CHAPTER I.

IN THE GLOAMING.

"So she loved, and she was happy, As if walking in Paradise; Nay, as heaven he seemed above her, This love of her own heart's choice. It was not his birth or riches, But that he was born to bless, With the treasure of his wisdom, And the wealth of his tenderness." _Isa Craig-Knox._

Dora's sleep was quite peaceful and unbroken, while Garth tossed restlessly on his bed half the night, staring open-eyed into the darkness. She came down in the morning in her pretty travelling dress looking as fresh and bright as possible. She was not even pale as she had been the previous evening; possibly the excitement of last night had stimulated her, and roused her from her sadness.

She was thinking more of Flo than of Garth this morning. With all her coolness of judgment, and her disposition to meddle in all things spiritual and material, Dora dearly loved her young sisters, and was warmly beloved by them in return. Beatrix was at times almost too much for her, with her helplessness and impulsive ways, but Flo was to her as the apple of her eye.

"My poor Flo, I hope they will not have cut off her hair, papa," she observed, tenderly; "she has such pretty hair, though it is darker than mine."

"Ah, Dorrie, my dear, it is a bad business I fear," returned her father mournfully. "I always said that I disliked those foreign schools; and then those German doctors!"

"Now, papa, it is only Beattie's absurd letter has made you so faint-hearted," replied Dora cheerfully, "as though girls of seventeen are to be trusted, and Beattie especially!"

"I think Beatrix is remarkably sensible for her age," observed Garth in a caustic tone. "I cannot understand your always under-valuing her; in my opinion she has twice the amount of common sense that Florence has," he went on in a contradictory manner.

Garth had slept badly, a rare occurrence in his healthy, well-regulated life, and one that he was likely to remember for a long time with a sense of injury; and he was irritable in consequence, and in a bad humor with himself and all the world. Nothing would have pleased him better this morning than a downright quarrel with Dora; but Dora's perfect temper was invulnerable.

"That only shows how men judge of girls' characters," she returned, with a little shrug and an amused smile. "Because Beattie is better looking, and has a nice complexion, she is endowed with a double portion of common sense. Oh, you men!" shaking her head and laughing in a pitying sort of way.

"We men are tolerably hard in our judgment sometimes," returned Garth, looking at her with a gleam of anger in his eyes; but Dora took no notice of the ill-concealed sarcasm.

It was so natural for him to feel sore, poor fellow, under the circumstances. She thought it would want a good deal of coaxing and _finesse_ to charm him into good humor again. She was very considerate and mindful of his comfort throughout the whole of breakfast-time, sweetening and preparing his coffee with extra care, and even bringing him some favorite sauce with her own hands; but her little overtures towards reconciliation were all rejected. Garth put the sauce away somewhat ostentatiously, and bore himself as though he had received an injury for which there could be no forgiveness. He stood aloof as the servants crowded round the door and the young mistress dispensed her parting injunction. When the luggage was on the carriage, and the Vicar had taken down his felt hat, he came forward and handed Dora into the carriage with much dignity.

"I hope you will have a tolerably pleasant journey, and find the invalid better," he said very gravely; "please give my love to Beatrix." He had not spoken more than a dozen words throughout the whole of breakfast time, but he could not forbear this parting thrust.

"And not to Flo! not to poor darling Flo!" returned Dora, looking; at him with reproachful sweetness. "Oh, you poor fellow, I am so sorry for you," her eyes seemed to say, as she waved her hand, and the carriage disappeared down the village.

Garth threw his portmanteau into the dog-cart somewhat vehemently when it came up to the door. The old nurse put her hand on his arm with the familiarity of a trusted friend, and tried to detain him, but he was in no mood for her garrulity.

"Dear Miss Dora, she is a blessing to us all, is she not, Mr. Clayton? such a pretty creature, and with such wise, womanly ways; for all the world like her mother," cried nurse, with the ready tear of old age trickling down her wrinkled cheek. "The others are dear girls, bless their sweet faces, but they are not equal to Miss Dora."

"Of course not, nurse; there could not be two such paragons in one house," returned Garth, squeezing the old woman's hard hand, and trying to whistle as he mounted to his seat and took the reins in hand, but the whistle was a failure. He looked up at the porch-room somewhat bitterly as he drove off. He was shaking off the dust of the place from his feet, so he told himself, but there was a hard, resentful pain at his heart as he did so.

No one knew what to make of the young master when he appeared hot and dusty at the works. Two or three of the men had been soundly rated for some slight omission of duty, and one of the severest lectures that he had ever received from his brother had been dinned into Ted's astonished ear.

"I am sick of your laziness and want of punctuality; if you cannot fulfil your duties properly you must find work elsewhere," stormed the young master of Warstdale. With all his sweet temper, Ted had much ado not to flare up and get into a passion.

"Haven't we all caught it nicely at the works! there is a screw loose somewhere," observed Ted confidentially to his sisters that evening, as Garth drove the dog-cart round to the stables.

The brothers had driven home from the quarry in perfect silence, and Ted, who was still a little sore over the rating he had received, had made no attempt to promote cheerfulness.

"I hope there is nothing wrong between him and Dora," observed Langley, dropping her work a little anxiously.

Poor soul, her own troubles had made her nervous; but on that point Ted could not enlighten her. Evidently Garth had attempted to recover his temper, for he came in presently, and greeted his sisters affectionately.

"I hope you have lost your headache, Langley?" he said, as he took up the paper knife and the latest periodical, and withdrew with them to the window.

"Did you see them off? Have they had any better accounts of Florence? You look tired and done up, Garth," enquired his sister anxiously.

"Yes; they went off all right. Miss Cunningham sends her love to you and Cathy. They made me very comfortable as usual, and gave me my old room."

Garth was trying to read by the evening light, and his face was hidden.

"One is always comfortable at the Vicarage; Dora is such a capital manager," returned Langley, feeling her way in feminine fashion. "Poor girl, Florence's illness must be a sad trial to her."

"Humph! she takes it as coolly as she does most things. When are the lights coming, and what has become of tea?" demanded Garth, a little irritably; and Langley knew that she was not to ask any more questions.

A good night's rest did much towards restoring Garth's outward equanimity, but he still chafed secretly under the mortification he had undergone with a soreness that surprised himself. The check he had received had angered and embittered him. He was not in love with Dora, after the usual interpretation of the word; nevertheless, her yoke lay heavy upon him. The friendship between them had grown with his growth; he had learned to see with her eyes, and read with her judgment. In a cool, temperate sort of way he had loved and wooed her from his earliest manhood. He had been a trifle indifferent to women in general. When the time came to take a wife, that wife should be Dora.

But now the plan of his life was disarranged. He had waited long enough, and now he told himself that no more time should be given her; he would shake off the dust of the place from his feet; he would bear himself as a stranger towards her and her belongings; but even while his indignation was hot within him, he knew that such resolution would be vain. Not even now had he wholly relinquished all hopes of her. True, she had sinned against him, and the gravity of the offence demanded a fitting punishment. Well, he would hold aloof from her, and treat her on all occasions with studied coldness, until she would rid herself of this womanish folly, and capitulate on his own terms. Then, and then only, would he forgive her, and raise her to the former measure of his favor. The surrender on her part must be total. There should be no softness, no half-measures, no conciliating persuasion on his; for the future it should be yea, yea, or at least nay, nay, between them. Garth was just in that dangerous mood when a straw might decide the current of his will, when a trifle might widen the breach which a word at one time could have spanned. Dora had little idea of the danger she risked when she sent her lover from her discontented and dissatisfied. "You may find it very difficult to recall me, Dora," he had said to her, with some instinctive prevision of the truth, but she had not believed him.

For the first time the young master of Warstdale found himself restless and unhappy; his sleepless night still abided in his mind as an undeserved and lasting injury. The next day had set in wet and stormy; heavy autumnal rains swept across the moors, and flooded the country road, and the little straggling town of Hepshaw. Garth had driven himself and Ted in the same taciturn fashion from the quarry, and both had entered the house, shivering and uncomfortable, in their dripping garments.

"Oh you poor dear creatures," cried Cathy, flying out into the hall to receive them; but Ted waved her off gravely, and shook himself like a wet Newfoundland.

"'Talk not of wasted young raindrops! these raindrops never are wasted. If they enrich not the coat of my brother, their waters returning Back to my hat, shall fill it full of brown moisture; For that which the Ulster sends forth returns again to the oil-cloth. Patience, accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy shaking, my brother; Broad-cloth and buckskin are strong, and patience and muscle are stronger."

"Bosh," growled Garth in a sulky undertone, as he pushed past him somewhat curtly.

Ted shook his head mournfully.

"'I knew a young man nice to see,'"

continued the incorrigible boy;

"'Beware! beware! Trust him not, he will bully thee; Take care! take care!'"

"Whatever is the matter with him, Teddie dear?" asked his sister coaxingly.

"Hush!" in a melodramatic tone; "meddle not with mysteries that belong not to thy female province, Catherina mia. How do you know what dark deed fetters the conscience of that unhappy young man? Did you remark the gleam in his eye, the frown on his brow, as he rushed past me just now? remorse only could have kindled that fury. Dora and despair speak in every feature."

"Oh do be quiet, you ridiculous boy, and give me a sensible answer."

But nothing was farther from Ted's purpose. His aggravated feelings needed some outlet. And when Garth made his appearance, refreshed and re-habited, he found Cathy sitting on the stairs in fits of merriment, while Ted strutted to and fro spouting pages of nonsense.

He stopped and looked a little foolish at this sudden apparition; but his brother took no notice of his confusion.

"If you keep your wet things on any longer you will have an attack of rheumatism," he remarked coldly, as he made his way past them to the hall door. Both of them started as it slammed violently after him.

"Where has he gone in all this rain?" asked Cathy, in much distress, but Ted only shrugged his shoulders, and tried not to look pleased. For once his brother's absence was a relief.

Garth was in no mood to-night for his sisters' society and Ted's ceaseless fire of puns. The quiet home evening, with its work and music, and gentle gossip, would have jarred on him in his present state of mind. It was true, Langley's tact was seldom at fault, and the others could be chided and frowned into silence; but still he would have been loath to mar their enjoyment. He was jaded and tired; the day's work had been done against the grain, and he needed rest and refreshment sorely. Some impulse, for which he could not account, led him across to the cottage.

The rain was still-falling heavily as he plodded down the miry lane; but a warm, welcoming gleam shone enticingly from one lattice window across the road. He would step in and surprise them, he thought, as he gently lifted the latch. He and Cathy often stole upon them in this way; they liked to see Emmie's delighted clap of the hands and Queenie's pleased start when they looked up and saw their friendly intruder.

The door of the parlor stood open. He was in full possession of the pretty, homely picture long before they saw him standing on the threshold. Tea was on the little round table, but the candles were still unlighted; Emmie was curled up on the rocking-chair, watching Queenie, as she knelt on the rug with a plate of crisp white cakes in her hand.

They were evidently some _chef-d'œuvre_ of her own. She was still girded with her cooking apron; the firelight shone on her white, dimpled arms and flushed face; all sort of ruddy gleams touched her brown hair. She gave a little satisfied laugh as she regarded the cakes.

"They are just as light as Mrs. Fawcett's, are they not, Emmie?"

"Yes, they are lovely; you are quite a genius, Queen; but do go on with the story, we have just come to the interesting part. Poor Madeleine! you must make it end happily. I never, never could bear a sad finish."

"Those sort of stories never end happily," returned Queenie, in a musing tone, shielding her face from the flame; "they are just like life in that. We have no King Cophetuas now-a-days to endow poor maidens with their nobleness; it is all matter-of-fact prose now."

"Why did you make poor Madeleine love the squire then? the village carpenter would have suited her much better; and then she and he, and that dear little sister Kitty, could all have lived in that pretty cottage under the chestnuts. Can't you alter the story, Queen?"

Queenie shook her head remorselessly. "It is a pity, but one can't alter these sort of things, Emmie. Poor Madeleine loved, and suffered, and lost, as other women have done since this world began; but she would not have been without her suffering for all that."

"I can't understand you," returned the child, with tears in her eyes. "It was such a beautiful story, quite your best, and now you have spoiled the ending."

"Life is full of these sad finishes," replied the young story-teller, oracularly; "there is a fate in such things, I believe. Don't be unhappy, darling, poor Madeleine would have been miserable in that cottage under the chestnuts; she would much rather have lived in her attic with dear little Kitty, and watched the young squire riding by on his grey horse. Evening after evening, as they disappeared in the distance, she would think of the lovely young wife that awaited him. You may be sure that her heart was full of blessings for them both, even though she felt a little sad and lonely sometimes."

"But she would not have been quite happy, even with Kitty," persisted the child in a troubled tone; "and then poor little Kitty would have been so sorry."

What was there in the child's artless words that made Queenie suddenly flush and tremble?

"Hush, you must not say that; it is only a story we are telling, it is not true, any of it. No one is perfectly happy in this world; there are always wishes unfulfilled, unsatisfied longings, troubles everywhere."

"Yes, I know; but somehow it reminded me of you and me," interrupted Emmie, with a little sob. "If you were ever unhappy, Queen,--in that way I mean,--I think I should break my heart."

"Oh, hush, my darling!" snatching the thin hands, and covering them with kisses, "it is only a story; you must not fret. Do you think Madeleine would have been wicked and made herself miserable, just because she loved the noblest man that ever lived? No, no, my pet; not when she had her own little sister to love and cherish."

"Do you always tell stories in the gloaming? that seems a very pretty one. I suppose I ought to apologize for being an uninvited auditor," observed Garth, as he quietly walked in and took possession of the hearth.

Emmie gave a little shriek of surprise as her sister hurriedly disengaged herself from her embrace.

"How long have you been standing there? Did you mean to startle us? You are very naughty; you have made Queenie look quite pale, and she had such a color the minute before."

"Have I startled you? that was very wrong of me," returned Garth, taking her hand.

Garth was speaking and looking in his usual way; but in reality he was taken aback by Queenie's evident agitation. She had always met and greeted him brightly; why had she grown so strangely pale at the sight of him this evening? The brown eyes that had often haunted him had not yet been lifted to his face.

"Have I startled you?" he persisted, still detaining her until she should answer him.

"A little. I am sorry you should have heard all that foolish talk," she stammered, growing suddenly hot over the remembrance, and not venturing to encounter his candid glance.

What had possessed her to concoct such a story? Would he read the secret meaning?

"I must make the tea, the kettle has been singing for the last half-hour," she observed hurriedly, glad of an excuse to move away and recover herself.

Garth did not ask any more troublesome questions; he turned his attention to Emmie, taking possession of the rocking-chair, while the child took her little stool beside him.

Queenie left them to themselves for a long time. All sorts of preparations seemed needful before the meal was declared ready. The candles were still unlighted, and she made no attempt to kindle them. Garth threw on another pine knot, and the warm ruddy light was soon diffused through the little room. As Queenie moved about, contriving endless errands for herself, she had no idea that Garth was furtively watching her.

"Why had she grown so pale? what was there in his sudden appearance to confuse her?" the young man was asking himself with a little throb of curious excitement. Somehow this unusual agitation on Queenie's part soothed and tranquillized him; he began to think less bitterly of Dora; some subtle influence, half painful and half pleasurable, seemed to steep his senses.

Garth was quite unconscious why he wanted Queenie to look at him. He watched her graceful movements about the room with quiet satisfaction. Two days before his fancy had been taken by the soft whiteness of a dress that flowed smoothly and did not rustle, and by the shining of golden hair in the lamp-light; and now a black serge dress with snowy collars and cuffs charmed him with its nun-like simplicity.

What was there in these two women, so utterly dissimilar, that fascinated him? As far as he knew he was not in love with either, although he had given the preference to Dora--Dora, who allured and yet repelled him, and for whom he now felt such bitterness of resentment.

"Why are you so quiet, Mr. Garth? no one has been telling you sad stories," cried Emmie, lifting her kitten on to his knee. "I wish you would speak to Queen, she always makes things end so badly."

"I am afraid your sister draws from life," he returned absently. He spoke without intention, but a shadow swept over Queenie's sensitive face.

"You ought not to have listened," she said reproachfully. "It was only some nonsense to please Emmie. I make up things, any rubbish pleases her; sometimes it is a fairy story, or some odd bits one picks out of books; nothing comes amiss," she went on, bent on defending herself.

"And you think a girl can make herself happy with an unrequited love preying on her?" he observed in a quizzical tone. "I don't know what women would say to such heresy. I think Emmie was right, and that little Kitty would have a great deal to bear."

Queenie was silent.

"Confess that you don't believe such a thing could be possible."

"As what?" looking up at him with varying color.

"That a girl, that Madeleine, for example, could make herself comfortable under the circumstances."

"Did I say a word about comfort?" she returned with spirit. "Of course Madeleine thought her trouble a trouble, and never called it by any other name."

"And of course she made herself and little Kitty miserable?" he rejoined, enjoying the play of words, but watching her keenly all the time.

"She did nothing of the kind," flaring up with sudden heat. "You have not heard half my story, or you would not say such a thing."

"Suppose you enlighten me," with some raillery in his tone. "Your heroine is not different from the ordinary run of women; and most of them make themselves miserable under the circumstances."

"Not women like my Madeleine," with a sudden lighting-up of earnestness in her face. "I don't think men are quite like that; they don't understand."

"What is it they don't understand?" he asked, somewhat puzzled.

"The blessedness of giving," she returned simply; "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."

"But not many," he replied, touched by her earnestness, and conscious again of that strange thrill.

"No, not many," looking at him gravely. "The great number dread suffering, and fear to enter into the cloud. They let men spoil their lives, and then the disappointment hardens and embitters them; instead of which they ought to go on simply loving, and being sorry, but not too sorry, about things."

"But suppose the object is not worthy? You know how often that is the case," he demanded gravely.

"Ah, that is the greatest pity of all. There is no trouble like that, to see the degradation of one we love; indeed, that must be terrible!"

"Ah, your golden rule of giving will not hold there!"

"Why not?" she asked quietly. "I heard a sad story once, when Emmie and I were at Granite Lodge. One of the governesses had had a dreadful trouble. She was engaged for some years to a man who professed a great affection for her, and suddenly the news of his marriage reached her."

"Well?"

"Well, she staggered under the blow, but she bore it somehow. It would have nearly killed some women. She just took up her life and did the best she could with it. 'I am keeping it all for him,' she said to me once, with such a mournful smile; 'when he wants it, it will be ready for him, but it will not be here.'"

"Keeping what?" asked Garth, somewhat absently.

"Why the love he had thrown away as worthless," she returned with kindling eyes. "Don't you think the faith of that poor German governess had something noble in it? She had forgotten her own wrongs and his fickleness. In the world to come it should be all right between them."

"Wasn't that rather far-fetched?"

"Not at all," returned the girl warmly; "those who have sympathy here must have sympathy there. There will be no broken lives in heaven."

"No; of course not," feeling himself a little out of his element, but strangely attracted by the eloquence of Queenie's eyes.

As for Queenie, she had almost forgotten to whom she was speaking. She was wrapped up, absorbed in her subject; all sorts of deep thoughts stirred within her.

These things were true to her, but she felt with a kind of wonder that he did not understand. Perhaps he felt with a young man's reverence the mystery of the world to come. Some men have a great dread of touching sacred things with unconsecrated hands; but Queenie's young eyes had the fearlessness of the eagle, they looked unblenchingly up at the light. What was the use of separating things spiritual from things material in her creed? Love was the ladder that Jacob saw reaching from earth to heaven; evermore there were angels ascending and descending. The doctrine of the communion of saints had infinite readings.

"Those that have sympathy here have sympathy there," she had asserted with entire faith and simplicity. Why did not he, why did not everybody, understand?

As for Garth, he felt a little moved and excited, stirred by her earnestness, yet not wholly comprehending it, and quite out of his element.