One evening, as Queenie was correcting some themes in the class-room, she was told Mr. Runciman wished to speak to her.
Caleb's visits were rare now, but he sometimes came to bring a few snowdrops or violets to his favorite. To-night he was later than usual, and Emmie was asleep.
"I am not come to see Emmie to-night; it is you I want, Miss Queenie. You might have knocked me down with a feather when he gave me the message. But I suppose he is in his right mind?" continued Caleb, his blue eyes becoming very round and wide, and his rosy face a trifle paler than usual.
"A message from whom?" enquired Queenie, with some degree of curiosity. She was pleased to see her old friend; any break in the monotony of her day was welcome.
"Ay, you'll never guess. Why, my dear young lady, when he told me to come and fetch you I was that flabbergasted—if you know the meaning of such an outlandish word—that I could not tell whether I was standing on my head or my heels. 'I want you to fetch me Frank Marriott's daughter,' he says, in a queer off-hand way, and he shut his eyes and laid quite quiet."
"Do you mean Mr. Calcott has sent for me?" gasped Queenie for the moment. She looked quite frightened.
"Ay, sure enough, though I never thought you would have guessed it so soon," returned Caleb admiringly; "but women's wits beat men's hollow. Well, I couldn't believe my ears, and no wonder; so I waited for him to open his eyes, and then I ventured to ask him to be so good as to repeat his speech, fearing I hadn't rightly understood him."
"'You have understood me very well, Runciman,' he said in a quiet meaning sort of way, not quite pleased at my hesitation, you may be sure. It is 'do this, or go there, and be sharp about it,' with Mr. Calcott, always. 'Please lose no time over your errand, but bring Frank Marriott's daughter back with you; I want to see if can get to sleep to-night.' That's all, on my word and honor, Miss Queenie."
"It is very strange, but I suppose I must go; perhaps he has repented his unkindness, and wants to tell me so. Wait a minute, Caleb, while I tell Miss Titheridge. Emmie is asleep, and so I shall not mind leaving for half-an-hour."
"It is a wet night, I warn you; it is all of a piece with his usual selfishness sending for you on a night like this," fretted Caleb, who was much perplexed and exercised in his mind by the whole proceeding; but Queenie met this additional trial with her usual cheerfulness, and struggled along bravely under her old umbrella.
This time they were not kept waiting. Gurnel eyed them quite as morosely, but he ushered Caleb at once into a comfortable-looking dining-room with a blazing fire, and wine and biscuits on the table; while he begged Queenie civilly to follow him, which she did, naïvely admiring the carved balustrades and soft rich carpets as she did so.
"My master is up, but he cannot leave his room," explained the servant, as he ushered Queenie into a large handsomely-furnished bedroom, where Mr. Calcott lay on a couch beside the fire, in his Indian dressing-gown, with an eider-down quilt over him. A respectable looking woman sat with needle-work at a little round table beside him. At Queenie's entrance she curtsied and withdrew.
Queenie quietly took her place.
"You have sent for me," she said softly. "I am sorry to hear you have been so ill. It is a wet night, but I could not help coming," she continued, trying to speak naturally, but she could not; the change in the sick man appalled her. She understood, as she looked at him, that he was slowly but surely dying.
"They tell me I have some months still before me; that's bad hearing for those who wait upon me, as I am likely to trouble them for some time," with a touch of his old grimness. "Well, girl, so you have come through the wet and dark, just to gratify a sick man's whim?"
"I would do more than that to oblige you, sir," returned Queenie, with genuine compassion in her voice. The wan suffering face, the wasted hand, stirred a world of pity in her soul. Lonely, unloved, and dying—resentment faded out of her memory at a spectacle so pathetic, so truly pitiful.
"What! do more than be sorry for me?" with sardonic humor in his voice. "You would give more than a drop of water to poor Dives in torment? Do you remember, girl, that you dared to pity me before?"
"My pity will not harm you, sir."
"Ay, why not?"
"Now you are so very ill, it may even do you good to remember that we feel no bitterness towards you, that we forgive all the wrong done to us. Why do you look towards that door? do you want anything?"
"That woman has forgotten my medicine," he muttered, "and I have the strange sinking again. Hirelings are not worth the price of the bread they eat."
"Let me give it you," returned Queenie, rising, and mixing the draught; but he shook his head. "You must call her; I cannot raise myself, and the least movement gives me pain."
"She has gone downstairs; let me try what I can do. You must not wait, indeed, Mr. Calcott; your lips are turning blue and livid. I am used to nursing; I could lift mamma, and I have carried Emmie about so much lately." As she spoke Queenie skilfully raised the invalid and put the glass to his lips.
"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; and if he thirst, give him drink." Why did these words come into the sick man's mind as he felt the support of the strong young arm, and drank the reviving draught from her hand?
"There, you are better now," went on Queenie cheerfully, putting the pillow comfortably under his head. Mr. Calcott looked at her strangely, and then he was silent for a long time.
"You are poor," he began at last.
"Yes, we are very poor; you remember I told you so."
"Ah, true! I forgot all that. You are used to nursing too. Mrs. Morton is a very capable person, but I should like some one who would read to me and amuse me. I—" hesitating slightly—"I would pay you handsomely if you would come to me."
Queenie turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears. "Come to you at once?"
"To be sure. Do you think a dying man can talk about the future? I would make it worth your while," he continued, as though anticipating some objection. "You shall ask your own sum; I will buy your services at your own price."
"Hush! please don't talk so, you are only paining me; it is impossible. What? now! come at once! I could not leave Emmie."
"What folly!" he interrupted harshly. "Have you not told me that you are fighting single-handed against the world; that Emmie, as you call her, is next door to starving? Were these falsehoods? were you imposing on my credulity that you refuse real tangible help when it comes?"
"I only refuse what is impossible for me to accept," returned Queenie in a choking voice. "Ah, you cannot understand, you do not know, that since that terrible night I have nearly lost Emmie." And then she told him, as well as emotion would allow her, of all she had been through.
"Humph! that's why you have grown thin and unsubstantial-looking. I thought there was some change in you. You ought to get heavy damages from those women; but the child is getting well, you say?"
"Yes; but she is not strong, and requires the greatest care. No one could watch over her as I do; I understand her; I know her every look; I see directly she is weary or overdone. It will be months before I can safely leave her, even with Mr. Runciman and Molly."
"I should think the atmosphere of that precious school could not be conducive to the welfare of a nervous invalid," interrupted Mr. Calcott irritably.
"We shall not be there much longer," returned Queenie quietly. "At Easter we are going to Mr. Runciman's for a little visit; and as soon as the warm weather comes I'm going to take Emmie into the country to get strong."
"Indeed I did not know you could afford such luxuries," with biting sarcasm.
Queenie colored, but she went on steadily—
"Neither can we. We are indebted to the kindness of a school friend, who has offered to take us home. I have barely money for our railway journey there and back; but we shall manage somehow."
Mr. Calcott glanced at the girl's shabby dress and cloak, then at the brave face, and somehow his sarcasm vanished.
"I suppose you are too proud to take a five-pound note?" somewhat brusquely.
Queenie hesitated, and then her face grew crimson.
"Speak out; you are too proud, eh?"
"I would not take it for myself, but for Emmie's sake I should be thankful."
"I know nothing about Emmie," with a frown. "If you take it it is for yourself mind; the child is nothing to me; I cannot and will not recognize her."
"If I take it it will be to buy her comforts," replied Queenie, scrupulously.
"Spend it how you will, it is nothing to me," was the irritable answer. "I have made you a good offer to-night. By the sacrifice of a few months you could earn enough to maintain both the child and yourself for more than a year to come, and you choose to refuse the offer. I can say no more."
"I dare not accept it. If anything were to happen to Emmie, I should never forgive myself. Mamma always told me that we must never leave a certain duty for an uncertain one; and Emmie is my duty."
"Pshaw! female sophistry. The child would do well enough; children always do."
Queenie shook her head.
"It goes to my heart to refuse you. If I were free I would come and serve you, not only for the sake of the money, but because mamma loved you so dearly."
"There, there; I can bear no more," returned the invalid impatiently.
Queenie took the hint and rose.
"I am sorry if I have tired you. May I come again?"
"Yes; come again to-morrow at the same time. Tell Runciman that he is to bring the business letters here in the morning instead of Smiler. Please ring the bell for Mrs. Morton, and be careful to close the door very carefully, as the least noise jars on me. What are you waiting for now, child?"
"I only thought I should like to shake hands with you, sir."
"There, good-night," was the brusque response; but the hand was cold and shaking, as the warm girlish one closed round it.
"Good-night, and thank you for Emmie," returned Queenie, brightly.
Caleb sat up and rubbed his eyes drowsily as the girl entered. "How long you have been, Miss Queenie, dear! What has he been saying to you?"
"Hush! I will tell you as we go along. He is very ill—dying, Caleb, and it is very, very sad to see him. Look what he has given me," opening her hand and showing the crisp bank-note; "I think he meant it as a sort of return for bringing me out in the wet, but of course I shall not keep it; it is all for Emmie."
Queenie's visits to Mr. Calcott became almost a daily recurrence. It soon became a rule for Caleb to fetch her when lessons were over and Emmie was asleep, to sit with the invalid an hour before he retired to rest. Miss Titheridge had probably received some private hint from Caleb, for she made no objection to these frequent absences; but, on the contrary, encouraged them by gracious enquiries after Mr. Calcott's health when she encountered Queenie.
The girl soon grew used to these visits. Mr. Calcott, it is true, never varied in his manner. He still received her brusquely, and his remarks were as pungent and sarcastic as ever, with a strange bitterness that often brought tears to her eyes; but still, in a vague, uncertain sort of way, she felt he liked to have her there beside him. Once or twice she fancied his eyes had brightened at her approach, even while he scolded her querulously for being late. He accepted her services reluctantly, and often found fault with her for feminine awkwardness. Her efforts never gave him pleasure. No word of commendation crossed his lips, no thanks for the unselfishness that brought her out evening after evening, after a hard day's work, to minister to a discontented old man; and yet Queenie felt rewarded if his eyes turned wistfully to the door as she entered, or a sigh of relief betrayed that his loneliness was at an end.
"Master has been that restless that Morton can do nothing to please him," Gurnel informed her once when she was unusually late. Queenie smiled and quickened her steps; she knew what she had to expect.
"I suppose you have got tired of your good work," was the only welcome she received: but Queenie had learned how to parry such remarks without rousing the old man's jealous temper. She turned the subject laughingly, by telling him of the purchases she had made out of the money he had given her.
"What! all those things out of five pounds!" he grunted incredulously; "frock, jacket, and hat, and I don't know what beside. I thought I said the money was for yourself."
"Emmie is so delighted with everything," she went on. "The pleasure brought a tinge of color to her face; it would have done you good to have seen her."
"Humph! I dare say there will be much good done to me to-night, after being kept an hour waiting for other folk's pleasure."
"Work must be done, you know," returned Queenie lightly. "The term is nearly over, and then I shall be more at leisure."
"Indeed, is the grand visit to be given up?"—sarcastically; but there was suppressed eagerness in his voice.
"Oh, there is a whole month before that; we need not talk of that yet. Now let me read to you;" but though the book was an interesting one, and Queenie read in her best manner, Mr. Calcott's thoughts seemed wandering.
When the last day of the term arrived the sisters left Granite Lodge. Emmie, who had been in a state of pleasurable excitement all the morning, grew a little tearful and silent towards the close of the day.
Queenie, who was overwhelmed with business, and had scarcely time to bid her friend good-bye, and add a few words as to future arrangement, at parting, suddenly missed Emmie in her usual corner. She had searched the house without success, and was becoming terribly frightened, when a maid informed her that she had seen Emmie toiling up the garret stairs with the kitten in her arms.
The little girl was curled up in her usual place, gazing dreamingly out of the window, when Queenie entered. The little face looked small and white under the cap-border; the soft yellow down peeping out here and there gave her an infantile appearance.
"Dear Emmie, why have you come here?" began her sister, reprovingly; but Emmie held up her finger and stopped her.
"Hush! of course we ought to say good-bye to the poor old place; don't you know prisoners sometimes kiss the walls of their cell, though they are really not sorry to leave it. We have had nice times here, Queen, though we have been so very unhappy. As I sat here before you came up, I felt as though there must be two Emmie's; I feel so different to the old one that used to hide her face and cry when it got dark."
"Then we will not stay and make ourselves miserable in this gloomy place," interrupted Queenie, anxiously. "Caleb will be here directly, and we must go and say good-bye to Miss Titheridge. Come, Em, come," and Emmie obeyed reluctantly.
Miss Titheridge looked embarassed and nervous, and Queenie purposely shortened their leave-taking. When Emmie's turn came she held up her face to be kissed.
"Good-bye," she said, looking at the governess with her large serious blue eyes. "Thank you for being kind to me at last. I am so sorry you could not love me; but I dare say it was my fault;" and as Miss Titheridge bent over her something beside a kiss was left on the child's thin cheek.
Caleb's little house seemed a perfect haven of refuge that night. Queenie felt almost too happy as she arranged their effects in the little dark room that Caleb had set apart for his guests. It seemed wrong of her to be so light-hearted while the future was so uncertain.
Emmie lay in the big brown bed, with ugly drab curtains edged with green, and watched her as she moved about actively, singing over her work. The room had a side window looking over a stone-mason's yard; the white monuments gleamed in the red evening light; a laburnum shook long sprays of gold against the panes; Molly's linnet sung against the wall; Caleb in his old coat walked contentedly up and down the narrow garden path between his currant-bushes; some children were playing among the slabs and ledges of stone. How humble it was, and yet how peaceful; a quiet waiting-place until the new work came ready to her hand. One evening, as she was sitting sewing at the open window, Caleb beckoned her mysteriously to join him in his favorite walk between the currant-bushes.
"My dear," he began, his eyes becoming round as usual, and betraying a tendency to hesitate slightly between his words, "I want your advice, your assistance, indeed. I have—hem—I may say—I have a delicate and peculiar commission on hand,—hem,—and I—in short, a lady's advice would be most suitable, and, I may say, satisfactory. Molly is a good creature," he continued, after a pause, "an admirable creature, of course; but in this her advice is of such a nature that I must own I should hesitate to adopt it. She is fond of bright colors, you see; and as long as there is plenty of red and green in a pattern she would find no fault."
"Do you want me to choose a new dress for Molly? I suppose that is what you mean."
"Molly! oh dear, no! nothing of the kind, Miss Queenie dear. The fact is, a young friend of mine, is—hem—is, in short, going to be married, that is, she is going to be married some day, no doubt."
"Indeed! a friend of yours, do you say?" Caleb nodded still more mysteriously.
"The circumstances are peculiar; yes, I am certainly right in saying they are peculiar," continued Caleb, reflecting; "but she—that is, he—has commissioned me to get her some things suitable to a lady in such a position, as the same peculiar circumstances prevent her from choosing the articles herself. She is not going to be married yet," rubbing his head with a little vexed perplexity; "but she is going on a visit to his friends, and he—the young man I mean. Ah! that's it," with a chuckle, as though he had discovered a way out of some difficulty—"he, the young man, my dear, has a proper pride, and wants her to make a favourable impression on his relations; do you see, Miss Queenie."
"Is she so very poor?" returned Queenie, innocently, and not at all suspecting the veracity of Caleb's garbled-up tale.
"Poor! well I may say that she is poor—extremely so," with a burst of candor; "but a lady,—dear, dear,—as much a lady as yourself, Miss Queenie."
"I should have thought her lover could have chosen some pretty things for her himself," observed Queenie, a little incredulously, at this juncture. "He must be a poor sort of lover," she thought, "to devolve such an interesting duty on her old friend."
Caleb coughed, and stopped to inspect a promising gooseberry bush; and then he discovered his pipe was out, and must replenish it; it was quite five minutes, too, before it would draw properly, and Queenie got impatient for her question to be answered.
"Why cannot he get them himself?" she enquired, a little scornfully; "he need not have troubled you."
"Well, you see, a man with a broken leg is not particularly active, and shopping does not suit the complaint," was the oracular answer, as Caleb puffed volumes of smoke, bravely. "No, no, that sort of thing is not good for the complaint," continued the old man, with another chuckle; "so you see, Miss Queenie dear, if you don't help me a bit with your advice I shall have to go to Molly after all, and shall come back with a plaid satin, or something that wouldn't suit the pretty creature at all. Come, now,"—coaxingly,—"what should you think she would like best?"
Queenie wrinkled her white forehead reflectively,—poor and pretty, and with a lover laid up at a distance. This began to get interesting; she must do her best to help this unknown girl.
"Well, if I were judging for myself," she returned at last, "I should think a nice useful black silk—"
"Ah! that is just it," interrupted Caleb, enthusiastically. "I ought to have thought of that; of course, a black silk."
"And," continued Queenie, now thoroughly absorbed in a mental review of this ideal wardrobe, "a pretty spring suit,—brown, I think, if it would suit her,—and a brown hat with a pheasant wing. I think she would look nice in that."
"Brown, of course; the idea of my never thinking of brown," repeated Caleb, clapping his hands, "the very color of all others that would suit her. Go on, Miss Queenie dear."
"Well, I suppose her lover does not wish to be extravagant, it is not her trousseau, you see; some nice collars and cuffs and ties, and perhaps handkerchiefs, and some brown gloves—and, oh! she must have a box to put them in. If she be so very poor, you see, it will not do for her to dress too handsomely," observed the young girl, sententiously.
Caleb dashed down his pipe, and very nearly executed a pas de seul on the garden path; his blue eyes danced with glee.
"There now, there now; did I not say you had a wise head, Miss Queenie! The very thing of all other! a box!—and Molly and I would never have thought of it—a really good handsome box that would make the luggage porters stare, eh?" enquiring.
"Well no; a nice black leather one, like Cathy's, I think," returned Queenie, with quiet relish. During the remainder of the evening, as she sat over some plain sewing she was doing for Emmie, she thought of Caleb's friend a little enviously, and wondered how she would like the nice things. She wished Caleb would tell her a little more about her; but, to her surprise, he did not recur again to the subject.
About a fortnight after this conversation, as she returned from her usual evening visit to Mr. Calcott, she paused for a moment at the door of her room, transfixed in surprise.
A large leathern trunk blocked up the room; two white letters, Q.M., stared her full in the face; a sudden revelation of the truth drove the flush to her very brow.
Could it really be? She lifted the lid gingerly, almost trembling with excitement; her hand came in contact with the folds of a black silk; lower down lay the brown dress and jacket; the little hat with its pheasant plume nestled snugly in one division. Queenie had just a hurried peep at piles of snowy handkerchiefs, and collars, and cuffs, at French gloves, and soft streaks of color in the shape of silken scarfs, and then she rushed breathlessly down into the parlor, where Emmie was reading fairy tales to Caleb.
Emmie put down her book and clapped her hands at the sight of Queenie's face. Caleb's eyes twinkled over his pipe, but he said nothing.
"Oh, Queen, isn't it lovely! better even than Cinderella's pumpkin coach. Isn't it a dear, dear secret, for Caleb and me to have kept all this time?"
"Do you think the young man with the broken leg will be satisfied with my taste," chuckled the old man. Queenie put her arms round his neck, her face was rosy with pleasure.
"Oh, Caleb, is it for me! really for me! the box with all those beautiful things? Did you buy it for me, dear, because you knew I was so poor and shabby, and you did not like me to go among those strange people with my old clothes? Oh, Caleb, how could you, how could you, and you so poor yourself?" caressing him gratefully.
"Miss Queenie, dear," confessed the old man, with tears in his eyes, "if I had the money I would not begrudge you satin and diamonds; nothing would be too good for you, my pretty; nothing that old Caleb would not get you; but it is not me, bless your dear heart, that you have to thank for all your things."
Queenie's face fell, her arms dropped to her side.
"Not you, Caleb?"
"Why no," he returned, slightly embarrassed; "I would have bought them and gladly if I had had the money, which I am free to confess is not the case. You have another and a richer friend at court than old Caleb."
"Do you mean to tell me," replied Queenie, sitting down, quite pale with the surprise, "that—that—"
"Ah, I knew you would guess it!" interrupted Caleb, sagaciously. "'Find out what she requires for her visit, and get it, Runciman,' he said to me; and, as I observed once before on a similar occasion, you might have knocked me over with a feather. 'Ask some woman to help you, for we neither of us know much of a girl's farthingales and furbelows, I fancy,' he said, grimly enough; and so, my dear, I made bold, and invented that pleasing little fiction in order to get at some of your ideas."
"Mr. Calcott has given me all those things?" she repeated; and then for the moment she could say no more.
"Thy love
Shall chant itself its own beatitudes,
After its own life wailing. A child kiss,
Set on thy sighing lips, shall make thee glad;
A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich;
A rich man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong.
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest."—E. B. Browning.
On her next visit, which was to be her last before they started for Hepshaw, Mr. Calcott received Queenie with more than his usual acrimony.
"In my time punctuality used to be considered a virtue," he said, severely, with an ominous glance at the time-piece, which showed Queenie she was some minutes late. "Never mind; I dare say this is the last time you will have to amuse a troublesome old man."
Queenie's eyes filled with tears.
"Please don't talk so, Mr. Calcott; not to-night, at least, when I have to bid you good-bye for so many weeks."
"Aye, you will be very sorry for that, no doubt," ironically.
"Yes," she returned, with the sweet candor natural to her; "far more sorry than I would have expected or believed."
He laughed a low, bitter laugh, that went to the girl's heart.
"And you think I shall credit that?"
"Why not? one must always believe the truth," she returned, simply. "When I first came here I pitied you dreadfully, and yet I was half afraid of you. I do not fear you at all now."
"Indeed!"
"Your moroseness used to terrify, but now I do not seem to mind all your hard words; they lurk under kind actions, and so they have lost their sting. It was kindness that prompted you to send me all those pretty things."
"Humph, I see the reason for all this civility now."
Queenie's eyes rested tenderly on the worn, cadaverous face.
"You see I am longing to thank you, and yet I hardly know how to do so without giving you offence."
"I hate thanks," gruffly. "There, girl, that will do; let us get to our reading," and Queenie, who saw that unusual suffering lay at the bottom of the old man's bitter humor, did not venture to thwart him just then.
When the time came for her to go she put the marker in the book carefully, and leant over him. As she touched him softly with her hand, he started and opened his eyes; they had a strange, almost a wild look in them for a moment.
"I could have sworn it was Emily's hand," he muttered. "Hers was always soft and warm, like the breast of a little bird. Pshaw! what rubbish I am talking; you have read me to sleep, child; I have been dreaming."
"Let me give you your draught, and talk to you a little; to-morrow I am going away, you know."
"Aye, to-morrow, and a good many to-morrows." She still held the cold, nerveless fingers in hers, and her voice was very gentle in his ear.
"I shall not like to think you are missing me; when evening comes I shall wish I were here beside you, reading to you and lulling your pain. It seems to me," continued the girl, speaking still more softly, "as though in some strange way, and out of strange circumstances, we have grown to be friends."
He sighed, and turned restlessly on his pillow, but there was no repulse.
"You have been very good to me, and I shall love to remember your goodness. I think mamma was right when she said you had a heart. To-morrow I am going away—as you know—for a long, long time, and I want you to do me a favor."
"Pshaw! I will do nothing blindfold," with a return of his old harshness; but, under the half-closed eyelids, how he watched it—the bright speaking face!
"I want you to see Emmie. Hush! do not refuse," as he gave utterance to an expression of impatience, almost disgust; "do not send me away less happy; do not refuse such a trifling request. If I have ever pleased you, if I have ever wiled away an hour of bitter pain, grant me this one favour: let the child stand here for a moment beside you."
"Can you not leave a dying man in peace?" he began savagely, but his wrath faded before the girl's mild glance. A brief spasm as of pain contracted his forehead, and his eyes closed.
"Have your foolish whim," he muttered at last, almost inaudibly. "But what have I to do with children? I always hated them."
"You will not hate Emmie," returned Queenie as she hurriedly rose; "it is a fine evening, and she pleaded for me to bring her; 'she wanted to see poor Uncle Andrew,' she said."
"Tell her not to call me that," he exclaimed, angrily; but Queenie had already closed the door behind her.
Another minute, and the child stood beside his couch. The evening sun shone full upon her; she had grown tall and thin from her long illness; the beautiful fair hair had been shaved off, but the soft yellow down peeped under the pretty cap border; the great blue eyes had a solemn, unchildlike look in them; a little wasted hand crept into the sick man's, and then patted it softly.
"Humph! so you are better, aye, after nearly frightening that sister of yours to death," with a milder growl than Queenie expected.
"I am much better, thank you, Uncle Andrew," returned Emmie, gravely; and then, perfectly undaunted by the grim, death-like face on the pillow before her, she clambered up on the bed beside it, and sat perched before him like a large soft-eyed bird. "Queenie thought I was going to die, and cried dreadfully every night; Cathy told me so. Are you going to die, Uncle Andrew?"
"It seems so," with a chord of ineffable bitterness rasping the thin voice.
Emmie leaned forward and stroked his face pityingly, with an old-fashioned womanliness that touched her sister greatly.
"I am so sorry; it seems such a pity, just as we were going to be fond of you; it will be so strange, too, missing you out of my prayers every night, not that it will do any harm to go on saying, 'God bless you,' even after you are dead," continued Emmie, reflectively, and in a slightly puzzled tone. "I asked Queenie about that, and she said she was not sure."
In spite of his iron nerve Mr. Calcott winced slightly. This mere babe was playing round the feet of the king of Terror, while he was quailing secretly at the thought of the skeleton hand raised ready to strike: it would find him in his darkness and loneliness; his truest friend would come to him in the guise of an enemy. He was not a weak man, but at this moment the thought of his solitary death-bed caused him to thrill with premonitory pain and anguish. And then, with an odd transition of idea, he remembered how one night, when he was a lad, he had been wakened from his sleep by an awful storm; and his little sister Emily had come crying to his bed-side, and had clung to him in an agony of terror. He remembered, as though it were yesterday, the little shivering figure in white, the tangled fair hair under the cap border, the childish voice broken with sobs, "Oh Andrew, dear Andrew, take care of me; I am so frightened."
"You are only a girl, Emmie; boys and men are never frightened; why I don't know what fear is," he had returned, half scoffingly, and yet proud to shield her, and to feel himself strong in his boy's strength.
Ah, he knew what fear meant now. He thought, with the cold clammy sweat of superstitious terror, of what the coffin lid would cover; while a child's lips blessed him—him, Andrew Calcott, dead, unloved, and unremembered—blessed him in her prayers.
God pardon his wasted, misused life, he groaned, and grant him one single fragment of opportunity more, and he should not be unremembered; and the flicker of a strange smile curved Andrew Calcott's lips as he silently registered this vow.
"Are you sleepy or tired, Uncle Andrew?" asked Emmie, rather awe-stricken by the long silence and closed eye-lids, and still more by the smile. "When you lay like that, so still and white," continued the child, "you reminded me of the figure of the old Crusader—a knight I think he was—on the tomb I saw once in church. Do you know what I was thinking about when I watched you?"
He shook his head.
"I was wondering if you felt afraid—to die, I mean."
"Well, child; what then?" regarding her strangely.
"I used to be terribly afraid, you know," creeping closer, and whispering confidentially. "When I sat alone in the old garret,—ah, the poor old garret; I don't hate it quite so much now,—and it got dark, and the silence had odd voices in it, I used to think about mamma and want to go to her; only I could not get to her without dying, and that troubled me."
"Hush, Emmie," interrupted her sister, softly; but Mr. Calcott waved her aside, and bade her let the child speak, and Queenie drew back again into the shade of the curtain.
"I used to sit for ever so long, and fancy how it would be. I fainted once; and then I thought it would be like that, only I was afraid I should feel terribly cold and lonely when I woke and found myself alone in a strange place, however beautiful it might be; and then Queenie took me to see that picture, and after that I did not mind at all."
"What picture, little one?"
"Of a girl, not much older than I, asleep with her arms so,"—crossing hers gravely over her breast,—"and sliding up a great pathway of light, just as I saw a little boat once floating in the moonlight. Fancy floating asleep between the stars, and right into heaven!"
A half-groan answered the child, but she was too absorbed to notice it.
"I never forgot the picture; it made me so happy to think of it. I shall not mind dying a bit now; I shall just cross my arms, as the girl did, and shut my eyes, and when I wake up I shall see mamma smiling at the door; and perhaps," finished the child solemnly, "He will come to me, instead of letting me go very far in the great dazzling place to find Him."
"Him!"
"Our Lord, you know; I shall want to see Him most. Uncle Andrew, when I say my prayers to-night I shall tell Him that you are afraid, and ask Him to let mamma be the first to meet you; and not a great splendid angel with wings, but just mamma, looking, oh, so beautiful! and smiling as she used to smile."
"God bless you, child; there, leave me; take her away, or I will not answer for myself. I have the pain again; those drops, quick! Oh, merciful heavens! only the boon of another day, one more day."
"Hush! you are only agitating yourself; you are not really worse," returned Queenie, tenderly, wiping the moisture from his forehead. "If you calm yourself the attack will pass off. Emmie, darling, you must leave him now; he is too tired to talk any more;" and the child gently obeyed, after kissing him timidly on the cheek.
"You must go too, I suppose," laying a delaying hand on her dress nevertheless.
"Yes; but it is only good-bye for a little while," returned Queenie, trying to speak cheerfully, but her eyes filling with tears. "When I come back we must have some more nice talks, and quiet cosy times together. You will miss me; I am sorry and grieved to think how you will miss me," finished the girl, faltering sadly over her words; "but Emmie and I will think of you and talk of you all the time we are away."
"Aye, do; but it is good-bye for all that," he returned, with a strange look at her. "You have meant well by me, I believe; thank you for all you have done for me."
"No, no; it has been so little, and it has made me happy to do it," exclaimed Queenie, and now the tears fairly brimmed over. As he held her hand in the weak, nerveless grasp of old age she stooped over him, with an infinite yearning of pity and sorrow, and kissed him softly on the forehead, as a daughter might have done.
In the years to come Queenie never regretted that kiss.
"If we were to form an image of dignity in a man, we should give him wisdom and valor, as being essential to the character of manhood. In the like manner, if you describe a right woman in a laudable sense, she should have gentle softness, tender fear, and all those parts of life which distinguish her from the other sex; with some subordination to it, but such an infirmity that makes her still more lovely."—Sir Richard Steele.
It was with somewhat mixed feelings that Queenie bade farewell to her old friend Caleb Runciman the next day; and even Emmie looked back regretfully at the little dark house.
"I shall never love any other quite so well: shall you, Queen? I cannot bear big houses and large halls. We shall miss Caleb and Molly dreadfully; but then we shall only be a month away."
"Hush! a month is a long time; a great deal may happen in it," returned her sister thoughtfully, a little awe mingled with her pleasure. They were going to a strange place, amidst unknown faces; they would make new friends, feel fresh interests, think new thoughts.
They, too, were standing hand in hand on the threshold of a new world—a world full of all manner of delightful possibilities; they had broken with the dreary past, and now the future lay before them. Queenie took off her pretty brown hat and bared her forehead to the breeze with a little gasp. "How nice it is to feel young and strong and free. You and I are free, Emmie; yes, free as this delicious wind," finished the young girl with a little quiver of ecstasy in her voice.
A thousand vague imaginations flitted across her mind as she sat watching the flying mile-stones, while Emmie, wearied out with excitement, slept with her head upon Queenie's shoulder. "I feel afraid of nothing to-day; I am sure I shall find work; I do not mind how humble or hard it is. I think I feel young for the first time. After all, there are only two things to fear in life—debt and unkindness. A few loving words will sweeten even a crust of bread and a cup of water. Emmie and I will not mind a little hardship if we can only be together; but how nearly I lost my treasure," with an involuntary shudder that roused Emmie. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
"I think this must be Hepshaw, we are going more slowly; what a little journey, Queen! Oh, yes; there is Cathy on the platform, looking into all the carriages. She does not see us; what fun!"
"Indeed she does, Emmie; she is laughing and nodding at us. Let me help you out, dear;" but almost before she descended from the carriage she felt herself seized by a pair of arms, and Cathy's bright face confronted her.
"Oh, you dear things! to think you have really arrived! I have been here at least an hour and a half, till the station-master thought I must have taken leave of my senses. I would have it the train was due at three. Give me a kiss, Emmie. Bless me! how that child grows. My dear Queen," eyeing her with intense curiosity and satisfaction, "if you are not ashamed of walking with me in my old hat I think we will move on, as they say in London."
"Certainly, if you will lead the way," returned Queenie politely; but her friend remained still in the same attitude of delighted astonishment.
"My dear, when I have recovered a little; but whatever will Langley say? I feel I am bringing you to the house under false pretences; the victim of misfortune appears suddenly in the garb of an elegant female, with a golden pheasant's plume in her hat. You lovely old Queen! you look so nice that I quite long to hug you. Ted will be fairly overpowered when he sees us."
"Cathy, really you must not talk such nonsense," returned Queenie, blushing; "the man is waiting for our tickets, and Emmie is tired."
"Ah! now I recognize Madam Dignity, of Granite Lodge. Come along, then, through this little gate. We have to wait at the Deer-hound inn for a few minutes till Ted and the waggonette come up from Warstdale; that is where Garth's granite quarry is. Garth is so sorry that he could not meet you himself."
Queenie did not answer; she felt a little shy and silent all of a sudden. She followed Cathy down the steep little road bordered with plane trees, and cumbered with piles of neatly-hewn planks, to the grey old inn. What a quiet country corner it looked, she thought. The village, or market town as it really was, lay beyond; a long road went stretching away into the distance; across the road were granaries, and a sunny little garden; a hen with a family of yellow ducklings were scratching in the dust; dark clumps of plane trees were everywhere. The grey old landlord stood regarding them from the porch; the comely hostess came bustling out to meet them.
"Come in, Miss Clayton; the waggonette isn't here yet, and it is a bit hot in the sun. Mr. Logan passed just now on his way to the quarry and he would have it his big umbrella did not shelter him at all."
"It is sure to be full of holes," returned Cathy carelessly, as she led the way into the inn. Queenie had a glimpse as she passed of a long, low-ceiled room with cross-beams and a deep window, and then of the great stone kitchen with its long settle and wide open fireplace. As they followed the landlady up the broad staircase Emmie clapped her hands delightfully.
"What a beautiful room! I never saw a glass cupboard of china before like that; and there are two tables and rocking-chairs; and oh, dear! what a hard, slippery sofa, and what a funny, cracked piano; and, I do declare, there are at least four or five large silver tea-pots, and a great stand of wax flowers."
"This is where they have the agricultural dinners and do all the speechifying. Sit down, Queenie, do; how I wish that long laddie of ours would drive up; but it is just like Ted, to be late for everything."
"I do not mind waiting," returned her friend quietly. She was quite as much excited as Cathy and Emmie, though she did not show it as they did. She stood looking out of the small-paned window, through the screen of red geraniums, at the sunny little garden across the road.
Two buxom lasses were carrying piles of white, freshly-dried linen to the inn; the patient hen was still clucking devotedly at the heels of her foster-family; some long-necked geese waddled aimlessly across the road; a sweet odor of fresh hay came from the granary in front; the trampling of hoofs and the loud cool swishes of water, mingled with the hissing of a red-headed ostler, sounded from the stable-yard. Queenie looked out dreamily, until the noise of advancing wheels broke on her ear.
Cathy started up.
"There is Ted! look at him brandishing his whip and making up for lost time by driving furiously. What a shame to treat poor old Minnie so! she is quite covered with foam. Ted, you tiresome fellow, what do you mean by keeping my friends waiting?"
"I beg your friends' pardon; am I late? Nonsense, Cath, you are such a one to exaggerate; come, jump in. Where's the luggage? Give a hand, you fellows there, and stow in the traps; the mare's fidgetty, and won't stand."
"No wonder, when you have fretted her to a fever; you would catch it from Garth if he saw her. Now then, Ted, where are your manners? this is Miss Marriott and her little sister Emmie."
The young man took off his straw hat rather gravely, and then descended leisurely from the vehicle, and commenced stroking the mare's neck, casting furtive glances at the new-comers as he did so.
He was a mere boy, as Cathy had described him, barely twenty; his sister's name of the "long laddie" suited him perfectly, for he was certainly the tallest specimen of youthful manhood that Queenie had ever seen; his slenderness added to his height, he towered above them like a boy giant.
Queenie liked his face; it was good-looking, though somewhat freckled, with a pair of mild brown eyes; at the present it manifested nothing but an expression of obstinate good-humor.
"Now, then, Cathy, jump in; the mare won't stand, I tell you."
"I don't see why we are to hurry ourselves," replied his sister, provokingly. "Did you meet Mr. Logan on the Warstdale road, Ted?"
Ted laughed.
"Poor old Christopher? yes; there he was, trudging away, with his blue spotted handkerchief tucked under his felt hat, and the sun scorching him through the rents in his umbrella, and his boots white with dust, such a figure of fun."
"You ought to have insisted on bringing him back; he will have a sunstroke. Think of Miss Cosie's feeling," and Cathy looked a little grave. "You are such a child, Ted; you never think of anything. Now drive slowly through the town, that I may point out the various landmarks to Miss Marriott."
"Ted followed his instructions au pied de la lettre, by proceeding at a funeral pace, while Minnie snorted indignantly at her driver's tight hand, and whisked her tail angrily at the flies.
"Oh! do go on a little faster, Ted; every one will be staring at us if we go at this ridiculous pace," pleaded his sister, trying hard to be dignified and not to laugh. These passages in arms between her and her younger brother were not new in the household. Queenie was amused to see that he merely pushed his hand through his rough light hair and jogged on at the same pace.
Queenie had plenty of time to note the surroundings, though she persisted then, and long afterwards, in regarding Hepshaw as a village, in spite of its dignity as a market-town. She admired the game-keeper's white house, set so prettily among the sycamores, or plane trees, and the picturesque police-station, with its cottage porch and bright-bordered flower-garden.
The long broad road, with its stone cottages and small substantial houses, set so snugly in patches of garden ground, pleased her greatly; everything looked so fresh and still. By-and-bye they came to the market-place, with its few bright-looking shops, and the boys' school-house; just opposite was a curious little building with small half-moon windows, that Queenie took for the market, but which proved to be the girls' school.
"I think it was used for the market once upon a time," explained Cathy; "is it not a queer little place? those high crescent-shaped windows are so absurd. Look behind you, Queen; that is the prettiest peep of all," as she pointed to some green meadows, behind which were the church, vicarage, and another house, standing high above the town, and perfectly embosomed with trees.
The road branched into two now; further on were some still more picturesque cottages, and even a villa or two, but the mare was jogging up a steep country road now, and in another moment they were driving across a tiny moat and into a court-yard, bordered with a row of dark sycamores, with a side glimpse of a steep little house adjoining the church-yard.
"Welcome to Church-Stile House. Isn't it a gloomy old place? and yet Langley and I love it. Oh! there is Langley," as a black clad figure, taller and more erect even than Cathy's, came swiftly down the garden path towards them.
"How late you all are; I have been expecting you for an hour at least. I am so glad you have come, Miss Marriott; Cathy is never weary of talking about her friends. So this is really Emmie?" kissing the child and holding, out a cordial hand to Queenie.
The voice was sweet and pleasant, the accent singularly refined; nevertheless, the first sight of Langley Clayton gave Queenie a curious shock. The likeness between the sisters was striking, but it was a likeness that pained rather than pleased; it was Cathy's face grown prematurely old, and deprived of color and animation, a face that had sharpened and grown weary under the pressure of some carking care; the eyes were gentle, but unrestful; the long wave of hair worn over the forehead in Cathy's style was mixed with grey. The touch of the thin hot hand lingered long on Queenie's palm.
"I am so glad, so very glad, you have come," repeated Langley, with a soft flickering smile. This flickering smile was peculiar to Langley; it was all that ever broke up the subdued gravity of manner habitual to her. Queenie soon discovered that she never laughed; when pleased or excited this odd uncertain smile would play tremulously round the mouth for a moment and then fade away.
"It is so good of you to have us," returned Queenie, feeling strangely subdued all of a sudden, as she followed Langley's tall figure into the square little hall, and then into a sitting-room, pleasantly littered with books and work, and with a certain old-fashioned cosiness in its arrangements. The deep basket-work chairs, lined with chintz cushions, looked deliciously inviting, and so did the low couch and reading-table. One high narrow window commanded a view of the steep little lawn, running down to the lane; the other, to Queenie's surprise, opened full on the church-yard. Within a few feet were tall palings, and a granite obelisk; then some sparsely-scattered tombstones, and a long terrace bordered by sycamores, and known by the name of the plane-tree walk.
"I am afraid it strikes you as very dismal," said Langley, softly, as they stood together at the windows; "most people consider the obelisk a great eyesore. A few years ago there was not a single tombstone; it is only now that they have begun to use the church-yard. It was just the church, and the green, and the plane-tree walk; it was our garden then."
"I suppose one would get used to it in time," replied Queenie, somewhat evasively. Her healthy young vitality shivered a little at the incongruity between the warm cosiness of the life inside and the gleaming tombstones without, within a few feet of the fireside round which the family circle gathered. "That terrace walk is very pretty, and the old church must be nice; but—"
"But you think we ought always to be reading Hervey's 'Meditations,' and considering our latter end," broke in Cathy gaily. "Nothing of the kind, I assure you; Garth grumbles, and declares he will build a new house for himself higher up the hill, and Ted agrees with him; but I don't mind it in the least, and Langley likes it."
"Do you?" asked Queenie, fixing her large brown eyes curiously on Langley's pale face.
"I love it," was the quiet answer.
"Well, what do you think of Langley?" asked Cathy, when they had been duly installed in their large comfortable room. Miss Clayton had left them, taking Emmie with her, after having ministered to the child with her own hands. Her thoughtfulness for their comfort, and her gentle manipulation of Emmie touched Queenie's heart; they had gone off together hand in hand, Emmie chattering confidentially to her new friend, and Cathy and she had ensconced themselves cosily on the low window-seat commanding a view of the old church and church-yard. Queenie liked it better now; after all it was strangely peaceful, God's Acre, as she loved to hear it called.
"Well, what do you think of this sister of mine?" repeated her friend enquiringly.
"It is too soon to ask my opinion; I have not made up my mind. Indeed I like her," as Cathy looked a little crestfallen; "I should not wonder if I like her better the more I know her; her voice is delicious, so low and musical, with a little trill in it, and her eyes looked so kindly at one."
"You are a model of reserve and prudence, my dear Madam Dignity. I always make up my mind the first minute whether I like a person or not, and never swerve an inch from my like or dislike afterwards; that is feminine instinct, as I tell Garth. He is as tiresome as you are; one can never get at his opinion of a person till he has thoroughly sifted and weighed them in a sort of moral balance of his own."
"I must say I think that he is wise."
"He has strong prejudices though; small sins are sometimes heinous in his eyes. Garth's pride is his chief fault; he is quite absurd on some points. I have heard him say, more than once, that he would never marry a rich woman, however much he cared for her; that a man should never be beholden to his wife for anything but love. Isn't that absurd?"
"It is a fault on the right side."
"Nonsense; I am tired of arguing the point with him. What has money to do in the case? My husband might be as rich as Croesus, or as poor as a church-mouse, but if I liked him I would stick to him all the same. It is wrong pride in a man to let anything stand in the way if he likes a woman; and Langley agrees with me."
"Does she?"
"Yes; she talks on these sort of subjects so nicely; she is not a bit hard, as Garth is sometimes. He hates flirting and nonsense, and scolds me dreadfully if I make myself too amiable to any masculine individual; but Langley always takes my part, and says I am only a child; oh, she is a darling, or a saint, as Mr. Logan says."
"I am sure she is nice," returned Queenie, throwing a little enthusiasm into her voice. Cathy's frankness was embarrassing. That first evening she would have found it impossible to form any true opinion of Miss Clayton; she was attracted and yet repelled by her, fascinated oddly by her voice and manner, and yet pained by a weariness and suppression for which there seemed no words. Was she unhappy or only tired? was her life simply too monotonous for her? had she wider yearnings that stretched out further, and were still unsatisfied? had responsibility and over-much thought for others traced those worn lines, and wrinkled the smooth forehead? Queenie found herself indulging in all manner of conjectures before the evening was over. That she was a woman infinitely loved and respected was plainly evident. Langley's opinion, Langley's sympathy, were always claimed, and never in vain; the same patient attention, the same ready help, were given to all. She talked largely and well, and with a certain originality that made her an interesting companion; and there was a breadth and large-mindedness about her views that appealed strongly to Queenie's admiration.
"I do like her; I am sure I shall like her," she repeated for the third time, when Cathy had finished a long and animated harangue on her sister's merits. Cathy never stinted her praise; she spread it richly for those she loved, with a warmth of girlish hyperbole, and a generous glazing-over of manifest defects, that was rather refreshing in this censorious age.
"What was I saying? Hush! there is Garth; we must go down now," as a sudden melodious whistle sounded from below, at once deftly and sweetly answered by Cathy. "That means tea is ready, and his highness is hungry; come, we must not keep th' maister waiting."
The long low-ceiled dining-room looked snug and home-like as they entered. A tempting meal was spread for the travellers; a basket of roses and ferns garnished the table; some canaries sang in the window. Ted Clayton's long figure lounged in a rocking-chair; Emmie was standing beside him, looking like a little Puritan girl in her grey frock and close-bordered cap, making friends with a white Maltese terrier; a tall young man in a rough tweed coat leant over the back of his chair.
"Miss Marriott, this is my brother Garth," said Cathy, with an accent of pride in her voice, and Garth came forward with a pleasant smile.
What a good, thoughtful face it was; certainly Cathy had not exaggerated. He was a handsome, a very handsome, man; the chin was strongly moulded, and the mouth closed firmly, perhaps a trifle too firmly, under the dark moustache, but the blue-grey eyes had an honest kindly gleam in them; the strong brown hand grasped Queenie's with open-hearted friendliness.
Then and afterwards Queenie marvelled to herself, that Garth Clayton's face came to her as a sudden revelation—with the instinctive recognition—of God's noblest handiwork,—a really good man, good, that is, as poor human nature reads the word.
By-and-bye, when she knew him better, and all his faults were mapped out legibly before her, and she read him with the unerring light of a woman's truest instinct, she ever gave him honor as one who strove to walk nobly amongst his fellows, who stood as a Saul among men, a head and shoulders taller than they, by reason of the integrity and strength of purpose that lay within him.
"Keep innocency, and take heed to the thing that is right, and that shall bring a man peace at the last," were the words of the wise old King, to which Garth Clayton had ever given heed, keeping his hands clean with a whiteness that scorned to sully itself; standing aloof from small petty subterfuge and conventional untruths.
And yet there were strange blemishes in Garth Clayton's nature apparent to those who loved him. There was the narrowness of a pride that chose superiority rather than equality; that would stand aloof willingly from his equals, to rule, and rule wisely, over his inferiors; a born autocrat; despotic, yet not unkindly; somewhat tyrannical, unable to brook contradiction, childishly eager for praise, sensitive to a fault, jealous of dignity, and, by one of those strange subtilties that baffle metaphysicians, ever through life painfully conscious of hidden disadvantages. For the clear intellect failed in depth and breadth, the calm common sense read itself truly; and, too proud to stoop to others for knowledge, or to own ignorance, which it would have been truly great to confess, Garth Clayton would at times wrap himself round in a silent reserve that often mystified and perplexed others.
But there was always one who understood him, and that was Langley; and by-and-bye there came another!
"Well, to be sure, there never was a little woman so full of hope and tenderness, and love and anxiety, as this little woman was."—Dickens.
The next hour passed pleasantly enough; the Claytons devoted themselves to their guests' entertainment with an open-heartedness and simple hospitality that seemed natural to them.
In spite of the seclusion in which they lived, and the loneliness of their surroundings, they showed a perfection of breeding and a freedom of idea that surprised and delighted Queenie.
Her shyness and brief reserve soon vanished under the influence of their kindness. After the first few minutes she ceased to feel as though she were a stranger amongst them, and found herself entering into their plans and wishes as though she had known them for years.
"You see Cathy has talked to me about you all, and that is why I feel that I know you," she said, a little apologetically, lifting those strange eyes of hers to Garth. The young man flushed a little, but answered her kindly. Cathy's friend was rather formidable to him; he had at least never met any one in the least like Queenie Marriott; he felt far more at home with Emmie.
Nevertheless, he hid his embarrassment in his usual manner, as though half ashamed of it, by holding his head higher than usual, and laying down the law to his sisters in his dictatorial, good-humored way. Before tea was over Cathy was coaxing him to give them a picnic in the granite quarries, and he had hummed and hesitated a good deal over her request, "just to make himself of importance," whispered the wicked little sister to Queenie.
This led to some conversation about the quarry and quarry-men; and here Garth found himself on his own ground, and talked much and well. He told Queenie, as they all strolled down the lane in the twilight, after Emmie had gone to bed, about his plans for the men's welfare and improvement, "his boys," as he termed them.
There seemed no limits to the good he did amongst them. Queenie felt her respect for him increase as she listened. He had given up one of his fields for cricket, and was himself their captain. He had instituted a reading-room; and Mr. Logan and he had formed a useful library. Here in the winter there were lectures given to the men by the Vicar, and Captain Fawcett, a neighbor of theirs, living in one of the villas lower down; or he himself read to them amusing passages from Dickens and Charles Lever. Garth's reading was none of the finest, as Queenie discovered for herself afterwards, and his singing was even worse in quality; but he would carry it through in a certain sturdy fashion of his own, that was somewhat amusing to the home critics.
Then he had schools for the children; and on alternate Sunday afternoons Mr. Logan held service in the school-room for those unable to come over to Hepshaw Church. More than this was not possible at present; but, as he modestly informed his auditor, that his sister and he had done their best to organize a Sunday school, and to hold weekly Bible-class for such as choose to attend.
"Langley is great among the women," he observed with a bright smile; "she half lives at the cottages. I wish I were half as successful with my boys."
Queenie had yet to learn the value that Garth Clayton set on his boys, and how the best and highest part of his life was lived among them.
It was too dark to go down the village, as Queenie found they all called it; so Langley proposed they should go in by-and-bye and have some music. All the Claytons were musical except Garth, though Garth would have been the last to own his deficiency in this respect, and always held his own manfully in the family concerts, in spite of Cathy's sometimes insisting on stopping her ears with cotton-wool, and Ted's muttered observation, that he never knew that rooks cawed so loudly at night.
But Garth, generally so sensitive to criticism, cared nothing for these home witticisms. He loved to air his lungs freely. He would burst into 'Simon the Cellarer,' or 'the Vicar of Bray,' or, better still, the often-abused 'Village Blacksmith,' with an honest disregard of all soft inflexion or minor chords that was painfully ludicrous. Ted and Cathy would throw themselves back in their chair and laugh noiselessly while the performance went on, and even Langley would bite her lip as her thin flexible fingers moved over the keys, the sounds she evoked almost swallowed up in that mighty bass.
I think, after all, though they laughed they loved to hear it, and would better have spared many a sweeter and choicer thing out of their home daily life. Garth never used half-measures. As Cathy once drily said, "He does everything thoroughly, even to making a noise, or singing, my dear,—I believe he calls it by that name."
His laugh, too, was quite a surprise to Queenie when she heard it first; true, it was rather boyishly loud, but its delicious abandon of mirth was thoroughly infectious; none but Langley could ever hear it without joining in it. He would throw his head back, tossing back the wave of dark hair as he did so, and the strong, even, white teeth would shine under the moustache; while the pealing ha-ha would provoke corresponding mirth.
"It does one good to hear Garth Clayton laugh," Mr. Logan said once. "Only a man with a good conscience could laugh like that."
Queenie sat in her low basket-work chair, watching the ins and outs of this happy home-circle, too thoroughly interested and amused to dream of fatigue, though they had excused her singing that night on that score.
"I play very little; but I am supposed to sing tolerably well, that is, most people like my voice," she had said, quite frankly, in answer to their polite inquiries.
"She sings like an angel," was Cathy's verdict on this; "her voice is as fresh and clear and true as a lark's, but her fingers move over the keys a little like drum-sticks. I have often told you so, Queen; you put all your expression in your voice."
"I shall ask Miss Clayton to play my accompaniments," was Queenie's graceful answer. She was not a bit annoyed at her friend's plain speaking; she liked to be told of her faults, and always set herself earnestly to mend them.
She practised sedulously after this evening, and gleaned all manner of hints from Langley.
"You must teach your fingers to speak; they make acquaintance too stiffly with the keys," Langley said once to her. "You play so correctly, too; it is such a pity you do not make us feel your music."
"My life has been all drudgery, you see," Queenie answered, humbly; "there has been so little music in it, all the harmony got jarred out of it somehow. It has been only grinding at hard tasks, rubbing out sums for little girls, and putting them in again; one couldn't learn to play tunes happily after that."
"But you sing, and so sweetly too."
"Ah, one learns that at church; singing is part of one's religion," went on the girl reverently. "Nothing, however sordid and hard, can keep religion out of one's life; it is just there always. Slaves sing, you know, and blind chaffinches, and poor miners under-ground over their work. It keeps off bad thoughts. Oh, every one must sing," she finished with a smile, feeling that now for the first time in her young toil-worn life she was really resting on her oars.
Only resting for a brief space though; by-and-bye she must take them up again, and row on bravely, against the stream perhaps, through marshes of sedgy weeds, fighting against a sullen current, perhaps drifted into deeper waters, but always with the broad blue sky above her, with tints of silver-lined clouds and possible sunshine, with hopes of safe harborage by-and-bye.
"I help myself, and therefore God will help me," Queenie had often said to herself in her sorely-tried youth. "I am afraid of nothing but doing wrong, and seeing Emmie suffer; the rest I can bear;" and this belief in herself saved them both.
"I am going to take you to see all our celebrities," announced Cathy solemnly at the breakfast table the next morning. "It is Langley's district day, and she will have nothing to say to any of us until lunch time. I propose that we leave Emmie with Deborah to shell peas, while we do Hepshaw thoroughly."
"You must take me into the church first," observed Queenie, quite prepared for a long morning of delicious idleness, and in the true holiday spirit, alert and ready for any chance enjoyment. "I think there is something delightful in making acquaintance with a fresh place; even seeing fresh faces and hearing different voices gives me an odd indescribable sort of pleasure."
"You poor prisoner, yes," returned her friend sympathizingly, as they walked down the little garden path at the side of the house, and passed through the gate that opened on the churchyard, with its long terrace planted picturesquely with sycamores. "You are like a nun; you have only peeped at the world through a sort of invisible grating in Miss Titheridge's front parlor. You must make up for lost time, and live every moment thoroughly, as Garth and I do."
"That is just it; we don't half live our lives, we girls," replied Queenie dreamily; "half of us seem asleep; our faculties lie dormant, and get rusted just for want of use. Miss Titheridge hung round my neck like a mill-stone; she literally crushed and pulverized all the best parts of me. It is being born again; it is a sort of moral regeneration, this feeling of freedom, this—oh, how can I make you understand it all, Cathy!"
"Seeing is believing," was the brusque answer. "You are a different creature, my dear Madam Dignity; you were like the frond of my favorite prickly shield fern that I was watching yesterday. You were all there, you know, the greenness and the freshness; but one could not get at you, you were so tightly swathed and coiled up."
"Yes," returned Queenie joyously; "and now I have found myself, my own individuality. I do think, seriously, that I have a larger capacity for living than other people. I have good health, that is one thing; my constitution is perfect; then I love work, I really and literally do, Cathy. Work braces one, it brings all one's faculties into play; work is rest; inaction, idleness; pleasure for the sake of pleasure, is simply paralysis of one's higher life, it is premature old age."