and drove away despondent fancies; in their place came pleasurable images, faint, yet full of grace, making pulsation stronger within him.

When did the thought first occur to him? When and where? or was it a thought at all, or only a feeling or sentiment? A novel sensation not to be described, and certainly not to be analyzed, had taken possession of him the very night after his interview with Dora, when, sore and angry, he had betaken himself to the cottage.

It was strange how that picture of the two sisters haunted him. Sometimes, when he woke up in the middle of the night, he recalled it vividly: the child curled up on the rocking-chair, the girl kneeling on the rug with the plate of cakes in her hand, the firelight shining on her round, dimpled arms and flushed face, and then her paleness, and the startled brightness of her eyes when she turned to him.

Had Dora ever grown pale at the sight of him? had she ever moved his better nature by such sweet, strong words as those that greeted his ear that night?

"What is it that men do not understand?" he had asked her in his simple, straight-forward way.

"The blessedness of giving," she had answered him, without guile or hesitation, "the privilege of being able to see and love what is highest and best without hope or thought of return. Some women feel like that."

Good heavens! could she—was it a bare possibility that she could be speaking of herself? and though, a moment after, he repelled this thought with a blush of shame over the vanity of such a supposition, other words conspired to haunt him.

"Those that have sympathy here must have sympathy there," she had gravely assured him, and her earnestness had moved him to excitement. What if this sympathy were between them two; between him, Garth Clayton, and the young creature that he had befriended?

"Dolt, fool, idiot! that's what I've been for my pains," growled Garth between his teeth, as he struck at a young sapling with his stick; "as though one could map and trace out one's feeling and one's life in that way. What is Dora to me after all compared to this girl, this stranger, whom I did not know six months ago; and yet, like a blockhead, I must try to bind myself to her, and call her my Fate." And then he softened and grew pitiful. "Poor Dora! poor dear Dora!" he said, with a kindly memory of his old playmate, and all his anger died out of him.

After all, there was a very true friendship between them none the less that he did not deceive himself, and called it by its right name.

Garth meant to go home straight that night, like the good young man he was; but, somehow, before he was aware he had unlatched the little gate. Perhaps it was the sound of Langley's voice in the porch that determined him. Of course it was the duty of an affectionate brother to escort her home.

But Langley had only left her own warm fireside to visit an ailing child in the village, and was carrying the report to the young school-mistress.

She still wore her Sister-of-mercy's grey cloak, as Cathy called it, which Queenie was half-coaxingly, half-playfully trying to unfasten. She started at Langley's surprised exclamation, and again that paleness was perceptible.

As for Garth, he flushed a little over the girl's evident surprise.

"I heard your voice, Langley, and so I followed you in," he said gravely, looking at her and not at Queenie. All at once he seemed embarrassed and ill-at-ease, his usual assurance had left him.

"Now you have come you must both stay," replied Queenie brightly; she had recovered from her momentary agitation. "Langley has brought me a very sad account of poor little Bessie. I must go down there the first thing in the morning."

"Where is Emmie?" asked Garth, looking longingly at the empty rocking-chair, but not daring to take possession.

Langley's cloak still hung round her in straight long folds, she stood quietly warming herself by the fire, looking down on the flame with a thoughtful, intent face.

"Emmie is tired and has gone to bed. Do you know," looking up at Garth rather sorrowfully, "that I am afraid that she is not as strong as she ought to be. I have been telling Langley so. I often find her lying on the rug in the twilight, and yet she will have it she is only tired."

"She is growing so fast; children are often languid at that age: you must not be over-anxious," he returned kindly.

"How can I help it? she is all I have," replied the girl, turning from him to hide the tears in her eyes.

The kindness of his tone had brought them there. Garth looked after her wistfully, but he said no more.

"Come, Garth, it is late, and we must not stay," exclaimed Langley, rousing herself. She put her hand on his arm and drew him gently on without seeming to notice his reluctance.

Queenie stood in the porch and watched them till they were out of sight.

"How kind he is to-night—kinder than usual," she thought, as she fastened up the door and went in.

The brother and sister were somewhat silent as they walked up the lane; Langley was taking counsel with herself. When Garth entered his study she followed him, somewhat to his surprise.

"Are you very busy to-night?" she said, pausing by the table, on which lay several letters, Dora's amongst them.

"Not too busy to talk to you, if that is what you mean," returned Garth pleasantly.

If the truth must be known he would rather have had his study to himself to-night, but selfishness was not one of Garth's faults; perhaps Langley needed his advice, so he stirred up the fire, drew the easy-chair towards it, and then relieved his sister of her heavy cloak.

"We have none of us heard from Brussels but you," she observed absently, as she perused the envelope before her. "Garth, I hope you will not be vexed with me, but I think, as things are between you and Dora, that you ought not to go so much to the cottage."

Garth nearly dropped the poker. "Et tu, Brute!" he groaned. "Is that what you have to say to me to-night, Langley?" he asked in a constrained voice, and Langley knew the matter of her speech displeased him.

"You must not be hurt with me, my dear, if I say what I think," she returned, following him to the rug. "You are such a good, kind creature, that it would never occur to you that your kindness could hurt any one; but Miss Marriott's position amongst us is somewhat peculiar."

"I thought she was Cathy's friend," he responded, a little crossly.

"Yes; and mine too, and yours, if you care to call her so. You are only a young man, Garth, though you are so steady and reliable, and she is young and very attractive, and temptation comes when we least expect it; and a friendship is not always a safe and a wise thing; and—and I have long wanted to speak about this, my dear," went on Langley in a motherly tone. True, Garth was only two years younger, but was she not older by years of suffering? could any sister love him better than she?

"There are some things that need not be discussed between us," he returned with a little dignity. "I am quite aware of Miss Marriott's position."

"Yes; but a sister is such a safe confidante," she responded softly, not repelled by his loftiness. "You and I have always been such friends, Garth, and I cannot bear you to be so close. I know you would not do anything that is wrong; but, as things are between you and Dora, I cannot but think these constant visits to the cottage are a mistake. If you knew how long I have wanted to say this to you, ever since—" But here Langley hesitated; she dared not hint that her uneasiness was chiefly caused by Queenie herself.

With her warm affection and clear-sightedness she had arrived at the conviction that this constant intercourse was fraught with danger to the girl in whom they were so much interested. It was for her sake as well as Garth's that she was speaking now.

"Stop a moment, Langley," exclaimed her brother angrily. "You have twice made an observation; have I ever informed you that I was on the eve of an engagement with Dora?"

"I thought it was understood between you. I am quite sure Dora feels that she belongs to you," was the serious reply.

"Then I beg to differ from you; Miss Cunningham feels nothing of the sort," was the indignant retort. "As far as I know, and I suppose I am the best authority in the matter, things are at an end between us. It is quite true," flushing at the remembrance, "that when I last went to the Vicarage that I tried to put matters on a different footing. I had made up my mind that I owed Dora a duty, and I thought then that I wished this thing; but it appears I made a mistake. Miss Cunningham," somewhat bitterly, "had no intention of meeting my views."

"Garth, surely you are mistaken!" exclaimed his sister, much startled.

"I am not mistaken, Langley," in an offended voice. "Miss Cunningham is neither ready nor willing to enter into any engagement, she made that perfectly clear to me. She puts her father and sisters first, and me last; but she will see that I am not one to be trifled with."

"Do you mean to tell me that Dora refused you?" was the incredulous question.

"Not exactly; at least she would not let it come to that point between us, but she made her meaning tolerably clear. I am to go on in this way until she pleases to consider herself unfettered; but I have waited long enough."

"Did you tell her so?"

"Yes; I said that there must be no more backwardness on her part, no pretence of insuperable obstacles where none existed; that it must be yea, yea, or nay, nay, between us; that, in point of fact, she must have me or lose me."

"Did you say all this?"

"Yes; but not in so many words."

"I think she has treated you badly, and deserved to be frightened; there are no very real obstacles, as you say. Beatrix is a dear good girl, and will soon be old enough to look after her father and the parish. I always knew Dora's chief fault was a too great love of power."

"I shall be sorry to interfere with her prerogative as mistress of Crossgill Vicarage," he returned coldly.

"Now, Garth, that is hardly fair," rejoined his sister, smiling affectionately in his face. "Dora has behaved very badly, but she has not sinned past forgiveness; she has never cared for any one but you all her life. I think that ought to soften your resentment."

"I dare say we shall always be good friends," was the indifferent reply.

"The very best of friends. Why this is sheer nonsense, Garth; Dora would be miserable if she knew how she had hurt you. Take my advice, dear; sit down and write to her, she is lonely and unhappy, and full of anxiety about her sister. Tell her that you are serious in what you said to her; that you are not patient, and do not mean to be; that she must make up her mind to give you a decided answer, and see what she says. Do you think she would run the risk of losing you altogether?"

"It does not matter, I shall not give her the chance of refusing me again," he returned gloomily. "Thank you for your advice, Langley, but it has come too late; I have made up my mind that Dora and I will be better friends apart."

"You have made up your mind after all these years," she said slowly and regretfully. "Poor Dora! whom we all loved for your sake, and who is so good and faithful a sister and daughter, so thoroughly trustworthy and intrinsic! Oh, no, Garth, you could not be so fickle!"

"You speak as though I have been in love with her all these years," returned Garth sullenly. "You know very well, Langley, I have been perfectly heart-whole all the time. True, I always believed that we should come together, but it is not my fault if my inclinations no longer point that way."

"Ah!" Langley uttered no more than that little monosyllable, but the blood rushed to her brother's face; she knew now what he meant. "Poor Dora!" she sighed, and then she put up her face and kissed him, and said good night.

She had come to speak to him about Dora, not of the other one; that was none of her business. As far as she knew, his choice was not an unwise one; no one could know Queenie and not love her. She had grown into all their hearts strangely; but the old friend of their childhood, Dora!

She went away very sadly after that. Garth made no effort to detain her. His purposes were not yet ripe enough for confidence; he was a little shy of whispering them even to himself.

"You are not hurt with me because I ventured to say this to you?" she asked him, as she was about to move away.

"No; I think I am relieved; it is always best to undeceive people," was his sole reply, and then she left him.

Garth enjoyed his solitude uninterruptedly after that, but he was not quite at ease in his own conscience. Langley's words, few and temperate as they were, had troubled him. It seemed so strange to hear her pleading Dora's cause, the very girl whom all these years he had intended to make his wife.

Should he give her this one chance more? should he write such a letter that its very sternness should constrain her to answer him? but no, she might repent and fling herself into his arms, and now his heart had gone from her.

"It is well to be off with the old love before one is on with the new," thought Garth, somewhat ruefully, but it was very clear that it was not Dora now that he wanted. "We are better apart; she will get to see that in time herself," he said, as Langley's earnest pleading rose uncomfortably to his mind. "I don't believe she is a bit in love with me." And before he retired that night he made up his mind that things must take their chance. He would wait a little perhaps, there was no hurry. When the time for his wooing should come he would carry it in far different fashion than he had done, and the girl he should woo would not be Dora.

CHAPTER V.

CHANGES AND CHANCES.

    "One half our cares and woes
    Exist but in our thoughts;
And lightly fall the rest on those
    Who with them wrestle not.
The feather scarcely feels the gale
Which bursts the seaman's strongest sail."
                                                                            C. Wesley.

Things went on tranquilly for the next few days. Garth looked a little shame-faced when he next saw his sister, but he knew her too well to fear that an unready confidence would be solicited. Langley never asked to know people's secrets. If they reposed them in her they found her trustworthy and sympathizing. She had eased her conscience by warning her brother, and now her duty was discharged her heart was full of forebodings for their old friend Dora; and a feeling that was almost akin to disappointment troubled her when she thought of Garth's changed fealty. "Toujours fidele" had been her motto for him as well as for herself, and yet, of the two girls her heart clave more to Queenie. Garth had no intention of reposing confidence in any one. He hid his feelings as well as he could, assuming at times an uneasy gravity that did not belong to him; but the usual symptoms were not lacking. He became enamored of his own company, addicted to solitary walks and an over-much use of meditation, was somewhat absent and desultory in his conversation, and haunted the lane with his cigar at all manner of unseemly hours. Queenie was not unmindful of this change in Garth. It may be doubted whether women are ever entirely unconscious of even a hidden passion; trifles are significant in such cases. A certain subtle change in Garth's tone, a hesitation, nay, a reluctance in speaking her name, a swift unguarded look, brought a sweet conviction to her mind: Dora must be forgotten. A rosy flush of hope, bright as her own youth, dawned slowly upon her.

Queenie was sitting alone one evening, late in November, thinking over these things. It struck her with a little surprise that she had not seen her friends at Church-Stile House for two days; such a thing had never happened before. She and Emmie had spent the previous evening at Juniper Lodge; Cathy had been expected and had not made her appearance, and she had also omitted her usual afternoon visit at the cottage. A fleeting glimpse of Garth as he drove by in his dog-cart was all that was vouchsafed her. Even Langley had been invisible. "If it were not so late I would run up the lane and see what has become of them," thought Queenie, with a slight feeling of uneasiness.

It was followed by a sensation of relief as the little gate unlatched and footsteps came up the gravel walk; but it was only Miss Cosie, with her grey shawl pinned over her curls, and a voluminous mass of soft knitting in her hand.

"Dear Miss Cosie, to think of your coming out such a bitter night! and I thought it was Cathy," exclaimed Queenie, pouncing on the little woman with vehement hospitality, and depositing her, smiling and breathless, on an easy-chair.

"There now, my dear, it was all Christopher's thought, at least he put it into my head," began Miss Cosie, in her purring voice. "There I was going on, purl two, knit two together, knit plain, and so on, and nothing but the wrong stitches coming uppermost; and Christopher, poor fellow, couldn't stand it any longer. 'What's to do with you to-night, Charlotte,' he says. 'I think the work has got into your head; hadn't you better leave it for Miss Marriott to put right?' for I just fussed him, you see, counting out loud and never getting any farther."

"Do you mean that you could not get on with the new pattern I was teaching you the other night?"

"Well, my memory's treacherous, that's what it is," returned Miss Cosie, placidly regarding the pink and white tangle that Queenie was rectifying. "'Charlotte, my love, your head is just a sieve, and your fingers are all thumbs,' as my poor dear mother used to say when I took my work to her. Dear, dear, I can hear her say it now; but wasn't it clever of Christopher to pop the idea into my mind. 'I will just run across to her, Kit my dear,' I replied, as pleased as possible, and he gave quite a comfortable sigh of relief."

"Poor Mr. Logan!" laughed Queenie. "You must learn to count to yourself, Miss Cosie; knit one and purl two is not a very pleasant running accompaniment to the leading article."

"Bless you, dearie, Christopher was not reading!" responded the little woman with a sigh, "he was just staring at the fire and groaning to himself in a quiet way. Though he has said very little about it he feels it terribly; he was as pale as a man could look when he came home and told me last night. 'I feel it as much as though it had happened to myself, Charlotte,' he said; and I believe, poor fellow, he meant it."

"Dear Miss Cosie! what can you be talking about?" asked Queenie in a perplexed voice. "Is there any trouble in Hepshaw with which I am unacquainted?"

"There, there, you don't mean to say they have not told you?" replied Miss Cosie in an awe-stricken whisper, "and such friends as you are, too. Ill news fly apace, they say. Well, the righteous are taken away from the evil to come. His poor mother would have fretted her heart out to see him look as he does to-night, poor dear! and not a wink of sleep and scarce a mouthful of food since he first heard it, and that was yesterday morning, so Christopher says."

"Dear Miss Cosie! won't you please tell me what you mean?" begged Queenie beseechingly.

Miss Cosie was apt to become incoherent and rambling under any strong emotion, it would never do to hurry her into an explanation; but, all the same, these vague hints were filling her with dismay.

"I have not heard of anything: is—is there any trouble at Church-Stile House?" faltered the girl, growing a little pale over her words.

"Dear, dear! who would have thought of such a thing? what could Catherine have been thinking of?" cried Miss Cosie, patting her curls nervously. "Never mind, there, don't distress yourself, for there's good come out of every kind of evil, so Christopher tells us; and very beautiful his sermons are, my dear, and very comforting to sick souls; and it showed great want of faith in me to burst out crying as I did. 'Don't tell me that that poor young fellow has lost all his money, Kit, my dear!' I said, 'for it breaks my heart to think of such a thing;' and Christopher said—"

"Well, what did Mr. Logan say?" asked Queenie as calmly as she could, while Miss Cosie wiped her eyes.

There was not an atom of color in her face. Could it be Garth of whom she was speaking?

"Christopher said," responded the little woman in a trembling voice, "'I am afraid it is all true. Charlotte,' he said, 'there has been a run on the Bank, and things look as bad as they can look; and I shouldn't be surprised if that poor fellow has lost every shilling he has invested.' That's what Kit said, my dear, and a great deal more that I did not take in."

"Is it Mr. Clayton of whom you are speaking?" persisted Queenie, in a set voice.

"Yes; that poor boy Garth. He and Christopher have been together all day looking into things. Christopher says he is as cool and quiet as possible, for all his haggard looks, only they can't get him to touch his food; and when a fine young man like that won't eat, it shows things have gone badly with him, as Christopher says."

"I must go and see Langley," exclaimed the girl, starting up. "Dear Miss Cosie, please don't think me rude; but I cannot stay away from them now I know they are in trouble! It is not so very late, is it? but I could not sleep if I did not see them to-night."

"No, no; of course not, my dear. I should have felt the same in your case," replied Miss Cosie placidly. She always agreed with every one, and would break off contentedly in an engrossing conversation at the slightest hint of weariness. "If you have set my work right I will just go back to Christopher, for he is very down, poor dear, over all this, and will no more take his supper without me than a baby would cut up its own food. There, there, my dear, I won't keep you," as Queenie hovered near her in feverish impatience; and the girl accepted her dismissal thankfully.

She ran up the lane, regardless of the rain that beat down on her uncovered head. Her glossy hair was quite wet when she entered the warm room where Langley and Cathy were sitting together. Contrary to their usual custom, the sisters were quite unoccupied: Langley was lying back, as though wearied out, in her basket-chair; Cathy was sitting on the rug staring into the fire. Both of them looked up with an exclamation of surprise when they saw Queenie.

"So late, and in this rain!" cried Langley, affectionately passing her hand over the girl's wet hair as she spoke.

"What does it matter?—the rain I mean. I have only just heard; Miss Cosie has told me. Do you think I could sleep until I heard more? and Cathy has not been near me!" with a reproachful glance at her friend.

"You must not blame Cathy; she wanted to come to you to-night, only Garth and I would not let her. One ought not to be in a hurry to tell bad news; to-morrow would have been soon enough," replied Langley in her tired, soft voice.

"Did not Mr. Clayton—did not your brother wish me to know?" stammered Queenie, somewhat nervously. Had she intruded herself where she was not wanted? would they think her officious, interfering?

Langley's calmness was baffling. Cathy, indeed, looked as if she had been crying, but she kept her face averted and did not speak.

"I will go back if I am not wanted, if I am not to know," faltered the girl, growing red and confused.

"Nonsense, Queen! as though the whole world won't know it by to-morrow!" exclaimed Cathy sharply. "Do you think it is a secret when people are ruined?"

"Oh, it is not as bad as that!" shrinking at the idea. "Miss Cosie was so vague; she said he had lost money, that something had happened to the Bank; you know her way. It was impossible to understand; and then I said I must go to Langley."

"Things are as bad as they can be," replied Langley sorrowfully, while Cathy shivered a little, and drew closer to the fire. "The shock has been so bad for Garth; nothing could have been more sudden and unexpected. We were all as cheerful as possible yesterday morning, and then the letter came from Garth's solicitor; and when Garth went over to A—— to investigate the matter, it was all too true. There had been a panic, and run on the local Bank; the thoroughfare was quite blocked up with people, farmers and tradespeople, wanting to draw out their money. Of course, with such a run there was only one result, the Bank broke, and all Garth's hard-earned savings are lost. It was between two and three thousand pounds that he had invested; not much of a fortune to some people, but a large sum for so young a man to put by. The worst is," continued Langley, sighing, "that Garth will blame himself for what has happened. Mr. Logan has always advised him to bank with a London House, and he had made up his mind to do so; but for some reason he has delayed the transfer of the money, and now it is too late; and he will have it that his procrastination has ruined us."

Queenie pondered a little over Langley's account, and then her face brightened.

"It is sad, very sad, of course, to lose so much money, but it is not absolute ruin; there is the quarry, your brother has still got that."

"But Garth only rents it. You see there is the rent to pay, and a royalty besides, and all the workmen's wages; and just now there is a dearth of orders, and the men are asking higher pay. And now all Garth's ready money is gone, and there is no one rich enough in Hepshaw to advance him the few hundreds that are necessary to carry on the works. We are trying to make the best of it, Cathy and I, for poor Ted is so utterly hopeless; but we do not see what is to be done."

"Is there no one who could help you?" demanded Queenie in a low voice, but Cathy struck in impatiently.

"Do you think money is to be picked up in Hepshaw for the asking? there is not a friend we possess who could advance the loan, even if Garth would accept it. Captain Fawcett has only his pension and a small annuity, and Mr. Logan is as poor as a church-mouse, though I believe both he and Miss Cosie have expectations from some old aunt or other, who objects to die. We have not a relation in the world; never were there such distressed orphans," continued Cathy, in a droll, disconsolate voice, that at another time would have made Queenie laugh.

"Cathy is right; I do not see who is to advance us the loan," added her sister dejectedly. "We do not quite understand the details, but Ted assures us that it is absolutely necessary that two or three hundred pounds should be forthcoming in the course of a week or two, or Garth will be compelled to throw up the whole concern."

"Yes," broke in Cathy; "and when Ted said that Garth turned round upon him quite angrily, and asked how he was to lay himself under such heavy obligations that he would never be able to repay. Then they had almost a quarrel over it. Poor Garth was so sore and unhappy; he says he has never owed a penny in his life to any man."

"How large a sum do you think would clear him?" asked Queenie casually, but two feverish spots burnt in her cheek.

"Ted said about six or seven hundred was required to put them on their feet again. There are some workmen's cottages Garth has been building, and the architect's bill is not paid. We have only Ted's word to rely on, for we cannot get Garth to open his lips to us. He just says in a resigned, hard sort of voice, that it is all up with us, and he and Ted must take situations; and then he looks at Langley and me and goes out of the room."

"His work is the best part of his life; he is so proud of his position," put in Langley. "Garth's nature is so proud and independent; he is so accustomed to be master of all his actions that he would feel dreadfully at being placed in a subordinate position."

"Why will you aggravate me by saying such dreadful things," interrupted Cathy stormily, but the tears sprang to her eyes. "I won't think of Warstdale without Garth. Why it would break his heart to give up the quarry."

"Some one must lend him the money just to go on," observed Queenie in a low voice. "Surely there must be some friend who will assist him in this matter."

"We do not know where such a friend is to be found," returned Cathy. "One thing, I am determined to begin my hospital work without delay, and if things come to their worst Langley must go out as a companion. It seems hard breaking up the dear old home that we have lived in all our lives. Ted says if it ever comes to that Garth will never hold up his head again."

"Ted seems a Job's comforter," returned Queenie, but her eyes overflowed with sympathy, for the girl's voice was very sad. "My poor dears, what am I to say to you, it is all so sudden and dreadful?"

"Ah, that it is."

"I don't see that it makes it any better to talk about it," interrupted Cathy, springing up in a fit of nervous impatience. "We are only making Queenie miserable, and it does no one any good. I am going to see if I cannot coax Garth to eat some supper. I shall tell him that it won't benefit the rest of the family for one member to starve himself."

"Poor Cathy! she feels this terribly," sighed Langley, as the door closed on her, "but she will not let Garth see how much she takes it to heart. If it were not for Cathy and Ted I think I could bear this better, but it does seem so hard if we cannot keep the home for them."

"Langley, don't you think Mr. Chester could help your brother?"

Queenie was almost sorry that she spoke so abruptly when she saw how the worn face flushed at the question. The suggestion was evidently a painful one.

"Hush! if you knew how I have dreaded some one proposing this! but Garth will not, he respects me too much for that. Harry is very often embarrassed himself. Gertrude is so extravagant, and then there are such heavy doctor's bills; but if he knew of our difficulty I am sure he would sell his land rather than not help us. Oh, Queenie," and here Langley's voice grew thin and husky with emotion, "promise me that you will not hint at such a thing to any one."

"Dear Langley, of course I will promise, if you wish it," shocked at the agitation she had caused.

"Yes; and you will go home now, and sleep quietly," folding the girl's hand between her own. "You must not take our troubles too much to heart. As Cathy says, that will do no one any good; perhaps in a few days we may see our way a little clearer."

"I will go, if you wish it," replied Queenie gently. And indeed what more could she find to say to this patient creature who was looking at her with such tired eyes. "Dear, dear Langley, if you only knew how sorry I am for you all!" she said, kissing her, and then she went away.

But she was not able to leave the house unobserved; the door of Garth's study was open as she passed. As he caught sight of her, he came forward slowly and, as it seemed to Queenie, a little reluctantly.

"I did not know you were here; what brings you out so late?" he asked with a little surprise, and then he mechanically stretched out his hand and took down his felt hat to accompany her down the lane.

"There is no need for that, it is not so very late," returned Queenie hurriedly. "I only came to see Langley, and—and because I heard there was some trouble."

Queenie hardly knew what she was saying in her confusion and nervousness; now they were face to face what could she find to say to him.

"All the same, that need not prevent my walking with you," he returned quietly. He spoke in his ordinary manner, but Queenie noticed that his face was very pale and his eyes had dark lines under them; he had avoided looking at her too, and his hand when it touched hers had been cold and shook a little. "It has left off raining, and the stars are coming out overhead, so there is no fear of your getting wet."

"I am not afraid of getting wet," she replied with a little nervous laugh. When they were outside the gate be slackened his steps a little.

"So they have told you about everything?" he said in rather a forced tone.

"Yes; they have told me everything," she returned simply, "and, Mr. Clayton, I do not know what to say, except that I am more sorry than I can tell you."

"I always knew we might count on your sympathy."

"It seems such a dreadful thing to have happened, so utterly unexpected."

"You may well say that. If an earthquake had yawned under my feet it could not have been a greater shock. I thought myself so safe, in such absolute security, and now my foolhardiness has gone near to ruin us."

"Ah, you must not say that."

"Why must I not say it? A man must call himself names and speak badly of himself if he has proved himself an utter fool. Have I not been a fool to procrastinate in the way I have done, and to neglect the advice given me?"

"No; you ought not to be so hard on yourself. You have worked all these years, and all your hard-earned savings are lost; every one must pity you for such a misfortune, there is no room for blame, none."

"Ah, if I could only believe that. Do you know, my remorse for my carelessness has been such that I have scarcely eaten or slept since the news came. I cannot forgive myself for bringing all this trouble upon them."

"Hush! this is worse than wrong; it is utterly morbid and wicked. Do not the wisest men in the world make mistakes sometimes? Could you know that the Bank was unsafe, and that there would be this run on it?"

"But all the same, I am reaping the fruits of my imprudence," he returned, but his tone was a little less gloomy.

The knowledge of this girl's sympathy was very precious to him. A little comfort dawned on him in his misery.

"It makes things so much worse when we blame ourselves," she went on. "It seems to me you want all your strength for actual endurance, from what Langley tells me. Your difficulties are very great."

"I am ruined," he returned in a choked voice. And then in a few brief sentences he recapitulated much that his sisters had told her, the absolute need of ready money for the architect's and builder's account, as well as for the rent and workmen's wages.

"Things have never been at such a low ebb with us before. We have executed fewer orders this year than any previous years. I had no business to speculate on those cottages. I don't see how matters are to go on at all. In a few weeks' time you will see my name on the bankruptcy list, and then there will be nothing but for Ted and me to look out for situations."

"Oh, Mr. Clayton, I cannot bear to hear you talk so; something must turn up, some help must come," repeated the girl, earnestly.

Her face was flushed in the darkness, and her eyes full of tears, but he could not see that; perhaps he detected it in her tone, for his changed instantly.

"But I have no right to bother you with all this wretched business, or to keep you out here in the cold," for they were standing now by the little gate. "Good night, Miss Marriott. I know you are sorry for us, but we must not burthen other people with our troubles."

"But I like to be burthened. You must not treat me as a stranger," she replied, putting her hand in his. "If I do not say much about all this it is because I am so very sorry, and I do not know how to comfort you; but, all the same, I believe something will turn up."

"Let us hope so," he returned, with a pretence at cheerfulness, and then he left her and went back to the house.

He had made no unmanly moan over his misfortunes, but his heart was sick within him as he thought of the future. He had lost his money and perhaps his home, and must he lose this sweet new hope that had come to him? If he were a poor man could he ever dare to trammel himself with a wife? and the thought of shutting out this new-found happiness was very bitter to him.

"There is enough to bear without thinking of that to-night," he said to himself, with a sort of shudder, as he shut himself up in his solitary room; but, all the same, Queenie's soft words haunted him with strange persistence.

He would have marvelled greatly if he could have heard what she whispered as he left her.

"Oh, how ungrateful I have been, how utterly foolish. I can thank heaven now that I have five thousand a-year."

CHAPTER VI.

THE TWO CONSPIRATORS.

"'Now look you!' said my brother, 'you may talk
Till weary of the talk.' I answer, 'Ay,
There's reason in your words; and you may talk
Till I go on to say, This should be so.'"
                                                                            Jean Ingelow.

"Thank heaven, I have five thousand a-year," repeated Queenie, as she drew the rocking-chair to the hearth and sat down by her solitary fireside. "For the first time I am really glad in my heart to be rich."

Any unseen spectator would have marvelled what thoughts possessed this girl. Queenie's brow was knitted as though with perplexity, and yet a radiant smile hovered round her lips.

"It is difficult, far more difficult than I thought it at first," she soliloquized. "There is a complication that prevents me seeing my way clear, but if I sit here until morning I will find out what is the right thing to be done.

"I wonder what Langley must have thought of me," she went on. "I must have seemed so cold and unsympathizing. How could they know what kept me so silent? Why, it needed all my strength of mind to refrain from crying out, 'I am rich; I can give you all, and more than you want, if you love me; let me share some of my good things with you.' I wanted to fall on her neck and say some such words as these; but second thoughts are the best, and I knew I must be prudent.

"And then when he talked to me my secret seemed to choke me then. Oh, how my cheeks burnt in the darkness! how I longed to say to him, 'Do not be unhappy; there is no cause for despair. I have more than I know how to spend; let me be your creditor and advance you the sum you need. What are a few hundreds to me who have five thousand a-year? Let me prove my friendship for you and yours by rendering you this trifling service.' That is what I should have liked to have done, but I knew him too well. Would he have taken it from me? Alas, no! He would have turned round with that high manner of his and upbraided me for my foolish mystery. In spite of his wretchedness he would have taken me to task, and put things in such a light that he would have made me ashamed of myself, and then he would quietly refuse my offer. Would he accept this thing from the girl who a few months back was a stranger to him? No; a thousand times, no; but his embarrassment and discomfort would make him suspicious. He would be vexed with me for my silence, mortified by my importunity, and in his trouble I should be less to him than I am now."

Queenie's secret predilection for Garth Clayton was making her timid. It had come to this, that nothing on earth could have induced her to offer him this money; she would have been as shame-faced and tongue-tied in his presence as a child just discovered in a fault. The silent understanding that was between them was too vague and unsatisfactory a basis for her to presume on; the word that was to give her the right and privilege of spoken sympathy had not yet been uttered, might never be. Mahomet's bridge is not more slender than this vague connection between two hearts that beat in sympathy and yet are asunder. Over the sacred abyss of silence hangs the invisible chain; it is strong enough to bear myriads of heavenly visitants, but only the eye of the faithful may discern it. To how many remain only the void and the mystery!

When a sensible person makes a mistake they are almost sure to repent it at some time or other. Queenie, who was as healthy-minded and straightforward as any pious, well-conducted young person could be, had yet fallen into the error of supposing that she might deviate into a by-path of romance and unreality without causing any great disturbance in her little world, while, in point of fact, she was only raising difficulties for herself. If she had gone to Garth Clayton and acknowledged the truth with all the eloquence of which she had been capable he would have been charmed with her naïveté and frankness, and treated the whole matter as a girlish whim. Her perfect honesty would in time have reconciled him to her heiress-ship. True, it was highly probable that he might have rejected the loan, and given her plenty of trouble on that score. She might have had to experience the grief of seeing him refuse her aid and struggle on alone and single-handed: but such men as Garth Clayton rarely get their heads under water for long. He would have moved heaven and earth rather than this girl to help him, and in the end would have attained to some fair measure of success; and, while things were at this low ebb with him, he would have vexed himself and her by imposing a barrier of reserve and coldness on himself. Queenie would have been made to suffer for those riches of hers. He would have pointedly assigned to her the place she must hold in the future—a friendship not too close or intimate. If the girl's faithfulness could have served this rough apprenticeship, and she could have meekly acceded to these hard conditions, his man's heart must have spoken at last, and broken down all barriers between them.

After all, there is nothing like truth, pure, straightforward truth, especially to men of Garth's calibre, who was a foe to all mystery, and disposed to treat such things somewhat harshly. But Queenie's foolish whim had ensnared her, and there was no freeing her feet from the meshes. One thing was clear to her, Garth must have the money at once.

And so the young intriguer set her brains to work. How was she to put this sum in his hands? how could she negotiate the loan so that it could not fail of acceptance? At first she proposed starting off to Carlisle and seeking Caleb Runciman's aid; she could twist Caleb round her little finger and make him do as she wanted. Should she concoct a letter and get the old man to copy it in his shaky handwriting? Only Emmie knew those crabbed, feeble characters, and she was never likely to see the letter. What could she say? and here Queenie got a pencil and paper and scrawled a rough draft.

"Dear sir," it began, "I have long taken a great interest in your work. The reforms you have introduced among the quarrymen are not only known at Hepshaw, they have reached further; and I have long wished to express to you the respect and sympathy I entertain for your labor.

"It is a good work, a noble work, and it would be grievous if anything were to hinder or frustrate it. I have heard with much regret of the failure of the A—— Bank, and the difficulties in which it has involved you. Such difficulties, of course, are only temporary, but still it is at such times that one requires a helping hand. I have more wealth than I need for my own use, and at present there are a few hundreds for which I am wanting a safe investment; permit me to take the liberty of an old friend and well-wisher, and to place these hundreds to your account, to be repaid in quarterly or half-yearly instalments, as you think best. The sum is between eight and nine hundred; and you will be doing me an immense service if you will make use of this money instead of letting it lie by idly.

"I remain, sir, with profoundest respect and sympathy,

"AN UNKNOWN FRIEND AND WELL-WISHER."

"P.S. The instalments to be paid to Messrs. Withern & Smithers, Carlisle."

"Will it do, I wonder?" asked Queenie with an anxious frown, as she laid down the document. "I hope Caleb will think it sounds business-like. That part about the quarterly or half-yearly instalments was a very happy hit, I don't think Caleb could have done it better. I named Messrs. Withern and Smithers because Mr. Calcott had no dealings with them. The only thing I am afraid of is, that Caleb is getting so old and dazed that he may make a mess of the whole business; and then, on the other hand, will Mr. Clayton accept anonymous aid? will he not ferret it out somehow? Messrs. Withern and Smithers know Caleb by sight, all the leading firms in Carlisle do, and then it will be somehow traced to him. Mr. Clayton will leave no stone unturned; he always hunts mysteries to death, as he says. He will go over to Carlisle and set all manner of enquiries on foot, and he will work it round to Caleb, and then there will be an end to the whole business."

"No; I am afraid I must adopt the other course, much as I dislike it. I must take Mr. Logan into my confidence, and make him my cat's-paw. I should not wonder if we both get terribly burnt in the end; but never mind, I must transpose Louis XIV.'s sayings for my own benefit, après nous le déluge. Once get the money in his hands, and the quarry in working order, and I must bear the brunt of the rest; he will not be so very angry with me when he knows—" But Queenie left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

And so it was that Mr. Logan got the following little missive the next morning:

"Dear Mr. Logan,

"I have something very important to say to you. Will you come round to me at five, if it will not greatly inconvenience you? Emmie will be out, and I shall take care to be alone; please say nothing about this to Miss Cosie.

"Yours sincerely,
            "QUEENIE MARRIOTT."

Queenie had a great liking and respect for Mr. Logan. She came forward to meet him with a very frank blush when he entered the cottage the following afternoon. She was a trifle nervous at the task that lay before her, but her determination lent her courage.

She had seen Garth go past that morning looking ill and weary, as though from a sleepless night; and the memory of his pale, harassed face was with her as she spoke.

"It is very good of you to come to me, Mr. Logan; I think my note must have surprised you a little."

"Well, well, perhaps it did," he returned good-humoredly, putting down his felt hat and placing himself near her. He had laid aside his spectacles, and his keen, near-sighted eyes beamed on her full of benevolence and kindness.

"That part, I mean, about not telling Miss Cosie that you were coming here," she continued in her straightforward way. "The fact is, I am in a difficulty, and want the advice and assistance"—laying stress on the latter word—"of a friend."

"Then you were quite right to send for me; a vicar ought always to be at the beck and call of his flock, and to be ready for any temporal and spiritual emergency; the highest privilege we possess is the power of helping others. Now, supposing you tell me all about your difficulty; I am prepared to listen for any indefinite time," with a bright, persuasive smile, for, in spite of her assumed courage, the girl's nervousness was not lost on him; and Queenie, nothing loath, plunged boldly into her subject.

"Of course I know you will respect my secret; but, all the same, I am afraid I shall shock you, for I have to acknowledge a little deception on my part. The fact is, Mr. Logan," continued Queenie with the utmost frankness, "I am not what I seem."

This statement, to say the least of it, was slightly startling; for the moment Mr. Logan looked taken aback, but a glance at the bright, ingenuous face before him seemed to reassure him.

"You have all of you thought me poor," she went on, "and so I was when I first came among you; but I am a rich woman now—I have five thousand a-year," opening her eyes wide at the mention of this surprising sum.

"My dear young lady, do you mean this?"

"Yes, indeed; and of course I knew how greatly I should surprise you. It is a droll idea, that the school-mistress at Hepshaw should have five thousand a-year, is it not? I have hardly got used to the fact myself; and then, you see, even Emmie does not know. It was Emmie's uncle, Mr. Calcott, who left me all that money. But I know Cathy has told you all the particulars of that sad story; he could not leave it to Emmie, you see, and so it has all come to me; but I shall always feel as though it belongs most to her."

"I must say I am extremely astonished!"

Queenie looked a little mischievous at that.

"I congratulate you most heartily on your good fortune; but, all the same, I cannot understand your motives for secrecy. Here you have been for the last three months living in this cottage, and teaching in our village school, while all the time you might have been dwelling in ease and luxury." And, with all his knowledge of human nature, Mr. Logan looked extremely perplexed.

"You must not be too hard on a girl's whim," she replied, looking down.

"Oh, it was a whim then!" with a dawning perception of the truth.

"Yes, it was just that," rather hastily. "You see I did not want the money, and it rather vexed me, coming in such quantities, and when everything was so nicely arranged. I had just been elected your school-mistress, and the cottage was being furnished for us, and Emmie was so looking forward to it, and I had grown to like you all so; and it seemed so hard to give it all up, and go and live in a grand house in Carlisle, as Caleb wanted us to do. And so I thought," with a little quiver of the lip she could not hide, "that I would just put it all away for a little while, and be happy and enjoy ourselves; and by-and-bye, when I had got tired of teaching, it would come out, and you would all laugh with me, and think it a good joke that Emmie and I had been living like disguised princesses."

"Ah, well! it is a pretty piece of girlish romance," smiling in spite of himself; "but I must say I thought my schoolmistress was a very different sort of person—far more staid and matter-of-fact."

"And you are disappointed in her?" a little piteously, for Queenie had lately grown to distrust the wisdom of this freak of hers, and was sensitive in consequence.

"Nay, it is no such heinous offence; it is very venial and girlish," but Queenie blushed hotly at his tone. She was afraid Mr. Logan thought her very romantic and silly, missish, in fact.

"I wanted to be liked for myself, and in spite of my poverty. It was not so very foolish," defending herself somewhat plaintively.

"Well, well, perhaps not; we will not say any more about that," he continued soothingly, for the girl's cheeks were burning under his implied reproof. "One can carry out these sort of Quixotic schemes for a little while; but I should think by this time you have had enough teaching."

"No! oh no!" she cried, greatly alarmed at this. "I must go on for some time longer pretending to be poor, for months, perhaps a whole year. Emmie is so happy, and I am quite content. Mr. Logan, you will promise not to betray me?"

"But, my dear young lady, there can be no possible reason for this!"

"Ah, but there is a very important reason," and now her manner changed, and became grave and anxious. "Don't you know I must help Mr. Clayton? and there is no means of doing that unless I go on pretending to be poor."

"And what good would that do him?"

"Why," she returned, hesitating, "you know him better than I do. If I were to go to him and tell him that I was rich, as I am telling you now, and offer to lend him money, he would put on his grand manner, and talk about independence, and make me feel ashamed of myself in a moment. Do you think he would take money from a girl, even in the shape of a loan? no; he would starve himself first, and bring them all to misery, and he would call his conduct manly and straightforward, and all sorts of fine names, instead of putting it down to pride and sheer obstinacy."

"I must say I think you are right," watching her somewhat anxiously, for a strange excitement seemed upon her. "I think it very probable that he would refuse the loan."

"Yes; and then Langley and Cathy will suffer, and who would help them, Mr. Logan? I have been thinking about this nearly all night, and there is only one way of making him accept the loan—you must offer it in your own name."

He had been expecting this, for his manner testified no surprise; she had been leading up to this for the last ten minutes. Queenie's courage would have utterly failed if she had known how clearly those mild, near-sighted eyes were reading her. "Why it is the old story—a girl's first innocent romance," he said to himself.

"I knew what you were going to say," he returned aloud. "This is a very clever scheme of yours, Miss Marriott; but how is it to be carried out? Garth Clayton is perfectly aware that I have no surplus money lying by. All Hepshaw knows that my living is hardly a rich one."

"Why, I have thought of that too," she went on excitedly. "But we can easily get over that difficulty. I will place nine hundred pounds to your account,—that can be done in the next few days; I have only to write to Caleb Runciman,—and you must go to Mr. Clayton and tell him that that sum of money has just come into your possession; that it is lying at the Carlisle Bank. It will be no falsehood, for I shall have made it over to you, entirely and solely for their benefit. And then you must insist on his using it as he requires, and paying you back in half-yearly instalments. You must be very careful and business-like in what you say to him," she went on, pointedly, "for he is so proud that he will not touch the money unless he thinks he can repay it; and you can tell him that he can pay you interest on the money, or do just as he pleases, so that we get him to take it."